“Do you like your tutor?” I asked the child. “What do you study together?”

“Manners and counting and singing,” she answered obediently. “And I am learning my letters. Nurse says I am too little for letters, but mademoiselle says she could read whole books by the time she was four.” She considered. “Most of the time, she is nice.”

“Only most?”

Desirée looked down, plucking at the beaded hem of her gown. “Not when I am naughty.” She looked back up at me, her expression achingly candid and woeful. “My mother was naughty, wasn’t she?”

“Oh, dear heart!” I suppressed the urge to hug her, knowing I was far too much a stranger still. “Your mother was a great many things. Sometimes, yes, she was naughty. But she was kind and generous and brave, too.”

“She was?”

“She was,” Bao confirmed. “I did not know her so well as Moirin, but I know this is true.”

“How?” Desirée demanded.

“When you are older, I will tell you the whole story,” I said. “It is a story for grown-ups. But I will tell you this. I was there when your mother learned she was going to have a baby. You.” I laid one hand on my belly. “And she was happy, so very happy. That is why she named you Desirée, so you would always know that she loved you and longed for you.”

She looked down again. “Is my father coming to see me today?”

I glanced at the nurse, who shook her head. “Not today, your highness. You know the King is a very, very busy man.”

“You told the steward my father could see you when he wanted.” Desirée gave me an accusatory look.

I had no doubt that Jehanne had been as precocious as her daughter; I wondered if she’d been as observant, too. “So I did,” I replied calmly. “Bao and I have come from very far away, and we have much news of foreign lands to tell him.”

She shook her head, silver-gilt ringlets dancing. “He never wants to see me.” Her fingers plucked at the beadwork of her gown again. Two seed pearls came loose and rolled across the floor, accompanied by an indrawn breath of dismay from her nurse. Desirée flashed her a look at once guilty and defiant. “I don’t care! I don’t like this gown anyway! It prickles!”

“It’s all right, young highness.” The nurse sounded resigned.

“It’s because I’m naughty, isn’t it?” Desirée patted the hem, trying to smooth it. “That’s why he doesn’t come.”

It had the sound of a punishment she’d heard voiced many times before. I glanced at the nurse again, and saw her flush with guilt and resentment; and then at Bao, who shook his head.

“I am good at entertaining with tricks and jests, Moirin,” he murmured. “This is beyond me.”

Settling back onto my heels, I let my hands fall into a contemplative mudra and breathed slowly, thinking. “Your father loved your mother very, very much, young highness. He loved all the things that were good in her—and even the things that were naughty, too. Every day, he misses her, and it makes him sad. When he sees those things in you…” I touched my chest. “It makes his heart hurt more. It does not mean he doesn’t love you.”

It was a difficult concept for a child to grasp, and a heavy burden to bear. I watched her wrestle with it, praying that I’d not overstepped my bounds or overburdened the child.

At length, Desirée cocked her head. “Why do you do this?” she asked, doing her best to emulate the mudra I had taken. “Is it a game?”

“Ah.” I smiled. “You might call it a thinking-game, young highness. Each shape you make with your hands is a thought, or… or a wish, or a prayer.”

“What kind of prayer?”

I folded my hands together, steepling my fingers. “A prayer for peace.” I shifted my hands, one above the other, forming an open circle. I could not achieve the gestures with the grace with which Amrita had taught me, but I did my best. “For wisdom.” I fanned my hands before me, interlocking my thumbs. “A prayer that the gods might speak clearly to me.”

She looked interested. “It’s a funny kind of game.”

“It’s a thinking-game,” I said. “Not the kind you win or lose. It helps you to think and wish and pray better, that’s all.”

Her small fingers fumbled through an approximation of the poses I’d shown her. “Will you teach it to me?”

I inclined my head to her. “It would be my honor, young highness.”

During a long winter on the Tatar steppe, where I had first begun to learn patience, I’d learned, too, that young children relished games of hands and words and thoughts. For another hour, with Bao’s helpful aid, I taught the mudras I had learned from my lady Amrita to my lady Jehanne’s daughter. The three of us sat cross-legged on the floor of the nursery, arranging our hands and fingers in contemplative poses and gravely discussing their meaning.

When I sensed that the elder nursemaid, whose name was Nathalie Simon, was growing restless at the interruption in the princess’ daily routine, I rose to bid Desirée farewell.

“I fear your tutor has been kept waiting overlong, your highness,” I said apologetically. “ ’Tis best Bao and I leave for now.”

“Thank you for coming to see me.” There was a formal, rote quality to the words; a seriousness of purpose that was the first I’d seen of Daniel de la Courcel in the child. “It was very nice.”

“We’ll come again if you like,” Bao offered.

Her face brightened, blue-grey eyes sparkling to life. “Will you?”

“Uh-huh.” He grinned at her and nudged me. “Won’t we, Moirin?”

“We will,” I confirmed. “I promise.”

The senior nursemaid Nathalie ushered us into the hallway, closing the door behind us. “My lord, my lady… as you have seen, she’s a precocious and complicated child.” Her expression was stony. “By her standards, she behaved well enough for you today. If there was truly no magic in it, it is only because the two of you presented her with a novelty. Do not presume to understand the difficulties of raising her day in and day out. Do not presume to tell me my business.”

“I don’t,” I murmured.

“I think you do.” Nathalie’s gaze was sharp. “I know who you are, and what you were to Queen Jehanne for a brief time.” She lowered her voice. “Just because you shared her bed gives you no special insight into her daughter.”

I held her hard gaze. “Does the gown prickle?”

The nursemaid blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“It is a simple question,” I said. “Children’s skin is more tender than ours, especially when they are young. It seems to me that if the underside of the embroidery pricks her skin, it might be enough to goad her into misbehaving. Have you felt it?”

“She is a King’s daughter, and a Princess of the Blood. Jewels are her birthright.” Her expression hardened further, challenging me. “Name of Elua! Would you have the child dressed in rags?”

“No,” I said. “Of course not. But have you felt it?”

Gritting her teeth, Desirée’s senior nurse drew herself upright. “No, my lady, I have not. I will do so.”

“Good,” Bao said simply.

Her glare followed us down the hallway.

SEVEN

Not long afterward, we met Rogier Courcel—the Duc de Barthelme, Lord Minister of the realm, and the companion of my father’s youth.

“I trust we’re meeting under happier circumstances, Lady Moirin.” The smile he summoned was tired, but not so deeply tired as the King’s. It held the weariness of a man overburdened by duty. “As I recall, you were rather distraught on the previous occasion.”

I flushed, remembering.

The Duc de Barthelme and my father had ridden out to meet the royal hunting party I had accompanied, and I had been in a rare state of anguish, conflicted over my feelings for both Raphael and Jehanne, and feeling as though I’d not a friend in the world. Upon meeting my father for the first time, I’d flung myself into his arms and wept on his shoulder.

“Indeed, your grace,” I murmured. “Forgive me my rudeness. I was young and foolish.”

My father chuckled, and the Duc glanced sidelong at him. Rogier Courcel was a handsome fellow with thick, curling black hair, the strong brows of House Courcel, and grey-green eyes. I liked the easy manner he and my father had with each other, which spoke of their long familiarity. “You did manage to generate a considerable amount of scandal in a short time,” he agreed. His gaze shifted to Bao. “I take it those days are behind you?”

Bao bowed. “I would not count on it, my lord.”

The Duc’s smile deepened. “Ah, well! The City of Elua can always use a measure of scandal. Moirin, Phanuel tells me you wish to send a message to your mother in Alba. I’ve a courier leaving on the morrow with a packet for the Cruarch, and he’s likely to be the last of the season. Would you care to add a letter?”

“Very much so, your grace.” I smiled back at him. “Thank you for your kindness.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “ ’Tis nothing. Please, call me Rogier. After all, we’re near-kin.”

“Rogier,” I echoed.

“You’re lodging at the Temple of Naamah in the Tsingani quarter?” he inquired. “If you wish, I’d be pleased to grant you and your husband a suite of rooms in the Palace.”

I hesitated. “My thanks. But… I think we will wait awhile. There are too many memories here, at least for me.”

“Of course.” Rogier shifted a stack of papers on his desk, which bore a considerable amount of clutter. “I do have a favor to ask in turn. If I understand rightly what Phanuel has told me, among other things, you were involved in an unpleasant business in Vralia which could have political repercussions for Terre d’Ange. I’d like to hear about it in detail.”

“Certainly,” I said. “His majesty also indicated he might wish to speak with me.”

“About Vralia?” The Duc looked startled.

“Ah… no.” I frowned, realizing it was unlikely that King Daniel knew aught of my misadventures yet. “He did not say.”

My father and Rogier Courcel exchanged a glance. The latter folded his hands on his desk. “Moirin, I have nothing but respect for my kinsman,” he said quietly. “But I fear Daniel de la Courcel’s days of taking an active hand in steering the realm are over. He has no heart for it. Until the Dauphin’s return, that burden falls to me, and I have accepted it. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No, of course not,” I protested; although in truth, I wasn’t sure if it did.

“It should.” Rogier smiled ruefully. “It makes me uncomfortable, and a number of the members of Parliament, too.”

“You’ve done a fine job,” my father murmured. “Parliament has no cause for concern.”

The Duc raked a hand through his hair. “Even so, I will be grateful when Prince Thierry returns, and I can rejoin my wife and children in Barthelme.”

“Why do they not join you here?” Bao inquired. “Surely, there is room.”

“My wife, Claudine, maintains an… extensive… household,” Rogier replied in a dry tone. “ ’Tis not worth the toil and effort of moving it for two seasons’ time. And my boys are happy in Barthelme, where they can run wild.”

My father chuckled again. “Your eldest might feel otherwise if he were sixteen and old enough to gain admission to the Night Court.”

“He might,” Rogier admitted. “But Tristan’s two years shy of that gilded threshold.”

“Speaking of children,” I began. Both of them turned their attention to me, and I paused, trying to frame the matter politely. “In Marsilikos, we were told that the young princess Desirée was known as the Little Pearl, and was much beloved in the City of Elua. But Bao and I met with her this morning, and she seemed to me to be a rather lonely little thing.”

“To say the least,” Bao muttered.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Rogier Courcel paused, too. “In the spring, on the occasion of her highness’ third natality, Daniel was persuaded to hold a procession throughout the City in celebration, so that the people might have a glimpse of young Desirée. It was a touching sight, the widowed King with his beautiful young daughter in his arms. To be sure, it charmed the populace.”

My father nodded. “That was when they began calling her the Little Pearl.” He gave me a quiet smile. “The City of Elua has not forgotten Jehanne de la Courcel nor the endless delight they took in gossiping about her. They took her daughter quickly to heart. But I fear it was the last time his majesty appeared in public with her.”

“A pity,” I said.

The Duc raised his brows. “Is the child being mistreated?”

“No,” I said slowly. “I would not go so far as to say that. But it was my sense that she feels unloved.”

Rogier sighed. “Your concern is admirable, Moirin. However, I must tread a fine path here. Daniel has ceded the duties of state to me during this interim. He has not abdicated the throne, nor has he given me authority over his private affairs.” His mouth twisted. “It would be different if he had seen fit to appoint…” He let the thought go unfinished, shrugging. “I fear that if I were to intervene in the matter, Parliament would rebel and declare I had overstepped my authority.”