I’d never known anyone else to remark on it.

Finished with his measurements, Benoit Vallon gestured for Bao to clothe himself once more. “Very good. Do you remember what I told you at our first consultation, my lady?”

I smiled. “I do, messire. You advised me that autumn hues would flatter me best, and that if I must wear color, to avoid bright hues in favor of deep jewel tones. Oh, and that I should never wear stark white, but ivory instead.”

“So I did. Well done, child.” He picked through the piles of fabric I’d heaped on the bed. “I’ll take this, and this…” A pair of squares of embroidered silk I’d set to the side caught his eye, and he picked them up to study them. “Interesting. These were never Bhodistani work, were they?”

“No,” I said. “Ch’in.”

There were two squares, one embroidered with a pattern of flowering bamboo, the other with a pattern of black-and-white magpies. I had purchased them both in a Ch’in village called Tonghe. The first had been embroidered by Bao’s half-sister; the second, by his mother.

Benoit glanced up at me. “They’re lovely.”

“They are,” I agreed. “But I fear they’re not available.”

“Why not, Moirin?” Bao asked softly. I looked at him in surprise. “Such things were meant to be used,” he said. “To be worn, to be enjoyed and admired. It is what my mother would have intended.” He smiled at me. “Even though you are apt to hoard your treasures like a dragon with his pearl, it is what she would have wished. And I would wish to honor her; and my sister, too.”

“These were made with love, then.” Benoit Vallon spread one long-fingered hand over the squares, the expression on his face somber. “If you allow me to take them, I will do justice to them.”

Bao and I looked at one another.

I nodded. “Take them.”

For the balance of the day, Bao and I went our separate ways. He kept his standing appointment with Desirée and her tutor, improving his grasp on the western alphabet, before meeting with the tumblers of Eglantine House to counsel them further on the spectacle they were planning.

I met with Lianne Tremaine, who served me fragrant tea and unveiled her latest poem pushing back against the narrative the unknown poet in Night’s Doorstep had advanced, accusing the Lady of Marsilikos of taking advantage of the controversy to promote House Mereliot’s influence.

I studied the rough draft, sketched on foolscap. “You’re holding back.”

“Do you think I should have been more aggressive in challenging the notion of Jehanne and Raphael as star-crossed lovers?” she asked dryly. “Moirin, the problem is that they did carry on a very long, very infamous affair, and everyone in the City of Elua and I daresay the entire realm knows it. You even said so yourself. To argue against it would be… un-D’Angeline. And I cannot assail Raphael’s character on the grounds it deserves without dragging you into the fray by implication.”

“You, too,” I noted.

“Precisely.” Lianne tapped the foolscap. “So, as you say, I’m holding back. Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor.”

“I understand.” I took a deep breath. “About Raphael… tell me, how did he seem to you after the… incident?”

She was silent a moment. “We didn’t have much contact with one another for a long time afterward,” she said at length. “None of us did. Knowing Raphael, and knowing how I felt, I can only guess.” She gave me a fleeting glance. “Mainly, horrified. Horrified by the results of our failure, horrified at what befell Claire Fourcay.” A shudder ran over her. “Horrified at how much worse it might have been. And as to how Raphael felt about that, I cannot even begin to guess.” She shuddered again. “He had that, that thing’s essence inside him.”

“That thing had a name,” I said. “Focalor, Grand Duke of the Fallen.”

“I know that!” Lianne Tremaine snapped at me. “Name of Elua! Do you imagine I could ever forget it?”

“No.” I did not say what I was thinking, which was that the fallen spirits were no better than things to the Circle of Shalomon, useful tools they hoped to wield. If they knew the spirits’ names, it was only for the purpose of binding them. Still, the memory was a heavy burden to carry. “No, I do not.”

Both of us were silent, remembering. I didn’t know if the poetess had seen what I’d seen in the fallen spirit’s incandescent eyes: staved hulls and storm-tossed seas beneath a raging sky; hundreds, mayhap thousands, drowning; mayhem and destruction for the sheer joy of it. Whatever she had seen, it was enough to horrify her.

I thought, too, of the last glimpse I’d had of Raphael de Mereliot; of the faint spark of Focalor’s lightning I thought I’d seen in Raphael’s eyes. To this day, I didn’t know if I’d imagined it or not. “Lianne… did you ever have cause to suspect there was aught of Focalor’s essence that lingered in him?”

Her face turned white. “No! Gods, no! Do you think it did? Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I would not have thought it possible for my diadh-anam to be divided.”

Lianne gave another violent shudder and made an old-fashioned gesture to avert ill luck. “I didn’t see Raphael until after…” She hesitated. “After Jehanne’s death. And he was well nigh as broken as his majesty. She’d refused to see him, you know. After the summoning.”

“No,” I murmured. “I didn’t know.”

She nodded. “Jehanne was furious at him—truly furious, not like one of their usual spats.” There was sympathy in her gaze. “She blamed him for nearly getting you killed.”

“It was my choice,” I said. “And Claire Fourcay was killed.”

Lianne shook her head. “Claire took the risk willingly; we all did. Not you. Raphael blackmailed you into it.”

“I know.” That final summoning had been the price of saving my father’s life; but it was still my choice. “So Raphael never saw Jehanne again until…?” It was still hard to say the words.

“On her death-bed.” Lianne supplied them gently. “The King sent for him before the end. He tried to save her.”

I knew; I’d seen his majesty’s memory. But I hadn’t known it was the only time Raphael had seen Jehanne since I’d left. “Stone and sea!” My voice shook a bit. “That’s hard.”

“It is,” the poetess agreed. “So you can see why I’m reluctant to assail their tragic affair.” She cocked her head. “Moirin, if I may ask, why do you care? Why such an interest in Raphael de Mereliot?” She lowered her voice, eyes widening. “Do you really think a part of Focalor resides in him?”

I traced the rim of the tea-cup that sat on