Naamah's Blessing

Bao took a deep breath. “On the grounds that it’s a grave offense against House Mereliot.”

“Because I ruined Raphael’s reputation?”

“That, and because Raphael de Mereliot was Jehanne’s other true, great love,” he said. “Not you. And that if anyone deserved the role, it should have been him. That the appointment should have been given him at Desirée’s birth.”

I was silent.

“Moirin?”

“Jehanne did love him,” I said slowly. “Very much. Mayhap as much as the King—likely more than me. But that is not what she chose. She chose the future she wanted for herself and her child—to be a good queen, to be a good mother. I was there when she confessed her fears and wept. I was there when she honored her promise to King Daniel and lit a candle to Eisheth, beseeching her to open the gates of her womb. I was the first to see the spark of the child’s life within her.”

“I know.” Bao took my hands in his. “And you are here, now, for her.”

“But that’s not why we came,” I whispered.

He took one hand away, laid it on my chest. My diadh-anam pulsed beneath it, flickering in time with his. “Are you sure?”

“Not entirely.”

“You are here doing what you have always done, Moirin.” Bao’s tone was firm. “Obeying the call of destiny, no matter how vague. If you are here, it is because you are meant to be here.”

I exhaled in frustration. “Gods! I want to believe it. But we cannot even find a suitable nursemaid.”

“We will.” Leaning forward, Bao kissed me. “And a suitable place to live, and a suitable couturier—or at least a suitable printer, so that we might have suitable calling cards made. And if that fails, I am quite certain that the couturieres of Eglantine House would be more than happy to design suitable attire for us. Until then…” He plucked at the hem of my sari. “I am quite content to continue bidding farewell to these garments, over and over.”

I wound my arms around his neck. “Are you sure?”

His eyes gleamed. “I have been to hell and back with you, Moirin. I am very, very sure.”

Come morning, the entire City was abuzz with the news of the Lady of Marsilikos’ complaint.

It seemed there were a handful of other signatories, mostly minor Eisandine lords, but a few members of the Great Houses as well, including the Duc de Somerville, who wielded considerable clout in L’Agnace province.

A young, upstart poet based in Night’s Doorstep and sponsored by persons unknown had written a satire mocking my relationship with Jehanne, calling it a liaison of convenience fabricated for the sole purpose of provoking Raphael de Mereliot. The tide of public opinion was turning against me.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t care, because Bao and I found our nursemaid.

It surprised me to find an applicant who was no servant of a royal house, but instead a Priestess of Eisheth, goddess of healing, clad in the flowing sea-blue robes of her order.

“Lady Moirin.” She greeted me with a shy smile. “It’s been a long time. I daresay you don’t remember me.”

I blinked, trying to recall. “I almost remember.”

Her chin lifted. “Gemma, my lady. Gemma Tristault. I was an acolyte of Eisheth’s Order at the time. I came to you and Lord Raphael on behalf of our Head Priestess, Sister Marianne Prichard.”

“Oh, aye!” I said. “She was bitten by a rat, and the wound had poisoned her blood.”

Gemma nodded. “It festered, and she hid it too long, trying to tend it herself.” She smiled affectionately. “Stubborn old woman. We would have lost her if not for you and Lord Raphael.”

“Is she well?” I asked.

“She is,” the priestess said. “She sends her regards, as well as this letter of commendation.” She extended a neatly rolled scroll.

I unrolled it and skimmed the contents, Bao peering over my shoulder and sounding out the letters to himself. “Forgive me, Sister Gemma,” I said. “But… I confess myself perplexed. Why is a Priestess of Eisheth applying for the post of royal nursemaid?”

“Why not?” she asked in a reasonable tone. “A hundred and some years ago, the head of Naamah’s Order had the notion of assigning young acolytes to serve as royal companions. Who better than one of Eisheth’s servants to nurture royal peers in their youth?” She gestured at the scroll. “As Sister Marianne indicated, since I took my vows, it’s been my task to care for children brought to the sanctuary to seek healing.”

I was intrigued. “The young princess needs a nursemaid, not a physician.”

“Although it would not be a bad thing to have a nursemaid with a physician’s skills,” Bao noted.

The priestess folded her hands in the arms of her robes. “Many of the children brought to us, especially the very young ones, are frightened and confused. Part of my duty is to soothe and comfort them.” She hesitated. “I do not wish to sound presumptuous, my lady. But since resigning her post, Nathalie Simon has been spreading tales about her young highness, claiming that she is an unmanageable child growing worse under your influence.”

“Ah… that would be me,” Bao admitted. “But I have learned better than to overexcite her.”

Gemma smiled at him. “Be that as it may, Messire Bao, I do not believe there is such a thing as an unmanageable child. Only frightened or angry children, and caretakers who lack the patience to manage them.”

I steepled my fingers in a contemplative mudra. “I trust you and Sister Marianne are aware that there is a political aspect to this appointment?”

Her blue eyes were grave. “Very much so, Lady Moirin. Sister Marianne was most distressed to hear of the Lady of Marsilikos’ complaint. House Mereliot is one of Eisheth’s most ancient and venerated lines; and Eisheth’s business is healing, not causing strife.”

“Would your appointment further this strife?” I inquired.

She inclined her head. “It is a valid question, and one I cannot answer with certainty. The High Priestess does not believe so. She believes it would deliver a necessary reminder to Eisandine peers.”

“How so?” Bao asked.

Again, Gemma hesitated. “I do not wish to be presumptuous—”

“Presume,” I said.

“It is no secret that his majesty avoids the child,” she said softly. “That it pains him to see Queen Jehanne in her. Even young children sense such things. Surely, it has hurt the princess in turn. So if I may presume, I would say that his majesty’s decision to assign you a significant role in the princess’ life represents his best effort at mending the damage. You can see the mother reflected in the child, and love her for it as his majesty is unable to do. There are wounds of the spirit as grave as wounds of the flesh, and they, too, need healing. This is the reminder that Eisheth’s Order would offer the peers of the realm.”

Bao turned to me. “Hire her.”

I ignored him for the moment. “How can you be sure?” I asked the priestess. “I might be seeking the role for political purposes.”

“You, Lady Moirin?” Gemma laughed, but nicely. “No, I do not think so. Nor do I think you would be going to such trouble on her highness’ behalf if you did not care for her.”

A smile tugged at my lips. “Would you like to meet her?”

“It would be my honor.”

We found Desirée fitful and restless, having refused her afternoon nap; and the nursemaid Paulette near tears.

Within a quarter of an hour, the young princess was half-asleep in the priestess’ lap, her head nodding while Gemma sang low, rhythmic songs to her in a remarkably soothing voice.

“Elua have mercy!” Paulette breathed. “ ’Tis a miracle.”

“No miracle.” The priestess smiled. “Music is Eisheth’s other gift to mankind, and there’s healing in it, too.”

“Do you truly desire the post, my lady priestess?” I asked her.

Gemma stroked Desirée’s flaxen hair, trailed one fingertip over the curve of the child’s fair cheek, touched the perfect bow of her pink, parted lips. As her gaze lifted to meet mine, I fought a surge of irrational jealousy. “I do, my lady Moirin.”

I bowed to her. “It is yours.”

SIXTEEN

Almost immediately, Desirée flourished under Sister Gemma’s care. She became calmer, happier, eager to please for the sake of the pleasure that came of behaving kindly toward others.

I was glad.

And a little bit jealous, still.

“It’s for the best,” Bao consoled me, his arms wrapped around me. “You do know that, don’t you, Moirin?”

“Of course I do.”

His arms tightened. “We’ll have babes of our own one day,” he predicted. “Remember? I told you so a long time ago.”

I laughed and kissed him. “Aye, I do. Fat, happy babies.”

“Exactly.”

The tides of public opinion continued to sway back and forth. For a mercy, they began to swing in our direction. The appointment of Sister Gemma, and the support of Eisheth’s Order that accompanied it, were the first stroke of good fortune.

The second stroke came the following day, or more precisely, very early in the morning of the following day, when Bao and I were awakened by an urgent summons from one of the young acolytes in the temple.

“Forgive me,” she apologized as we gazed sleepily at her. “But it’s Messire Benoit Vallon from Atelier Favrielle to see you, and he’s in a considerable state of irritation.”

I yawned and tried to shake the cobwebs from my thoughts. “Oh, is he?”

Her lips quirked. “Considerable.”

I clambered out of bed and splashed water on my face, fumbling for clothing. “Best send him in, then.”

Benoit Vallon swept into our bedchamber with a satchel in one hand and a scowl on his face. He was a tall, lanky fellow who moved with loose-limbed grace, and every line of his long body expressed his considerable irritation.

“Well met, Messire—” I began.

His scowl deepened. “Yes, yes! It’s my fault for hiring my idiot nephew. He should never have turned you away.” He made an impatient gesture. “Come now, my lady! It’s less than a month’s time until the oath-taking ceremony, with the Longest Night hard on its heels. Strip!”

“Ah… is that customary, Moirin?” Bao inquired.

“It’s all right.” I began removing the sari I’d hastily pinned in place. “Messire Vallon needs to take measurements.” I glanced at the couturier. “You are here to accept a commission?”

Benoit Vallon favored me with a saturnine smile. “I’m not letting it fall to Eglantine House, that’s for certain. Atelier Favrielle has a reputation to maintain, and you’re surely one of the more interesting creatures I’ve dressed over the years.” He plucked up the sari I’d let fall, stretching out the unwieldy length of embroidered, sequined silk. “This is gorgeous fabric. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Bhodistani work so fine. Have you more?”

“Aye, but—”

“But what?” He shot me an impatient look. “It’s gorgeous, yes, but you cannot run around the City of Elua in midwinter looking like you’ve escaped from some pasha’s harem, Lady Moirin. So show me what you have, and let me find a way to incorporate it, hmm?”

I nodded reluctantly. “All right. But not all of it.”

“Fine.” Benoit began taking my measurements with a cloth tape, jotting down figures. When he was satisfied, he turned his attention to Bao. “So this is the infamous juggling physician-prince husband?”

“Tumbling,” Bao supplied.

“Tumbling.” The couturier repeated his impatient gesture. “Strip.”

Bao blinked. “Me?”

With a sigh, Benoit Vallon indicated Bao’s loose-fitting Bhodistani tunic and breeches. “Must I repeat myself, messire? All you need is a turban to play the part of the pasha from whose harem your wife escaped. Now strip, please.”

“We talked about this,” I reminded Bao, pinning my sari back in place and opening one of our trunks. Ironically, it contained the crimson turban Bao had worn at our wedding.

“You did not tell me it involved stripping for strangers,” he complained, but he obeyed, shucking his clothing.

“Hmm.” Benoit circled him, gazing intently. “Very nice. Lean, yet muscular. An excellent physique for well-tailored attire. No more baggy, ill-fitting atrocities for you, messire.” He took in the gold ear-hoops, the tattoos marking Bao’s forearms like streaks of jagged, black lightning. “Very… piratical.” He pointed at the latter. “Are those some sort of tribal markings?”

“No.” Bao didn’t elaborate.

“There’s a certain brooding darkness about you,” Benoit said shrewdly. “A roguish glamour, one might say… but it’s somewhat more, too.” He hoisted his measuring tape. “May I?”

I rummaged through our trunks, putting to one side those saris with which I did not want to part, like the crimson one I’d worn at our wedding and the mustard-yellow one that had been Amrita’s first gift to me, keeping half an eye on Bao as he suffered himself to be measured.

There was a faint aura of darkness that clung to him, and there had been ever since he had died and been restored to life. I could see it more clearly in the twilight, but I could see it in daylight, too. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">