Kushiel's Justice (12 page)

“Thank you,” she murmured to Phèdre. “It’s lovely, truly.” Sidonie took a deep breath. Her flush faded and she shot me a look that no one else but me would have known was wicked. “Well met, cousin. What have
you
brought me?”

I bowed. “A small token, your highness.”

Sidonie accepted the polished ebony box I proffered and lifted the lid. Inside, a pair of gold earrings nestled on black velvet; twin sunbursts, miniature duplicates of the pendant she’d worn on the Longest Night. I knew, because I’d persuaded Amarante to borrow it without Sidonie’s knowledge. It wasn’t an extravagant gift, but it was a fitting one.

“How clever!” Ysandre, gazing over her daughter’s shoulder, sounded surprised. “That’s very thoughtful, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Sidonie lifted her head. My gift had moved her, and her black eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Thank you, Imriel.” Her voice was light, but it lingered over my name, sure as a caress. It made my skin prickle. I couldn’t imagine that the whole Court couldn’t hear it, too. I couldn’t imagine that no one could see that for a moment, there was no one in the world but the two of us.

No one did, though.

“I’m glad you like them.” I cleared my throat. “A joyous natality to you.”

Ah, Elua! After that, the fête wore on
forever
. Under any other circumstances, it would have been pleasant. We dined, we danced, we drank free-flowing wine and enjoyed the Queen’s largesse. The Eglantine adepts were sublimely entertaining. Mavros flirted with Amarante, thoroughly enjoying himself. I spent a good deal of time in Alais’ company and danced once with Sidonie because it would have been rude not to. We were both so rigid for fear of giving ourselves away, we tripped over one another’s feet, which filled us both with a desperate hilarity we had to struggle to suppress.

All in all I thought the night would never end.

Patience.

At last it did. The assembled guests began straggling into the spring night, accompanied by wavering torches and the lingering scent of lilacs. An end was declared to the fête, and the other members of House Courcel retired to the Palace. I made my way to Phèdre and Joscelin’s side to tell them I meant to go to the Night Court with Mavros.

“Oh?” Phèdre cupped my face. “Name of Elua, love! Will you
please
be careful?”

I didn’t lie as well as I thought; not to her. Not to Joscelin, either. He eyed me wryly, and I knew I’d not fooled either of them. “Yes,” I said. “I will.
We
will.”

Joscelin rolled his eyes.

They went, though. I found Mavros, who hauled me behind the lilac bushes. With deft fingers, he braided into my hair the green and gold ribbons he’d brought, creating a cascade of color. “Tilt your head,” he ordered. I obeyed, letting the ribbons fall to obscure my features. Mavros sighed. “I must be out of my wits.”

“Do you think it will work?” I asked.

“Let’s find out.”

It
was
a mad scheme, like a scene in a farcical play. I daresay we deserved to get caught, and the fact that we weren’t owed everything to Mavros. He played his role to the hilt, trailing after Amarante as she escorted me to Sidonie’s quarters, plaguing her with such incessant wooing that I was hard-pressed not to laugh. Amarante was laughing, fending him off with both hands as she bade the guard on duty outside Sidonie’s chambers to fetch her mistress. He obeyed with a grin.

Sidonie came to the door. “Lord Shahrizai,” she said coolly. “Have you become an adept of Eglantine House? I don’t believe I requested
your
presence.”

“Take him, take him!” Mavros shoved me past the distracted guard and wrapped his arms around Amarante, nuzzling her neck. “I’ve come to lodge a complaint. Your lady-in-waiting has skin as soft and white as apple blossoms and a heart as hard as stone. ’Tis cruel and unfair.”

“My lord!” Amarante protested, laughing.

Sidonie raised her brows. “Giraud, will you summon someone to escort my lord Shahrizai to the Hall of Games?” she said to the guard, who was still grinning. “And mind, I’m not to be disturbed on any account until I arise.”

“Aye, your highness,” he said cheerfully. “A joyous natality to you!”

“Unfair!” Mavros shouted, loosing Amarante. “Cruel and unfair!”

“Come on, my lord,” the guard said, taking his arm and steering him down the hall. Sidonie pulled Amarante into her chambers and closed the door firmly behind her, throwing the bolt. The three of us were alone in her salon.

“Name of Elua!” I rubbed my face. “It would have been a good deal easier and safer to go through Amarante’s room.”

“But not as much fun,” Amarante observed, sounding less than calm. Whatever else Mavros had accomplished, he’d succeeded in that much.

“No.” Sidonie put her arms around my neck. “And this way, if there’s talk of a man in my chambers, which there will be, no one will wonder.” She kissed my throat, making the ribbons in my hair rustle. “I don’t think the guards eavesdrop a-purpose, but they’d hear the timbre of a man’s voice. I needed a very good reason to be left undisturbed.”

It had been her one wish for her birthday: one night. The two of us alone in her own quarters, her own bed. It seemed absurd that such a simple wish could carry such risk, and yet it did. Unfair, as Mavros said; cruel and unfair.

“I’ll leave you,” Amarante said. “If there’s trouble . . .”

“I’ll send my Eglantine adept to you,” Sidonie said. She smiled into my eyes. “We’ll say I wearied of my gift and chose to share it.”

As plans went, it was no better than the first one. Still, it would have to serve. I didn’t care. I reckoned it was worth the risk. Whatever else happened, I wanted this. I wanted it as much as Sidonie did. An entire night . . . Elua!

After Amarante departed through the adjoining door, Sidonie took my hand and led me through her salon, which was heaped with gifts, to the bedchamber beyond. I stopped in the doorway, swallowing.

The room was ablaze with candlelight. It held a massive four-posted bed, spread with a coverlet of rich maroon velvet. For a moment, I had a dizzying flash of Claudia’s bedchamber. There was one difference, though. Coiled in the center of the bed was a length of silken rope.

I looked at Sidonie.

“Only that,” she said gravely. “Only if you truly want to.”

My blood throbbed in my veins. I took a deep breath and smelled only beeswax and the spicy fragrance of a pomander ball on the bedside table. Love was here and Darsšanga was far, far away. “Yes,” I said, gathering Sidonie in my arms. “Oh, yes.”

She laughed and kissed me. “Let me take out your ribbons first.”

I did. We undressed one another slowly. After so many stolen hours and rushed encounters, there was an unspeakable luxury in taking our time. The shadows gathered in the corners of the room, the vast expanse of the bed, made everything new and strange.

“You look different by candlelight,” I murmured.

“So do you,” Sidonie whispered.

I trailed one tasselled end of the rope over her bare skin. “You’re sure?”

Her back arched. “Imriel . . .”

“Because I
will
make you beg,” I breathed into her ear. Ah, Elua! There was a thrill in speaking the words aloud, a thrill in her inarticulate reply. I knelt over her and stretched her arms above her head, pinning her shoulders between my knees. I kissed the insides of her wrists, tasting her rapid pulse. When I tied the first knot with a hard jerk, Sidonie gave a small cry. I glanced down at her. Her eyes were wide and excited.

“Go on,” she whispered.

I learned to tie knots aboard a felucca sailing the Nahar River. I lashed one wrist to a bedpost, threaded the rope around the other bedpost and lashed the other wrist. Hard and tight, her arms splayed wide. The sight of her when I’d finished was beautiful beyond words.

Patience, Phèdre had said.

I found patience in myself that night, although I daresay it wasn’t the kind she’d had in mind. Then again, mayhap it was. One never knew for a surety. I made love to Sidonie with my lips and tongue and hands, with endless patience. Again and again, I brought her near the crest of desire and abandoned her there. Her hips jerked in helpless frustration when I took my mouth away, hands above her bound wrists clenching and opening. And ah, Elua! It felt so
good
.

“Imriel . . .” Sidonie writhed, almost in tears.
“Please!”

“Is it this what you want?” Between her thighs, I sat back on my heels, caressing my erect shaft. It throbbed pleasantly in my hand. “Tell me.”

She did, ragged and gasping.

“All right,” I whispered.

I spread her thighs wider, pushing her knees toward her straining shoulders. No more teasing. I fit myself inside her; deep, deeper than I’d ever gone. Her loins rocked against mine and I felt her climax, over and over. I wanted it to last forever. Patience. I held off for what seemed like hours, stroking her long and slow, until a driving urgency overtook me. Deep, deeper, deepest. I buried myself in her, groaning, and spent my seed with a shudder that ran from the crown of my skull to the base of my spine.

We lay there for a long time, panting.

“Imriel.” Sidonie’s voice at my ear, low and resonant. “You could untie me now.”

“I’ll try.” I rolled off her, picking at knots grown tighter. “Elua’s Balls!”

She laughed;
that
laugh. It made my heart soar. I freed one wrist and kissed it. There were marks where the rope had been. “Better?”

“Yes.” Sidonie flexed her arm, watching me work on the other wrist. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Sun Princess,” I murmured, taking the time to plant a kiss on the upturned palm on her outstretched hand. “Not tonight, I promise you.”

“I don’t mean tonight.”

I freed her other wrist. “Tell me.”

“You.” Sidonie tossed off the coils of rope, sat up, and shook her head impatiently. “Imriel, have you any idea how many women of the Court look at you and see somewhat beautiful and damaged and dangerous? Have you
any
idea how many dream of easing that haunted look behind your eyes?” She raked one hand through her hair. “Name of Elua! You don’t, do you?”

“No,” I said softly. “I . . . no.”

“You’re so . . .” She shook her head again. “And the damnable thing is, I wasn’t one of them. Never. And now you smile at me, and it feels like my heart’s on a string and it’s being yanked out of my chest.”

“I know the feeling,” I said. “All too well.”

Sidonie sighed, drawing up her knees and hugging them. “I love you,” she said in a small voice. “I thought if I didn’t say the words, mayhap it would go away. But Elua help me, I do. So much it hurts. So much that I already miss you. I don’t know if I can bear it.”

I moved behind her, enfolding her in my arms. “Do we have a choice?”

“Not any good ones.” Sidonie leaned back, head resting on my shoulder. She gazed at the dancing patterns of candelight on the ceiling. “Believe me, I’ve thought about it. I can’t step aside as Mother’s heir. It would fall to Alais, and that would throw everything into chaos in Alba. I can’t do it.”

“No, I know,” I said. “Joscelin said to wait a year.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” She shifted in my arms to get a look at me. “You didn’t tell me that part.”

“You hadn’t told me you loved me,” I observed.

“I was hoping it would pass,” she said wryly. “Elua! This is so
stupid
.”

“True.” I tightened my arms around her. “But I do love you. Sidonie, in a year, you’ll gain your majority. And if I spend it in Alba, no one will be able to claim I didn’t do my best to obey the Queen’s wishes. Everything would be different.”

“Mayhap,” she mused. “A year’s a long time.”

I smiled. “Not so very long.”

Sidonie twisted to look at me again. “What if there’s a child, Imriel? That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To secure the line of succession in a manner agreeable to Terre d’Ange and Alba alike?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “If there is, there is. I’m sure any child born into Drustan’s family would be raised with love and care. I’ve seen how he is with you and Alais.”

“I’d hate it, though,” she murmured. “Knowing there was such a big part of you that would never belong to me.”

“Possessive?” I asked lightly.

“Of you? Yes.” Sidonie turned all the way around to face me. “I don’t mind sharing your body.” She kissed me. “I’m D’Angeline, or at least half. It’s the other things that hurt more. Thinking about you laughing with someone else the way we do. Thinking about you sharing your heart. A child would be the worst.” She sighed again. “I know you have to try. And ah, gods, I know I shouldn’t feel this way, I know it’s not what we’ve all agreed is best for both nations, but I do.”

“Let’s hope I’m not terribly fruitful,” I said.

She nodded. “Let’s.”

“You haven’t . . . ?” I frowned.

Sidonie laughed. “Oh,
that
would be an interesting solution, wouldn’t it? No, no. I’m not ready to importune Eisheth, not even on your behalf.” She cocked her head and regarded me. “I would, though, someday.”

“Truly?” I whispered.

“Yes.” She took my face in her hands and kissed me. “Truly. Imriel, let’s not talk anymore. I’m tired of talking.”

We didn’t, not that night. We made love once more, languorous and sweet and slow, altogether different from the first time, and just as nice. The best part was falling asleep together, curled beneath the warm coverlet. It felt so terribly good to feel her body nestled into mine, soft and warm and naked; to hear her breathing slow and deepen into sleep. There was an intimacy to it beyond lovemaking.

And in the morning, when Sidonie awoke and smiled at me, her face soft with sleep and memories of the night’s pleasure, hair tousled and the creased impress of her pillow on one cheek, I knew I was wrong.

A year was a very, very long time.

T
WELVE

T
HE RED SAILS OF THE
C
RUARCH’S
flagship were sighted early that spring.

Almost every other year of my life, I’d heard the news with gladness. In the Sanctuary where I grew up, it meant there would be a feast that night with toasts to Drustan’s health. In the City of Elua, it meant Phèdre’s household would soon depart for Montrève. I’d dreaded it the year Eamonn fostered with us, for it meant he would be leaving, but I’d awaited it in a fever of anticipation the next year, for it meant I’d be free to follow him to Tiberium.

This year, it was like a death-knell.

Worst of all, I was attending a state dinner in honor of Diokles Agallon, the Ephesian ambassador. A full Parliament had convened, and although the Sultan’s suit offering alliance through marriage had been declined by House Courcel, Agallon would be returning to Ephesium having secured the trade concessions he sought.

All I cared about was that it meant Sidonie was there.

The hall burst into cheers when the messenger interrupted with the tidings. Sidonie and I exchanged a single stricken glance across the table. We’d hoped for at least another week. I watched the blood drain from her face, watched her square her slender shoulders and begin explaining to Agallon the long-standing tradition of granting a gold ducat to the first person to spot her father’s sails.

And then I looked away, because Diokles Agallon was trained in the arts of covertcy, and I didn’t want him reading my face.

The next day, I had my final session with the
ollamh
. Having stuffed our heads full with as much Cruithne lore as they could hold, Firdha actually seemed somewhat proud of Alais and me.

“Do not fail to recite your lessons,” she said sternly, her tone belied by a hint of a twinkle in her eye. “A memory that is not exercised grows frail. Do this, and you may bring pride to Alba.”

Alais was fairly bouncing with eagerness and wanted to talk afterward. I listened to her burble, struggling to rein in my impatience. All I wanted to do was find Amarante and see if she had any message for me.

“Oh, Imri!” Alais clapped her hands together. “Aren’t you
excited
?”

I smiled ruefully. “I’m pleased, love. Remember, I don’t know Dorelei well.”

“I wish you hadn’t gone away to Tiberium last year,” she said. “You’d know her a good deal better if you’d stayed for the summer. You liked her, though, didn’t you? I liked her. Dorelei’s not nearly so serious as Talorcan can be.”

“I liked her, yes,” I said.

“She has the best laugh,” Alais reflected, and I winced. My young cousin gave me a sharp-eyed look. “Did you like her as well as you like Amarante?”

“Amarante!” I laughed. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m not stupid, Imri.”

“No, you’re not,” I agreed. “I don’t know her as well, that’s all. Anyway, I thought you liked Amarante, too.”

“I do, only I don’t see Sidonie as much since she came to Court. They’re always whispering about something. And now you’ve been acting awfully odd.” She shrugged. “I know what people say, but I don’t always believe it, you know.”

“Nor should you,” I said, ruffling her hair. “You’re wise beyond your years.”

“Don’t do that!” Alais jerked her head away from my touch and scowled. “Imri, if I asked you something, would you tell me the truth?”

I felt bad for ruining her happiness and opened my mouth to make an apologetic promise, but somewhat in her expression, at once wary and determined, stopped me. Alais was clever and observant, and she saw a good deal that others didn’t. Young or no, she knew me better than almost anyone at Court; and she knew her sister, too.

“I’ve never lied to you, Alais,” I said, picking my words with care. “And I don’t mean to start. So if you don’t think you’d like the answer, think twice before you ask.”

Alais looked away, and I saw her throat move as she swallowed. Although I’d spoken gently, they were harsher words than I’d ever said to her. “Are you . . . do you mean to ask Father about the Maghuin Dhonn and why the
ollamh
wouldn’t talk about them?”

“Yes, of course.” I relaxed. It wasn’t what she’d meant to ask and we both knew it. “Do you, too?”

She shook her head. “I’d rather you did it. He still thinks of me as a child.”

“I will,” I promised. “And I’ll tell you about it.”

“That’s good.” Alais looked back at me, her violet gaze steady and hurt. “I don’t like secrets, Imri.”

“Nor do I, love,” I murmured. “Not this kind.”

Days passed in a flurry, each one bringing a new report of the Cruarch’s progress as his ship made landfall and his retinue rode toward the City of Elua, carrying my bride-to-be closer and closer. Ysandre fretted over whether or not it was possible to move our wedding to an earlier date, deciding at last that it was impractical. The announcements had been sent long ago, and a multitude of arrangements were in place. The date would stand, some three weeks after their arrival. She bestowed a massive suite of rooms at the Palace on me, laughing with pleasure at my surprise.

“Where were you planning to bring her?” Ysandre asked. “Surely not your tiny bedchamber in Phèdre’s household!”

“I’d not thought on it.” I gazed around the salon. The high ceiling was recessed and trimmed in gilt, containing a fresco depicting Eisheth gathering herbs. The rooms were hung about with costly tapestries and appointed with heavy, ornate furniture. There was even a small balcony overlooking the gardens.

“I know.” Ysandre regarded me with amusement. “Young men can be thoughtless. But Imriel, you are a prince of Terre d’Ange and a member of House Courcel, and the young lady is sister to the Cruarch’s heir. At some point, you’re expected to live as such.”

“My thanks.” I bowed. “You’re very generous.”

She waved a dissmissive hand. “ ’Tis naught, truly.”

It was a bitter piece of irony. I daresay Ysandre would have given me aught I’d asked for in those days, glad as she was to have the matter settled. She was in high spirits, anticipating Drustan’s arrival and the forthcoming wedding. And I was in misery, because the only thing in the world I wanted was the one thing she would never give me: her daughter.

We had almost no time together. My own birthday arrived, and the Cruarch’s party was gauged to be two days away from the City. Between that and the coming wedding, there would be no natal festivities for me this year. No chance to hatch another mad scheme, no gift of a second night spent together.

The best we could manage was a few stolen moments. That afternoon, Sidonie and Amarante contrived to pay a visit to view my new quarters while I was there, bringing armloads of blue and yellow irises from the garden. They made a pretty picture, both of them fresh-faced as flowers. The guard attending them lingered outside my door, near enough we didn’t dare throw the bolt for fear of raising suspicion. Amarante found a tall vase of Serenissiman glass in one of the ornate cabinets—more of the Queen’s largesse—and began arranging the irises.

“Mind you tell one of the servants to refill the ewer on the bathstand,” she called to me. “I’m using all your water!” Tilting her head toward the bedchamber, she added in a low voice. “For Elua’s sake, please be
quiet
in there.”

We managed, barely.

It was a hushed, hurried encounter. In the zenana, there were women addicted to opium, the only pleasure the Mahrkagir ever afforded us. Betimes he took it away to see them suffer. I never saw such profound, aching relief and gratitude as on the days when the opium was restored, even the merest crumbs of it. One would have thought the release it provided was life itself. It scared me, for I never understood it.

I understood it better now.

Sidonie and I kissed and grappled with frantic haste, tearing at each other’s clothes with urgent whispers. I sank into her with a gasped prayer of thanksgiving and she bit my shoulder to stifle a whimper. We ground against one another, clutching and thrusting and shuddering our way to a rushed climax.

“Wait.” Sidonie caught my arm as I made to rise. “I have something for you.” She knelt and rummaged in the purse tied to the girdle of her abandoned gown. “You gave me the idea for it. I didn’t have time to have a box made.”

I knelt opposite her. “What is it?”

“Give me your hand.” She took my right hand and slid a ring onto my fourth finger. It was heavy and warm. I glanced down at our joined hands and laughed. Gold; a knot of gold. Sidonie smiled. “I didn’t want you to forget.”

“Never,” I said. “We’re bound together, you and I.”

“So it seems,” she said wistfully.

I wanted to kiss her until the sorrow passed, lay her down and make love to her until the world crumbled around us, but there was no more time. Instead we rose and donned our clothing, returning to the salon to exclaim over the glorious vase of irises while Amarante regarded us with concern and love in her green eyes. And then there was no more time at all, no reason for them to linger without giving the Guard cause to wonder, for all the Court knew all too well that Sidonie and I were not overly fond of one another, and one thoughtful gesture would do little to allay it.

So they went and I watched them go, a knot of gold on my finger and a knot tightening around my heart.

And two days later, the Cruarch’s party arrived.

I’d learned a good deal about dissembling in Tiberium, carrying on an affair with Claudia Fulvia beneath the oblivious noses of her husband, her brother, and my friends. Training in the arts of covertcy, she called it. But that was nothing compared to this. Lying comes easy when one’s heart isn’t engaged.

As always, we greeted them at the gates of the City and there were crowds and showers of flower petals. The commonfolk of Terre d’Ange loved the ritual. I stood in a place of honor between Alais and Phèdre with a false smile plastered on my face, watching the Cruarch of Alba and his niece ride toward us, surrounded by guards.

Sister of his heir; my bride-to-be.

Dorelei mab Breidaia was much as I remembered her. Cruithne through and through, slight and dark, with wide-set black eyes that appeared at once shy and startled. There were twin lines of dots etched beneath her eyes in blue woad, high on her cheekbones. Thanks to the
ollamh
’s lessons, I now knew they meant she had had true dreams and passed a season studying women’s secrets among the Cullach Gorrym. More than that, I was not privy to know, although Alais knew some of it.

The Queen’s herald announced her as my betrothed and the crowd cheered. Dorelei caught my eye and blushed a dusky rose. I smiled at her, clenching my right hand into a fist so hard I felt Sidonie’s ring dig into my flesh.

In the hours that followed, I did it more than once.

Blessed Elua, the formal reception was
agonizing
. Naturally, I was expected to dance attendance on Dorelei. Even if it hadn’t been for Sidonie, I think it would have been difficult. Dorelei and I had gotten to know one another some little bit last spring, but not well. And now, in three weeks’ time, we were to be wed. The shadow of it hung over us, reminding us that we were nearly strangers.

It made her shy and it made me awkward, and all the while, I dared not glance in Sidonie’s direction. I knew where she was, always. I could feel her presence on my skin, sure as the sun’s warmth.

Firdha the
ollamh
attended the reception, small and dignified with her golden oak branch in hand. When she entered, Drustan greeted her with a bow worthy of an equal. “Daughter of the Grove, how did your pupils fare?”

Our instructor returned his bow. “Well enough, Cruarch. You will find the lad sufficient, I think. And it is my recommendation that the lass return to Alba with you come autumn to pass a year among us ere her wedding.” A smile touched her lips. “She is a child of Necthana’s line and should learn to read her dreams.”

At that, Alais let out a squeak of happiness. It was what she had hoped for, although she’d been convinced Firdha wouldn’t say it. Dorelei laughed for the first time that day and hugged her. While I was away in Tiberium, they’d become fond of one another. “I’d like that, little sister. Perhaps you could stay with us.”

“Oh, Imri!” Alais’ eyes shone. “Could I?”

“Of course.” I made myself smile at her. “If your father allows it, I’d like nothing better.”

It was good, at least, that someone was joyous. And I
was
happy for her. Alais had never been truly at ease at Court and the Cruithne blood ran strongly in her. Back in the days when we spoke often together, she had wondered if she would feel more at home in Alba.

I hoped she would.

I knew I wouldn’t.

In the days that followed, my sense of time’s passage spun completely out of proportion. Minutes and hours dragged on to eternity, while days passed in the blink of an eye. The Palace was constantly a-bustle with preparations for the wedding. I was plagued on all sides with the demands of courtship that were expected of me, and I couldn’t steal a moment alone with Sidonie.

Once, we encountered one another unexpectedly in the halls as I was escorting Dorelei from the audition of a renowned flautist in the Queen’s quarters, one of the myriad musicians hoping to play at the wedding. He’d been nervous and played poorly. After he left, I’d declared that Hugues would have done a better job, and then had to explain to Dorelei who Hugues was. I was reciting some of his worst poetic verse to the accompaniment of her delighted laughter when it happened.

I stopped dead. For the space of a heartbeat, Sidonie and I stared at one another, Dorelei’s laughter still ringing in the hallway. I clenched my fist, feeling the ring’s bite.

“Well met, your highnesses,” Amarante said quietly behind her mistress. Sidonie reached back and caught her hand, squeezing it hard enough to hurt. I knew, I could tell.

I said something; I don’t know what. We passed and moved onward on our separate courses. Dorelei’s slim brown fingers rested on my arm.

“They’re very different for sisters, aren’t they?” she observed. “Alais and Sidonie.”

“Yes,” I said shortly.