"Are you all right, Moirin?" Raphael gave me a curious glance. "You look fevered."

"I'm fine," I managed.

"Let me see." He felt at my forehead and the pulse of my wrist, then bade me stick out my tongue and peered down my throat. "All right, then. Don't overtax yourself today, mind? You're not long out of bed-rest." He gave me a wry smile. "And you may have spent a good deal of time in bed yesterday, but I fear it wasn't particularly restful."

Another flush swept over me. "No. No, it was not."

Prince Thierry's invitation bade me to come unmounted and meet him in the courtyard of the royal stables. Raphael rode alongside the carriage on his own hunting steed, a glossy chestnut with powerful hindquarters. I rode in the carriage, sick with apprehension.

One good satire can make you the laughingstock of the City, Jehanne had said. Yesterday I'd taken her warning at face value.

Today I wondered if it had been a taste of things to come.

It wasn't fair. I hadn't done anything Jehanne hadn't done. But she was a highly trained courtesan. I had no doubt she could dissemble in the ways of desire as well and better than any woman. I was a half-breed of the Maghuin Dhonn with no skill whatsoever when it came to hiding my own desires. And I knew, instinctively, that if Jehanne de la Courcel put it about how gullible I'd been and how ardent a role I'd played in my own seduction, I would be a laughingstock.

And Raphael would despise me for lying.

I don't know which thought made me sicker.

By the time we reached the royal stables, I was strung tighter than my own bow and half ready to vomit. A footman in Courcel livery helped me from the carriage.

"Lady Moirin!" The Dauphin was standing beside a groom, who was holding the head of a glossy black filly. Thierry beckoned to me, his expression glad and friendly. "Come here, will you?"

I relaxed a measure. "She's lovely." I stroked the filly's neck. "Are you riding her today?"

"No." He grinned, took the reins from the groom, and handed them to me with a courtly bow. "You are. She's a gift."

I stared. "Whatever for?"

"Do I need a reason?" Thierry asked. "A beautiful lady should have a beautiful mount. But as it happens, she's a gift of thanks," he added. "Marc de Thibideau's a good friend and hunting companion. I'm grateful for what you did to aid him."

"It was Raphael's doing," I murmured.

"Raphael had already treated the young man in question with limited success," Raphael offered in a laconic tone from astride his tall chestnut. "Give his highness your thanks."

Unexpected tears stung my eyes. "Thank you, your highness."

"It's nothing." Thierry waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. "You're welcome to stable her here if de Mereliot doesn't have room in his."

"I've room," Raphael said curtly.

I ignored him, captivated by the gentle warmth in the filly's dark eyes. "Does she have a name?"

"D'Antilly's Midnight Blossom," Prince Thierry said cheerfully. I glanced sharply up at him, wondering if it were an oblique reference to my visit to Cereus House. He laughed. "I know, it's a mouthful. What did you say her use-name was?" he asked the groom.

"Blossom, your highness."

The filly pricked her ears.

"A bit pedestrian." Thierry shrugged. "Call her whatever you like, my lady. Her official name's only for the pedigree records."

"Blossom." When I said her name, the filly's head swung back toward me, ears pricked. I smiled. "Blossom's fine. She already knows it." I handed the reins back to the groom, then cupped the filly's velvety muzzle in my hands, blowing softly into her nostrils. She snuffed. For a moment, I was able to forget all my concerns and block out the rest of the world. I could sense her thoughts, curious and unafraid. "Hello, Blossom."

"Do bear-witches speak to animals?" a sweet, light voice inquired.

Jehanne.

I stiffened, then turned slowly. A new contingent of riders had entered the courtyard. Lianne Tremaine, the King's Poet, was among them. I couldn't read the intent on her sharp, curious face. The Queen was mounted on a pretty white mare. At the sight of her, another flush of heat washed over my skin. Her blue-grey eyes sparkled with what could be playfulness or malice. If Jehanne meant to humiliate me, I thought, she would do it now.

"We do," I made myself say. "It doesn't mean they speak back to us."

She laughed. "Fairly said!" Her gaze settled on Raphael. "My lord de Mereliot, since his majesty has pressing business elsewhere and his highness has elected to escort Lady Moirin, mayhap you would do me the kindness of serving as my escort today?"

Raphael bowed in the saddle, his voice both wry and sincere. "Your majesty, nothing would give me greater pleasure."

Jehanne smiled sweetly at him. "Oh, good."

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. It seemed I was reprieved, at least for the moment.

The hunt resembled no form of hunting I'd ever experienced. It took place in a vast meadow—a portion, Thierry informed me, of the royal hunting preserves. There were servants to attend the lords and ladies, servants to set up silk pavilions on the outskirts of the meadows where we would enjoy a luncheon. Servants to handle the sleek coursing hounds in their braces, servants to scout ahead and beat the brush for prey.

The feel of Blossom's soft mouth beneath my reins, her gentle, willing gait beneath me, made me glad. The fresh, crisp air and the melancholy of the autumn grasses we trampled filled me with poignant pleasure.

Still, I was miserable.

Jehanne.

Raphael.

They rode side by side, conversing with heads inclined toward one another in a manner that spoke of long familiarity. Sunlight glinted on her silver-gilt coronet, picked out the bright streaks of gold in his tawny locks. They looked well together. I remembered her hair spread across the pillow, his curtaining my face. I was jealous of them both.

"Tell me you're not going to moon over him all day," Prince Thierry said abruptly to me.

"I'm sorry." I gave him a guilty glance. "Was I?"

"Yes." He rode a handsome bay, his carriage upright. Ahead of us, Raphael leaned close and said somewhat and Jehanne's laughter rose. Thierry's mouth made a hard line. "She's in a good mood."

And well she should be, I thought. Aloud, I asked, "Why do you dislike her so?"

He bent a wry look at me. "Aside from the fact that I love and respect my father and Jehanne is a cuckolding bitch?"

"There is that," I admitted. "But is it not the D'Angeline way?"

One of the prince's companions chuckled. "Tell the truth, Thierry. The whole truth."

He flushed. "Go to hell!"

The young man who had spoken nudged his mount and jogged alongside us. He had blue-black hair tied in myriad braids that fell in a cascade. "His highness dissembles," he said affably. "He had designs on Jehanne himself. Only at fifteen, when his father found her the cure for his grief, Thierry was too young to be admitted to the Night Court. Isn't it so?"

Thierry shoved at him. "Goddamned Shahrizai!"

"Love to you, too, cousin." The other blew him a kiss, then winked at me and gave a courtly bow from his saddle. "Lady Moirin, we've not met. I'm Balthasar Shahrizai, and if you should ever wish to sample life's more piquant pleasures, I'd be honored to be your guide."

"Ah….. thank you," I said uncertainly.

He cocked his head at me. "Do your people practice the art of algolagnia?"

"Algo ….." I gave up. "I'm sorry. It's not a word I know."

"It's from the Hellene," Balthasar said. "Algos, meaning pain, and lagnia, meaning lust." His expression was candid and pleasant. "The art and practice of finding pleasure in pain."

I blinked. "Are you quite serious?"

"Quite." Although his expression didn't change, something predatory surfaced behind his eyes. I could feel his gift coiling around him. It had very sharp edges. "Don't dismiss it until you've tried it, my lady."

"I'll think on it," I said.

Thierry sighed. "Balthasar, go away."

At that moment, one of the beaters flushed a hare. Three of the handlers slipped their hounds from their braces. The hare dashed frantically across the meadow as the dogs gave chase, vying with one another to drive the hare toward their master. A footservant handed Thierry a loaded crossbow, an elegant weapon with decorative pearl inlay.

I unslung my bow from my shoulder and nocked an arrow, but when the hare raced past us, I didn't have the heart to shoot. I could sense its panic.

Thierry's shot went wide and someone else made the kill. "Ah, well." He handed his crossbow back to the servant to be reloaded, then looked at me and laughed. "What in Elua's name is that?"

"What?" I lowered my bow.

He nodded at it. "It's very….. rustic. Forgive me, I wasn't thinking. I'll see you're given a proper lady's bow."

"Why?" My fingers tightened on the resilient yew-wood. "This is a perfectly good bow. My uncle Mabon made it for me."

"Ah." Thierry sobered. "I see. Were you very close to him?"

"No," I said slowly. "Not exactly." How could I explain how it was among the Maghuin Dhonn? I'd met Mabon only twice—but he was kin. I remembered hunting with him in the park in Bryn Gorrydum where he'd summoned the twilight in rolling waves, making it dance like the tunes he played on his silver pipe. He'd told me not to let the D'Angelines mock me for not knowing their ways. "It reminds me of home."

"Then you must keep it." Thierry leaned over and touched my arm. "I think it's charming. And I promise, I'll not tease you for not knowing how to hunt."

I eyed him. "I know how to hunt."

He smiled indulgently. "Not in the D'Angeline manner."

I bit my tongue on my irritation. It was true. And I didn't much care for the D'Angeline manner of hunting. No one was here because they needed to fill their supper-pot. It was sport, pure and simple. They wagered on the dogs, wagered on one another's prowess. Footmen loaded crossbows for the lords and hunted for spent bolts. The ladies wielded pretty, gilded short bows, mostly conscious of the fact that they made a delightful picture when they drew and took aim in the saddle.

To be sure, Jehanne did.

But the more frantic and terrified the hare, the more difficult the chase, the better the sport was reckoned.

By the time Prince Thierry made his kill on the fourth hare flushed, the sun was high overhead. "I'm blooded!" he called in a good-natured voice. "Shall we pause and enjoy a repast?"

From across the meadow came a chorus of agreement.

The silk pavilions beckoned. As we converged at a brisk trot, I rode beside Thierry and did my best not to moon over the fact that Raphael was saying something even more amusing to Jehanne, his head bent toward hers. Her laughter rose in a bright spiral. Even without seeing it,

I could picture the graceful line of her white throat, his engaging smile. Things I had recently kissed.

And then Thierry's horse stepped into a hole and stumbled hard. Thrown from the saddle, he pitched over its head with a shout.

"Elua!"

The bay shied. Beneath me, Blossom shied, too. In a sick flash of memory, I saw Cillian dead on the litter and his dented skull. But there was something else, too. Something other than Thierry's fall was spooking the horses.

I clamped my thighs around the filly, nocking an arrow without thinking. "Hold!"

She shivered and held.

It was a viper. It had been sunning itself on a low, flat rock. Now it coiled, ready to strike, its thick body ochre-red and marked with black. It raised its wedge-shaped head and tasted the air with a forked, black tongue. I breathed in the same air and tasted its fear. Like the hares, it was frightened by this invasion.

Unlike the hares, the viper had recourse.

Amid cries of alarm, Prince Thierry scrambled backward, eyes wide with fear. At his movement, the viper lunged.

"Oh, hell!" I swore and shot.

My arrow pierced the viper clean through. It caught it midlunge, pinning its writhing body to the earth.

The Master of the Hunt came at a dead run, yanking a big knife from a sheath at his belt. With one swift blow, he lopped off the snake's head. Its headless body continued to squirm unnervingly. The huntsman extended his hand to Thierry. "Are you all right, your highness?"

"Yes." The prince rose, his gaze on my face. "Thanks to Moirin."

Others came to take in the scene. Jehanne took one look at the dead viper and went white. She rounded on the huntsman in a perfect fury. "Messire Gabon, this is unacceptable. Is it not part of your duties to see that the royal hunting grounds are tended? Were they not combed this morning?"

"Aye, but—"

Her voice dripped poison. "Do you find your duties too onerous? Well, then—"

"Leave off, Jehanne," Thierry interrupted her. "The man can't be expected to account for every stray snake."

It did nothing to abate her anger. "He most assuredly can! You'd make excuses for the wretch when you came within a hair's breadth of dying?"

He scoffed. "As though you wouldn't rejoice to have me out of the way!"

"And leave your father without an heir?" Her delicate nostrils flared. "Your argument would carry more weight if I'd given him one of my own blood. Mayhap it's escaped your notice that I haven't yet?"