lived quietly, entertaining seldom and on a wholly intellectual level. After his untimely death, she maintained this lifestyle. Delaunay, it seemed, was one of few people who knew her from both worlds.
I knew all of this because I eavesdropped upon their meeting when she agreed to take on our instruction. It is not a noble undertaking, but I felt no guilt at it. It was what I was trained to do. Delaunay had taught us: garner knowledge, by any means possible. There was a storeroom off the courtyard where herbs from the garden were hung to dry. If one were small enough, there was space between a cabinet and an open window where one could crouch and overhear almost any conversation taking place in the courtyard. And when the pleasantries were done, Delaunay made his request.
Her voice had retained all its charm, even and mellifluous. I could still hear in it the faint cadences of Cereus House—the attentive pauses, a merest hint of breathiness—but I doubt it would have been evident to an untrained ear. Years of reserve had tempered it.
"What you ask is impossible, Anafiel." I heard a rustle; she shook her head. "You know I have been long retired from the service of Naamah."
"Do you take your pledge so lightly?" His voice countered hers smoothly. "I do not ask you to offer carnal instruction, Cecilie; merely to teach. All the great texts ... the Ecstatica, the Journey of Naamah , the Trots Milles Joies ..."
"Would you have me teach the boy 'Antinous's Ode to His Beloved?' " Her voice was light, but I heard for the first time steel in it.
"No!" Delaunay's reply was explosive. When he spoke again, I could tell it was from a different location. He had risen, then, pacing. His voice was under control now and his tone was dry. "To speak that poem aloud is proscibed, Cecilie. You know better than that."
"Yes." She offered the word simply, with no apology. "Why are you doing this?"
"You have to ask, who was the greatest courtesan of our age?" He was too charming; it was not often I heard Delaunay being evasive.
She would have none of it. "That's not what I meant."
"Why. Why, why, why." His voice was moving, he was pacing again. "Why? I will tell you. Because there are places I cannot go and people I cannot reach, Cecilie. In the Court of Chancery, the Exchequer, secretaries with access to the Privy Seal. . . everywhere the actual business of governing the realm takes place, Isabel's allies bar their doors to me. They cannot be swayed, Cecilie, but they can be seduced. I know their vices, I know their desires. I know how to reach them."
"That much, I know." Her tone was gentle, moderating his. "I have known you for a long time. You've taken me into your confidence, and I know how you think. What I am asking you, Anafiel, is why . Why do you do this?"
There was a long pause, and my muscles began to ache with the strain of crouching in that cramped space. No wind was stirring, and the close air of the storeroom was sweet and pungent with the scents of rosemary and lavender.
"You know why."
It was all he said; I bit my tongue to keep from urging her to question him further. But whatever he meant by it, she understood. She had, as she said, known him a very long time.
"Still?" she asked, kindly; and then, "Ah, but you made a promise. All right, then. I will honor it too, Anafiel, for what it is worth. I will instruct your pupils in the great texts of love—those that are not proscribed—and I will lecture them on the arts of Naamah. If you swear to me that both have entered this service of their own desire, this much I will do."
"I swear it." There was relief in his voice.
"How much do they know?"
"Enough." He grew reserved. "Enough to know what they are about. Not enough to get them killed."
"Isabel L'Envers is dead, Anafiel." She spoke softly, the way one does to a child who fears the darkness. "Do you truly think her grudge lives beyond the grave?"
"It lives in those who obeyed her," he said grimly. "Isabel
I knew all of this because I eavesdropped upon their meeting when she agreed to take on our instruction. It is not a noble undertaking, but I felt no guilt at it. It was what I was trained to do. Delaunay had taught us: garner knowledge, by any means possible. There was a storeroom off the courtyard where herbs from the garden were hung to dry. If one were small enough, there was space between a cabinet and an open window where one could crouch and overhear almost any conversation taking place in the courtyard. And when the pleasantries were done, Delaunay made his request.
Her voice had retained all its charm, even and mellifluous. I could still hear in it the faint cadences of Cereus House—the attentive pauses, a merest hint of breathiness—but I doubt it would have been evident to an untrained ear. Years of reserve had tempered it.
"What you ask is impossible, Anafiel." I heard a rustle; she shook her head. "You know I have been long retired from the service of Naamah."
"Do you take your pledge so lightly?" His voice countered hers smoothly. "I do not ask you to offer carnal instruction, Cecilie; merely to teach. All the great texts ... the Ecstatica, the Journey of Naamah , the Trots Milles Joies ..."
"Would you have me teach the boy 'Antinous's Ode to His Beloved?' " Her voice was light, but I heard for the first time steel in it.
"No!" Delaunay's reply was explosive. When he spoke again, I could tell it was from a different location. He had risen, then, pacing. His voice was under control now and his tone was dry. "To speak that poem aloud is proscibed, Cecilie. You know better than that."
"Yes." She offered the word simply, with no apology. "Why are you doing this?"
"You have to ask, who was the greatest courtesan of our age?" He was too charming; it was not often I heard Delaunay being evasive.
She would have none of it. "That's not what I meant."
"Why. Why, why, why." His voice was moving, he was pacing again. "Why? I will tell you. Because there are places I cannot go and people I cannot reach, Cecilie. In the Court of Chancery, the Exchequer, secretaries with access to the Privy Seal. . . everywhere the actual business of governing the realm takes place, Isabel's allies bar their doors to me. They cannot be swayed, Cecilie, but they can be seduced. I know their vices, I know their desires. I know how to reach them."
"That much, I know." Her tone was gentle, moderating his. "I have known you for a long time. You've taken me into your confidence, and I know how you think. What I am asking you, Anafiel, is why . Why do you do this?"
There was a long pause, and my muscles began to ache with the strain of crouching in that cramped space. No wind was stirring, and the close air of the storeroom was sweet and pungent with the scents of rosemary and lavender.
"You know why."
It was all he said; I bit my tongue to keep from urging her to question him further. But whatever he meant by it, she understood. She had, as she said, known him a very long time.
"Still?" she asked, kindly; and then, "Ah, but you made a promise. All right, then. I will honor it too, Anafiel, for what it is worth. I will instruct your pupils in the great texts of love—those that are not proscribed—and I will lecture them on the arts of Naamah. If you swear to me that both have entered this service of their own desire, this much I will do."
"I swear it." There was relief in his voice.
"How much do they know?"
"Enough." He grew reserved. "Enough to know what they are about. Not enough to get them killed."
"Isabel L'Envers is dead, Anafiel." She spoke softly, the way one does to a child who fears the darkness. "Do you truly think her grudge lives beyond the grave?"
"It lives in those who obeyed her," he said grimly. "Isabel
Similar Books
