Page 83 of The Court of Venus

“A jest,” she repeated. “Yes.” Her voice was a finger running down my spine. That same pleasure and discomfort at once. “Roland still seems unhappy with me.” She shot a frown toward where he sat.

“He doesn’t look unhappy now.”

“Yes, Diane is lovely, isn’t she?” Her head nestled into my shoulder. She was quick to find intimacy—too quick. It made me wary. “Tell me, Bianca. I have a sense—forgive me if I’m wrong, but I have a sense about people, and you seem like someone who sees through him. His charms don’t affect you.”

“No,” I agreed.

Her lavender eyes slid to me. “No,” she repeated, but she was amused. Toying with me. “Roland and I understand each other in a way no one else can. There are very few like us. Oh, maybe several others in the entire world, if that. And you? Your talents are even rarer. That must be a terrible burden, to be so alone.”

“What, exactly, do you understand about each other?”

She smiled prettily, showing off small, pearly teeth. “We are both primarily concerned with the vanities of other people. Our lives are spent making them happy.”

“Roland has his own vanities, I assure you.”

“As a lover he doesn’t. Being with him was the most I’ve ever been cared for. He knows what will bring you pleasure. If it is him pressing you against a wall and taking your hips and having you there, he knows it. If it’s his face close to yours whispering ‘sweetheart’ as he moves slowly inside you, he knows it.” I burned as she pressed closer. “When his mouth is between your legs, he knows precisely where to press to draw out your sighs. How do you think he maintains such a reputation? I’ve never known his equal, and he has never had an equal besides me.” She pulled back and smiled again, more cruelly this time. “Now, shall we play?”

I saw a red emotion in her. Was it fury, lust? No. I peeled layers away. Soften that red, and it was the blush in Diane’s cheeks as Roland whispered to her. Soften that, and it was my own white-knuckled envy, my hands clenched, the blood chased away.

Possessiveness, then.

When a boy passed by with a carafe of wine, I poured myself a cup. I longed to transform into a creature with scales. Or anything small. It was only as the wine moved through my body that I felt more at ease inside of it.

To my dismay, Marguerite guided us all to stand in a larger circle, and I was waved over from the fringes of the room. Roland drained his wine, leaning the lute gently on a cushion. The doe-eyed lady-in-waiting handed out animal-shaped masks, with no eye holes to see out of. Mine was some kind of spotted cat. Roland’s was, of course, a peacock. Then Marguerite brandished a pile of red ribbons. Each lady was told to take one, while the men remained empty-handed.

Marguerite clapped her hands in excitement. “In a few moments, we’ll put our masks on, and I’ll take the ladies’ ribbons and hand them to the person they desire most in this circle. The ladies must then follow their ribbon to the source.”

“What if a lady desires more than one person?” asked a maid clutching a lion mask.

“I said most.”

Roland’s eyes struck mine across the room. “What if we’re handed multiple ribbons?”

“Well, that’s the fun of it, Lord Chancellor,” Marguerite purred. “You’ll choose. Now, masks on, and be quiet as I connect you all. When the ladies reach the end of their ribbons and find the one they want most, masks may be removed.”

I slipped gratefully beneath the mask, and in the darkness Marguerite’s voice echoed: “He knows what will bring you pleasure.” My ribbon was already stretched taut, and I knew who she had handed it to. There would only be one ending for me.

Marguerite’s gown swished as she flitted amongst us, and then she clapped her hands again and bid the women to follow our ribbons. There was rustled fabric and giggling, the occasional grunt of pain as courtiers bumped into each other, but I froze, listening to the wet sounds of kissing and contented sighing as couples who had already reached each other folded into corners of the room.

I lifted my mask slightly, just to confirm what I already knew. Some of the ladies were still in the center of the circle, hunched over in laughter as they untangled knots in their ribbons. And directly across from me, Roland held a bouquet of five ribbons. No one had reached him yet, but Diane, wearing a hind mask, was farthest along.

I dropped the silk tying me to him. It fluttered elegantly to the floor. What if he chose me out of pity, out of friendship? What if he didn’t choose me at all? If Marguerite knew how I desired him, that must mean he knew, too, in whatever capacity his magic allowed him to know such things.

There was one man who had no ribbons handed to him at all, his mind an eddy of kindness and nerves. I swept up to him, whispering frantically, “I’m so very sorry, I believe you dropped my ribbon.”

Beneath his horse mask, he flushed a deep red. He tugged it off eagerly. He was dark haired and olive skinned, with a sweet, gap-toothed smile and gentle eyes.

Across the room, Diane had crawled to Roland, reaching him first. Her fingers swept blindly over his shins, up to his thighs. When he’d pulled her to her feet, she lifted onto her toes to untie his mask.

“Oh,” I heard him say. “Hello, you.”

Over my shoulder, our eyes met again, his narrowing slightly. Then he ducked, laughing into Diane’s ear, lips catching her chin, her throat, her mouth. She smiled every time he pulled back, smiled again when he pressed forward for more.

I detested this game. King Philippe lived eternal, only to rule over this?

The man in my arms noticed my scowl and laughed. “What is your name?”

“Bianca. Yours?”