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Necthana would set sail to Terre d’Ange, bringing my Alban bride. We would be wed in the summer, Dorelei and I. And when the Cruarch of Alba set sail in the fall, I would go with them. I would leave behind Terre d’Ange to become a Prince of Alba and beget heirs to a foreign kingdom.
    All my days, I thought, would pass swiftly until then.
    I spent time in the salon of Favrielle nó Eglantine, Phèdre’s terminally ungrateful couturiere. I’d travelled light to Tiberium, and most of what I’d brought back with me was unsalvageable. The clothing I’d returned to was ill-fitting now. I’d put on muscle through the shoulders and I’d lost weight elsewhere due to short rations. Despite Eugènie’s best efforts to fatten me, I remained leaner than I’d been.
    So it was that I attended my own fête in smart new attire: a sleeved velvet doublet and breeches of Courcel blue, a deep midnight hue. The doublet was adorned with silver stitching and the buttons were silver with an impress of lilies on them, which I thought was a bit much. It was open at the throat, revealing the pointed collars of the white cambric shirt beneath, lace protruding at the sleeves.
    At the fête, Alais gasped to see me, clasping her hands together. “Oh, Imri! You look so—”
    “Silly?” I suggested, offering her my arm.
    “No.” Her small, dark face was very serious. “You look beautiful.”
    It was a beautiful gathering; we D’Angelines are a pretty folk, as my friend Eamonn was wont to say, conveniently forgetting that he was half D’Angeline himself. I wished he was here with me, but he was off on a quest of his own, pursuing the Skaldic bride he’d wed and lost, taken away by her disapproving kindred.
    The fête was held in one of the Palace’s smaller banquet halls, with no more than a few dozen peers in attendance. At one end, a long dining table was laid with white linens and gilded plates, awaiting our pleasure. At the other end, where people were milling and talking, a fire roared in the tall hearth and there were couches set about for sitting and conversing.
    I paid my respects to Queen Ysandre, who was holding court before the hearth. She waved off my bow and rose to give me the kiss of greeting.
    “Well met, young cousin,” she said with a smile. “Tonight we rejoice to have you home and safe.”
    “My thanks, my lady,” I said politely.
    Ysandre de la Courcel was tall and slender, with an elegant, clean-cut profile that looked well on the side of a coin. Alais looked nothing like her, except for the violet hue of her eyes. I wondered where Sidonie was. I hadn’t seen her yet.
    Phèdre and Joscelin were following in our wake, and I moved aside to let them greet the Queen, marking how Ysandre relaxed in their presence, her demeanor warming. I had been taught to observe such things.
    “Imriel de la Courcel!” a light voice remarked. I turned to see Julien Trente. He had been a friend once. He was one of those who had apologized, and I had resolved to set my lingering resentment aside.
    “Julien.” I clasped his hand. “How goes the Game of Courtship?”
    “Well enough.” He studied my face. “Y
ou’ve
been having adventures, I hear. Will we be hearing tales of derring-do tonight, I hope?”
    “I hope not,” I said.
    “Such false modesty!” Another voice, warm and teasing. Mavros Shahrizai slid an arm over my shoulders. “It’s unbecoming, cousin.” He gave me an affectionate squeeze, then greeted Alais with a deep bow. “Well met, your highness. I’ll wager you know a few of our reticent prince’s secrets, don’t you? Imriel’s often spoken of your friendship.”
    Alais glowed under his attention. It made me smile, albeit sadly. Too few of the peers of the realm paid heed to Alais, and now that her betrothal to the Alban prince Talorcan—her Cruithne cousin and the brother of my own bride-to-be—had been announced, I doubted it would change for the better.
    “Imriel.” Bertran de Trevalion hailed