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and I hadn’t.
    I’d never stood the least chance of winning Raphael de Mereliot’s affections away from Jehanne. That, I’d come to understand at last. But never, ever had I imagined that I would win a portion of hers instead; that tempestuous Jehanne would take it upon herself to rescueme, that I would offer my loyalty to her, and she would come to love and trust me.
    That I would find a place in her heart.
    Tears blurred my eyes.
    “Moirin?” Bao touched my arm.
    I blinked away tears. “Memories.”
    He nodded, understanding.
    After a discreet pause, the royal steward led us onward. We passed the great, winding staircase that led to the upper stories of the Palace, where Jehanne had ordered a suite filled with green, growing things, an enchanted bower made just for me.
    I’d awoken there to find Bao keeping watch over me. I saw him glance at the staircase, remembering. Gods, we hadn’t even
liked
one another then. It had been a long, long journey that had led me back to this place.
    It was in that enchanted bower that Master Lo Feng had lectured me against letting my gift be used in unnatural ways—ways that had nonetheless saved lives, including my father’s.
    Ways that could have saved Jehanne’s life.
    I breathed the Breath of Earth’s Pulse, grounding myself. I remembered Jehanne naked and shameless in my bower, the green shadows of ferns decorating her alabaster skin.
    Her blue-grey eyes sparkling at me the first time she had visited during my convalescence.
Are you wondering if I mean to kiss you before I leave
?
    I had laughed.
I am now
.
    She had.
    She had ducked beneath the immense fern fronds and kissed me; and she had stayed when I begged her to stay, winding my arms around her neck. She had stayed, and she had loved me. And she had known, all along, that I would not stay, could not stay. She had not asked, nor had she held any part of herself back from me.
    And King Daniel… he had
known
her. Known and loved Jehanne in a way few folk could understand, even in Terre d’Ange where lovewas reckoned an art. Raphael de Mereliot was her storm; Daniel de la Courcel was her anchor.
    “My lady?” The steward stood with his hand poised on the door to the Salon of Eisheth’s Harp.
    I nodded. “Aye.”
    Inclining his head, he opened the door. Music spilled into the hallway. I took one step beyond the threshold. A bow screeched across the strings of a violoncello, and the music went silent. In the arranged chairs, heads turned.
    A tall figure rose.
    “Moirin.” Daniel de la Courcel, King of Terre d’Ange, said my name quietly. Our gazes locked.
    Ah, gods! There was a world of sorrow in his, as much as I had feared and more. Lines of grief etched his handsome face.
    A terrible memory surfaced behind his dark blue eyes, and I
saw
. I saw Jehanne on her death-bed, her fair skin deathly white from loss of blood—white as lilies, white as paper. I saw her pale lips move, shaping a word.
    Desirée
, her daughter’s name.
    Somewhere in the King’s memory, Raphael was still trying, still plying his physician’s arts, still trying to stanch the endless flow of blood that spilled from her and sopped the bed-linens with crimson, still raging, still exhorting Jehanne to stay with him, to be strong and live.
    But Daniel had known it was already too late.
    I saw the light in her sparkling eyes, her eyes like stars, flicker and die. I saw them stare blindly, her head going slack on her pillow, her perfect lips parted.
    “I’m sorry!” I fell to my knees in the aisle, borne down by the weight of his grief; tear-blinded, limp as a cut-string puppet. I buried my face in my hands. “Oh, my lord! I’m so very, very sorry. I should have been there.”
    “No.” His hands descended onto my shoulders, and his deep voice was firm. “Moirin, no.”
    I peered up at him between my fingers.
    “You could not have known,” Daniel said. “You loved her. It was enough.”
    “But it wasn’t,” I whispered.