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lord. She was glad she was a
Christian. She could eat anywhere, and never worry about being unclean.
    Watching them eat made her hungry. She stood it as long as
she could, but her stomach began to growl menacingly. They were not doing
anything, after all, but eating and talking of nothing in particular. She left
them to it.
    Cook roared at her, but let her filch a trencherful of
dainties and carry them to the garden. She settled there, well content, with
the kitchen cat to keep her company.
    She was not surprised when Akiva sat on the other end of the
bench. “Have you had anything to eat?” she asked him.
    “The king saw to it,” he said. “We have our own cook.”
    She nodded. “My uncle’s people have one, too. One of them
married her to keep her with them. Or so Dildirim says. He’s getting fat on
what she feeds him.”
    Akiva grinned. His teeth were white and sharp. Animal teeth.
She eyed him sidelong. He stretched, turning his face to the sun. He was not
much prettier than she was, with his great hooked nose and his too-big eyes and
his pointed chin, but something was starting to change. The way Aidan said she
would, when she was older. Like a cygnet turning into a swan.
    “It’s warm here,” he said. “My bones like it.”
    “Your skin won’t, if you’re not careful.”
    “I am.” But he sat up straight again and looked at his
hands. They were very white. Hers were whiter, but not by much.
    He looked up. She stared back. “Are you the king’s son?” she
asked him.
    He flushed angrily, but he laughed. “No! Nor his nephew,
either.”
    It was her turn to flush. “He’s only my uncle by marriage.
Grandmother married his sister’s son—Lady Elen’s uncle. After my real
grandfather died. Because Mother and her brother needed a father, and she liked
him. Very much.”
    “Ah,” said Akiva.
    Her brows lowered. “I don’t like what you’re thinking.”
    “You don’t know what I’m thinking,” he said calmly. “You’re
not looking.”
    Nor was he about to let her. He was strong. Not as strong as
Aidan, but strong enough, and trained. She drew back.
    “I’m why my father went to Rhiyana,” Akiva said. “Besides
the fact that we’re welcome there, and treated like human people. He’s a wise
man, my father. He saw what I was, and he knew that I was his, and my mother’s,
too, and yet I wasn’t; I was something else. He’d heard about the king; he
thought he might know what to do with me. And so the king did. They’re fast
friends now, and not just because of me.”
    “I can see that,” said Ysabel. She chewed her lip. He was
telling secrets. That was a gift, and it expected a gift in return. But she was
not sure she wanted to tell him. He knew the part that was less important. How
not? He was like her. She said slowly, “I’ve always known I was different. It
never mattered, much. He was always there to help me: my uncle. My—” She tried,
but she could not say it. “People don’t know. They count to nine and look at my
father—the one who thinks he’s my father. They don’t know to count to eleven,
to get one of us. My mother thinks I don’t, either. She thinks I don’t know.”
Her hands were fists. “I’m not a bastard. I’m not!”
    “I’m not calling you one,” said Akiva.
    Ysabel barely heard him. “I am, though, aren’t I? Father is
Aimery’s father, and William’s and Mariam’s and Lisabet’s and Baudouin’s and
the new baby’s. I’m the one Mother lied about. Because she loved someone she
shouldn’t have; and still does. And he’s going to marry Morgiana. She says
I’m silly, and if I were a Muslim it wouldn’t matter who my father is, because
where Allah is, every child is the same.”
    “I think I like Morgiana,” Akiva said.
    “You don’t like Morgiana. You love her or you hate
her. Usually both at once.”
    “Morgiana is more absolutely us than any of us. Isn’t
she?”
    Ysabel blinked. “Well. Yes. Yes, that’s exactly it.