“She likes you,” I inform him, trying to keep my voice steady, though in truth, I am a little rattled by his nearness. “You should be flattered. Alecto is quite discerning as to the company she keeps.”
“Alecto!” His eyes widen with delight. “The Endless? You named your snake after one of the Erinyes? I find myself both bewitched and alarmed.”
I start at that, surprised that he not only recognizes the name but even knows what the Furies are called in the Greek. “I have all three, actually—though Megaera and Tisiphone are in their vivarium tonight. They are not quite so tractable in public as their sister.”
He nods a little abstractedly, still stroking Alecto’s scales. “And why the choice of name? Though I suppose it’s of a piece with a Medusa masque.”
“I do have a weakness for Greek mythology,” I admit. “Apollodorus’s Bibliotecha was one of the first books I read for pleasure. And the Erinyes are infernal goddesses of vengeance. I suppose the notion appeals to me in some way.”
“Vengeance on men, and those who have sworn false oaths,” he murmurs, surprising me all the more. His fingertips drift from the snake to my own skin, eyes flicking up to gauge my response. When I do not move away, he continues delicately tracing up my throat. “Ever more intriguing, my lady.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” I murmur back, a little hoarsely. Besides Marie, no one—certainly no man—has ever touched me like this before. The weight of his attention feels both heady and disconcerting. “You know I am no highborn dame.”
“Because you are so clearly formidable, even without any title.” He leans forward to brush a searing kiss under my chin, seemingly fearless of the snake that curls not far from his lips. “And therefore much, much worthier of respect than most born to the blood.”
When he lifts his head, eyes latching to mine, my lips part to meet his kiss.
His mouth is deft and scorching, his hand sure at my back, the other rising to wrap around my nape. He tastes sweet beneath the wine, of nutmeg and mint, the callus of his palm a warm scrape against my neck. The feel of him is intoxicating, enticing, and unfamiliar. The shape of his desire tantalizing in its strangeness, rougher and more urgent than kissing Marie has ever been.
Almost a little dangerous, somehow—but in a way I find appeals to me.
At the thought of Marie, I feel the slightest pang of guilt, as if I am breaking her trust by sharing a kiss with someone else when I am not even permitted to see her. But there was never any promise made between us, no mention of fidelity. And though I have not heard from her since she wrote to tell me that she understood why I must keep away, I believe she would not begrudge me this closeness now.
Adam pulls back slightly, as if he can feel the current of hesitation running beneath my skin.
“A problem, my lady?” he asks, his voice still low and uneven. He pulls the springing curls by my face through his fingers, drawing them out to their full lengths. “Some uncertainty, perhaps? It is late, as you said. And I would not wish to overstay my welcome.”
“No,” I reply, leaning forward to whisper the rest against his lips. “I was only thinking that I … that I want you to stay.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Invitation and the Rift
Though my days are pleasantly haunted by the flickering memory of our night together, painted in candlelight, I am also so preoccupied with my study of the noblesse’s wishes that I manage not to dwell exclusively on Adam for the following fortnight.
Until his invitation lands on my escritoire.
“ ‘I hope you can forgive the abominable delay in my communication, my lady—at least enough to join me for another evening of sublime diversion,’ ” I read aloud, my lips curving at his brazenness. His penmanship is very like him, too, both whimsical and deliberate. “ ‘A special fete devised with you in mind.’ ”
I tap the paper against my pursed lips, considering. Is becoming more entangled with him wise when I should be focused instead on my work, on ensuring that my star continues in its steady rise?
But I want to see Adam. And I’ve earned a respite, I reassure myself as I begin to pen my response, having scarcely taken a day of rest since the Black Mass. My sight is in more demand than ever, and deciphering my list of wishes takes up countless hours. Some of my guests were annoyingly cryptic in their prayers, perhaps assuming Lucifer could glimpse into their hearts even without the clearest guidance. And some were likely merely being discreet, veiling their desires from their peers’ prying eyes. It takes a finicky combination of scrying and educated guesswork to discern the truth of them.
So far, I’ve managed to surmise that Monsieur Philbert is raging at his mistress, wishing some dread vengeance on her for having thrown him over. Meanwhile, the Vicomte de Couserans merely longs for more excitement, whether it be in the form of a fresh lover or a novel business venture. And the Marquis de Cessac covets his brother’s beautiful wife with a troublingly overzealous ardor.
Only the Marquise de Montespan remains single-minded as ever, dogged in her one desire, yearning only to sink her claws ever more deeply into the king.
Petty and downright vicious as their wishes are, I find plenty of opportunities, spaces into which I might insert myself via talismans, potions, and spells. Still, I’m thrilled at the prospect of a night away from the headache of it all.
Especially, I consider as my chambermaid tucks the final whalebone pin into my upswept hair the following evening, if it is a night spent in Adam’s company.
When my carriage rattles through the city’s gates, dusk has drawn over Paris like a damask curtain. Summer’s languor has yielded to autumn
