Beside her, Liuprand had slipped off his mask and was indulging heartily in food and drink. He sipped from his bright goblet and smiled as, in turn, each noble house came to greet him and pay the appropriate honors. The king had already retired for the night, to his own private, gluttonous feast, which would have been too embarrassing and grotesque to witness. And so it was Liuprand alone who represented the Crown, the House of Berengar, and he did so with all the grace that a golden prince should.
First came Hartwig, Master of Lungs. A man of pride and vanity, it seemed he had strived not to be outdone by any of the other guests or even by the spectacle of the celebration itself. He wore the most magnificent doublet, silk and velvet and stitched in every shade of thread that could be dyed, from every root and plant on Drepane. His face was beauteous enough, at a distance, though when he approached the table Agnes saw the efforts that had made it so: wax applied to the corners of his eyes and his brow to draw back the flesh and smooth the wrinkles that came with age.
Hartwig had no wife and was yet to legitimize an heir, but he was attended by two of his favorites, both pale, lissome youths, with hair as long as a woman’s. They looked closer to boys than to men, and theystood at a slight distance behind Hartwig, as if fearful to approach the prince, their mouths drawn into sullen pouts.
“Lord Hartwig,” Liuprand said.
“My prince.” Hartwig bowed deeply. “I offer my most heartfelt congratulations on the wedding of your daughter. And thank you for the gift of the masque. It was an exquisite performance to witness.”
“That is all thanks to the labors of the lady Agnes,” Liuprand replied. “I played only the smallest part.”
Hartwig turned to her and placed a hand over his chest, giving a rather theatrical sigh of his own. “The spectacle moved me greatly, lady. You have a talent for provoking sentiment.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Agnes felt her stomach flutter at the praise. “I am glad to hear that it touched you.”
“Is all well in your lands?” Liuprand asked. “How fare the House of Lungs and its vassals?”
“Our lands prosper, and the Painted Hall is happy. It would be a great honor to host you and the princess, should you wish to visit the south.”
With the mention of the princess, Agnes’s skin prickled and she turned away from Hartwig. She had not wished for her gaze to fall to the other end of the table, but it did nonetheless. There, holding the tiny bride on her lap, was Marozia. Her plate was empty and her goblet full, not a single sip drunken. Meriope laid her head on her mother’s chest and blinked sleepily; the hour had grown late, and Waltrude had already taken Tisander to bed. Agnes imagined it would be a trial to keep the little girl awake for the remainder of the festivities.
Initially the bridegroom had been seated appropriately at his wife’s side, but the order had become rearranged, and now Ygraine sat between Marozia and Gamelyn. She was very thin, and her gown, the color of a bruised peach, seemed to drag about her, like the shedding husk of an insect. A saffron-yellow shawl covered her shoulders and part of the braided mass of hair at her nape. Agnes once again had the impression of diminishment and immense sadness. She was a beautiful woman, but her obvious grief reduced her.
Yet she was not silent, not brooding. She was speaking, rather intently, to Marozia, both of their mouths moving in rapid whispers. A part of Agnes was gladdened to see it, gladdened to see that both the lady Ygraine and her cousin were not so lost to their anguish that they could not establish a rapport. It was to both of their benefits, after all, for the Crown and the House of Blood to remain familiar to each other.
Occasionally, when there came a pause in the conversation, Ygraine would turn to the other side and whisper to Gamelyn. She loved her son—Agnes could tell from the way her green gaze grew soft when she looked upon him—and her son loved her in return. He leaned into her touch and even allowed his mother to pat his cheek or stroke his hair, as if he were a boy and not a man grown and wed. Watching them in this manner, Agnes grieved, briefly but deeply, for what she could never have.
In the time she had spent observing the bride and bridegroom and their mothers, Hartwig had taken his leave, and Lord Amycus was approaching the dais. Accompanied by his wife, Pharsalia, who looked near to twice his height, and of course his raven, he gave a steep bow.
“Lord Amycus,” said Liuprand, “and Lady Pharsalia. A pleasure.”
The Master of Bones whispered something to his raven. The raven squawked out, “The honor is mine, Your Highness.”
Agnes did her best to remain unperturbed by the queer lord and his even queerer animal. She glanced at the lady Pharsalia. Her dark hair was streaked with silver, and her face was weary and lined; she had given her husband seven children, but only four had lived past their childhood years, all of them girls. She was too old now to give her husband a son, and so it was said that Lord Amycus bedded a new woman every night, while his wife looked on, to shame her.
When Agnes turned back, the raven was croaking again.
“The abyss is watched, Your Highness,” it said. “Should you ever wish to inspect its soundness yourself, the House of Bones will host you gratefully.”
“Thank you,” said Liuprand, “for your ever-dauntless vigil.”
Amycus—or rather, the raven—offered his honors once more, andthen he departed, leading away his wife like a child’s horse-on-a-string. Agnes was momentarily preoccupied by the sight of Pharsalia’s retreating back, and so she did not at first notice the next solicitor: Lord Vauquelin, Master of Flesh.
He was a tall man, and broad, with lank black hair to his shoulders. Agnes was rather surprised by how pale he appeared; she had thought that the sun would have tanned him, in his warm and dusty lands. But his face was a shock of white, and only when he grew closer to the dais did she realize that this was accentuated by the application of powder, giving him, overall, the appearance of a risen corpse.
“Lord Vauquelin,” said Liuprand as the Master of Flesh bowed, “thank you for your attendance. I know the passage is not easy from Pelekys.”
“No,” Vauquelin agreed, “though it has been well worth the trials. The ceremony was lovely, as was the masque that followed. Lady Agnes is a great mind.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Agnes said, feeling the same twinge of pleasure at his flattery. “Your praise honors me.”
“And where is the lady Volumnia?” Liuprand asked. “I hope she is not absent for unfortunate cause.”
“No, my prince,” Vauquelin replied, “my wife is well. But such long journeys do not agree with her. She sends her most happy regards.”
It was whispered that the lady Volumnia had, in her age, grown half as fat as the king, and an ordinary carriage could no longer accommodate her. Secretly, Agnes could not imagine how this was so—no woman, even one of prestige and nobility, would be permitted to feast endlessly. Depthless hunger was a privilege reserved for men alone.
But Agnes suspected this talk was not true at all, merely the uncharitable opinion of vociferous rumormongers, an aspersion cast upon Vauquelin and his house. If the House of Teeth had been famed for its cold asceticism, the House of Flesh was famed for its lustful indulgence. Yet there were few who knew, in truth, what occurred in that arid and distant territory, what strange practices they followed, what debaucheries were encouraged by Vauquelin’s hand.
