Phedrè has had so many choices in her life, sometimes it amazes her when she tallies them all up. At the time, of course, it did not seem that she had any choices at all. The alternatives were no better than damnation, the choice she made the best of a bunch of bad options. Rarely, until now, has she had good choices.

She has her whole life ahead of her. How many people could say that with such certainty?

Last night she dreamt with uncommon clarity that she had been back on Night's Doorstep, back in the tavern that had been her home for so many years. Empty, as she had never seen it in her lifetime. It had the strange surreal quality that she had ascribed at the time to divine question, although of course she now knew it to be the languor of dreaming.

She remembered both of them at the front and back. Hyacinthe at her back, giving the room a kind of warmth and the set of her shoulders a relaxed security, knowing she was well taken care of. Joscelin in front of her, all hope and promise and quiet surety.

It wasn't surprising. She had made choices of the two of them in the last three months, answered a great many questions. Joscelin had been so afraid, and she had feared, herself, how she would decide. How could she choose, after all, between the old friend of her childhood, the person who perhaps knew her best of all, and the love who had stood by her through so much and endured so much of what she had thrown at him.

Hyacinthe. They were two of a kind, in so many ways. The Queen of Courtesans and the Prince of Travellers. They had imagined such futures together.

She could not now imagine a future without Joscelin, without Imriel. Without their rag-tag family.

She remembered Melisande coming down the stairs, throwing all of that into chaos.

Melisande. The love of her life, in so many ways. It still hurt to think of her; part of her knew that it would always hurt. There was the uncertainty of her potential escape, the promise unmade and hanging in the air. She would no longer threaten the safety of Ysandre and the throne, but Phedrè's personal safety and the safety of her heart and sanity were in question. They would always be in question. Melisande could drive her mad with a word or a look.

The dream had ended before she'd taken a step, and as Phedrè sat up in bed and moved towards the window, the coolness of the sheets telling her that Joscelin arose long before, she wondered what it meant. Returning to Montrève with Joscelin and Imriel had been easy. But was that only because Melisande was in her prison and Hyacinthe was bound for Alba?

If they had been free, what would she have done? Elua's children were given a precept, but no instructions on how to follow.

Love as thou wilt.

She could put off the question for a long time, perhaps for her lifetime, but not forever. At the close of her life Elua, dark Kushiel might ask, and how would she answer?

Joscelin's paler skin glinted in the sun as his hands moved in the martial forms.

Some choices were not so easy. Her breath caught in her throat, remembering the dream, Melisande and Joscelin and Hyacinthe all looking to her as though she had the answers they most sought. They looked at her so, in life.

Love as thou wilt.

Phedrè turned, moved downstairs, passing through the courtyard arch into the sunlight.

Go to the top! For you have reached the bottom.