Michael looked back at the setting sun and the plain. “So we have seven days, and a rising tide of soldiers. What do we do?”

“Do?” Gabriel said. “Do? We train like athletes. We practice until every man hates us.” He turned to them, and his smile was broad. “We’re not going to dick this away, my friends. We’re going to do this beautifully. So we will train. For six days. And all our hermeticals are preparing a lovely set of surprises.”

“And what do we do on the seventh day?” Blanche asked, and she was smiling before she finished, aware . . .

“On the seventh day we have a party,” Gabriel said. “At least, I think there should be a party.”

Morning. Cocks crowed in the town of Arles.

Gabriel lay in bed and looked at the glowing gold in his good hand. He could hold it up in the darkness and see Blanche by it. It was brighter each day; noticeably brighter since his extravagant expenditures in battle.

“Oh God,” he said, and then stopped at the edge of a blasphemy even he did not find funny.

Blanche stirred, frowned, and awoke. “Gabriel?” she asked.

He kissed her.

“My lord?” came a voice. It was Anne, opening the door to the bedroom.

Gabriel kissed his wife. She didn’t respond the way he wanted, but put a hand on his chest and gave him the very gentlest shove.

He tried to insist, and she pushed hard.

“Oh,” he said.

She shoved him hard, rolled over suddenly, and cursed. Then she threw up, spectacularly, all over the bedclothes.

Arles—Empress Blanche

“Pregnancy,” Kaitlin said, shaking her head. “Honestly, women should stick to knitting and good books.” She frowned.

Her husband smiled. “Surely we’re good for something,” he said.

Blanche looked pale. “Nothing comes to mind,” she said. “Could I have some privacy, please? Doesn’t the emperor need you for something?”

Michael sighed and went out into the solar. Master Julius’s quill was flying; the emperor was being shaved. Pavalo Payam had on a magnificent scarlet silk khaftan and emerald green silk trousers tucked into yellow leather boots worked in gold; he looked as if he were the emperor, not Gabriel. The Mamluk was bent over a chart.

Michael pulled a wooden stool from against the wall as the Queen of Arles was announced. She was in men’s clothes: green hose and a plain brown cote and a knight’s belt. Her beautiful red-brown hair had been cut short.

“Your Highness,” she said formally.

“Your Grace,” the emperor said from his chair.

Clarissa broke from a somber look to a wide grin. “Say it again,” she said. Everyone laughed. “I just love hearing it.”