Chel twisted a strand of artfully dishevelled hair around one finger. ‘Indeed. Perhaps the Singer might make a public announcement stating that is the cause, to reassure the … more superstitious among the population?’

The cat flexed its claws. ‘What a good idea. Why don’t I secure you an audience with the holy lord and you can suggest it to him yourself?’

The hair-twirling stopped. ‘Thank you, Great Octave, but no, although the honour is great. For a start, my status is not sufficient for such a privilege. And also … well, it is rumoured that those who enter the Singer’s presence at your side are never seen again.’ Chel shrugged. ‘My lovers would miss me if I were to, ah, vanish into his domain.’

Enet narrowed her eyes and let the fan fall. Chel’s gasp as she saw the feather tattoo was gratifying. ‘There are always rumours dripping from the tongues of the jealous and the stupid,’ Enet said. ‘Rarely do such rumours have any truth to them. But I will pass on your suggestion nonetheless. It is my life’s greatest honour to advise the holy lord. If his people are restless, we shall do what is required to calm them.’

And she could say that now, ‘we’, because she was Chosen, and if Chel had thought to trade on their occasional intimacy she was very much mistaken. Enet enjoyed watching the other woman come to the same realisation.

Nothing could touch her now, not Chel’s jealousy or Pilos’s scheming or even Councillor Yana’s quiet hostility. She and the Singer were almost one, their words and bodies joined, her divinity second only to his, her future secure and her past buried so deep none would ever unearth it.

And if they did, they would die before they could tell what they had learnt. They would not be the first.

‘Anything else?’ Enet asked.

‘Well,’ Chel murmured, sliding a finger into the neck of her own blouse and tugging gently downwards. ‘Seeing as I’m here …’

Enet gave her the smile that made the sun seem dim in comparison. ‘My love, I wish for nothing more, but I am the Singer’s first and foremost and he has sent for me.’

Chel’s hand fell back into her lap and her face smoothed. ‘Of course, dear. The Singer’s will is all. His appetites, though … well, they too are becoming the subject of speculation among the council and the wealthier nobles who hear of such things.’