“Yes?” Luca raised an eyebrow.
Paul-Sebastien came closer and bowed deeply, but he also looked past her shoulder, where Touraine stood at attention, his head cocked. To his credit, he looked slightly embarrassed for his father.
“I only wanted to ask, Your Highness—did you enjoy the book I left for you?” Paul-Sebastien’s face flushed.
Both of Luca’s eyebrows rose in surprise this time. The unmarked history book that had sent her chasing Yeshuf bn Zahel at the bookshop. “That was you? My thanks for the gift. It led me to interesting questions about… oh.” Paul-Sebastien LeRoche. PSLR. “You wrote it.”
He brightened and stood a little straighter, but he still managed to look apologetic. “I did, Your Highness. However, my father doesn’t approve of the subject matter.”
Of course he didn’t. Luca remembered his dismissal of her own curiosity at Cheminade’s dinner. To be quite honest, Luca imagined Beau-Sang was the kind of man who disdained all books, which was a black enough mark on his record.
“Then we do have a lot to talk about. You know much about this city for a Balladairan.”
“I should hope so. I’ve lived here my whole life.” He chuckled, growing a little easier with her. “By some standards, that would make me Qazāli, wouldn’t it?”
It was laughable, given the contrast of his golden hair and pale, pale skin compared to the native Qazāli. There were fair Shālans in the city, from other countries in the old empire, but not very many. It made Luca wonder what new boundaries people would have to make in the future—how they would call themselves, what else they would find to separate themselves from each other. Humans tended to do that.
Luca waited until the next song began so that her words were covered by the music and the clack of dress heels on the floor. The line to greet her only grew longer. She should hurry him on and be done with this, order him to call on her another day. But she had to know.
“Have you had any luck finding bn Zahel’s book?”
Paul-Sebastien shook his head hard enough that a lock of hair flopped into his eyes. “The Last Emperor? I wish, Your Highness.”
“Not even in the First Library?”
He made a wistful sound in his throat. “No one can get there, Your Highness. Which is to say, one hears things, but one shouldn’t trust them.”
She laughed, and his shoulders relaxed at the ring of it. “What kinds of things?”
“Preposterous things. More than one man has approached me as I left a bookstore, offering a ride to the Second City, as if I’m a fool.” He smiled. Under the fringe of hair, behind his spectacles, his blue eyes were rueful. There was nothing of Beau-Sang in him but the curling blond hair. “I’d give anything to see it, though.”
“Perhaps one day. I’d like to speak more about your work another time. Expect an invitation soon.”
“I would be honored.” Paul-Sebastien finally tucked his hair back behind his ear, but as he bowed, the curl fell forward again. He left her with a spring in his heels. For a moment, she felt lighter, too. Then she felt Touraine’s presence just behind her, and her mouth tightened. Touraine had behaved abominably. Luca only had time to chastise her with a look before the next guest stepped forward.
Mademoiselle Malika Abdelnour mounted the dais with grace that set both Luca’s heart beating faster and her teeth on edge. When Malika curtsied, her gown flared. Waves of dark hair crashed over her shoulder.
“Your Highness. It is an honor to receive your invitation. My mother sends her sincerest regrets. She’s unwell.” Though Qazāli, she spoke in perfectly unaccented Balladairan.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I trust you’re enjoying yourself?”
“Of course. Marvelous food, wonderful conversation.” A crooked smile accentuated the scar on her chin, but it wasn’t directed at her.
Luca refused to follow the gaze to Touraine.
“I am especially pleased to hear about your generous donation to the children.”
The woman had a disarming stare, with narrow eyes lined in kohl that Luca quite thought she could lose herself in. The long scar on her chin was a sculptor’s slip, but it added an edge of mystery, of danger.
Luca sipped her wine. “Are you familiar with the school?”
“Of course, Your Highness. I attended myself. It was a… peerless education.” She smiled, but the words gave the expression an ironic twist. Or perhaps it was the scar.
Luca didn’t know the protectorate well enough to place the woman’s import among the Qazāli citizens. “And how did you find it?”