“Why, since this is another costume of mine, I think this will be my writer,” said Cleudi. “Take off your mask, Bergelin.”
Rodvard drew it off slowly, not knowing what to say, but the Countess Aiella spared him the trouble. “I see,” she said. “It was all planned, not a part only. At least he has a heart, and so the advantage over any of you.” She stepped over to take the young man’s arm. “Ser, will you escort me as far as my pavilion?”
Cleudi stepped aside to let them pass through the door and down the stairs. “What, unmasked already, my lady?” cried someone in the gay crowd round the door, but she did not turn her head until they were out in the shadow, when she released his arm with; “Now, go.”
From within the hall came the moan of violins.
II
He woke with scaly tongue, head spinning in the fumes of the fired-wine and body burning with unfulfilled desires, to the clink of silver on porcelain, as the maid Damaris bore in his breakfast tray. She was already in costume, a milkmaid and not badly done; her eyes and feet were dancing. “Oh, where did you get the lovely Kjermanash mask?” she asked as he propped himself up among the pillows, and giving him the tray, went to run her fingers lovingly over the white silk where it hung across the chair. “It’s just the most beautiful thing ever. I’ll be so happy to be with you in it.”
“Count Cleudi lent it to me . . . Damaris.”
“What is it?”
“Sit down a minute. On the chair, no matter.”
“I’ll ruffle your beautiful costume. Was it made in Kjermanash?” She sat facing him on the bed as he moved over to make room. The neck of her milkmaid’s dress was cut low enough to show the upper round of her breasts with a little in between (and the Blue Star told him that she noticed, and wanted him to notice; that it was festival day, when all’s forgotten in the new spring).