Free To Serve a King by Donna Russo Morin Page A

perfection of the evening; or rather, one person.
    As she had all evening, Jecelyn did her utmost to remain in Geneviève’s notice, to prove her dominance as she preened. Surrounded by men at all times, laughing loudly, dancing recklessly, she strove to be the center of attention. As the ostentatious woman disrupted the loveliness of the dance’s cohesion, as her disharmonious movements wreaked havoc upon the uniformity of the choreography, Geneviève could not pull her gaze away from the black-haired beauty. Jecelyn du Fabiole was a virtuoso of coquetry and Geneviève hated that she watched her, that she felt what she did—a curious concoction of admiration and jealousy—as if she betrayed herself.
    With a thunderous note and a final swirl, the song rushed to a close and the dancers fell upon each other, an exhausted assemblage, panting for breath.
    “Would you care … for more … wine?” Raymond offered between heavy gulps of air.
    Geneviève had no breath to speak, but nodded and smiled as Raymond laughed, took her hand, and led her toward the courtyard entry and the door left partially open. She closed her eyes in ecstasy as the chilly breeze of the spring night twirled around her body, cooling her with its soft caress, tingling upon her moist skin.
    “Wait here, ma chérie . I will fetch and fill your goblet.” Raymond left her with a soft kiss on her cheek and Geneviève skittered at the unfamiliar sensation. Raymond laughed, mistaking her innocence for coquetry, and rushed away, no doubt in a hurry to return.
    “Again, Eliodoro, you were too loud.”
    Geneviève turned to the annoyed whisper at her back and found she stood but a few feet away from the musical brothers, who, like her, had made their debut this night.
    “You know not of what you speak, Giuseppe.” A hair’s breadth shorter and darker of skin, the wavy-haired brother turned away with a look of annoyance.
    “Look, see it there, the mezzo piano .” Giuseppe pointed to the note-covered parchment, shaking the sheaves in his brother’s face with a crisp rattle. “It is the mark for softness.”
    They bickered as siblings were wont to do throughout time, throwing each other into an unbecoming light, and yet Geneviève would have given anything for a sibling, for a bothersome younger sister with whom to bicker. Her aloneness had been so complete, sibling arguments would have been much preferred to the encompassing silence from which she never found escape.
    Eliodoro gave Giuseppe a scathing look. “I may be younger than you, but I am not a child. Of course I know what it means. I read this language better than you could ever hope to.”
    “Blasphemy,” the older brother roared, pale face turning red. “I am … you are …” He sputtered with anger, spittle flying from his mouth. “I … you …” His eyes bulged. “Mother always loved me best!”
    Geneviève threw a hand upon her mouth before the bubbling burst of laughter escaped, her shoulders bobbing in silent mirth.
    “Come, you two, desist with your bickering. They are serving us now, and it is a glorious meal indeed.” The raven-haired, dap-perly dressed hautbois player rushed by them, a nod and devilish smile for Geneviève as he sashayed past her as well.
    Though not an expert on courtly love, she was quite sure from his gait and demeanor that neither she, nor any other lady at court, would be his type of lover. Geneviève cared little of such preferences and smiled back, further entertained by his adroit and effective handling of the brothers and their sibling squabble.
    “Did he mention food?” Eliodoro spun round to follow the way of the passing musician.
    “I believe he did.” Giuseppe dropped the sheets of music ontothe top of the spinet, they and the argument forgotten at the mention of victuals, tossed aside like gnawed bones.
    The brothers sauntered away, a cohesive unit bound by their appetites. As they passed from her sight, Geneviève at last allowed voice to