Kushiel’s Legacy GIF sets || Dominic Stregazza & Thérèse de la Courcel
“Now, which one of the Stregazza is Thérèse?” I asked, when I gauged that he was no longer paying attention to me. “Is she the firstborn? Prince Benedicte’s daughters are House Courcel, I thought.”
“They’re of the Blood by birth, like Lyonette de Trevalion, but Thérèse married a Stregazza cousin. Dominic.” I had caught his interest; his voice ran a little ahead of his thoughts. Alcuin had always been better than I at royal genealogies. “A bad match, by all reckoning; he’s a minor Count, but then she was second-born. First is Marie-Celeste, who wed the Doge’s son. It’s her son stands to inherit La Serenissima. Once Prince Rolande died, I wager Dominic Stregazza thought to poise his family near the D’Angeline throne, though.”
“And found his path blocked by House L’Envers,” I mused. “How disappointed he must have been. But why would Delaunay care who killed Isabel L’Envers? By all counts, she was his enemy.”
Het Arsenale: hoe een gouwe ouwe verviel tot zieltogend eendje en toch nog een trotse zwaan werd
Het Arsenale in Venetië, eeuwen her het mythische en grootste industrieterrein van Europa. Toen vervallen en nu omgetoverd tot de intrigerende kunstparel van de Biënnale. Een dag dwaalde TOOS er rond en dit is haar beeldverslag met toelichting. #art
kaart van rond 1720 van het Arsenale terrein
Het Arsenale di Venezia. Ik kondigde het vorige week al aan. Nu een magisch gebied voor de kunst, voor de Biënnale van Venetië. Maar eeuwen geleden naast symbool voor de grote macht van de Republiek Venetië ook de plek waar die macht concreet werd gemaakt. Elke keer opnieuw onderga ik daar de speciale sfeer van dat eeuwenoude, geheimzinnig complex.…
“Charmed, Comtesse.” Severio Stregazza’s surly tone, in faintly accented D’Angeline, said otherwise. He tugged at the stiff ruff of lace at his neck. At close range, he had a sheen of sweat on his features, and he looked uncomfortable in his costume. Severio had been born and raised in La Serenissima. No more than a year or two older than me at best, he was clearly ill at ease in his surroundings and awkward at the evidence of his mixed blood at a D’Angeline fête. His hot, irritable gaze took my measure. “You’re very beautiful,” he said abruptly. “I suppose we’re related somehow?”
“No, Prince Severio,” I said, shaking my head. “My lord Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève of Siovale adopted me formally into his household, and it is his title that I inherited. We are no kin, you and I.”
“That’s a relief.” He tugged harder at his collar, scowling. “Damn nigh every noble I’ve met claims kinship to the throne one way or another. I can’t keep it all straight in my head.”
“It is not easy, cousin,” Bernadette commiserated kindly. “I grow confused myself, trying to sort out the tangled threads of Blessed Elua’s descendants.”
Severio Stregazza gave her an ungracious glance. I could not blame him for his anger and discomfort, in truth; in this, of all gatherings, his coarse curls and the ruder cast of his features showed clearly the dilution of Elua’s lineage, brought to La Serenissima in the person of Benedicte de la Courcel, great-uncle to Ysandre. “Your inheritance seems clear enough, cousin.”