Longest Night Midwinter Masque – Page 2 – Longest Night Midwinter Masque

Evidence of Things Not Seen

Marielle nó Cereus had been a Night Court for nearly twenty years, long enough to develop a sense of when something was happening. And something was certainly happening. Her years of training to listen carefully to what was said—and unsaid—to watch for subtlest movements of her patrons’ faces and bodies, were telling her that something was going on.

The mood in Cereus House was lighter as of late. The adepts’ faces were less dour, their chins held a touch higher. The servants hugged the walls a little closely as they went about their duties, and their eyes didn’t dart away from Marielle’s as they passed her in the halls. And if the candles burned a touch brighter, well, that Marielle was sure she was imagining.

No one spoke of the difference at Cereus House, but all within its walls felt it. The household went about its business with a lifted spirit. No one questioned anything, seemingly content to exist in the better climate. That was enough for them. Marielle wished it could be enough for her, but she was too curious. She always had been. Was this simply the House recovering from the long, dark days under Dowayne Gerault’s iron fist? Perhaps. But Marielle, with all her years of experience and tutelage, knew—she knew—that more lay beneath the surface.

The House continued to run. Assignations were scheduled. Patrons came and went. Novices took their lessons. Children received their care. But everything that came from the Dowayne was in Petrea’s voice. Or even Aimee’s voice on behalf of the Second. Aimee—a Senior adept with no title. No true standing in the House. Why was Aimee speaking for the Second? It was such an odd thing. All these words coming from different mouths. Marielle had mentioned this in passing to the cook one morning. Cook had simply shrugged and replied that everyone proceeded in their own way. A fellow adept said the same—and why should they question favorable circumstances? Marielle nodded and continued with her duties. The servants were happy. Her fellow adepts were happy. Her patrons were happy. Why could she not simply be happy? Why must her mind snag on every small thing? Why must she fixate on the small expressions in Aimee’s and Petrea’s faces that told her there was more going on?

As Marielle lay in her bed, she turned over everything that was different in the House. Perhaps new leadership always took time for adjustments. Perhaps it was simply the Second coming into her own. A new friendship emerging. A new Dowayne finding her footing. Could that be all? Marielle doubted it very highly. She noticed those small gestures and tiny looks between Aimee and Petrea. The way that quieted when others approached.

And then…A few weeks past, the Dowayne had emerged! Looking something worse for the wear, but present, nonetheless. Aliks took breakfast in a salon with Petrea, sat in on lessons with younger adepts, attended a Showing. And she smiled. And, Blessed Elua, she even laughed. It was a lovely thing to see and hear. Something had changed. Something caused Aliksandria to emerge from her dark cocoon.

But what had changed? Marielle’s mind spun with the possibilities. She could find no specific event or action to point to, but the effects were all around. Perhaps it didn’t matter. If all was well, was the reason truly important?

It was with these thoughts that Marielle made her way along the dark corridor. The hour was late, and she had gone to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Her sleep had been uneasy lately. Blessed Elua, it had been uneasy for months. She was returning to her room when she heard laughter coming from down the hallway. Creeping slowly, she followed the sound. She found herself standing not far from the Dowayne’s office. The door stood slightly ajar, and bright, hot firelight burned from within. Great gales of laughter exploded from inside the office. Marielle stood stock still. Who could be making such a racket in the middle of the night?

She knew she should turn around. Knew she should take her tea and go back to bed. Knew she should walk away. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. On silent feet, Marielle made her way to the Dowayne’s office. She peered through the crack in the door, hiding in the shadows so as not to be seen by the occupants. What she saw inside made her gasp. It was only through sheer force of will that she did not drop her cup.

Within the office, a huge fire burned in the fireplace—not uncommon. What was not common, however, was for the Dowayne, the Second, and a senior adept to be dancing in front of it, clearly deep in their cups. The three held glasses aloft, empty bottles of wine and strong spirits strewn about the room. The desk was empty, piles of papers swept onto the floor. Most shocking of all? They were tossing sheaf after scroll after page of parchment into the fire. With each page that burned, they let loose whoops and cackles like fishwives.

“To Gerault! May he rot in the ground!” Petrea slurred loudly, falling to a chaise.

Aliks threw a large scroll into the fire and watched it crackle and curl, turning black. She clinked her glass with Aimee. “May his eyes be eaten by worms!” She shouted and smacked a kiss to Aimee’s lips.

“And his skin turn to mush!” Aimee said, her voice as wobbly as her feet. She turned to Petrea, attempting to toast her, but succeeded only in falling next to her on the couch. Their glasses fell to the floor, shattering.

The three fell silent, looking at each other like naughty children who had just committed some offense, worried they might be caught. Aliks was the first to recover, doubling over with laughter. She threw her glass to the hearth, where it smashed against the stones. Petrea and Aimee stood on unsteady legs, picking their way carefully through the broken glass on the floor. Aliks grabbed a paper, looked at it, and went to throw it into the fire.

Marielle caught a look at it—it was a ledger! Written in Gerault’s hand! They were destroying House records! She could not let them do this!

Her teacup fell from her hand as she shoved open the door and burst inside. “You criminals!” She shouted, slamming the door behind her. “You are…you are…you are destroying our records! You are hiding our finances! You cannot do this! I’ll not allow it!” She pointed a finger at them. “How dare you!” Marielle would not stand for this. She would have them brought to the Judiciary. Hanged for this crime.

Aliks’s hand stopped, midway to the fire, and the page fell to the floor. The three women gaped at her, staring, then their eyes darted to each other. A look passed between them. An instant decision made.

Petrea’s soft voice seemed to echo through the silent room. She held out her hands in a placating gesture. She stepped toward Marielle tentatively, as though she were approaching a frightened animal. “Marielle, this is not what you think.”

“It is!” Marielled spat out. “I know what I saw!”

Petrea shook her head slowly. “Marielle, please. Come in. Please. Sit down.”

Her voice was so gentle, so soothing. So trusting. And Marielle wanted to trust her. This was Petrea, after all. The woman who had sat with her for so many hours, helping her, teaching her, all while suffering silently. Marielle wanted to give her a chance. A chance to explain. A chance to make this right. Her feet took her into the room, almost unbidden. She nodded. “Alright,” she said. “Explain this to me.” She gestured at the mess of papers, bottles, and crackling fire.

Petrea took Marielle’s hands and led her to the chaise. Her voice was tender as she spoke. “Marielle, there is a grave secret, one that could take down Cereus House should it be revealed. I trust you. Because of my trust, we are willing to take you into our confidence. But you must keep to yourself all that you hear. Do you understand? Speaking of this could ruin our House.” Marielle dipped her chin at the seriousness in Petrea’s tone. “This is all about Gerault. About everything he was doing to destroy our House. And everything we are doing to fix that. All that Aliksandria has been working these last months to reconcile.”

The puzzle pieces began to slot themselves into place as Petrea explained Gerault’s treachery and the plan to bring Cereus House back from the brink. Marielle nodded along, the mystery finally solved, her mind finally at rest.

“Just tell me: how can I help?” She asked. “I want to help.”

A Falcon in the Dive

“I am counting on you to behave today,” Maël muttered under his breath to her as he gathered his horse’s reins in one gloved hand. “I know you are upset with me, and I understand why, but I need you to impress today. We have an important audience.”

She gave him a prickly, baleful look and did not deign to answer, which was as much as he could hope for at the moment.

“My lord de Rocaille.” The young page in the royal livery came by. “We are gathering. Are you ready?”

As ready as he would ever be for this. He nodded and turned his horse toward the courtyard. As royal hunts went, it was relatively small and intimate, no more than twenty nobles gathered together with their fine horses and gleaming doublets, but these were D’Angeline nobility, so they still looked like one of the fairest assemblies to be found anywhere on the continent. Or surely the biased historians would say so. Maël had read far too many stories from far distant lands to be so obviously elitist, it was uncouth.

His gaze skimmed over the colors and heraldry on display as the other nobles laughed and chatted amongst themselves. Sebastien was in the thick of it, of course, with his purple doublet slashed with gold and his quiver of arrows fletched with feathers dyed purple. If he took any game, it would be clear by the arrow what was his victory. Another Siovalese lord, a lean youth with dark curls and a quiet solemnity to his air, nodded in recognition to Maël, who returned the gesture. He recognised the Perigeux arms stitched onto the young man’s breast, and it certainly paid to be on good terms with the ducal family of his province. While he might not know Lancelin personally, since the Perigeux family sent him abroad to study semesters in Tiberium and Aragonia, Maël knew he was the future Duc of Siovale. An acquaintance could easily be built up while they were both in residence in the City.

But Lancelin de Perigeux was not Maël’s quarry for the day. His target was spotted exactly where Maël had thought to find him, side by side with the young King-to-be. It was an expected place for a man such as he, and as such, with so many eyes still watching the King as he prepared to begin the hunt, Maël did not approach yet. The excitement of the hunt was in the thrill of the perfect timing.

So he found his place in the line of mounted nobles and followed as the hounds were released, and the hunt rode out of the gates of the city and into the surrounding countryside. The goal for the day was the wild deer. This was meant to be a relaxing day spent outside of the city, no one needed the danger of a wild boar hunt. The hounds bayed, the nobles laughed as they sat their horses easily, and the servants in the employ of the gamekeepers ran tirelessly to keep up as they followed the trails further away from the city.

As a hunt is wont to do, small groups separated out as the hounds picked up numerous trails. This was a social event like anything else the court did, so factions were easy enough to anticipate. Which meant Maël placed himself strategically so that when the call came up that another trail was found, he was able to follow his quarry in the pursuit of the prey.

“I believe you to have an unfair advantage, Your Grace,” he said with a smile as his horse trotted easily along the nearly invisible deer track winding through the rolling hills. “You know these lands far better than any of the rest of us. Shall I place a wager that you will be the first to take a prize today?”

Roland de Chalasse turned his attention briefly to the young man, gaze sharpening as his green eyes processed the auburn hair and family colors. His brow lifted and he greeted him, “Young Rocaille, how you’ve grown.”

“Children tend to, Your Grace. Haven’t you noticed with your own?”

“And the wealth of grandchildren,” Roland said wryly. He sat confidently in his saddle, not once snowing any weakness that one might expect from a lord in the onset of his twilight years. His pale hair—once a rich, honey gold but now liberally streaked with silver—was pulled neatly back into a crisp tail at the nape of his neck, and the epaulets at the shoulders of his doublet were embroidered with the honeycomb pattern of his House. The honey of the Chalasse estate was well known for being the best, and his vignerons elevated a simple honey-wine into a complex delicacy that brought him income from across the continent, so it was little wonder that his decorations featured his hardy workers and their hexagonal combs.

Maël flashed a bright, winsome smile. “You are certainly blessed with Anael’s abundance, though not of the malus variety.”

Roland’s gloved hands handled the reins effortlessly as they maneuvered around an out-stretched root. His tone took on the practiced boredom of one completing the expected small talk of society as he asked, “How is your uncle?”

“Not as young as he once was, but determined as ever to run the university himself.” Maël shrugged innocently. “Siovalese are stubborn.”

“So they always are,” the Duc de Chalasse agreed. His gaze flicked to the glove on Maël’s hand and Maël saw the flicker of genuine interest in his face—which was all he needed—before the duc schooled his tone back to casualness, saying, “But perhaps I should wager that you will take the first prize, young Rocaille. That is a fine bird on your arm.”

“Isn’t she?” Maël grinned, pleased, as he lifted his gloved hand slightly to display her better as they picked their way along the deer track. She beat her wings slightly to keep her balance and gave him another one of her baleful glares. Maël said, “She is still a little testy with me that when I returned to the city, she had to stay behind. I am hoping the hunt will sweeten her temper.” Which was of course the perfect time for Regan to snap her beak at him in a performative threat.

“She seems little mollified,” the duc said, studying the peregrine appraisingly. “What would have you risk her displeasure so?”

Maël answered deceptively casually, “I rode with his Highness when he was called back to the City last year.”

“School friends?”

“Someone needed to help him stay out of the kind of trouble L’Envers was always getting into.”

“A worthy endeavor,” Roland said, drawing his horse up as the hound and its keeper paused to try to find the deer’s scent again as the wind shifted. “I hear His Grace of Namarre attends university more for the entertainment of it than for his studies.”

“He is certainly more cavalier than His Highness,” Maël said, risking Regan’s wrath as he stroked the feathers at the back of her head. “Though both of them are excellent students, a pride to the university, of course.”

“I should expect no less.”

“We Rocaille do still have our own pride, of a Siovalese kind.”

Regan made a small, clicking sound, her head swivelling to follow the sound of something shuffling in the young bushes. Maël did not need to confirm the target himself, he knew Regan and trusted her hunter’s instincts enough that he unclipped her jesses without a thought, giving her the whistle command to fly. Before the sound had even faded from his lips, she took off, rocketing up into the clouds to begin her homing circles. And Roland de Chalasse finally turned his full attention to the lordling, levelling his emerald gaze firmly at him as they stood together in the dappled shade of a copse of trees.

“You have me alone, as you so clearly want, young Rocaille. Do not waste our time, the day is too beautiful for intrigue.”

Maël appreciated his directness, so he met it in kind. “Very well, Your Grace, I will speak plainly. The announcement of Her Majesty’s abdication and His Highness’ imminent ascension has caused significant ripples through the court. I have seen it, even though I am not so practiced in the art of politics as you, I have still seen it. I see the ambitious eyes that follow my friend and I know many see him as the uneducated and unprepared spare, thrown to the wolves.”

“Ah, you hope to protect him from those that seem to be a threat to him? How noble. Am I a threat, then?”

“I will not lie,” Maël said clearly, “You represent the factions of traditionalists and those that hold to more conservative political views. A young king may threaten your status quo. But I know better than to assume you to be a threat. No, Your Grace, you are a patriot at heart, and a loyal one. I see no reason to assume otherwise. No, Your Grace, I am asking for your help.”

Roland surveyed him, his own hands crossed and resting easily on the pommel of his saddle. He could not deny his interest was piqued by this young pup. Brazen though he was, and still a little unrefined in the art of courtly intrigue, Maël was nevertheless a dangerous young man—he reminded Roland a little of himself in his younger and more impulsive years. Perhaps that was why he was amused rather than insulted at how the young man described him so confidently.

So, with a small smile, he teased his lure out further, asking, “With what?”

“Protecting the King-to-be,” Maël said evenly. “I do not stand at your level, I am no member of the old guard within the elite. Even noble as I am, I am an adopted heir to my uncle and have more experience with books and exhausted academics than the courtiers that flock to Gustav’s side. While I can see the sycophants, I need help from someone with power and influence, someone like you. I hope our mutual love for the hunt will keep us allies as we flush out prey, but I am no idealist to trust blindly. I know how powerful you are and what a danger that could mean if you turned against me or against Gustav.”

“So you seek to offer me just enough rope,” Roland said lightly, “to see what kind of knot I’ll tie.”

Maël shrugged. “I can afford to be bold and presumptive, Your Grace, I have less to lose.”

“And yet,” Roland’s voice took on a careless, silken tone, “you are right about me, young Rocaille. I am influential, I have power, and I am much more experienced with court politics than you are. Why should I take your bait? Surely I have all the connections and positioning I need already at my fingertips?”

Regan shrieked her delight as she caught sight of her prey from her vantage point high above them.

Maël’s smile was just a shade too wide, a fraction too delighted, as he laughed. “Are you a betting man, Duc Roland? Because I will make you a wager. Give me one evening, one conversation, and I will prove to you why, at the end of the day, it is actually you who need my help more.”

Roland’s eyebrows lifted, he couldn’t help himself. “Arrogant, Rocaille.”

“You refuse my challenge?” What he knew of the Duc de Chalasse, he was a competitive man. It was a bold move to play now, but he had already gotten the duc’s attention, now he needed to keep it.

“Hardly,” Roland said, something cunning and clinical in his gaze as he studied this mirror-image of his younger self. He knew the young man was goading him deliberately, but he had certainly earned some of Chalasse’s curiosity. “One evening, then. Do not bother sending a carriage, I know the way to the Rocaille townhouse. I look forward to how you will try to convince me, boy.”

The rabbit screamed once and then was quiet as the falcon in the dive slammed her talons into its spine, capturing her prey.

A Letter, Sealed in Heliotrope

Dear Mama and Papa,

I am sorry for the delay in responding, Olivier finally went where we can not follow. I followed the rituals and held his vigil. The items you sent were deeply appreciated.

Since the House has just left mourning, there is nothing happening here that is worthy of sending you. I will be made Second officially at the summer fete. The other Houses have been quiet for the most part, though something is definitely shifting in Cereus. I don’t know if you recall their late Dowayne from my prior letters, he was the opposite of Olivier in every way. The only reason Cereus survived is because we cannot allow them to fall, they are first among us after all. No one has seen Aliksandra, the new Dowayne, rumors have her knee-deep in House repair. Petrea is the Second, Mena met her a few weeks ago and has nothing but good things to say about her. It makes me breathe easier and feel more confident in the future of the Court to hear that Cereus will be restored.

I spoke to you before about the party at Dahlia and what transpired between

their Second and the Dauphin. It has been many months since then and they have still managed to keep whatever is between them (that kiss points to emotions) out of the public eye. I know that is in His Highness’s best interest, but I am admittedly confused by her silence amongst her peers. At the least, the Seconds and Dowaynes would aid them in whatever their plan is. Perhaps I have a completely Heliotrope mind, but it seems to me that the cause of our future King’s happiness in the eyes of Namaah is one of the noblest endeavors we could take on.

Word is that preparations are underway in the Palace to have the Dauphin crowned by Midwinter. There are people who still mourn the loss of his brother, but most know that time rolls forward without regard for our wishes. He was trained for different things, but the heart of the Royal family is known to be large and loyal, while their mind is quick and fair. Those facts are giving the people faith that he will be a just and kind King.

I am afraid that I have nothing more to write you about. Next missive, I will let you know how things are going here: I’ve heard from Bryony that Olivier’s son is plotting, a woman at the fountain yesterday said that Lord Montalban has returned, and I received word from the dye merchant that he will be delayed. I will be able to tell you how the letters he left are received and what has slithered towards our House.

Do not worry, I keep my dagger sharp,

All my love,

Loir

A Withering Flower

The year prior…

Petrea nó Cereus had been sitting in her Dowayne’s office, playing her lap harp for what felt like hours. Her fingers were beginning to ache, but her many years of training allowed her to continue to strum the instrument with precision.

Gerault nó Cereus, Dowayne of the House sat at his desk, appearing to pore over vast piles of paperwork. Having done this many times, Petrea knew he was simply looking busy in order to keep her there. He often summoned her to his office and ordered her to sit and play the same long melody over and over, stopping her at a random note, chastising her for missing it, and insisting she begin again. It was a melody Petrea had learned as a child—near a score and half years ago!—and she knew that she knew the piece backwards and forwards. And so did Gerault. She remembered with great melancholy a night many years past that he had sat on an ottoman in her room, laughing with her as she worked through the piece from the end! It was one of her most fond memories, now ruined.

The Dowayne had once been a dear friend to Petrea. In her youth, he had guided her through her training ever so kindly and with great care. He had listened to her concerns and, when he was tapped as Second, he had taken her recommendation of her best friend, Aliksandria, to train as next in line. Petrea remembered with no small sadness the afternoon teas with the two of them, Gerault lounging on a sofa and bemoaning his duties as Second, while noting things that Aliks should remember. While the other two shared the bond of future leadership, Petrea never felt left out. She adored both of them and reveled in their success. She had so looked forward to the day when they would ascend, to the great things they held for Cereus House.

But it had all been for naught. It was almost as if the mantle of Dowayne poisoned Gerault. He became secretive and unkind. Petrea knew that he held things from Aliks, who wanted only to please him. Slowly, the House fell into almost disrepute. And Petrea’s heart broke over and again as Gerault continually took out his ire on her. Perhaps it was their once close friendship that turned him against her.

A knock came at the door, bringing Petrea from her memories, and Gerault indicated the person to enter. Aliks breezed in and approached their Dowayne, a parchment in her hand. “Dowayne Gerault,” she said mildly. “I was looking through some of our ledgers, and I noticed what appears to be an incorrect calculation here—”

“That’s not for you to worry about, Aliksandria,” Gerault interrupted harshly. “I have seen to those ledgers, and there are no mistakes. I am sure that your calculations are simply incorrect.”

Petrea chanced a glance up at her friend. She knew that Aliks had a good head for numbers, and whatever the problem was, Petrea knew that Aliks was correct; she knew this was yet another secret Gerault was hiding, yet another mismanaged bit of House funds. Aliks’s face betrayed no emotion, as was usual when she worked with Gerault. Aliks wanted nothing more than to be a good Second in order that she might be a grand Dowayne. And that meant putting up with Gerault’s poor attitude and behavior. How Gerault was able to keep Aliks in the dark about his misdealings or how Aliks was able to ignore them was a mystery Petrea could not solve.

“Of course,” Aliks murmured. “I will leave this for your review.” She turned to leave, and paused, seeing her friend. Petrea cringed inwardly. She despised these moments. “Oh! Petrea! My dear, I did not see you there. I did not mean to interrupt your….?” Aliks trailed off, raising an eyebrow at Petrea.

Petrea kept silent, far too experienced with this situation to speak. Gerault would make up some lie, and she dare not contradict it.

“Petrea wanted to practice a piece. A patron complained that she stumbled over it, and I wanted to help her perfect it.”

“Well, yes, I…of course.” Aliks stumbled over her words. Petrea knew that Aliks would ask her about this later, and Petrea had no idea what she would say. Gerault was careful to keep this so far from Aliks’s eyes. When Petrea had first cried to her best friend about his poor treatment, Aliks had been aghast but unbelieving. She had been sure that the Dowayne would not pick on their friend. It was just impossible, Aliks had said, their history ran too deep. Ever since then, Petrea had been tight-lipped about her situation. “I shall leave you both to it, then. Thank you for your time, Dowayne.” Aliks withdrew and closed the door behind her.

Petrea didn’t move a muscle, waiting to see what Gerault would do now that Aliks knew she was in the office with him. Surely, he would dismiss her soon? Or perhaps, his “help” would be needed for many more hours.

“Get up,” Gerault snapped, his tone full of annoyance. “I can’t have you sitting here now.”

Petrea stood slowly, placing her instrument gently on the floor, her feet tingling as the blood rushed into her muscles. She kept her eyes on the floor. If nothing else, she did not want to see the hatred in Gerault’s eyes. It was too painful. She folded her hands gracefully in front of her and waited.

He heaved a great and tired sigh. “You are such a disappointment, Petrea. I simply don’t understand why you cannot get these things right. Why I have to deal with so many complaints. It is embarrassing. You once showed so much promise. I thought you would become so much better than you have. And yet, here we are.” He clicked his tongue. “It is almost like you are forgetting all of your training as you grow older. It is no wonder you languish without any patrons.”

Petrea’s heart clenched at his remarks. She knew that patrons did not complain about her. Her patrons complimented her, told her how wonderful her skills were—those few patrons she did see. But it was not for lack of interest. She knew that Gerault turned away patrons, telling them she was unavailable, or steering any new patrons to other adepts who would be “a better fit.” Her longtime patrons asked her for more assignations, promising large gifts if she could fit them into her schedule. All she could do was demure and tell them to speak to the Dowayne. Tell them that he was in charge of managing these things. It was something forced on no other adept—everyone else saw patrons when they wished. When asked about it, Petrea would simply shrug and say that she was not one to question the Dowayne’s mind and was sure it was for the best.

Despite Gerault and everything he put her through, she still loved Cereus House. She loved the Night Court. And she loved her fellow adepts. And somewhere, deep in her heart, she still loved Gerault. She loved the man he once had been. Every time she went to the temples of Blessed Elua and Naamah, she would pray for Gerault. She would pray that he would find his way back to himself. And yet, her prayers went still unanswered.

“I’m finished with you,” Gerault said with finality after a long stretch of silence. “Go to your room. I’ll see if the servants have anything left from their supper and have it sent to you. If not, I’m sure there are some bread crusts.” It was one of his favorite punishments: denying her the rich foods that the other adepts and patrons ate. She had long ago stopped caring.

“Yes, Dowayne,” she murmured and gave a low curtsy.

“Get out of here. I don’t want to see you until morning,” he snapped.

Petrea bobbed her head and backed out of the room as she had been instructed to do. As though he were royalty, he expected her to never turn her back on him. It was a most ridiculous thing, and only expected of her, but he did it to convey his power. To Petrea, it only conveyed his foolish pride.

She closed the door behind her and leaned on it, letting out a deep breath and closing her eyes for a moment. Two young adepts scurried by, side-eyeing her as they did. She heard whispers as they continued down the hall, and she knew what they were saying. It was no secret that she was Gerault’s favorite “whipping girl.” Most everyone avoided her, not wanting to draw his eye as well. It was such a lonely existence. Only Aliks, purposely shielded from everything, still treated Petrea as she always had. Aliks’s lover, Aimee, was kind to Petrea, but they had no true friendship or kinship.

Insidious

Belisario did not attend his father’s funeral. The idea of spending his entire day on the old man made him want to be sick. Everyone thought Olivier was some sort of paragon of the Night Court, but Belisario knew they were all wrong.

All he’d wanted his entire life was all the love and adoration his parents had, but they were always focused on his brother, Tobias. Even after all these years, the mere thought of Tobias made Belisario’s blood boil. At first, Belisario was ignored because Tobias was born sickly, something Belisario could never understand. He assumed it was the Heliotrope weakness that drove his parents to care for the sick infant instead of letting it die. It made no sense to Belisario, even as a child, to waste time and effort and attention on something that clearly had one foot in the grave from birth. Showering that attention on the child they had would have been the right thing from a numbers standpoint. Later, after Tobias recovered, the attention Belisario was owed as the oldest was denied him because Tobias was so good at everything. Tobias, the perfect Heliotrope, even as a child, though that really had no worth. What value did softness, empathy, and warmth really have? They were useless coins that his weak parents valued above all else, leading them to ignore the only child they had of any worth: Belisario. His sisters were not even worth mentioning or thinking about. They were stronger from birth, he begrudgingly gave them that. They survived the few times he tried to remove them. Belisario was already out of Heliotrope by the time Tobias’s “accident” finally fell into place. A lesser man would have moved on from the mistreatment and let his brother live, but Belisario was a strong man who was willing to do what needed to be done. Olivier and Geraldine deserved to know a fraction of the pain they’d put Belisario through with their choice to ignore him.

“Now that the old man was finally dead,” Bellisario thought, “I can finally claim what should rightfully be mine.” He sealed the letter to the advocate he used for all his legal matters then dropped it in the bowl in the main hall of Bryony. A runner would deliver it, and the first steps of taking back all that the old man owned from that weak, caged bird would begin. Belisario came first, it was time to make sure she understood that.

On the other side of the city, far from Mont Nuit and the wealth that surrounded it, was a modest townhouse. It sat on the far edge of a respectable quarter, a fact that drove its occupant crazy. Kyrian had been told by his last landlady that a man banned from the Night Court was not welcome in her establishment. The only reason he’d had to listen to her was that she called the guard after he’d made his stance on women telling him what to do clear to her. He snorted, she was weak of course, she was only a woman after all, but the guards were weak and that angered Kyrian. After all, they were men, trained to fight, to keep the King’s law, to be strong. When they sided with her and had physically removed him from his rooms, all Kyrian felt was red hot rage.

Women needed to be reminded of their place. The angels knew, none of the women tried to counsel Elua or tell him what to do: they followed Him obediently, used the only value they had to ensure His comfort, and elevated Him.

His pet needed the reminder more than most. Now that the old man was dead, Kyrian could get to her again. He was unafraid of anyone in that House, even the freak half-breed. He had shown that with his funerary arrangement. It was only the start of his plans for his pet. She thought she could get away from him when she chose. He would show her that Kyrian was the only one allowed to decide how things went.

Across a Crowded Room

Gabriel d’Albon stood in the grand parlor at Heliotrope House, feeling very much out of his depth. His father had died suddenly several months past, and Gabriel only now felt like he was getting his feet under him. His estate was not a large one by any means, and he had spent most of his life preparing to take over the estate, but there had been much that the late Lord d’Albon had insisted on managing himself, so Gabriel still had much to learn when he suddenly taken over last winter. He felt fortunate every day for the Seneschel and other retainers who helped him day and night to keep everything running smoothly.

Now, he finally felt comfortable leaving western Siovale to venture to the City of Elua to visit his father’s—well, his—townhouse. The house was run by a more than competent staff who laughed at his anxiousness, insisting that they had not seen his father in years, and he need not worry about them. They welcomed Gabriel to the City, excited that the young lord had taken it upon himself to visit personally.

There were extended family members in the City, some of whom Gabriel had met over the years, and some who Gabriel had not known existed! One of them was a fun loving distant cousin who insisted that Gabriel join him here at one of the twice monthly fêtes put on at Heliotrope House, high atop Mont Nuit. Gabriel had heard of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers and its skillful and glamorous Servants of Naamah, but it was nothing like he had expected. He had met one or two Servants of Naamah over the years, but they were folks passing through, and he never thought to engage one. It had felt too…formal. He instead found himself in the back fields with the occasional lover or friend. Nothing special, more curious fumblings than anything else.

“So, cousin, have you spotted anyone you want to contract tonight?” Mateo, Gabriel’s cousin, sidled up, a drink in his hand. Mateo was dressed in the finery common to the City, and Gabriel felt shabby and unfashionable in his country clothes. Mateo had assured him that his outfit, the one he wore to the Midwinter celebration at the estate, was perfectly acceptable, but amongst the gowns and velvet vests, Gabriel’s woolen breeches and roughspun cotton shirt made him feel like a bumpkin.

Gabriel took the offered drink and shook his head. It was a fine wine, and it went down smooth. “It’s all very overwhelming, Mateo. I think I might retire to the townhouse,” he said quietly.

“What? No! We just got here!” Mateo gave him a serious look. “Gabriel, I know this is very different from Siovale. But I promise that this is a—” He searched for the right word. “—gentle House. The adepts here are trained in devotion. They are kind.”

Gabriel bobbed his head. He was a lord now, and weren’t lords supposed to do things like this? “Just..please don’t leave me to stand alone?”

Mateo bumped his shoulder and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry, cousin. I’ll guard you.” He wiggled his eyebrows then sobered. “And besides, if this is too much, we can make go visit Balm House tomorrow and luxuriate in massages with scented oils.” Gabriel had heard of Balm House and its adepts trained in relaxation of the body.

Mateo had dragged him to this fête, insisting that it would be a good introduction to the Night Court. He had explained to Gabriel that Heliotrope adepts treated their patrons as true lovers and not merely playthings or guests at a performance of skills. Gabriel thought that sounded well and good, but the fête was louder and more crowded than he had expected. Guests of all ilk danced and chatted while they drank fine wine and ate fine food. Beautiful adepts—male and female—circled the room with serving platters. Gabriel considered asking to contract with one of them, but not a single one caught his interest.

He stood next to Mateo and scanned the room, trying to gather enough courage to leave the corner where he had stationed himself. From across the room, he caught a glimpse of a head of golden curls turning the corner. The young man turned, and for the briefest of moments, their eyes met. In that instant, the world disappeared, and time seemed to stand still. Gabriel lost himself in the depths of eyes the color of chestnuts in early summer. His throat went dry, and his heart hammered in his breast. A voice—perhaps that of Blessed Elua himself—whispered, Yours.

Just as fast, the moment broke. The beautiful young man smiled shyly and ducked his head. Another man grabbed his arm and pulled him from the room. The world rushed back in on Gabriel. He heard music and chatter of guests, smelled the food and wine, and saw the delightful party in front of him.

“Gabriel, Gabriel?” Mateo shook his shoulder.

“Yes?” He said, his voice wobbly.

“Are you quite alright? You seemed to get lost there for a moment.”

Gabriel shook his head and smiled at Mateo. “Yes. Yes, I am quite alright.” He pointed toward the door where his fair haired angel had disappeared. “Did you see the two young men over there? They just raced out that door. Who are they?” He tried to keep his voice even.

Mateo shrugged. “Probably two adepts of the House. Likely sneaking in. Probably haven’t had their debut yet if they aren’t out here serving.” He gestured to the room and the adepts carrying trays of drinks and canapés.

“How…how would I find out their names?”

Mateo gave him a curious look. “They haven’t had their debut yet. You cannot contract either of them. You understand that, right?”

Gabriel nodded, looking back across the room. “Yes, yes I know. I just…it’s just…Mateo, I must find out who one of those young men is. I think I have fallen in love.” He turned to his cousin, hoping that his gaze conveyed the seriousness of the situation.

Mateo gave him a searching gaze. Then his lips tilted up, and he broke out in uproarious laughter. He pounded Gabriel on the back. “Oh, cousin! This is your first foray into the Night Court! You cannot fall in love now!”

Adam nó Heliotrope and Alain nó Heliotrope were not supposed to be at the party. In fact, they—along with the other adepts who had yet to make their debuts—had been specifically instructed to stay in the novice wing that evening. Only adepts actively seeking patrons were permitted to attend and serve at the bimonthly fêtes. But Alain had insisted that no one would notice if they snuck in for just a moment. No one will see us if we peer around the pillar and look! Alain had said earlier. Just one minute, Adam! Don’t you want to see the grandeur! Please. Alain had a way of looking at Adam that made him agree to anything. It had been that way their entire lives. Sometimes they got away with things; sometimes they didn’t.

And that was how Adam found himself hidden behind a pillar, gazing out at the magnificent scene before him. And it was magnificent. Lords and ladies in all their finery danced and mingled gaily, eating and drinking…Alain clutched Adam’s arm, whispering fiercely about how much he wanted to join in, but Adam held him back with a strong hand on Alain’s shoulder. They could not enter that room!

Adam stood in that dark corner, thinking about the time when he would serve the patrons, and wondering when it would feel right. Heliotrope House had no rules about an adept’s age for debut. It was simply a matter of when one decided. Though Adam was approaching twenty, it still did not feel right. He could have gone to Mena at any point and asked to prepare for his debut; he would have felt fine. He was ready…in his mind, but he wanted to feel ready…in his heart. He wanted to feel called. And he hadn’t felt called. It was not right. Yet.

His eyes roved the scene, never settling on any one person. Finally, Alain decided he was finished ogling. “Alright, let’s go back,” he said plaintively. “I’ve seen it.”

“Was it everything you had hoped?” Adam asked drily.

Alain scoffed. “Not really. Maybe. I don’t know. But let’s get back before we are caught.”

They turned to leave, and Adam gave one last scan of the room and was suddenly struck, his feet stuck to the floor. His eyes caught on a man standing at the far corner of the room, almost hiding it seemed. He was tall and broad chested, with a chiseled jaw and short hair the color of deep mahogany and verdant eyes. His simple clothes spoke to a country life, not the usual city dweller.

Adam gasped. His heart clenched, and he felt a deep stirring in his belly. Something in this man drew him. Pulled at him. For the first time in his young life, he…wanted.

He could not move. Could not speak. Could not think. Alain was pulling on his arm, saying something, but Adam could not hear for the rushing in his ears.

The man’s eyes paused, meeting Adam’s, and the floor seemed to fall out from beneath him. He felt the gentle flapping of doves’ wings, and heard a distant whisper—ever so quiet—Yours. It seemed as though an eternity passed as they stared at each other.

Alain pinched him hard, and Adam broke from his reverie. He ducked his head and turned, Alain all but dragging him from the room. He let himself be pulled down the darkened hallway, his mind still a muddle, through hall after hall until they were back in their shared bedchamber. He swayed on his feet.

“Adam! Adam! What’s wrong?” Alain shook his friend’s shoulders and searched his face, voice high with fear.

Adam blinked and gave his friend a serene smile. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing is wrong, Alain.”

“Then why do you look drunk?”

“I…I need to speak to Mena.” He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Alain, it’s time. I am ready.”

Alain looked baffled. “Ready? Ready for what?”

“I’m ready to make my debut.”

A Ripple in Still Water

Weeks earlier at Cereus House…

The Dowayne of Cereus House sat, as she had for the past year—year and a half?—at the large desk in her office. As soon as she had taken over, she had ordered the staff to move the desk closer to the window so that the light might shine through the glass. Aliksandria had never liked where Gerault had the large, polished oak desk during his tenure. It had always seemed to her to be too far from any light, too hidden in the dark corner. And now she knew why. Gerault had, in truth, been hiding. Hiding so much. From her. His Second. Aliks had always held her Dowayne in the highest respect, but that had been dashed to smithereens in the days, weeks, and months since his death. He had driven the House into practical poverty, and secret disrepute. And how she was left to pick up the pieces of her House. To return it to its place of glory.

Aliksandria nó Cereus was a proud woman, and she held herself to the highest standards, higher than she held any other of Cereus House. She expected nothing less than perfection from herself. And her recent visit with her best friend and Second, Petrea, had been troublesome to say the least. For certain, Aliks knew that she had let some things slide, but she had been utterly confident that she was still conducting her duties as Dowayne. That she had simply been passing some things along to Petrea, as one did with the Second, while she fixed Gerault’s mess. But it was apparent that this was simply not the truth. Was she just blind? She had missed the signs of Gerault’s deceptions, and now she had missed the signs of her struggling friend. And her still struggling House.

Aliks shook her head and straightened her shoulders. Perhaps it was this perfection that had led her astray. Perhaps, it had been just this trait that Gerault had preyed upon that had allowed his many follies—her desire to take care of everything by herself. Perhaps, she need not take on everything alone. Petrea’s words echoed in her mind. Do you really think that you would not do better with this if the three of us worked on it together? Petrea had said that she and Aimée missed Aliks. And in the dark depths of the night, when Aliks was alone in her bed, she admitted to herself that she missed them, too. Her last encounter with Aimée had been an angry one, and she fretted about it when sleep eluded her.

The Dowayne rose from her desk and swept from the office, closing the heavy door behind her. She walked silently to her private apartments, requesting a bath and clean clothing be brought to her. A young adept filled Aliks’s bath with hot water and scented salts then helped wash her hair. She luxuriated in the bath but did not tarry long, as she knew that her Second—Seconds—were waiting on her.

A simple gown of green taffeta, embellished with fine embroidery at the decolletage and a delicate silver necklace were laid out for her. She dressed with care, pinning her hair in a low chignon with a mesh caul. It was not a formal look, but one befitting her station. She was meeting friends in the privacy of their own home, and she would dress for the occasion. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she noticed that her cheeks were paler and her face more drawn. Dark circles had formed under her eyes. It was not the visage of a new Dowayne. Aliks vowed to change that. Loveliness might fade, but one was not to help that along.

Aliks slid her feet into a pair of slippers and stepped from the room. She gave nods to the adepts and servants in the halls as she made her way to one of the larger salons, where they often hosted smaller dinners. From behind the cracked door, she heard Petrea and Aimée speaking in low voices. Though she could not make out their precise words, from their tones, she noted that their conversation seemed intimate. They spoke as two who held a close bond, and Aliks could not decide if she was glad of this, or if she was jealous of this. She could not take the time to examine these emotions, however, as she had been summoned to meet them.

Pushing open the door, Aliks entered the room. A table was laid with the finest tableware, set for three, and cloches covered steaming dishes. Candles illuminated the space, filling it with brightness and warmth. Petrea and Aimee stood from their chairs, both giving her smiles, though Aimee’s might have a touch colder than Petrea’s.

“Aliks,” Petrea greeted her. “Thank you for taking the time to dine with us.”

“I do not believe I was offered an option not to,” Aliks responded dryly. Aimée gave a small sound of disapproval, and Aliks cringed inwardly. “But,” she continued hastily, “I would not have turned down your invitation, and I do appreciate it.”

Petrea motioned toward the third chair at the table. Aliks settled into it gracefully, and her dinner companions followed suit. They sat in silence for a moment, none of them knowing quite what to say to one another. It was only the extensive training of their House that kept them from fidgeting.

As though by some unspoken agreement between the other two women, it was Aimée who spoke first. “Aliks,” she began, her voice stiff. Petrea reached over and placed her hand on Aimée’s arm. It was a small gesture, but Aliks recognized it for exactly what it was. Calming. Steadying. Soothing. And it made her ache. She wanted to be the one to calm, and steady, and soothe Aimée. Aimée shifted her eyes and inclined her chin ever so slightly at Petrea before beginning again, her voice far more smooth. “Aliks. Petrea and I fear that you have been living in Gerault’s shadow, hiding in your office, buried under his misdeeds for far too long. We must move forward. Cereus House flounders while you comb through ledgers and letters, trying to uncover his secrets.” Aimée shook her head. “You must move on from it. It is time to focus on the path ahead.”

Petrea took over. “The Dauphin is to be crowned at the end of this year, and you may be called upon to advise him. Your position as Dowayne of Cereus House is a crucial one. And our, well, my position as Second is also a crucial one. If we are to serve the Crown, we must retake our place in the Night Court. For too long we have left other Houses to lead by default.” She glanced at Aimée. “Aimée and I have been planning, and we have come up with ideas for regaining our rightful seat at the head of the Court of the Night Blooming Flowers.”

Hearing Aimée and Petrea’s speeches, Aliks’s mind began to spin. Her eyes brightened, and a grin spread across her face. She steepled her fingers under her chin and leaned forward. “Oh? Please, do elaborate. I am very interested to hear this.”

Aimée and Petrea exchanged large smiles and leaned forward. “We thought you would be interested to hear of our ambitions,” Aimée replied somewhat smugly.

A Kiss of Power – Part II

A passing adept, a young man with golden hair and a mask to match, presented them with a tray of sparkling wine. Ever the hostess, and holy servant in her own right, Rosanna gestured to her guests first. Only after they made a choice did she take a glass for herself. “Will you be attending the prayer service and Showing to follow? We are presenting two of our finest in this year’s graduating class to begin their service to Naamah.”

Would the Dauphin take the opportunity? Not all who attended the party would watch or place wagers for the honor of fulfilling the first assignation of a newly minted courtesan. With so much to do, it was not required, but those who did were included in a great honor as well as a rare display of Mont Nuit’s finest connoisseurs of the sharp pleasures. There was a reason this holiday was so closely guarded, part of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers they might be, but every Valerian and Mandrake knew they…stood out. Not all D’Angelines understood them, and that was all well and good, they did not need to. However, power was power which took many forms. Perhaps the King-to-be would discover something useful this night. That was the purpose of his visit after all, and Rosanna would ensure he had every chance to experience whatever he wished.

Lord Garnet attempted to keep his face blank, then remembered he did not need to underneath his mask. When last he had stepped foot in Valerian House, it was for a Showing, too. He hadn’t known what to do, not wanting to disrespect the canon of the House, but he had not enjoyed the Valerian adept’s cries of pain as the Mandrake had flogged him. And the Mandrake…the bright smile on her face as she had given the pain was one he had tried very hard to forget. He wasn’t made for these Houses, no matter how his Lady Sapphire insisted he needed to learn how their kind of power dynamics worked so he could better accept the service of his people.

“I do not think we will participate in the prayers,” Lady Sapphire said evenly, surveying the golden-haired Valerian with a cool eye as she accepted her drink before turning her attention back to the russet-red of the masked Dowayne. “But I am quite looking forward to the Showing afterward. Which of Mandrake’s finest will be assisting in demonstrating their yielding skills?”

“That pleases me greatly,” the Dowayne replied before sipping at her bubbling wine. Her red lips wrapped almost sinfully around the fine crystal as if by second nature. “As to the Showing, a very talented courtesan will have the honor. Ives nó Mandrake will be providing his services.”

Not only was he Rosanna’s own preferred Showing partner, but he was also a dear friend. Tonight was not for them, however. She would facilitate the premier and Showing, he would make a marvelous display of skill, and her new adepts would shine all the brighter.

“I look forward to seeing how he will encourage his Valerian to offer the very best of themselves for display,” Lady Sapphire said. Because that was really what a Mandrake-Valerian showing did best; a good Mandrake knew all the right ways to play the Valerian until they were glowing with the unique beauty of their pain-pleasure and danced along the edge of great Kushiel’s agony itself.

Ah, there it was. Understanding. Now the pair before her made sense, at least to her unique position in the world. Odilia, even without her guise tonight, knew just what made the tug and pull of dominance and submission elevate beyond what the untrained eye could see. Oh, she did like this Dahlia, she did very much.

Lady Sapphire gestured with one elegant hand, saying, “But I understand three new adepts are debuting tonight. While my lord and I will not join in the bidding for their virgin-price, I would like to see them. Will you give us a tour of the public rooms open for the fête tonight?”

“I would be delighted. Please, follow me, they are not far.”

When she turned, it was clear that her finished marque was not on display. Not tonight, not when the evening was celebrating the new members of her House, she would not be taking any lover of her own this evening. Instead, she devoted herself to the praise of Mara, Naamah, and Kushiel, and excitedly looked forward to the debuts on schedule.

Through the guests, she led the pair, rubies gleaming on her throat and golden chain hanging in hand. It was not a crushing press of a crowd, not everyone in Terre d’Ange understood the particular gifts of Valerian and Mandrake Houses, and those that did were on a short list—many of them Kusheline. Though not all. As they walked, they saw a lord wearing a bronze mask like a priest of Kushiel and with blue-black Shahrizai hair speaking with a distinctly non-Kusheline lord. The second lord was smaller, lithe, dressed in black, with a grey mask that complimented the silver of his hair. He certainly stood out among the black and red of the salon’s decorations.

Beyond the main salon were the public rooms, upstairs and down the quarters and dungeons, and towards the back and near the garden, still sleeping in winter, was the space set aside for special occasions. A small stage was in the center of the round room so that spectators might watch from every angle. Any manner of furniture could be brought onto the dais or hung from the ceiling. On the far most wall was a tall cabinet and shelves, holding every sort of aide de amor imaginable. The entire space was elegantly decorated in scarlet, black, and gold, and already scented with cinnamon, lit with fanciful lamps, and softened with a great many velvet pillows.

Nearby was a curtain, behind which whispered voices could be heard. Shadows of three individuals could be seen through the somewhat opaque fabric. They went silent when it was clear they were not alone any longer.

“Worry not, my dears, I am only escorting some of our honored guests to meet you. Come out now,” Rosanna called, and the two instantly obeyed. Moving with so much grace, eyes averted, hands gently held before them, the debuting adepts were both dressed in fine white, virginal silk with black collars at their throats. No lead though, for they would attain that when their first patron would win them. “Lady Sapphire and Lord Garnet asked to meet you.”

Together the two made honors toward the couple, moving in perfect tandem. A whispered welcome was spoken all as one, two voices resonating perfectly. Rosanna watched with pride in her eyes.

Lady Sapphire pulled Lord Garnet firmly with her to approach the debuting adepts, her brown eyes studying the details of the two of them, while his blue eyes focused on her alone. She turned her head to murmur to her companion. “This is why I have brought you with me tonight, my lord; so that you may hear for yourself how these young adepts view the concept of service.”

She turned her eyes back to them and, feeling the weight of her gaze, both shivered slightly. She commanded them, “You are prepared to offer yourselves to sacred service tonight. What does your House teach you about what it means to serve? Answer me.”

The more timid of the two spoke, his breath trembling at the command in her voice, “W-we are taught it is a gift, my lady.”

“A gift?” Her dark hair rippled as her head tilted with the leading question.

“Yes,” the second debuting adept said with a nod. “While we offer our bodies and accept pain with our pleasure, it is a gift to offer ourselves so deeply and fully to our patrons.”

“Not everyone understands the place that pain has in pleasure,” Lady Sapphire said as she paced a slow circle around the new adepts. “How can you discern who understands the value of your gift and who only seeks to slake their cruelty?”

“We…we have to learn to feel when the lash is wielded with love, my lady,” the second answered again. She dared to lift her eyes to glance at the woman in rippling blue silk and, for that, Lady Sapphire paused before her. She never touched the girl, but held her gaze with complete and controlled composure.

“And how do you know,” Lady Sapphire asked softly, “when the patron you are serving is worthy of your fullest submission?”

The young adept gripped her hands tighter together and whispered, “Because…because they care. They care about us, in the pain and afterward.”

Lady Sapphire hummed, her lashes lowering as she considered this before turning away without another word to the adepts to rejoin her companion, murmuring to him, “Much to consider, don’t you think?”

He nodded slowly.

“Very well done, dear ones,” Rosanna praised the two. Coming forward, she pressed a kiss to each of their worried brows, soothing away the shivers, and helping ground them once again. Only when they had returned to a state of calm did she walk them back to their safety behind the curtain. For their passing of the Dahia’s questions they would receive something nice as a reward, extra dessert or some such thing. After ensuring her adepts were properly cared for, she returned to her guests.

“Have you found the answers you sought?” She inquired as she rejoined them at the far side of the room.

Lord Garnet, still reluctant to speak and reveal himself, pressed his lips together. Lady Sapphire tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, beginning to draw him away as she said, “Much to consider, like I said. Do enjoy the rest of your celebrations, we will not take any more of your time. There are surely many things that require your attention now.”

Outside, a clock struck the hour, a low note that hung in the air, not ominously but in anticipation. Soon the highlight of the evening would commence. Something Rosanna herself needed to be prepared to introduce and facilitate. By now surely Ives would be looking for her to begin the preparations for the night’s prayers, Showing, the bidding, and all that would go on until the final guest left.

She stood watching the couple withdraw to make space for the final preparations for the prayer service, and did not hear the cat-silent steps approaching her until the voice spoke, “There is a rumor, you know.”

Rosanna startled, her hand flying to her chest as she bit back the squeaking gasp of surprise, spinning to glare at her usual Showing partner, Ives nó Mandrake. A tall, well-formed man, with sable hair that just brushed his shoulders and fell into his icy-blue eyes, he was dressed in red with accents of black leather, his arms left bare, and his robe loose—ready to be slipped off to bare his marque when the Showing began. She scowled at him, seeing the way he dangled the information before her, teasing her with it as he looked almost innocently after the couple that had just left.

Finally, Rosanna took the bait, she couldn’t help it. “What rumor?”

He smirked in his victory, before his brows arched, and he said, “The whispers in Mandrake House say that there was a time where our previous Dowayne went to visit Dahlia House. I don’t know why, and it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that it is said his eye was caught by the novice that served the wine for his visit.”

He enjoyed drawing it out, finally purring, “It is said that he offered to buy her marque on the spot. He revealed too much of his hand, of course, and Dahlia naturally refused, but still…it is curious. Had he succeeded…could you imagine?”

Rosanna bit her lip, glancing back the way Gustav de la Courcel had gone with Odilia nó Dahlia on his arm. She had seen the way the Dahlia had moved through the salon here, seen the way she circled the debuting adepts, felt for herself the weight of her gaze when she had met those eyes.

Yes, surely it was for the best that Odilia had remained at Dahlia House. Whatever storm was on the horizon with those two, it would only be worse if she had the deep purple mandrake flowers inked into her skin instead of the dahlia.

But Ives was still right—it was curious.

A Kiss of Power – Part I

While most of the grand manors which occupied Mont Nuit relaxed once more after the horologist called the dawn after the Longest Night, two barely slept and were propelled into the second most important holy day of the year. For them, at least.

A pair of months apart from the Longest Night, the Houses of Valerian and Mandrake were unique in celebrating Mara’s Eve. The former perhaps with more pomp and circumstance than the latter. Not for any lack of care, but Valerian House always hosted and marked the occasion with a graduation of great importance.

Rosanna remembered her own debut some years ago. Only the most talented Valerian adepts were permitted to make their first assignations on this most revered of days. The night before was spent in prayer, meditation, and worship to the first anguisette, Mara, daughter of Naamah Herself. No matter if one did not hold the mote in one’s eye as She had, all who lived in this House walked in Her footsteps. Incense and offerings of fruit were made to those angelic deities, as well as to Kushiel, who bestowed His mark upon those He deemed worthy and necessary to fulfill His will. Not so long ago, one such chosen had visited this very House, though she was not part of it. She was someone Rosanna had always admired, having read her life story so many times now.

Making this night a memorable one was no small necessity; Her first Mara’s Eve as Dowayne,

Tryphosa’s first as Second.

“We have received an unusual letter,” Tryphosa said as she entered the elegant office. Seated at the desk, Rosanna looked up from the final entertainment schedule with a curious look on her face.

“How so?”

“It is from Dahlia House.”

Quickly breaking the gold wax seal, the new Dowayne read through the elegant script with great speed and interest. Thank goodness she was already seated, handling the request within the missive would have resulted in her falling into a chair without much grace otherwise. Something her friend noted instantly.

“What does it say? They never write to us,” Tryphosa asked.

“Odilia nó Dahlia wishes to know if she could attend our Mara’s Eve fête…with the Dauphin.”

Tryphosa did hit the chair cushion rather abruptly now. Staring at one another in both shock and barely restrained excitement, the two read over the letter once again. It had been a generation since a member of the royal family had visited Valerian House. Not since King Imriel. To host a future monarch would be the sweetened topping to an already auspicious occasion.

“This feels like the hands of the angels presenting us with a blessed opportunity,” Rosanna said to her Second. “Odilia is a rising star amongst Mont Nuit and the Dauphin. He is said to be quite enamored of her.” Scanning the letter, she could not ignore the request for secrecy. No one could know that the future King was in attendance, as his courtesan sponsor explained, she meant to introduce him to the various power dynamics to be found throughout his kingdom. While his being present under her roof would be a great honor, it would have to be a secret one. No preening to the other Dowaynes that he had graced her House. But a blessing was a blessing, no matter how it came packaged.

“What do you mean to do to hide him?” Tryphosa inquired.

For a moment, Rosanna thought over the plans already made, the food and drink already ordered, the Showings and music and other sensual entertainments she had worked so hard to arrange. Months of planning were scattered over her rosewood desk. As were some odd remnants from the previous holy celebration.

A smile appeared on her pink lips. “We will make our Mara’s Eve a masked ball, my friend. We shall all be hiding along with him.”

So when the invitations were sent out, to the favored patrons, the scions of Kushiel and Naamah, descendants of past anguisettes, to Mandrake House, it was with the challenge to arrive in the guise of precious stones. Dazzle one another as the polished gems they were, and do not forget a mask.

In one of the unmarked carriages rolling slowly along the winding avenue that snaked around Mont Nuit to each of the Houses of the Night Court, a nervous gentleman in a doublet so dark a red it almost seemed black looked at the serene woman across from him in a deep, rich blue gown. He fiddled with the mask in his hand, which was created with facets to look like a gemstone and said, “I don’t understand what we’re doing here, Odilia?”

“I said I had procured invitations to one of the most exclusive parties in the city, my prince,” she said with a tiny smile. “Do you doubt my abilities?”

“Never,” he said at once. “Only…I have come this way along the rue before. Why are we going to Mandrake?”

“To Valerian,” she corrected.

“But why?”

“Tonight, they celebrate their most sacred holiday,” she explained. “Mara’s Eve is when they honour Naamah’s daughter, the first anguisette. You’ve been to Valerian House before, yes? For your Grand Tour?”

“Yes,” he said, “but not to participate. They arranged Showings for me, since I… was not practiced in their arts.”

“I am not bringing you here in the hopes to unlock your hidden Shahrizai lineage,” she said quietly, her fingertips smoothing across the smooth satin gloss of her own mask, resting on her knee. “Rather, you will soon be put in a position where the people of this kingdom will serve you. They will be your servants, Gustav.” He shifted uncomfortably, and she smiled at him, not unkindly. “You were never raised for royal command, I know. This evening, behind the safety of the mask, will allow you to experience the different kinds of service and submission that come with the dominance of your power. No one will know who you are, and in the seas of blacks and reds that Valerian is known for using in their decorating, another lord in dark red will be easily forgotten.”

She leaned forward to take his hand, stopping him from worrying the carved faces of the facet mask with his fingers. “Trust me, Gustav. I thought about this and have done everything I can to protect you.”

He sighed. “I know. I do trust you. Of everyone around me, you are one of the few whose ambitions I do not need to question.” He lifted her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles, whispering, “What would I do without you, my dahlia?”

She smiled and took her hand back as the carriage turned into the drive leading up to the Valerian mansion, saying, “I am sure you would manage.”

Together, they donned their masks and their identities for the night. No longer Prince Gustav and Odilia nó Dahlia, but Lord Garnet and Lady Sapphire. Her marque carefully covered by the shimmer blue of her gown and the fall of her sable hair, her identity was safely hidden. And who would look for the future King here in Valerian House, of all places? Everyone knew his tastes by now, the gossip had made sure of that.

Hooded attendants guarded the grand double doors of Valerian House. Only the presentation of an invitation gained entrance tonight. Tokens were not enough on Mara’s Eve, the guest list was very succinct and highly coveted by certain D’Angelines.

Upon entering, the scent of cinnamon and amber incense filled the senses. White candles in gold sconces lit the way, illuminating the vivid tapestries with their violently beautiful scenes.

In the banquet room, hot, mulled, red wine flowed from heated fountains. Platters of roasted venison and other red meats were paired with winter vegetables and all manner of other aphrodisiac delicacies. Each little detail was made to evoke the red mark in the fabled anguisettte’s eyes and the flowing blood which bubbled up under a loving lash.

Practiced courtesans invited guests to open play in the common areas, almost foreplay as the more intense scenes were reserved for the dungeons and private rooms down red carpeted halls. Simple pleasures such as utilizing the cuffs built into chaises, ropes hanging from the ceiling, toying with dripping red candles, could be found in every corner of the public salons.

For those making their formal debut, a special room was reserved for each to be presented by their Dowayne, and the bidding for their first night would commence later in the evening. It was plush with velvet cushions, thick drapes, and a little stage for each new adept to ascend so that all might see them; tonight there were two.

Ebony haired Shahrizai walked with adepts on one arm and a goblet in the other, giving homage to the niche shrine of their ancestor as they strolled to the private space reserved only for them. They were avoided quite clearly by the stoic yet elegant members of House Morhban, their rivalry never-ending even for a holiday such as this.

Music floated through the rooms, setting a sensual rhythm for all the guests to relax and enjoy. Although the players were hidden, their presence could be felt as every honored attendee might think they had their own private performance to set their scenes.

Through it all walked the new Dowayne, draped in a blood red gown that only made her fiery hair glow all the more. Rubies dripped from her neck in a stunning collar, its leash held by her own hand as this was her domain and party. An equally gleaming mask sat upon the upper half of her face, leaving her red painted lips to smile and speak to her guests. And through it all, she kept a sharp eye out for anyone who might be her very special guests for the evening.

In doing so, she noted the adepts under her roof and what they were doing, who they flirted with and what caught their, seemingly, averted eyes. A pattern arose, whispers behind shackled hands or fans, curious gazes peeking out from behind elegant masks. They were following a specific couple.

Strolling through the crowd, she soon found the source of their interest. Upon viewing them, Rosanna could very much see why. The presence of the woman she knew to be attending as Lady Sapphire was palpable. Familiar. Commanding. What Valerian would not be drawn to such a refined and sure presence? Even she felt a little shiver up her spine just watching her. Which made her think it so very curious about the gentleman at her side. His costume had not been revealed to her, but only she and Tryphosa truly knew who he was. Curiosity piqued, and hostess duties certainly not forgotten, she crossed the space to greet them.

“Good evening, guests,” she said and dipped a pretty curtsy. “How are you enjoying Mara’s Eve?”

The kohl that lined the lashes behind the shimmering blue of the mask made her brown eyes all the darker as she watched the Dowayne make her curtsy. She did not offer one in response, that was not the game of the evening. Instead, she maintained her eye contact without blinking, answering, “Valerian House has surpassed itself to celebrate Naamah’s daughter. It is a pleasure to attend, just as surely as it is Valerian’s pleasure to serve tonight.”

Lord Garnet, at her side, studied the red-haired woman who approached them. While one of the hosting House, judging by the deferential way that she offered the curtsy, she nevertheless moved with the self-assurance of someone who could lead. Perhaps the Dowayne? He wondered how one could lead a House when one’s whole life revolved around submission. But he kept his peace. The fewer noble guests who heard his voice and realised his identity, the better. He was only here to watch and learn. Already it was beginning; he saw how comfortable his Lady Sapphire was, how effortlessly the guests here wore their power under the allure of the masks as the adepts and novices of the House offered trays of drinks with yielding hands and lowered eyes.

Lady Sapphire seemed very comfortable with it all, as did the guests with Shahrizai blue-black hair and Kusheline eyes. He worked to emulate them, remembering the tutors that had taught him a royal posture. Now it meant a different kind of power, another kind of authority. Perfect timing for it, as Lady Sapphire gestured to him. “Lord Garnet and I are quite enjoying our evening thus far. Aren’t we?”

He nodded slowly, remembering his mother’s voice telling him that moving slowly was read as power more than speed was. A prince did not rush through anything, nor would a king.

“I am so glad to hear that,” Rosanna smiled demurely. Not in the way Alyssum did, in their pious and delicate manner, but in her way which drew comfort in drinking in the power of another. The disguised Dahlia and the royal who accompanied her were a cool drink in the ever warming heat of the salon. “This is our most holy celebration, and the first after Dowayne Etienne took his leave. To serve our guests at such an important time gives us every pleasure, earthly and heavenly alike.”

The Desert Begins to Bloom

Petrea nó Cereus found her Dowayne without trouble. Aliksandria was where she always was: squirreled away in her office. Aliksandria nó Cereus had been Dowayne for over a year, and it seemed that she had yet to leave that office. While Petrea’s heart went out to her friend, she did hold some measure of resentment towards her. There were so many other duties to attend to, and Aliks had been almost entirely absent since Dowayne Gerault had died. Petrea was tired of making excuses, tired of handling everything in both her own role as Second and those of the Dowayne. She thanked Blessed Elua every day for Aimee—her right hand.

Petrea knocked lightly on the closed door and entered before Aliks had a chance to answer. The entire room was littered with papers, scrolls, books, and ledgers. The sheer amount of paper shocked Petrea. She had not entered this room in…she couldn’t remember how long…but it had certainly not been this disorderly the last time. Behind the massive wooden desk sat Aliks. Her hair was tied up messily, her face drawn, her fingers ink stained. And her eyes. From the dark circles below them to the blankness in her gaze, Aliks looked less like a Servant of Naamah than a beggar in the streets.

“Aliks?” Petrea said quietly. She was, at the sight in front of her, now questioning her decision to interrupt the Dowayne, but needs must, and this interruption was truly critical.

At her voice, Aliks started and dropped the parchment she was perusing. “Oh, Petrea! I’m so sorry, I did not hear you enter.” Her voice sounded tired and unused. She cleared her throat and offered a weak smile. “Please,” she said, gesturing around the room. “Come in. If you can find a please, sit down.”

Petrea gazed around the crowded and messy office as she stepped in. She moved a stack of ledgers from a sofa and sat. Her eyes scanned Aliks’s face. Yes, this needed to happen. “Aliks,” she said slowly. “Please come sit with me.”

Aliks nodded and stood from her chair. She stretched her neck and shoulder, working out the kinks that had surely developed from hunching so long. Striding over to Petrea, she sank down next to her friend. She took one of Petrea’s hands. “What can I do for you, love?”

Petrea reached up and undid Aliks’s hair to run her fingers through the tangled strands. “This is too much, my dear,” she murmured. “You have to stop. You cannot go on like this.”

Aliks sighed, her shoulders slumping. She closed her eyes and leaned into the soft touch of Petrea’s fingers massaging her scalp. “I know, Petrea. I know. But there is just so much. You cannot possibly imagine how terrible things truly are. How much Gerault lied. How much he cheated the House. It is going to take me…years, I fear, to untangle us from this web that he has left me in.”

Petrea made a soothing sound as she continued to gently work through Aliks’s hair, scratching her nails against Aliks’s scalp. “You’re right. But, love, this is not the way.” She gave Aliks a shake, and Aliks opened her eyes. Petrea’s voice was firm as she continued. “Aliks. You have been hidden away in this office while the rest of the Night Court spins around us. Things in the City are happening that you have no idea about. We cannot have that.”

“I know! I know!” Aliks began, but Petrea held up a finger to stop her.

“Aliks,” she said with great seriousness. “You are the Dowayne of Cereus House. The First and Foremost of the Houses of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers. You—we—cannot have you absent. We are floundering. We need you.” She paused. “I need you.”

Aliks blinked. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. It was as though this was some great revelation. “But you…you…I have heard that…you are doing so well! Everything I hear is so positive about you! What could you possibly need from me?”

“Aliks! I have been scouring the Night Court for other Seconds to advise me! What do you think they will be saying about that? I am constantly making excuses for why no one can meet with you! I have turned to Aimee for guidance time and again—”

“Aimee?” Aliks interrupted, puzzled. “What does Aimee have to do with this? She is not the Second.”

Petrea clasped her friend’s cheek. “You have no idea of Aimee’s strengths. But I do. And I tell you now that she is likely the only reason I am not the laughingstock of Mont Nuit. And to be fully honest with you: I am not the Second, we are the Second. Aimee and myself.” Aliks gasped, and Petrea nodded. “It has taken both of us to lead in your absence. With no training or assistance from you, I have turned to Aimee to be my partner as Second,” she said sharply.

Aliks’s face fell at her friend’s admission. “Oh, Petrea, I am truly sorry. I had no idea!”

“Of course not. You have not left this office, save to sleep.” Petrea’s voice then gentled. “But that must change.” Aliks bobbed her head in agreement. “If nothing else, we miss you. You are my best friend. You are Aimee’s lover. We miss your company. You have abandoned us in a time when we should all be coming together. We need you. And you need us.” Petrea waved her hand around the room, indicating the mess. “Do you really think that you would not do better with this if the three of us worked on it together?”

Aliks shook her head, her eyes falling to her lap where she still clutched Petrea’s hand. “No. But I cannot ask this of you. I cannot let either of you into this mess. It is mine, as Dowayne, to clean up.”

“You and I both know that is simply not true.” Petrea squeezed Aliks’s hand. “The job of the Second is to be the Dowayne’s shadow. To protect and prop up the Dowayne. To assist the Dowayne in all matters of the House. You know this. I know this. Aimee knows this. We are not prepared to let Cereus House sit in ruin any longer. Things are afoot in the City—no, the country—that may cause instability. And as goes Cereus House, so goes the Night Court. We must have stability and strength within these walls.” She raised her chin. “I suffered at Gerault’s hand with only my love of this House to keep me sane. I will not see my House fail. Not now. Not again. Not ever. Now,” she said, rising. “Go take a bath and change your clothes. You are dining with Aimee and me in an hour.”

“But, Petrea, I cannot leave this—” Aliks began.

“I will accept no excuses,” Petrea interrupted. “We begin planning tonight.” She placed a kiss on her friend’s brow. “I will see you in an hour, love.”

With that, Petrea turned and walked out of the room, leaving her Dowayne sitting on the sofa, quite stunned.