Author: Longest Night Midwinter Masque

Let Us Be Friends

Petrea knew that she trusted her friend Santiago, but there was a deeper intimacy between them that allowed her to take his word that she could trust whom he trusted on whom to trust. She sighed. How many levels of trust was that, she wondered?

~

Several months prior…

“Stop frowning, Petrea! You don’t want the Dowayne to see your face like that,” Marielle nó Cereus hissed under her breath at her fellow adept. The two women sat in one of Cereus House’s many solariums, practicing the lyre. They had been sent to practice by the Dowayne, who declared that two adepts of their age were “less competent than children” and “an embarrassment to the House.” 

It seemed to Petrea that she was being punished for some imagined infraction every day as of late. She knew that her music was perfect; she hadn’t missed a single note on the stringed instrument in near twenty-five years, and she had perfected her singing decades ago. And yet, here she sat with an adept young enough to be her child, playing until her fingers blistered. And how was she to explain blisters to a patron? Was that not an embarrassment to the House?

Petrea knew the songs well enough that she did not have to pay attention. And as she played, her mind wandered, as it often did. The weight of the Dowayne’s ire weighed heavily on her mind. She could not imagine what she had possibly done to even draw his eye, let alone his anger. She had tried asking her best friend, Aliksandria, but Aliks merely shrugged her shoulders and suggested that Petrea continue on as she always had. Petrea was grateful for her friend’s subtle support. She knew that it was Aliks who ensured Petrea’s invitations to small gatherings at other Houses and kept patrons coming to her. But she also knew that, as Second of Cereus House, Aliks had much work of her own. Petrea did not envy her that. In fact, Petrea could not imagine how Aliks accomplished everything she did. 

Marielle missed a note and sighed, drawing Petrea from her musings. “I’ll never get this right, Petrea! Whatever am I to do?” The girl whined.

“Here, let me show you,” Petrea responded softly. She demonstrated the notes slowly. “Now, repeat only that phrase until you know it. Then add in the rest.”

Marielle nodded, and the two went back to their playing.

“You’re doing it again…” Marielle said in a quiet sing-song voice several minutes later.

“Hmm?”

“You’re frowning. He’ll never put up with you if your face wrinkles,” Marielle warned Petrea.

Petrea heaved a sigh and set aside her instrument. “Marielle, I cannot do this anymore. Something has drawn his attention, and I do not know what.”

Marielle gave an unbecoming snort. “We all have. Do you not feel the growing tension in the House? Everyone is on tenterhooks here.” 

Petrea shook her head. She had not, in fact, noticed. 

“But you,” Marielle continued,  “you’re strung tighter than a bowstring. Blessed Elua, Petrea, you ought to just go to Orchis House! Maybe they can relax you.”

Petrea gave a small smile. Marielle clearly spoke in jest. But the idea had lodged itself in Petrea’s brain. Orchis House? What could be the harm? She could already do nothing right in the eyes of the Dowayne…

A fortnight later, Petrea found herself in a dark corner of a bright and colorful salon at Orchis House. The walls of the salon were splashed with vibrant hues and shimmery fabric caught the light of hundreds of candles. Lively melodies danced through the air, spun from fiddles, flutes, and tambourines by wandering musicians weaving between guests.. A raised dais stood in one corner and there seemed to be some type of dancing going on where an adept undressed in time to the music while patrons whistled and clapped, cheering her on. Revelers engaged in raucous dancing such as Petrea had never seen. She observed what appeared to be a game—she thought it was a game—where partygoers dashed around a ring of chairs while playful music bounced through the air. The music would suddenly stop, and everyone would dive for a chair. But there was one fewer chairs than there were people. Everyone would laugh as the person without a chair would remove an article of clothing. Another chair would be removed, and the game would begin again. The common theme seemed to be nothing more than fun. Everyone was just…smiling…laughing…having a good time.

Petrea could not decide whether to be scandalized or entertained. Part of her wanted to run away and never returned. But there was another, smaller part of her that wanted to race into the room and join all of the games and dancing and joyful revelry. She shrunk back into the dark alcove, hiding away from everything, afraid to make a move or a sound, lest she be discovered.

She was so distracted she did not notice the dark haired woman in a silk negligee come up next to her. Petrea gasped as the woman threw her arm around Petrea and grinned at her. It was Xixiliya nó Orchis, Dowayne of the House. 

Petrea’s stomach dropped. She had been discovered! And by the Dowayne no less! “My lady!” She said quickly. “Please accept my apologies! I know I am here without an invitation! I simply—”

Xixiliya smacked a wet kiss to her lips, interrupting her. The Dowayne turned to the crowd and gave a loud, shrill whistle. Immediately, everything stopped and the room went deadly silent. “My friends! We have an interloper here!” She shouted to the assembled gathering. She turned and gave Petrea a wide, wicked smile. Petrea stood stock still, terrified. 

The crowd whooped and hollered, cheering and laughing. Xixiliya put a finger to her chin as though in deep thought. Then her face brightened and she held up her finger, an idea coming to her. “Fifty lashes with a wet noodle!” She declared. “Tomas! Bring me the pasta!” She waved her arm at an adept clad only in a pair of shoes.

“Yes, Xixiliya!” He shouted happily and ran from the room.

Xixiliya grabbed Petrea by the arm and dragged her out of the alcove and into the middle of the room. The revelers applauded, clearly enjoying the spectacle. In spite of the embarrassment she felt, something deep inside Petrea unwound. Unloosened.

Tomas raced back into the room, carrying a huge cooking pot full of long noodles. As he approached the two women, he tripped. He went sprawling to the floor, the pot flying through the air, the pasta spilling everywhere. Instead of the gasps Petrea expected, the partygoers laughed and clapped as though the young adept had put on some brilliant show.

“Everyone grab a noodle!” Yelled Xixiliya, throwing her arms in the arm. The revelers raced forward, eager to pick up the spilled food. 

Petrea’s heart raced, something between terror and excitement at the notion of an entire room of people slapping her with pasta. 

Someone put a strong arm around her waist, and shoved a goblet in her hand. “Drink this, love,” he whispered in her ear. “It will make your evening far more enjoyable.”

She downed it quickly—not thinking twice—and the liquid burned going down. She shivered at the strength of the drink and turned to question the man. It was Santiago, the Orchis Second. His eyes twinkled with mirth, his brown hair pasted to his forehead, his chest bare. Her surprise must have been evident because he chuckled at her. “If you think I didn’t notice you, standing here all alone in this dark corner all evening, then you’re quite the fool. Now be a good girl and take your ‘punishment.’ But don’t worry, I’ll kiss it better later.” He gave her a mockingly sympathetic look and spun her around to face the crowd.

Petrea threw her hands over her face as everyone began slapping and pelting her with the noodles, just as Xixiliya had instructed. She found herself giggling as the spaghetti hit her. It stuck to her hands, arms, and dress, and she laughed harder, feeling lighter than she had in…well, she couldn’t remember.

It went on for minutes, and Petrea began to grow warm from the pressing crowd. She had dropped her arms, and she knew she was a mess but couldn’t find it in herself to care. She was having too much fun.

She looked down at her clothing. She had worn what had felt, at the time, like a simple dress. But looking around the room, she felt fussy and overly formal. Overly dressed, if she was being truthful. She suddenly longed to be less clothed, like everyone else at the party. “I don’t like my dress,” she declared, turning to face Santiago.

He met her gaze and gave her a sly grin. “There is nothing wrong with your dress except for the fact that you are still wearing it, my dear.”

She hummed in agreement. “Perhaps you are right. But it took three of my friends to help me put it on,” she replied, batting her eyelashes at him. “I can’t just take it off myself.”

He laughed heartily. “Oh don’t worry about that. I happen to be an expert at removing dresses. And as your new friend, it would be my utmost pleasure to help you remove it.”

Petrea draped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair. “An expert you say? Why that’s simply splendid. And what a kind offer of you, my new friend.” 

He grabbed her hand, and led her away from the party. “Oh, Petrea,” he said, in a low voice, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

~

Picking up her quill and ink, she began to pen her two letters but struggled. How to address them? What tone to take? Was she to mention Santiago’s name? His title? Any reference to a mutual friend? Were these ladies even friends or acquaintances of Santiago’s? 

Knowing she could not navel gaze forever, she wrote out her missives and entrusted them to the care of the most senior messenger in Cereus House to be delivered posthaste. She sent up a prayer to Blessed Elua and Naamah both that her words would be taken as extending a hand in friendship and not a search for political gain.

From the desk of Petrea nó Cereus, Second of Cereus House

To Philomena nó Heliotrope, Second of Heliotrope House

Dearest Philomena,

It would be my great pleasure if you would join me at Cereus House for an afternoon tea. As the newly appointed Second of Cereus House, it is my hope to make the acquaintance of my fellow Seconds. I would be much honored by an afternoon of your company.

In blessed Naamah’s name,

Petrea

~

From the desk of Petrea nó Cereus, Second of Cereus House

To Odilia nó Dahlia, Second of Dahlia House

Dearest Odilia,

I thank you for your kind invitation to your Grand Revels. I apologize that I was not able to do more than simply greet you and your Dowayne both. As a hostess myself, however, I do understand the duties of such an evening.

I would like to extend to you an invitation of my own in gratitude for your hospitality. It would be my pleasure if you would join me for high tea at Cereus House. I am looking forward to making the acquaintance of you and the other Seconds, and I do hope you would honor me with an afternoon of your presence. 

In blessed Naamah’s name,

Petrea

A Matter of Trust

Santiago nó Orchis and Petrea nó Cereus, Seconds of their respective Houses, lay on a blanket in the lush gardens behind Orchis House under a vast, dark sky. A raucous party carried on inside the house, but the noise and light barely reached them. Stretched on their backs next to each other, they engaged in quiet conversation. It was a far different atmosphere than that they had shared months ago. Before.

Santiago rolled to his side and propped up his elbow, looking at Petrea. “I’ve missed seeing you. You don’t visit nearly as often.” He poked her cheek and grinned at her. “Don’t try to tell me you’re too busy for your friends.”

“Don’t try to tell me you don’t understand the responsibilities of being a Second,” she parroted back to him, irritated.

He threw his head back and laughed. “Of course I do. But you’re taking yourself far too seriously.”

She flipped towards him, mirroring his pose, a slight scowl on her face. “Too seriously!” She poked him hard in the chest. “You were trained for this. You, of all people, know that I have been tossed into the sea not knowing how to swim! And at Cereus House, no less! And with everything that is beginning to develop! Everything that I am now somehow embroiled in. Don’t you tell me how seriously I need take this, Santiago nó Orchis.”

His expression gentled. He laid a soothing hand on her hip. “You’re right. You used to spend so much time here, I often forget that you’re not one of us. Forgive me, dearest?” He looked at her imploringly.

Petrea sighed and flopped to her back. “Don’t be daft, I’m not angry with you. And truthfully, I miss my time here. And I miss you. It’s just that…well, my absences at Cereus were becoming…noted. Particularly given my destination.” She rolled her eyes. “It is, apparently, unseemly for the Second of Cereus House to spend nights cavorting at Orchis. As you know, I must play at diplomat now.”

Santiago snorted. “Of course. We are true degenerates here, all of us.”

She turned and grinned at him. “Being a degenerate is enjoyable, one must admit.” Her face fell. “But…”

He laughed and rolled atop her. “But…”

She sighed. She ran her fingers through his hair to give herself a moment. “How do you do it, Santi?”

“Do what?” He asked, frowning at her. Her mood was off tonight.

“Be a Second.”

“I don’t understand the question. What do you mean, ‘Be a Second?’ You just are.” He shrugged.

“No, you aren’t. There is so much to do!” Petrea looked at her friend, her eyes searching for something. “There are so many things to think about! How do you know what is imperative at this moment and what can be put off until tomorrow? How do you know who you must speak to and who you can ignore? Who do you know who you can trust and who will betray you? Who will keep quiet and who will turn around a whisper in any ear they can find? How do you do it, Santi?”

He thought for a moment. “Orchis and Cereus are very different. We are not under the watchful eye of the City. If we do something deemed ‘wrong’ or ‘inappropriate,’ or we give offense, it is laughed off by everyone, including us.” He shrugged. “Patrons come to us for entertainment and merriment. We can put off anything and anyone we wish. There is nothing truly immediate here. Your House, on the other hand, always has eyes on it. Nothing must be perfect here. But everything must be in order for you.”

Petrea thumped her head against the ground and groaned. “You are not telling me anything I do not know.”

He shushed her and brushed a hand down her cheek. “And your Dowayne is still—all these months later—picking up pieces left behind, leaving you to play both her role and yours. And that has not gone unnoticed…anywhere. And, we all know—and yes, I would know even without you telling me—that there has been strife within your House. No one knew exactly what or with whom, but it was whispered that something was unsettled.” He shrugged again. “But now those whispers have stopped. Now word is that the workings of your House go smoothly. Which bodes well for all of us. The Night Court needs Cereus House to be stable, as—” He paused as he considered his next words. “—there is change in the air, and you, my dear,  have certainly found yourself smack in the middle of everything.”

“Again, you are not telling me anything I do not already know.” Petrea grumbled.  “I have tried to speak with Aliks, tried to get her advice on ways to handle this new situation at Dahlia House. About ways to be diplomatic. But she is overworked, overtired, and overwhelmed. The old Dowayne died so suddenly; none of us were truly prepared. And he left such a mess in his wake!” She blew out a breath. “Aliks was trained to be Dowayne, for certain, but she was not ready for this. And I, for certain, was not. Aimee and I have been so overwhelmed, even the two of us working together, just to get the House in order! I need your help, Santi.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “I am not the person to ask for this advice. As I said, we operate differently at Orchis than you do at Cereus. We operate differently than most other Houses. I can be your comfort, your friend, and your lover. And you know I will always share any information I can. But I do not think I can be your advisor.”

“Then what do I do?” Petrea groaned.

“You need to go to other Houses. Other Seconds. There are others I know you can trust.”

“Who? And how do you know I can trust them?”

Santiago grinned. “Patrons believe that we are not listening while we have our fun and games. But our adepts are not simply giggling as they ply their patrons with rich food and strong wine. They just talk less and smile more.” He tapped her nose, as though to make his point.

“There is more than meets the eyes here, isn’t there?” She gave a small smile.

“Xixiliya and I are not fools, Petrea, no matter what we may play at.”

“So who do I speak with?” She asked imploringly.

He thought for a moment. “Philomena and Odilia. Heliotrope and Dahlia. They can be trusted. Things are about to change at Heliotrope and Mena may need you as much as you need her.” Santiago gave a wide smile. “And, besides, who better to speak to about Odilia’s situation than Odilia herself?”

Courtesans, Pious and Fervent Both

It was the day before the Blessing of Eisheth festival, a day before the light-hearted revelry began weaving healing and peace with music and song. Like all festivals, this day was reserved for a more sedate ceremony, one Mena’s family had always attended. Olivier always said that the blessings of Eisheth were always available, even if a candle was never lit.

Mena slipped her shoes off at the door to the temple and began washing her hands and face with the fresh spring water that splashed in one of the anointed fountains. The shoe removal was something that wasn’t required, but you did not enter Eisheth’s Temple unclean. 

“May Eisheth cleanse my body and spirit as she did Blessed Elua,” she murmured quietly as she finished her washing and entered the temple.

Congregants milled about at the various niches where candles and incense could be lit for private prayers. Others clustered around the statue of the angel herself, shown amongst the symbols of her arts and animals that flocked to her along the coast she once called home. Dolphins frolicked at the base of the statue whilst sea birds carved of fine marble were sculpted at the top. Behind the grand depiction were scenes of Eisande, murals of musicians and healers, lovers and sailors, and all who found peace in Eisheth’s gentleness. 

Among them were a few of her descendants. 

A redhead covered in a silken cowl and bowed in prayer, her marque quite visible, was one of them.

Rosanna counted Lady Eisheth as an ancestress on her father’s side. Long had the Baphinol family tended to the lands once beloved by their angelic foremother, caring for the people who lived on their estate and tended the fields of lavender and grapes. No few of her lineage became musicians, such as her elder sister Joia with her vielle, or her two eldest siblings Dizier and the family heiress Cateline who were excellent chirurgeons. It was a testament to the skills held in reverence by the angel that so many of her children followed such trades and careers.

Even though Rosanna was not dedicated to the priestly order of Namaah, she never missed a festival or holy day for any of their esteemed immortal ancestors. They had much to be grateful for, and she would never disrespect them so as to forgo her duties in faith. 

“Lady Eisheth, please watch over my family, as once again I am to have another niece or nephew. May the labor be an easy one, may mother and child be well at the end.” She whispered her long list of prayers and lit another candle. With such a large family, she had many loved ones to wish for, but Eisheth was loving and patient, and Rosanna swore she could feel the angel’s presence at every visit to the temple. 

Mena made her way to the statue of the angel and looked up at her, feeling more of her calming love settle around her like a cloak. When she was ready, she looked around to find a niche to offer up her prayers in. Most niches had two or three faithful in them, except for one. One glance told her why; clearly the occupant was an adept. The completed marque of Valerian and red hair made her Rosanna, an adept Mena only knew because of the records Olivier had started in the House. Though very few people outside of the House knew of Olivier’s condition, if anyone had to find out in order for Mena to completely lay herself bare before the angel, a Valerian would be least likely to share what they’d heard.

Mena slid onto her knees on the bench a respectful distance from the other woman and took a deep breath. She carefully lit a stick of incense, feeling her mind empty as she’d been taught, the only thing in it was a tightly wound ball of grief and love.

”Lady Eisheth, gentlest of the Companions, hear my prayer,” she said quietly but clearly, pausing to light one of the candles in front of her. “Please grant Lenora nò Balm your gentleness, care, and knowledge in the coming days and weeks. Lady Eiseth, hear my prayer. Please hold my grandfather, Olivier nò Heliotrope, in your grace and compassion in the coming weeks, that he may have peace and comfort in the days before he comes to Terre d’Ange eternal.”

She looked down, the rows of candles swam in her vision as she let her tears free. “There is nothing left to do to save him, but please grant him this. Lady Eisheth, Angel of Compassion, hear my prayer.”

Hearing soft footsteps behind her, Rosanna waited in respectful silence as the new worshipper came to share the prayer niche. Each could potentially fit up to four people if they knelt in a half circle around the holy icon. However, many had chosen on this auspicious day to instead gather below the main altar. When this newcomer came into her line of vision, she found a somewhat familiar figure. At times she had seen the woman, another of her own order, attending religious festivals. Every time Rosanna went to attend, she was sure to find this same courtesan somewhere in the vicinity. It would seem they shared a heart of devotion. 

Such a heartbreaking thing to hear her pray for a loved one nearing the end of his life. 

Although she herself had never lost someone so near to her before, she could feel sympathy for what she must be going through. Many on Mont Nuit loved fiercely, even if their manner of loving differed vastly. When one of her incense sticks threatened to prematurely burn out, Rosanna offered one of the nearby candles to help her lit it anew. 

“My sympathies for your family,” she whispered kindly. 

When the candle was offered, Mena took it gratefully and relit her incense. “Thank you, they are appreciated,” she replied. For a moment, she stared at the candles not really seeing them, before she turned and said, “You’re Rosanna from Valerian, right? I’m Philomena, from Heliotrope. I’ve heard of you, plus I’ve seen you at the temples. There aren’t many devoutly raised adepts, so finally getting to meet you feels like a blessing.”

“I am. And I share the sentiment. Perhaps our meeting today was guided by the Lady’s hands.” Smiling sweetly, Rosanna studied the somewhat familiar figure of the courtesan at her side. Yes, she had seen her face at festivals and holy days in the past, they just had not had the chance to be introduced before now. “Devotion moved me to become one of Namaah’s Servants to begin with. I felt called to service. I am glad it brought me here so we could finally meet.”

Outside, the sound of happy revelers and music began to infiltrate the temple. Not that music was ever an unknown in Eisheth’s domain. Even now, an unseen harpist filled the air with a sweet melody. Surely by now, the plays and entertainments organized by the temple of the divine patroness of the arts would be starting. 

Mena exhaled slowly, letting the gentle notes of the harp slip into her mind and give her peace. She nodded and said to Rosanna, “I was born into it, both devotion to Namaah and devotion to Elua and the Angels. Both devotions bring me such peace.”

Considering a question swiftly, Rosanna looked to Philomena. “When your prayers are concluded, if you are in the mind for some company, I would be happy to attend the festivities together,” she offered. 

The Heliotrope looked up at the ceiling for a moment, watching the smoke swirl towards the high ceiling. “I feel as though my prayers are never over these days, and yet, there is less comfort to be had.” Turning her head, she looked at Rosanna and smiled. “I would like the diversion and the company.”

Smiling brilliantly, Rosanna concluded her prayers, adjusted the veil atop her head, and stood. All around them several more of the faithful rose and did the same, preparing to move from the dusky inner sanctum of the temple, and its incense filled air and into the light of day.

“I am glad of it. Let us worship in joy together and get to know one another. I do not often get the chance to converse with my fellows in Heliotrope, despite the collection of romances I keep in my quarters.” She giggled and held a hand out to assist the other courtesan to her feet. “I would very much like to know you better, Philomena.”

Mena smiled, releasing her worries to Eisheth and Elua, and took Rosanna’s offered hand. “I would love that, Rosanna. And please, call me Mena. All my friends do.”

As they walked out into the sun, Mena said, “You said that devotion led you to Namaah’s service. That wording is intriguing. I would say that Namaah called me to service, that devotion guides me. I am sure there’s a story behind your words.”

A Visit to Dahlia

He’d not been wrong. It had taken less than a week for news of his elevation to become the talk of the Palace, if not the entire City. He couldn’t enter the gaming salon at the Palace without all eyes seeking him out. Any table he sat down at was quickly filled and slowly surrounded by an audience. It was all rather… smothering… if he was honest. Not that anyone cared, they just expected the newest Shahrizai Count to have deep pockets and a penchant for losing some of his newly gained inheritance. Nik wasn’t that bad of a gambler, and most nights he left after making sure he at least was not losing on the night. But he didn’t enjoy the attention. Courtiers flinging themselves at him, or more likely at his wallet, and barely any acceptable conversation. Oh, he learned some things, like the fact that it seemed that half of the newer Azzalese lords had married politically, and both husbands and wives were taking lovers. Curiously, a number of the Namarrese holdings were held by quite happy couples. 

One night, returning from yet another night of lackluster gaming and gossip at the Palace for Niklos, Jacob spoke up as Niklos reentered the townhouse. “My Lord, it may not be my place, but perhaps the Hall of Games is not the best place for you to visit.” 

Niklos raised his eyebrows, Jacob certainly had the tenure to speak his mind freely, but he rarely exercised it. 

“I know you and your father are both chess players, and the rumor is you are quite good at the game. Perhaps, and this is merely a suggestion, you might reach out to Jocaste nò Dahlia and see if one of her adepts might be willing to entertain you? Dahlias are known to be quite sharp, and there is rumor that there is a life-sized chessboard in their salon. Perhaps you might find a worthy opponent there? And a contract certainly would be less stressful than making certain you don’t fritter away your inheritance at the Palace.”

Niklos laughed. He hadn’t considered that Houses other than Bryony might indulge in gaming, and Dahlia certainly seemed like the right House for a game like chess. Nodding to Jacob, he grinned. “Once again, I find your knowledge of the City and your thoughts most valuable to me. Thank you, I will have a note for you to send over to Dahlia House shortly. If you could…” 

He trailed off as Jacob cut in, “I’ve already made certain to have some cider brought up to your desk along with some food. Come now, my lord, if I didn’t know your mannerisms and expectations by now, you would have every right to dismiss me from service.” 

Niklos grinned again in silent thanks and made his way up the stairs.

Dowayne Jocaste nò Dahlia,

I am aware that contracts for members of a House of the Night Court are often commenced in person, but I am hoping that by writing, I might be able to have things sorted before I come to visit your House. I find myself searching for someone with whom I can play chess. It is a favorite pastime of mine, and my father, who is my usual opponent, remains in Kusheth. He has little desire for the City. I was hoping to set up a regular schedule to visit with and play chess with one of your adepts. As I hear rumor that there is a living chessboard within your House, it seems apropos to seek out the keen minds of Dahlia, as I have no desire to wager on every single move or which piece might leave the board first. Please let me know if you have an adept who is interested in this contract and when I might be able to meet with you to sign the agreement.

Most respectfully,

Niklos Shahrizai, Count of Angers

He sealed the note with his personal sigil and closed the envelope, sealing it with the three keys of House Shahrizai. After addressing the front, he took a long swallow of the cider and stood, making his way out into the hall, where one of the young hall boys looked up at him. “Is that the letter Master Jacob is to be sending, my Lord? I can take it for you!” 

Niklos smiled and handed the letter to the boy, nodding. “Thank you. Please let Jacob know that I am planning on retiring for the evening as well.” 

The boy grinned and dashed off, and Niklos returned to his chambers.

When the note arrived at Dahlia House, Jocaste considered it curiously. The rumors had certainly spread by now of what had happened at the Autumn Revelry, and there was little doubt that their House would soon see a great deal more interest from the nobles and courtiers of the palace as they came to investigate the House that had turned the Dauphin’s head. And she herself had heard the whispers of the new Shahrizai Count who had been recently elevated. Not one who frequented Valerian House, the word was, but one who seemed to enjoy the Hall of Games. Curious that he would not then choose Bryony. But this was court strategy and she saw it well. 

And there was an adept who had skill at chess, as it so happened. But Jocaste, Dowayne as she was, was still protective somewhat over her Second, who was also her dear friend. The more that Jocaste could shield Odilia from the public attentions of those who would come to gawk at her, the better would the peace of the House be preserved. 

Lord Shahrizai,

Our human chessboard has earned its reputation well as a grand entertainment in our House salon. It is, however, saved for some of our grander events, such as our recent Revelry. While I cannot offer a match in our grand salon, Dahlia House does still have a collection of the boards at the usual size that could entertain your game, should that be enough to entice your visit. Any number of our adepts have trained at the game of kings and will prove themselves to be suitable opponents for your lordship in the absence of your lord father. As such, you will have your choice of them. 

Rather than choose one myself, I will arrange for you to meet with several and play against each of them at your leisure. Dahlia House does things somewhat differently than many of our sister houses on Mont Nuit; the Dowayne does not choose the patrons for the assignation. Rather, as Naamah bestowed herself like a Queen, so do the Dahlia adepts. If you prove yourself well, one of the adepts will choose to accept your contract. 

Upright and Unbending,

Jocaste nó Dahlia, Dowayne

Sealed with the dahlia flower stamped into the golden wax, it was sent across the city to be given to the Shahrizai Count. 

Niklos was deep in the business of examining the ledgers of the townhouse when the note arrived the next day, and so it was put to the side for more pressing matters. When he finally did take the time to read the response, well after dinner, he smiled to himself. The Dahlia Dowayne had made an interesting proposal, suggesting that Niklos play for the honor of setting a regular game at Dahlia House instead of just informing him the price of such an assignation. He was curious, as well, about the mention of the Revelry. He had heard rumor but, having not received an invitation, had been unable to attend. Apparently, there had been some rather large to do regarding the Dauphin and one of the Dahlia adepts. These were precisely the things that he intended on having an ear on, and he was disappointed that he had not been included. 

Jacob already knew he wanted whatever news the man could procure, so Dahlia had kept everything tightly under wraps. He resolved that he would visit the Mont the following night. He had to begin planning to make other visits as well; it just wouldn’t be right for him to reserve his patronage to only one or two of the Houses. Plus, adepts heard many things, and a reliable patron might be able to convince them to share some of the secrets they were privy to.

Two Sides of Shame

“I don’t know, Aliks,” Manuel said, sipping tea in her sitting room. “I knew it would be hard, being the first Cassiline to ward a member of the Royal House since the Rocaille incident, but it feels as if my very presence in the palace is an insult to be borne by those around me.”

“Pray tell me what has happened since you were last here, perhaps I can help,” Aliksandria urged him. It had been months since her old friend had shown up on her doorstep, and she was eager to hear how his life had gone and the gossip of the palace.

Before the expression of incredulous shock could fully form on Manuel’s face, she smiled and assured him, “I will keep Naamah’s confidence, you can speak freely.” 

He let out a long breath before sighing. “It started the day I arrived. I was to meet with the Lord Commander of the Royal Guard, and when I told the steward of my appointment, he huffed and bade me wait outside like a merchant. When the commander arrived, he was just as curt and ordered me to follow him with such swiftness that I nearly stumbled attempting to bow. Every servant we passed in the hall would not deign to look upon me. The nobles, however, could not keep from gawking at my presence.” 

It was hard for a Cassiline Brother to live through this all once, let alone relive it in telling. Manuel was brave, however, and continued. “I was thus admitted to an audience with Her Majesty Queen Anielle, who had requested my appearance in the first place. She was kind enough, though I would better describe our interaction as neutral than as pleasant. She informed me she was concerned about her son and wished for him to be accompanied by a Cassiline Brother during this transition. Though it was well above my place, I ventured to ask her why she saw fit to resume the practice of a Cassiline warding the scions of Elua. She told me that while she had many reasons, her father had always spoken so highly of the Cassiline training, and she was minded to grant an olive branch to the Brotherhood. I am not sure how exactly I feel being the meter the entire order is judged by, but I will do my duty with honor.”

He looked down into the teacup, clearly not seeing any of the details of the pattern on the cup as he continued. “The Dauphin was amenable enough, after his own fashion. He accepted my presence with no argument but on the word and request of his own mother. But only in the role of warder. He made it quite clear he did not appreciate having his mother select his companions for him. I can hardly begrudge him that. His friends find my presence quite the nuisance and are repeatedly attempting to thwart me by sneaking him off. If only they would tell me where they were going, I would be able to ascertain the situation and know if my presence is required. For example, this afternoon they snuck off here, to Mont Nuit. I know that His Highness is currently safely ensconced in Dahlia House which is how I was able to come here for a brief visit.”

Aliks laughed lightly. “I was wondering how you were able to pull this off. I can’t imagine your Prefect would look kindly upon you taking free time to visit the Night Court.”

“Not in the least. But all this is made worse in that one of his companions is a Rocaille, Aliks. And he does not like nor trust me in the least. I can handle not being everyone’s best friend, but I run the risk of being forsworn if the situation does not abate.”

“I cannot imagine it is an easy situation for either of you. You have lived long in the prefecture, but even you must remember how the Brotherhood is spoken of in the Night Court. And many a noble in the palace, nay even all of them, are counted amongst our patrons. You cannot expect D’Angeline nobles to easily abide what they perceive as judgement of their frivolities.”

“I do not judge them, I merely ask they not judge me!”

“I know, love, but they do not know you as I do. And palace memories are long.”

*

Manuel took the gift of the brown cloak Aliks offered him, wrapping it around his shoulders to hide his grays and cover his sword. However, he was naïve to think a simple brown cloak would disguise a Cassiline Brother in the Night Court. He should have left through the kitchen, but he had stayed too long enjoying tea and cookies with his friend and needed to get back to Dahlia House quickly. The fastest route was through the front door. 

“Cassiline?” A voice drifted over to Manuel as he crossed the street to Dahlia House. He turned around, looked both ways until he saw him. A cocky, self-assured man leaning against the garden wall, his auburn hair pulled in a tail over one shoulder as his eyes examined the unlikely sight of the Cassiline sneaking his way out of Cereus House. Maël.

“My Lord de Rocaille,” Manuel said, bowing reflexively in the Cassiline fashion.

“This is a surprise, I did not expect to see you of all people indulge in the Night Court. I wonder, what would Her Majesty have to say about this?” His tone was teasing, but his point was clearly made.

Manuel flushed, not with embarrassment at being caught out but in indignation at the suggestion. “I assure you, good sir, it is not at all what it looks like.”

Maël raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Because it looks like you chose to abandon your charge and break your vows at Cereus House. Tsk tsk, very naughty.”

“I did not abandon my charge, the pair of you snuck away from me and forced me to follow you on foot through the city!”

Maël shrugged innocently. “You weren’t invited.”

Manuel stood his ground as best he could in this profoundly uncomfortable movement. “Regardless, you know as well as I that His Highness is safer in Dahlia House than he is in his own bed chamber! “

“Now you insult the royal guards of the palace and the quality of their service?” Maël pushed himself up from the wall, continuing to eye Manuel with an almost innocent suspicion, like a scholar studying a new specimen. “Is that what you will tell Queen Anielle when she summons you for the next report on her son and his pastimes?”

“My ward is the Dauphin! I do not betray that confidence!”

“No? Not even to whichever fragile flower has caught your eye at Cereus House? What do you see in them, Cassiline? I wouldn’t have expected so stalwart a warrior to be drawn to such frail and delicate lovers.”

Manuel remembered suddenly the way he felt in the training ring when one of the older Brothers sparred against him, pressing him relentless step by relentless step toward a defeat he could see coming but couldn’t figure out how to avoid.  It sounded desperate even to him as he tried to defend himself. “I was merely visiting with a friend!”

Maël smirked at Manuel’s anger, a petty kind of delight playing on his face at how easily the Cassiline was thrown off his guard without weapons in his hands to help him save face. “What sort of friend does a Cassiline have in the Night Court?”

Manuel blinked rapidly, his mind scrambling for an answer that would not come. “I…well…I…”

Maël waved him off dismissively. “Was visiting a friend. I suppose that’s the way you would have to phrase it.” He paused, looking thoughtfully into the distance. “I do wonder, though, what do you do with this friend when you have spent your life devoted to the chastity of the Cassiline Brotherhood?”

Manuel looked at his feet. How would he explain without actually explaining? “We do what friends do,” he said quietly.

Maël threw his head back and laughed. “Well it would seem to me a waste of money to sit and, what, chat over tea and biscuits at Cereus House? Why, you could do that with any number of your boring Brothers!” He laughed as though this were the funniest thing he had ever heard. “You must be a rich man, Manuel!”

“It’s not like that!” Manuel burst out. “I am not a patron!”

Maël’s laughter stopped, and he locked eyes with the other man. “You meet with an adept of the Night Court? In the First and Foremost House of the Night Court? Not as a patron?” 

Manuel bit his lip, but he held Maël’e eyes. “That is correct.” Though his heart thundered in his chest, his voice held firm.

Maël narrowed his eyes, his brows knitting. “Who. Are. You?” His voice held a sharpness to it.

Manuel’s shoulders fell a fraction of an inch, it was time to tell the truth. “I was born in the Night Court. At ten, I took myself to the Brotherhood rather than pledge myself to Naamah. My oldest friend happens to be from Cereus House, and she is the one whom I have just come from seeing.”

Maël’s head reared back a fraction, hazel eyes very obviously starting at the top of Manuel’s head and scanning slowly down to the tips of his toes and back again, considering what this new information meant. A glint of something mischievous kindled in the depths of his eyes and the smirk spread across his face. “Well, no wonder you’re less of a stick in the mud than I’ve heard your brothers can be.”

Manuel blinked sharply. “What?”

The smirk spread into a full smile, bright and impish. “You heard me fine, Cassiline.”

Manuel blinked again, trying to figure out what to say. “I…I thought…don’t you hate me?”

Maël gasped theatrically. “Hate you? Don’t be absurd. I don’t care about you enough to hate you. I don’t trust you, I don’t know you, but I don’t hate you. In fact—” His eyes sparkled wickedly. “—this just made you much more interesting to me.”

Manuel got the distinct feeling that this was somehow a bad thing. 

But Maël merely jerked his head towards the Dahlia House mansion and asked lightly, “Shall we? I believe we have a princely package to pick up.”

Whistling nonchalantly, he strolled across the avenue to the gates, leaving Manuel to catch up. The Rocaille and Cassiline walking together in some strange kind of initial peace towards the House where the Dauphin was being entertained. 

Autumn’s First Kiss

The first chill breeze of Autumn came whispering through the City of Elua, hinting at the cooler days and darker shadows and misty mornings of the autumn season, and, like perfect clockwork, the invitations arrived for Dahlia’s Revelry. 

The patrons that received the gilded invitations sealed with the Dahlia imprint in the burgundy wax dressed to impress – of course, anyone who came to the Night Court dressed to impress, but the Dahlia Revelry was a little different than just attending the public salons. Invitations were also courteously extended to the other Dowaynes and Seconds of the other twelves Houses, if they chose to accept them. 

An invitation also found its way to the Rocaille townhouse at the edge of the Noble’s District. Addressed to Lord Maël de Rocaille and his Bosom Contraband, Maël nevertheless knew exactly what this was: a way to circumvent the scanning of the secretaries and staff of the Royal Palace Courcel. It had taken him two tries to read it correctly; the first time he had scanned it he had seen and his Bosom C and filled in the rest with Companion. It was only when he had picked up the letter opener to slice the embossed envelope open that he realised what it really said. And, young and mischievous as he was, he enjoyed a good chuckle at it. Very well, Dahlia, he thought to himself, I see you appreciate a good game after all!

It seemed that he would need to spirit the Dauphin out of the palace once again, for there was no way Gustav would be missing this Revelry. 

The whispers of the Autumn ripened into full fruits and the lanterns were lit in Dahlia House, so it gleamed gold as the royal jewels they wore as monarchs in their pride. 

Valerian House had their Mara’s Eve celebration at the end of winter, Cereus House hosted the Longest Night, but Dahlia House began the harvest season with their Grand Revels. In the style of Old Hellas, it was a grand symposium with music and food and drink where patrons courted the favour of the Dahlia adepts, all competing for their regal attention and approval. The fruits of the season were piled high in bowls and on platters; lush apples, rich plums, glossy blackberries, bunches of grapes draped over the gilded rims like wine caught in the illicit arc of spilling. Pomegranate quarters nestled among sweet figs, pears, and cherries. Dahlia adepts wore the jewel tones of the harvest season; some choosing the shimmering gold of the sheaves of grain rippling in the fields, some wrapping themselves in the deep green of the vines bearing the bountiful fruit, some choosing their favourite of the fruits on offer to inspire their clothing. 

As this would be the first formal event outside of her own House as Dowayne, Rosanna took the matter of what to wear quite seriously. With Etienne well and truly gone, not too far as he was simply ensconced in his beloved’s townhouse until the new year, the title had officially been passed to her. Now she needed to make a statement with her inaugural appearance. Which was made all the more complicated as her good friend did reside in Dahlia too. Honestly, she relished the challenge.

A deep burgundy gown was finally selected, with a wide neckline and wide trailing sleeves with dagged edges. Her long, autumnal, hair fell to her hips, accented by a copper diadem of fallen leaves. To her right hand was Tryphosa, in burnt orange and deep olive green. As the newly appointed Second, it was her joy and duty to attend. 

“Dahlia has not spared any expense,” Tryphosa observed and plucked a drink from the tray of a passing server.

“They never do. As is their right and doctrine. Truly regal,” Rosanna replied. In her mind she was already considering the expense of such an event, the elegant decorations and attention to theme. What surrounded them was the work of an experienced Dowayne. Come February, she would be expected to host the events of Mara’s Eve, the first test of her abilities as a House leader. 

“You’re thinking too much, my Lady Dowayne,” Tryphosa whispered. 

“I believe I am thinking just the right amount,” Rosanna gently corrected. “We will enjoy ourselves tonight, of course. But this is a unique opportunity. We must learn from Dahlia’s success. Come, let us mingle.” And so she led the way deeper into the revelries, her friend and Second at her side. 

Mena was nervous, a first for her. She had of course attended Dahlia’s Revelry before but this time there were stark differences. Olivier was not standing in the upstairs Adept only Salon, fussing with the cut of his tunic, nor was Laurent there to offer his thoughts on clothing or to tease them about going to visit the House he said was “you, but rigid”. In their place was a small army of Adepts, since this was Mena’s first year, the whole process was different. Loir, who would be attending with Mena, sat on a backless stool, her laughter ringing through the Salon as Emilié finished her hair and a servant pulled the back of her dress tight. Her marque was newly finished, by the d’Marrs as Mena had predicted, so her dress was mostly open, held to her body with three ties. In honor of autumn, her dress was the color of the tall grasses that grew outside her family land and hid game and predator alike. 

Mena had seen this as an opportunity to use the bolt of deep blue fabric the dye merchant had gifted her. It was a sample of a dye he was sourcing from parts unknown, part of the deal that would make him wealthy. There was no other fabric like it in the city, he’d gifted it to her as thanks for her House’s hospitality. The gown it made was simple; it went to the floor, clung where it needed to, with a high neckline that went from shoulder to shoulder, but a deep back. She loved it and made a mental note to wear it when the caravan returned.

Dahlia House was impeccably decorated, as expected, and Mena felt her nerves being replaced with happiness.  She loved parties. Loir slipped her hand into the crook of Mena’s arm and whispered, “This is gorgeous, Mena. I cannot believe they do this every year.”

”They do, and it is always incredible,” Mena whispered back. “You know, every House has a function like this that we traditionally hold. Next year, we’ll hold Helio’s again.”

Loir laughed quietly, “I’ll hold you to that. Now though, we need to go mingle and observe.”

Mena nodded, “Agreed. And remember, Olivier sends his regrets, but he’s got a personal commitment that prevents him from attending.” 

Loir nodded and slipped off into the crowd, towards the garden, while Mena moved to circulate through the rooms.

Petrea loved a party. Any party, if she was being honest with herself. But this party was different. She was not here for revelry, dancing, or cavorting, as was her usual modus operandi. She was here in her official capacity as Second of Cereus House. She was here to represent her House, to mingle with the Dowaynes and Seconds of the other Houses, to make the acquaintance of those deemed important or influential enough to be invited to the grand affair, and most importantly, she was here to prove that she was a capable Second. Oh, she had heard the rumors that swirled through the salons and bedchambers of Mont Nuit: that she was nothing more than an aging adept looking for a good time and that she was no more fit to be a Second than a stableboy. 

All of these thoughts had swirled through her head the entire morning as she prepared. Aimee had stood by her side, listing off the day’s duties and assisting with the tiny buttons that ran up the back of Petrea’s deep blue gown. It had become their routine. They took breakfast together and then helped each other dress as they each gave the other an update on their respective tasks. Standing there, on the magnificent veranda in Dahlia House now, listing off the many tasks that Aimee would be taking care of while she, the official Second, would be here—indulging in wine and conversation—took away some of her nerves.

She tucked a lock of her golden hair back behind her ear and straightened her shoulders. She had been standing along the wall for too long, and that would not do. She was the Second of Cereus House. It was time to act like it.

Maël’s brows had lifted when he had seen what Gustav had chosen to wear, but Gustav had only smiled his secret smile and assured his friend that it was perfect. And it certainly was when he entered the grand gardens of Dahlia House and saw the adepts and patrons glance at him. He wore only simple boots, soft hose that clung to his legs, and a flowing poet’s shirt of soft white. His hair combed only by his fingers, his collarbone and throat exposed by the loose neck of his shirt, he seemed like he had stepped from the music of the Hellene stories of heroes returned home and he certainly felt like he had come home again as he saw her see him. 

Across the garden, Odilia sat draped in a rich plum gown that gathered at her throat and fell in pleats down her body, belted with a chain of golden vines to make her seem a harvest goddess herself. Her dark eyes lifted at the whispers that rippled through the gardens, falling on him bathed as he was in the soft light of the lanterns and gleaming white and gold like Elua Himself. He saw her hand lift to touch her chest, as though soothing her heart that skipped for him and he smiled. When he smiled, it reflected in her own face like a sunbeam, glowing and rosy and focused on her and her on him. 

He made his way through the patrons, adepts, and servers, intent on his goal, her face the only thing he could see as he came to her, boldly reaching for her hands as she sat on her couch. 

“Odilia,” he breathed to her, savouring the feel of her soft skin under his touch again, as he always did – it was always a gift when he could touch her, when he could see her face and smell her perfume. 

“Your Highness,” she said, recovering some of her composure even as her eyes glittered. He tugged gently on her hands to pull her to her feet, standing with her as though they were the only two people in the garden, in the city, in the world. 

“I would be a shameful guest if I did not come to Dahlia’s Revelry without a tribute gift for my Dahlia queen,” he said to her with his mischievous, slightly boyish smile. “May I give you my gift?”

She eyed him, her brow lifting, but she permitted him his game, “You may.”

The world spun for a moment as he pulled her into his arms, cradling her close as he kissed her sweetly. She gasped – she wasn’t the only one – her hands gripping his shoulders to help herself balance as he swayed with her, but she kissed him back. She knew she shouldn’t, this was so public and so many people were watching, and he was the Dauphin, she was only a Servant of Naamah. But was this not what the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers was for? Indulgence and delight?

She let herself delight in his kiss, her hands relaxing on him – trusting him – and sliding to comb up through his loose hair to savour him. 

Rosanna was conversing with one of the patrons of Dahlia House, a curious one who saw her own marque and came with earnest questions about such a distinctly different practice than the one hosting. They were smiling and making light discussion when from the corner of her eye movement pulled at her attention. The patron’s too, if the shocked and grinning gasp was anything to go by.

“Now I have never seen the elegant autumn revelry celebrated quite so…enthusiastically before,” said the patron.

“Nor have I,” she replied with a perfectly polite smile. On the inside she was positively ecstatic, but those emotions were tempered down. Later, she would seek out her friend and ask all about the Prince who kissed her later.

Loir was standing with a small group of Dahlia Adepts, whispering Night Court gossip when the Prince’s approach caught their attention. Their conversation stopped mid-word as they watched him approach the Second of Dahlia House. They were too far away for even Loir’s well-trained ears to catch their words, but the kiss rendered words useless. One of the Adepts grabbed Loir’s arm tightly as they stood, stunned by what they saw. A Dahlia, kiss in public?! With a Prince! Loir felt her heart racing at the implications. The kiss ended in an intimacy that made Loir look away instinctively, lovers like that deserved their privacy.

“W-w-where were we?” An Adept said with a light laugh, and Loir released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

“Well, I think we were talking about Bryony House,” she said with a light laugh, “Though I am sure their numbers did not include that development.” As the conversation started back up, Loir tried to organize her thoughts and the events so she could let Mena know when they returned home. This needed to go into the books for sure.

Petrea heard a gasp and turned from her conversation with the young Lancelin of Siovale just in time to catch the kiss to end all kisses. All her years of training at Cereus House could not stop the look of shock from her face. It took her mind a second to catch up with what her eyes were seeing. The heir to the Perigeux duchy cleared his throat quietly, freeing her from her momentary reverie. She blinked and turned back to the gentleman, once again the picture of a trained adept. 

She put her hand on his arm, apologizing for her impertinence. He smiled in his dark-eyed way and waved off her concern. He continued speaking about…something…and Petrea continued to nod and make appropriate murmurs of agreement when appropriate. But her mind was not on her companion’s words. There were larger pieces in play now, and Petrea knew that she had just witnessed a major shift in the game she had unwittingly joined. She would need to navigate this carefully as Second, and Aimee was not the one who could help steer her.

When the kiss ended, Odilia looked up at him, bright and beautiful as they smiled into each other’s eyes in a way that could never be feigned. In a way that was noticed by many of the eyes still watching their Dauphin kiss the Second of Dahlia House, a woman more proud and distant than most of her comrades. And she smiled at him like he had sprinkled the stars in the sky above them himself. 

“Well,” the Dahlia Dowayne said from her throne among her favourite lovers, lifting her goblet in a toast, “it seems our Revels have truly begun!”

Maël’s eyes swept across the gardens, tracking the ripples of the gossip and seeing the spreading whispers as the fête continued, and it was not just the Autumn chill that came kissing his neck. No, he knew that nothing good could come of this. 

Days Like This

Content Warning: Physical and Verbal Abuse

Mena sat on the back veranda of Heliotrope and stared out at the back garden. The sun was setting, the House was busy getting ready for the night ahead, and all she really wanted to do was go lie in the grass and watch the sky. Unfortunately, that was not in the cards tonight. Kyrie was coming to the House, and he was sure to already be in a mood. 

The night before Olivier left the House, she told Kyrie that things within Heliotrope were starting to change, demanding more of her attention. As was his custom, he brushed off her comment with something about how women’s work didn’t concern him since it wasn’t very difficult. Now, Mena had been “dodging” him for weeks, according to his increasingly angry letters and visits to the House where he’d been turned away. He’d said things like he was “owed her presence” because he was “her only long-term Patron” so “nothing was more important” than he was, as well as “you’ll see me or you’ll regret it”, which happened to be what made her break and see him. She knew she needed to rid herself of him, and she knew it would be a delicate thing, but threats were something that she couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t that she thought he’d follow through, but there were children, staff members, and novices in the House who she needed to publicly stand up for. Olivier had made sure she understood that the Dowayne was the wall of safety behind which everyone else could shelter.

So, the next letter she received, she didn’t open it, just sent a missive back telling him to come to the House. Truth be told, she didn’t have the energy for him, but she’d find it, somewhere. She’d hoped it would be found in the garden, but that didn’t seem to be the case today. 

“No, let me through! I do not care that it is not the appointed time, I will be seen now.” She heard a voice she knew getting closer and closer before the door slammed open, and an irate Kyrie blasted through, followed immediately by the young adept who was on door duty tonight.

Turning her head to look at him, she said, “Kyrie. You’re early”

She looked over to the adept and tiredly nodded. “Thank you, but I’ll handle him now.”

The adept’s face twisted into something suspicious and concerned, but he bowed just the same and left the way he came, albeit much quieter.

“Early, the way I see it, you’re late.” His voice was quiet, full of venom. Mena knew this Kyrie: He was upset because things didn’t go exactly the way he wanted. Normally, she would switch on the charm and sweet talk him back down. Tonight was different.

“Kyrie, I was busy. I made it clear that I wouldn’t be able to see you until next week,” she said firmly but not bothering to hide her exhaustion. “I made time for you tonight. Is that not enough?”

“Enough?” He came into her view finally, his face pulled into a heavy sneer. “Enough, Philomena? After all I’ve done for you and this wretched House, you think that a sliver of your time is enough for me?”

White hot anger simmered beneath the surface of her calm façade. For a moment, she just blinked at him, forcing her mind to slow, to feel the warmth of Naamah around her, allowing it to soak into her and soothe her. As she looked at him, she could see him getting more and more angry the longer she was silent. 

She took a deep breath and said, “Kyrie, the House has more than expressed its gratitude for your presence during the Plague. That debt is repaid.” He opened his mouth to speak, rage starting to etch lines in his face. She held up a hand to silence him and went on, “I feel you need a reminder that I am the Second of this House, and I have duties that I have to fulfill.”

Kyrie took a step towards her, throwing his cloak off with such force that it knocked over the flower arrangement on the table next to where Mena sat. She didn’t flinch, but she felt the warmth she wrapped herself in start to burn. “You forget your station, pet,” he snarled. “I am a lord of the land, that debt is paid when I deem it so. As for your so-called duties,” he scoffed and tossed his head back. “You wouldn’t have them if not for my Patronage. My coin bought that marque and you would do well to remember that.”

The heat was pressing on her skin, as though her own anger and Blessed Naamah’s had merged and her control snapped. Surging to her feet, she stepped towards him, her back straight, and her gaze fixed on his face. 

“You think you paid for this marque? Don’t be ridiculous.” She gestured almost wildly at herself. “The idea that the occasional coin left on my table could afford you this is lunacy. Let me tell you who paid for this.” Taking another step towards him, she began to count on her fingers. “Name-day gifts, something you never gave me, from Olivier, my mother, my friends. A marquis of Camlach, another of Eisande, and the one from Kusheth who comes to me four times a year to this day, and a handful of higher ranking nobles whom I can’t disclose. Several merchant caravan leaders come when they have done well, including one from Alba, his gift paid for inches, Kyrie, inches.” She was so close she could almost touch him, though she did not. “And let’s not forget, the d’Marr’s, not only did they treat me like a human and not like a ‘pet.’ Their gifts over the years bought sections the length of my hand, fully limned.” She laughed and shook her head, turning away from him. “Since I have known you, Kyrie, you have barely given me enough to line base. Gods, you really are a pompous ass, aren’t you?”

He was silent for long enough that she thought perhaps he’d understood finally so she turned around and looked at him, taking in his pale skin, blotchy with rage, and his shocked expression. She was not expecting his face to twist into disgust, his words flung like a dagger. “You really couldn’t resist your base nature, could you, girl? You are nothing but a common whore in a fancy package, just like your precious Naamah.”

Mena felt her stomach drop to her knees, and she fought the urge to gasp. Instead, she felt another surge of molten rage fill her. “You will not speak of Blessed Naamah that way in this House! We do not tolerate heresy!”

Kyrie laughed, sharp and humorless, and turned away. “Heresy? Are you completely delusional, Philomena?” He whirled around, voice dripping with venom. “Naamah was nothing but a whore, jumping at the first chance to lie with a man, just like every one of her ‘servants’. The only reason Blessed Elua tolerated her was because she was of use to Him. You think your calling is to serve here? Your only reason for existing is to marry me, have my children, and then I’ll dispose of you like the trash you are.”

His words were incomprehensible to her, crashing around her mind like angry hornets. Pulling herself up to her full height, she looked him in the eye with narrowed eyes. “You are the one who is delusional, Lord Montaban. I can not comprehend your perversion of the story of Terre d’Ange’s founding. You are not worthy to speak Naamah’s name, let alone enjoy her communion. You, my lord, are a disgrace to everything this land stands for. Blessed Elua—”

The blow that landed heavy on her face snapped her head sideways with such force she lost her balance and fell to the floor. Stunned and tasting blood, she turned back to see Kyrie hovering over her, his face cold and cruel. He grabbed her shoulders with a punishing grip, hauling her up and shaking her. “Never speak His name again. You are not worthy to utter His name unless you are on your knees begging for forgiveness for using His Holiness to justify your own base nature.”

Mena grabbed his forearms and jerked, breaking his grip and pushing him back. She stood back up, still feeling the surging hot rage coursing through her. “You will never touch me or another adept again, Kyrian. How dare you put your hands on me like that?”

She became distantly aware of the sound of someone running through the garden, and banging behind her, but paid it no mind. Kyrian was regarding her from a little distance. His eyes narrowed with something that sent fear, thick and cold, slithering down her spine. “You know,” he said quietly, violence vibrating through his voice as he stalked slowly towards her. “I have not seen your protector Olivier in several weeks. Is it possible the withered, spineless excuse for a man has finally died? If so, there’s no one to keep me from taking what I own over that wall and—”

In the blink of an eye, Vouloir was between Mena and Kyrie, the knife she received from her father in hand. It glinted in the moonlight as she held it steady towards Kyrie’s gut. She snaked her arm out, shoving Mena behind her unmoving form.

“There is always me, you miserable pile of camel dung. Your disgusting tongue will never form our Dowayne’s name again, or I will come to your home myself and remove it.” Vouloir’s back was strong, steady, and very warm under Mena’s cheek where she leaned on her. “Leave this place now, and never darken our door again.”

Kyrie snorted and took a step forward. Loir did not move, did not waver. Mena did not understand how her voice was so calm as she continued. “Our Second is so far above you, you lowly, squirming worm, that your filthy hands will never touch her again. And believe in this as much as you believe in Blessed Elua: Come to Heliotrope again, and those steps will be your last. My blade is sharp and thirsts for the blood of heretics.”

Kyrie opened his mouth to speak but whatever he was going to say never got started because two very important things happened at once: the door crashed open, finally broken off its hinges by the bulky shoulder of someone Mena did not know, but had to be a patron, and, most importantly Aevelline, their cook, had made her way from the back door of the kitchen, and hit Kyrie in the back of the head with her favorite pan. His eyes rolled back as he crumpled boneless to the floor.

All of the hot rage drained out of her, and everything she’d been holding in crashed, flooding her body with ice as though she’d dived into a frozen pond. She gasped, the pain from the blow radiating from the side of her face, her vision blurring from it but also from the tears that started to flow. She felt unsteady on her feet, and she clung desperately to Loir, looking around her to see what was happening. The patron who’d broken down the door was heaving Kyrie’s limp form onto his shoulder with one hand, the other ran through his dark hair with clear agitation. 

“Want me to dump him in the deep part of the river?”

Loir spoke before Mena could gather the words from the darkening fog that was her mind. “If it were up to me, I’d gut him and leave him on a rock for the vultures as a message that heresy and violence have consequences.” She sighed and shifted a bit so she could wrap her arms around Mena. “But I know that the Dowayne would want him turned over to the City Guard. Let them know what we know happened and ask them to come speak to the Second for the rest of the story.”

The man nodded, a tight smile on his face. “Of course, Loir.”

Mena looked as best she could at the man, and said quietly, “Come back when you are done. You deserve a reward.”

He smiled and headed to the door, muttering something Mena had no chance of hearing. Her whole head was starting to ring like a struck bell, the darkening fog finally catching up to her. As it overtook her, she said, “And buy Aevelline a horse, she’s too good to walk anywhere any more.”

Cook’s laughter was the last thing she heard before the fog won and she hit the floor.

Cereus Steel Draws Blood

The late morning sun streamed through the window as Aliks finished with the last scroll. The Last Scroll! Oh, there would be more tomorrow, but for today, for the first time in months, Aliks actually had nothing to do. She couldn’t even remember what free time felt like. A giggle escaped her lips when she recalled who she used to spend her free time with.

She rang for the footman and requested a decadent tea service with champagne to be set in her rooms at the second hour after midday and then instructed him that she was not to be disturbed this afternoon. Any issues could go to the Second or wait for tomorrow. 

She was nearly skipping as she went to the hall that contained the rooms belonging to those adepts who had completed their marques and chosen to remain in the House.  She knocked on the last door and then entered with the invitation that followed.

“Aliksandra?” Aimée said as she stood from her desk, stunned to see her Dowayne. “Is something wrong? Am I needed downstairs?”

Aliks reassured Aimée as she moved toward her lover. “Oh Blessed Elua, love, no. I have a free afternoon for the first time in months and wanted to spend it with you. I have ordered up a lovely tea and champagne to my rooms and—”

Aimée raised her hand, cutting Aliks off flatly. “I cannot join you this afternoon. I have duties to attend to.”

“Duties? What duties do you have that I, your Dowayne, could not free you from?” Aliks teased, leaning in enticingly. It had been far too long since they had played this game. Aimée was so dedicated. It made it all the more fun to tempt her away.

“I have an assignation, for starters. I also have classes. I do teach the novices, in case you’ve forgotten, Aliks,” Aimée said, her tone growing a bit sharp.

“Aimée, I am sorry, I did not know. This assignation, can you reschedule or pass them to another adept? As for the novices, unless they are very different from me at their age, I am sure they will enjoy a spontaneous free afternoon,” Aliks said mischievously, inviting her lover to indulge in an afternoon of companionship. Her girl always did get a bit cranky if left to her own devices, all work and no play, and all that

“Of course I cannot put off my patron. I’m astonished you would suggest such a thing. Did you think I would sit around here, biding my time? Waiting for you, my Dowayne?” Aimée delivered it coldly, the last word dripping with venom.

Visibly taken aback, Aliks dropped the teasing tone and asked earnestly, “Are you actually mad at me for doing my job? Geraunt died! I had to become Dowayne. We agreed that, with the transition, it would be too much. That we should pause our affair. It never meant I didn’t care for you, or we wouldn’t resume once the waters calmed.” 

Aliks’s words, her attempt to soothe Aimée, had sparked a rage in her lover that took Aliks completely by surprise as Aimée lashed out. “We didn’t agree. You made your decision and informed me of the Dowayne’s wishes. You came to me the day of the funeral and said we had to stop. That ‘the responsibilities of the House took priority.’ I agree with you, a Dowayne should prioritize their House above all. I wouldn’t have remained with you when you were chosen as Second if I believed otherwise. What did you think I would do? Demand that you forsake the House, your calling, for me? Do you truly think so little of me?” Aliks opened her mouth to answer, but Aimée continued her impassioned diatribe. “I am a Cereus Adept. I have completed my marque. And I have chosen to remain in Naamah’s service. If I wasn’t going to put the House first, I would have left. So don’t say ‘we decided.’ We—” Aimée gestured with her hand, encompassing the both of them. “—didn’t decide anything. The decision to end our affair was yours and yours alone. The thing that galls me is that you never considered if I could help you shoulder the burden. If I could be your partner!” Tears were streaming down Aimee’s face as she gasped to catch her breath.

“I never said ‘end.’ I never wanted us to end, I said ‘pause’,” Aliks said, trying to explain, trying to help Aimée see what she had meant.

“You can say ‘end,’ or you can say ‘pause,’ but your actions said we were over. You show up to my room, expecting nothing has changed. As though time had stopped simply because you said it should. You haven’t spoken more than two words to me in months. You choose to be nothing but Dowayne! You choose Petrea as Second without consulting anyone! You choose to be a lover now that it suits you! You didn’t even know that I had an assignation! What kind of lover doesn’t know their love’s schedule?” 

“Petrea?” Aliks gasped, taking a step back. “You are upset about Petrea?”

“I am upset with you! I am upset that after shadowing you for three years and being the de facto Second for several months after Geraunt’s death, you picked an adept who was spending more time out of the House than in it,” Aimée flared. She glared at Aliks, demanding, “Have you spoken to her? I have, and she is overwhelmed. You were trained to be Second, and Dowayne, but she wasn’t, and she doesn’t even know what she doesn’t know. You know there is a minutiae and delicacy that goes into the day to day around here and she had no clue what was being missed. And I dealt with it for months, for the House, for you!”

Aimée spat every word as she looked Aliks in the eye. “Every time there was something that needed doing, I did it. Every adept or novice that came running for an absent Second or an overworked Dowayne, I handled. Petrea finally got tired of drowning and asked for help. Your best friend, Your Second, even she came to me instead of our oblivious Dowayne.” Her hands clenched, the anger racing through her veins as she continued relentlessly. “I know I was capable of being Second. I was trained for it…by you. I did the job, and I did it well. Not that you thanked me or even noticed. Petrea will be an amazing Second. Not because you named her so, and then threw her to the wolves. But because I helped her, because she saw me and knew I was capable and asked. So I can only assume that you didn’t choose me because you thought I was ‘too young,’ or ‘not dedicated enough,’ or maybe you just didn’t want a relationship on a more equal footing.” 

Aimée finished with a fury, her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. The words had been long in her mind, her anger honing them into the weapons she now used in her own hurt to hurt Aliks in return.

With tears falling down her cheeks, Aliks said, “That isn’t why I chose her, Aimée. I chose her because she spends so much time out of the House. The Night Court is not what it once was, and our leadership must be able to represent the House outside of Mont Nuit. Petrea can get the other Houses to follow and join together without infighting. She has a skill for diplomacy and a patron list that rivals the official peerage list. I chose her to be an ambassador. I chose you for something altogether different.” Aliks’s gaze begged for Aimée to understand.

“You haven’t chosen me in some time, Aliks. Now if you don’t mind, I have an assignation to prepare for,” Aimée said as she turned her back to Aliks and walked deeper into the room. “My patrons have been sorely neglected, since I’ve been busy cleaning up your mess. Do show yourself out,” she said in a flat emotionless voice.

Aimée’s tone had less warmth than a frigid desert night. It froze Aliks to the spot and stole her breath as she watched her lover walk away. Feeling a strange emptiness, she shakily exited the room and closed the door with a soft click. Aliks hadn’t been so summarily dismissed since before she had become a novice. She quickly wiped her face and began to slowly make her way back to the Dowayne’s apartments. Aliks struggled to reconcile the woman she had just spoken to with her lover of five years. 

Dear Elua! What had she done?

Flowers Grow Together

It was midsummer, and Petrea still felt unsettled in her position as Second of Cereus House. Aliks had named her in early spring, and yet still she did not feel secure. To be sure, she had worked hard to put on a good face for the House, meeting with other Dowaynes and Seconds, as Aliks buried herself in paperwork and ledgers, meetings and politics. Petrea met with patrons and arranged assignations for adepts. But there were things that were holding her back. One of which was Aimée.

Petrea suspected that Aimée had hoped, at least in some small way, to be named Second. She and Aliks were romantically involved, so it wouldn’t have surprised Petrea for Aliks to name Aimée to the position. Even if the relationship wasn’t exactly common knowledge, and senior adepts weren’t supposed to be emotionally involved with subordinates. Aimée was responsible, organized, and logically minded. The younger adepts trusted her. She had all of the qualities that Petrea feared she did not. Yet, Aimée was quite young. Many years younger than both Aliks and Petrea, and Petrea suspected this was the reasoning behind Aliks’s decision. But Petrea knew that, as much as the decision made sense, and as much Aimée understood the decision in that logical mind of hers, it would still have hurt. And Petrea felt a deep sense of empathy for her. And perhaps even some guilt. Was she truly suited for the position? Could she honestly say that she was up to the task of Second of Cereus House? It was a heavy mantle. Could she wear it? Would young Aimée have been the better choice?

It was on a hot and damp afternoon that Petrea finally decided she was finished navel-gazing over this. She had been lying on the wood floor of her new apartments, wearing only a dressing gown, furiously fanning herself in a desperate attempt to cool off and failing miserably. Lying on the floor and wallowing in self pity would resolve nothing. It was time to gather her wits and actually speak with Aimée. Petrea had often seen Aimée walk in the large gardens behind the house, so she decided to find her there and talk things out.

After a quick bath, Petrea made her way through the gardens to the tall shade trees. The temperature felt significantly lower, and Petrea began to understand why Aimée felt comfort here. It was a tranquil and protected space, far from the oft chaotic life inside their home. After walking for several minutes, she found Aimée sitting on the lip of one of the fountains, dangling her feet in the water.

“Aimée?” Petrea approached slowly, as one might do a frightened animal.

Aimée jumped up, startled. “Oh! Petrea! I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you approach.”

“Oh! No! I apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you. I know you often come to the gardens, and I thought that, well, I had hoped that we could speak, in private—” She gestured to the large, imposing Cereus House behind them. “—in a less formal place, perhaps away from prying eyes and ears, and be more plain with one another?”

Aimée looked at Petrea and gracefully made a welcoming gesture to the space beside her. Her face had subtly slipped into the perfected mask every senior Cereus adept cultivated. Petrea felt a small twinge of disappointment at the shift in demeanor. She had hoped that Aimée would be more comfortable in the botanical sanctuary.

Petrea sat down on the edge of the fountain and trailed her fingers through the cool water, watching the ripples lap at the stone. “I can see why you came here today. This water feels lovely.” Petrea shook off her shoes and gathered her skirts, tucking them under her lap. She plunged her feet into the water and sighed. “That feels incredible.”

A small hint of a smile teased at the corner of Aimée’s mouth as she replied. “It’s the best respite from the heat. One would have to go to Balm House to find anywhere more refreshing for the body or soothing to the soul than this little corner of Cereus.” Her shoulders loosened almost imperceptively. And she turned to gaze at the fountain and the garden beyond.

After a moment of silence, Petrea cleared her throat and began speaking. “Aimée, I feel as though things between us are tense, to put it mildly, and I don’t like that. I feel that, well, I feel that you may resent me for being chosen as Second when you were not. I want you to know that I firmly believe that I would have been just as happy if you were chosen.”

Aimée’s head snapped toward Petrea; her face had lost its trained air of nothingness. Petrea couldn’t quite decipher the meaning painted upon her features. A mix of shock, defensiveness, anger, hurt…all emotions that Petrea watched pool into a general upset of Aimée’s practiced air. In a second, Aimée forced a roll into her shoulders and several deep soothing breaths in and out her lungs. Petrea waited as Aimee tried to reclaim some of calm. “Petrea…if I have done anything to give you the impression that I am anything other than genuinely pleased for you, I apologize. I always knew that Aliks would choose you for the role. There was no question in my mind that you would be her Second,” Aimée stated. Then quieter, in almost a whisper, “But I did, very briefly, hope.”

Petrea saw Aimee’s posture soften, like a huge weight had been lifted with the admission. 

It was then that Petrea finally felt she could share. “I often feel as though you would be a better Second than I am. That the House would be better served if you were leading it.” She spoke her fears in the same hushed tones they had once used to share midnight secrets in the novice dormitory. She locked eyes with Aimée, needing the other woman to understand the seriousness of her next words. Her voice was strong. “I am sorry, Aimée. I think that perhaps I should have told Aliks no and pushed her to name you.”

“What!?” Aimée gasped. “You are more than qualified, you have the skill, the connections, the years of service…”

Petrea swung her feet out of the fountain, using the momentum to swivel her body to face the opposite way and placing her feet firmly on the garden path. She stood and began pacing. She dug a bare toe into the dirt and shook her head before interjecting. “But, Aimée, don’t you see? I am missing things! Aliks spent years being groomed to be Second, while I was nothing but an adept. We all knew she would be Second and then Dowayne. But me? This was a surprise to everyone, myself included!  And I know nothing of leadership. For certain, I can pour wine and play the lyre. I know that I am a favorite among several patrons! But I was never trained to be Second! Or, Blessed Elua forbid, Dowayne! I have signed my own assignation contracts, but I do not know how to write them! Patrons are coming to me to negotiate for adepts’ time—what do I know of that? What do I know of drawing other Houses to allyship?” Petrea slumped back against a tree trunk, falling to the ground, giving no care for dirtying her fine clothes. “My days are filled with tasks I know nothing of. My only…my only escape is my time with Santiago.” She smiled sadly.

“I know. Sometimes I see you more often returning from Orchis House than from your office.” Aimée teased. She immediately realized her attempt at levity had the opposite effect.

Petrea’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Precisely. You see, I am failing,” she said in a quiet voice. “It feels as though no matter how many tasks I complete, there is always another. And I know, I know, that I am missing things. I know that there are happenings in the House that I know nothing of.”

Aimée removed herself from the fountain and walked to Petrea to sit with her under the tree. Aimée waited until Petrea looked toward her. “I will be honest with you, things are falling through the cracks. The younger adepts and novices are coming to me to put out spot fires. By the time you smell the wisps of smoke, the proverbial fire has been doused. Sometimes it’s been out for hours or even days.” Petrea sunk into herself. She knew the situation had been bad, but it was somehow worse than she had anticipated.  “Every time you leave for Orchis, yes, you have completed your formal tasks, but there are a thousand unwritten responsibilities and unexpected problems that need to be handled.” 

A deep sense of shame filled Petrea’s chest, and she felt blood rise to her face. “And a good Second would know these things,” she whispered, unable to meet Aimée’s eyes. She had been right. Aimée did resent her. Aimee was taking care of all of these responsibilities that she was not. Aimee knew all of these things. And she did not.

“I understand now why you resent me so. Here I am, off at Orchis House while you are stuck here cleaning up behind me. I am so sorry, Aimée. I should have known these things. I should have been more aware.” Tears filled her eyes, and she blinked hard to keep them from falling. 

“That…This…” Aimee’s arm made an all encompassing movement. “Is. Not. Your. Fault. And I have never resented you,” she stated emphatically. “The plague has caused nothing but chaos. The Court, the City, Terre d’Ange itself is struggling to reorganize and bring back some order. Aliks is completely absorbed with her duties as the First and Foremost Dowayne of the Night Court, the Council to House Courcel, and any House responsibilities that absolutely require Dowayne,” Aimée laid out. “You are not handling the responsibilities of merely a Second. You are dealing with more than half of the responsibilities of a Dowayne and all the requirements of a Second. All while the kingdom is recovering from one of the most destructive plagues in our history.” Aimée sighed. “And you have not been trained for either position. I wouldn’t have known what to watch out for had I not been…” Aimée nearly trailed off into silence. “…with Aliks.” She shyly summed up.

Petrea looked at Aimée, her eyes wild and desperate. “Will you help me? Please. Please, help me. I know the topmost bricks, but you are the expert in the building blocks. You know everything that happens within the walls of the House, and I know that I can talk my way through political meetings and afternoon teas. Aliks was left with mountains of backlogged  papers to sift through and piles of scrolls to read, most from before Dowayne Geraunt’s passing. It’s so much. So much…it’s too much. Everything is falling to the Second.” Petrea shrugged and gave Aimée a wry look. “Perhaps—together—we would make a superior Second?”

Aimée gently took Petrea’s hand between her own. “Do you remember when I first entered Cereus? I was a scared little reject from Bryony House. ‘All of the talent, none of the passion.’ They only sent me here because my looks matched the canon of Cereus House. I was certain Cereus wouldn’t keep me either. You held me as I cried those first nights. You told me, ‘All Loveliness Fades, but what doesn’t fade is our bonds to each other. We are desert flowers. We survive.’ Cereus House is my family. You are my sister. You always were; you always will be.”

Petrea threw her arms around her friend. “Thank you, Aimée,” she said quietly into Aimée’s hair. “You cannot know how much your love and support mean to me.” Her voice grew firm as she clutched her friend. “We will do this together. Together we will rise.”

The Unruly Patron

The doors to Cereus House flew open, knocking Lucas almost off his feet. He recovered himself just in time to see the man burst into the foyer. 

“Good evening, my lord, welcome to Cereus House. How may I assist you?” It was only his years of training as a servant at the house that allowed him the grace not to stumble and stammer at the glaring noble in front of him.

“Fetch me Dowayne Aliks. Right now.”

Lucas paused for a moment. As the doorman, part of his responsibilities included knowing when the Dowayne or Second were expecting visitors so that he could show them to the appropriate rooms. “Is she expecting you, my lord?”

The visitor grew angry. “Just fetch her,” he replied, snapping his fingers impatiently.

Lucas bowed and led the man into one of the front salons and offered him tea, which the man refused with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Who shall I say is calling, sir?”

“Tell her Lord Pierre Montaban is here. She is to come at once.”

Lucas bowed and left the room. Despite his outward appearance, he was shaken. Who was this man who had blown in like a stormcloud, demanding an audience with the Dowayne? His manner was unlike any Lucas had seen in all his years as a servant on Mont Nuit, and indeed, all his life.

~

Petrea and Aliks were sitting in the Dowayne’s office, discussing an upcoming Showing when they heard a knock at the door. When Aliks indicated entry, Lucas, the servant who manned the front doors, entered. He was clearly upset about something.

“Lucas! Whatever is the matter?” Aliks’s eyes flew wide at the state of the servant. Lucas was nothing if not stoic, and to see him so uneasy led her to believe that something was truly amiss.

“A visitor…a visitor is here…here…” he stammered.

Petrea frowned. “A visitor?” She asked. “Why does a visitor have you so out of sorts, Lucas?”

Lucas took a deep breath and composed himself before continuing. “He demanded an audience with the Lady Dowayne.”

Aliks raised an eyebrow. “Demanded?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “He said to fetch Dowayne Aliks.”

Petrea’s face grew hard. “He used those precise words?” One did not refer to the Dowayne of Cereus House in such familiar terms.

“Yes. He simply said to fetch her.”

Aliks and Petrea exchanged a look. 

“And who is the demanding gentleman?” Aliks asked primly.

“A Lord Pierre Montaban, my lady.”

“Ah,” Aliks said simply. She gave Lucas a gentle smile. “Why don’t you go down to the kitchen and ask Cook for a pastry? You have had a bit of a fright, I fear, and I want you to take a moment to yourself.”

Lucas started at her comment. “My lady! I am fine.”

Petrea waved him off. “It’s all right, Lucas. Go sit. We have this matter in hand. Go speak to Cook. She is good with these situations and a little chat with her will calm your nerves.”

Lucas gave a nod and left the room.

Aliks turned to Petrea. “Is this who I think it is?”

Petrea nodded sharply. “Yes. This is Kyrian.”

Aliks hummed. She gave Petrea a conspiratory smile. “You will handle this?”

Petrea grinned at her friend. “I will.”

Petrea sat back on the chaise and took another drink of her wine, and Aliks returned to her desk. They took up their conversation about the Showing for several minutes before Petrea looked at the clock. “Have we let him stew long enough?” She asked.

Aliks nodded. “I leave you to it, love.”

~

Petrea entered the front parlor where Kyrian had been sitting for more than ten minutes since his arrival. A woman in formal dress was sitting on the sofa across from him, drinking tea and eyeing his ever reddening face.

“Good afternoon, Lady Elaine, it is a pleasure to see you,” Petrea greeted the woman warmly. “I do apologize for keeping you. David is waiting in the upstairs salon, and he is most excited to see you. If you step outside, Louis will take you to him.” Petrea gestured toward the door, and the noblewoman exited.

Petrea turned her attention to Kyrian, whose face was red with anger.

“That woman—” He flung himself to his feet and pointed towards the door “—arrived no more than moments ago, and you have the gall to apologize to her when I have been waiting here for Elua knows how long! How dare you?”

Petrea sat down calmly on the sofa vacated by Lady Elaine, folded her hands in her lap, and poured herself a cup of tea. 

“May I offer you some tea?” She asked placidly, finally raising her eyes to meet his. “You seem,” she gestured with her cup delicately, “out of sorts.”

“I do not want tea!” He almost growled the words, starting to pace the room, his hands clenching and unclenching as he walked. “I am here to see the Dowayne, not whoever you are. Fetch the girl, now.”

“No,” Petrea responded, holding his gaze for a moment before returning her attention to her tea.

Kyrian’s jaw dropped open. His mouth opened and closed silently, gaping like a dying fish. Never in his life had anyone told him no. He stared, trying to comprehend how this woman, a mere adept, found the nerve to tell him so and look him in the eyes.

Petrea said nothing, sipping her tea silently and seeming to ignore him. She waited, knowing that the next move had to be his.

His wits returned, and he stalked closer to where the woman was seated. He could feel his rage starting to build “What do you mean ‘no’? Who do you think you are, speaking to a peer of the realm, a man that way? I will see your Dowayne, and I will see her immediate—”

Petrea held up a finger to interrupt his tirade. She still did not look at him, treating him like she would a child or a servant who needed to be scolded. Speaking calmly and evenly, she said. “Your behavior is unacceptable here. We simply do not conduct ourselves in such a way at Cereus House. David will escort you out now.” She stood and gracefully slipped past him like she would a potted plant and began to make her way towards the door.

“I am not leaving until you bring me the girl! Do you not know who I am?” His voice rose, loud enough now that it bounced off the walls of the salon.

Petrea turned and finally met his eyes again, a small smile playing on her lips. “I do know who you are, Lord Montaban, and perhaps unfortunately for you, your reputation precedes you. David will escort you out now.” Though her face was calm, her voice was steely.

Kyrian opened his mouth to speak, but Petrea stopped him. “You are not welcome here. I am offering you the opportunity to leave with your dignity. I suggest that you take it.”

Kyrian strode over and pressed in close to her, his hand tight around her upper arm. “I will be back. You mark my words.”

Petrea’s eyes flashed as she jerked her arm free. “No. You will not. Should you attempt to return, it will not be a pleasant experience for you. Not only that, but I shall see that  you are not welcome at any House on Mont Nuit.” Her voice was icy.

She turned and stepped to the doorway. “David?” She called. “Please see this gentleman to the door and ensure he gets into his carriage. He is to be escorted off the grounds.”

A large manservant appeared in the doorway and gave a small bow. “Yes, my lady Second. I will inform the servants and guards.”

“Thank you, David.” With that she strode from the parlor, leaving Kyrian to face the large manservant.

~

Petrea strode purposefully out the door and took several steps down the hallway before she stopped to take a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. Hearing rumors of this man and his tantrums was one thing, but experiencing it in person was quite another.

Looking around, she saw a maid busily dusting a sconce that had no need of dusting. When they made eye contact, the maid blushed furiously.

“You have been dusting that sconce for quite some time now, haven’t you?” Petrea asked with a wry smile.

“Oh, I, well,” the maid stammered, her cheeks turning redder by the second. “It’s just, I, um…”

Petrea stepped up next to the maid and ran her finger along the sconce. Her voice grew quiet. “You know,” she said, her tone mild. “It would never do for the Second of Cereus House to be seen gossiping about the goings on with visitors.” She paused and held the other woman’s gaze. “Things are different, however, with servants.”