Blog – Page 5 – Longest Night Midwinter Masque

Storyline: A King Distressed

Really, of all the times for her family to send her a note asking for a visit, it had to be in the days leading up to the Longest Night when she was up to her eyes in final preparations for Valerian House. There were costumes that still needed to be fitted and finished, face paints to be purchased, ribbons replaced on masks, this was entirely too inconvenient.

But they were her family and she loved them dearly so she had the carriage summoned, her cloak brought, and she was on her way across the city to the Noble District within the hour.

The Baphinol footman opened the carriage door and helped her step down onto the street outside the Baphinol family townhouse, greeting her courteously, “Lady Rosanna, welcome. You are expected.”

“Thank you,” she said, pulling her cloak tighter around her to guard against the winter chill in the air.

The steward was ready at the door to take her cloak and usher her inside to the warmth. The floors and ceiling were done in the same rich, warm wood and the walls were artfully decorated with tapestries for the winter. In the warmer months, the tapestries were put away to reveal the beautiful frescoes that decorated the walls. Maybe she should make use of the house to host a private summer salon. She could consider that later.

Now, there was the beaming smile of her mother to contend with as Comtesse Marie-Celeste Baphinol swept down the hall toward her youngest daughter, enveloping her in a hug, “Rosanna, my darling! Thank you for coming to visit.”

“Of course, Mother,” Rosanna said, returning her mother’s embrace, “I needed the break from the Longest Night preparations.”

“Yes, you must tell us how that is going,” her mother said, steering her up the stairs, “Your father is in the library, he wanted a chat first before we have some time together as a family.”

The Comte’s library was on the first story, the doors were of dark wood carved with trees and flowers to remind the family of the country estates while they stayed in the city. The Comtesse gestured to the servants to open the doors and ushered her daughter inside where the Comte Gilles Baphinol was waiting, standing behind his desk.

He looked up when the doors opened and smiled at his youngest daughter, “Rosanna. Thank you for coming.”

The man seated at the chair by the pink marble fireplace turned, the sunlight from the window glinting on his light hair and his Courcel blue eyes.

“Your Majesty!” She dropped into a deep curtsy as gracefully as she could.

“Please rise, Lady Baphinol,” King Gustav de la Courcel said, rising from his seat, “and accept my apology.”

What was happening? The King was here? She hadn’t seen his carriage or any royal guards. Why was he here?

She rose from her curtsy and clasped her hands before her to stop herself from twisting her fingers in her nerves at suddenly being confronted with the King of Terre D’Ange.

“Your Majesty,” Gilles bowed to him, “please feel free to use the library for as long as you need. My lady wife and I will be in the family salon down the hall.”

“Thank you again for your generosity, Comte Baphinol,” Gustav said, inclining his bare head to the older man. Gilles took his wife’s hand and paused only to give his daughter a comforting squeeze of her shoulder and kiss on her cheek before he and Marie-Celeste withdrew, closing the doors behind them.

Alone with the King, Rosanna pulled on all of her training in the Night Court to keep her composure, waiting quietly to follow his lead in whatever this was.

“Please,” Gustav gestured to the seat across from him, “Relax and be comfortable. I am not here as the King but as simply Gustav. And I wanted to speak to you, Rosanna.”

Just Rosanna, not her title or her honorific as Dowayne, just her given name. She was more confused than ever as she crossed the space between them to lower herself onto the seat with a graceful swish of her skirts. “How can I assist Your Majesty?”

The King resumed his seat as well once she was comfortable, looking at her with those steady blue eyes. He smoothed his hands along the arms of the chair before he said, “Odilia told me once that you were friends.”

“I would like to think that hasn’t changed, my King.”

“I’m…concerned. For her. I had hoped to get your insight as her friend and perhaps request your help.”

“What troubles you, Your Majesty?”

His gaze slid to the fire in the grate, the metal screen set before it to catch the cinders wrought with twisting flowers to create the protective netting. His fingers toyed with the edge of the upholstery on his chair as he considered how he wanted to say this, “She is….a strong woman. I admire her fortitude greatly and I have never known her to have a temper.”

Rosanna could agree with that, Odilia was not a woman prone to outbursts of passion. That was more the Valerian’s type of expression. But there was a hesitancy in how he said it that caught her attention.

“Has something happened that would call that into question, Your Majesty?”

“No,” he said softly, “But I cannot deny that something has changed between us. We always knew that my coronation would change things, would mean that the responsibilities of the throne would take me away from her, more than either of us wanted. But she was always ready when I found time, she never refused me…”

“She’s refused you?” Rosanna was shocked at the thought. Not just because he was the King and to refuse the King was a dangerous game, but because she had thought there was something real blossoming between her friend and this man. Odilia had seemed much happier once he came into her life, there were more smiles and there was more light around her. What could have happened to so change her friend’s demeanor?

“I do not know if she has refused me,” Gustav said sadly. “I have sent her gifts and letters and she hasn’t sent them back, but she also hasn’t replied to them. I understand that the Court of Night Blooming Flowers is making preparations for the Longest Night Masque, I appreciate that this is a busy time for all of the Servants of Naamah. But…something does not feel right. I may still be young but I have worn my crown long enough to have learned to trust my instincts. And they are telling me that something is wrong.”

She hesitated before venturing, “Your Majesty….these women that have come to the palace…”

He groaned, “I know. It’s a nightmare.”

“Were you the one to tell her what was happening?”

His eyes dropped to his lap, “No. I did not want to make it seem that I was informing her to set her aside. I asked a close, mutual friend of ours to send her word and make it clear to her that my feelings have not changed.”

Rosanna was desperately curious to know what those feelings were, exactly, but she wouldn’t press. That sort of thing was private and she had a guess about what they could be based on the way the King spoke, the angle of his eyes, and the softness in his voice.

“The arrival of the ladies has been a source of gossip across the city for weeks and weeks,” Rosanna said carefully, trying to be gentle in what she was trying to say, “It could be that the news reached her before the message did. Regardless of how the message was worded, if she heard the whispers first and if the whispers were unkind…she might have gotten another impression.”

He nodded, “That is what I am guessing has happened. For her to so suddenly cut contact without an explanation? Something has gone wrong and I…I would ask you, as her friend, to see what she needs? I’m not asking you to spy on her, but she’s your friend and I want to make this right. I just….I don’t know how. And I’m worried that if she is hurt by what she heard…”

He shifted in his seat slightly, “She is clever. And she is very dangerous in many ways. If she chose to make a bold move…I am all too aware of the kind of damage she could do if she decided to listen to her heart instead of her head.”

How well he knew Odilia, Rosanna thought. And he was right. With that chessboard of hers, she was very dangerous. Surely the other nobles saw it too, and surely it was one of the reasons they were throwing women at the King to try to lessen Odilia’s influence over him and lessen some of her power. Perhaps they were right to be wary, she couldn’t deny that there had been something different about Odilia the few times they had crossed each other. She hadn’t thought anything about it at the time, all of Mont Nuit was stressed over the Longest Night, she had thought that Odilia had just been as overwhelmed and overworked as she was and had put it out of her mind. But now…now she wondered.

“I will see what I can do, Your Majesty,” she promised him, tucking her red hair behind her ear. “Hopefully it doesn’t come to that, hopefully it’s just a misunderstanding that we can clear up.”

But she knew there was the potential for so much worse. If Odilia really was hurt by what had happened, by whatever she had heard and however she viewed his efforts to reach out…Rosanna knew well that hurt people had the potential to cause the most hurt in return.

Please, she prayed silently as the King kissed her hand, Please, Naamah and Eisheth. Please let her make the smart, compassionate choice.

The page in the Dahlia livery made his way swiftly between the seats and sections of the Dahlia Salon, coming to the high-backed chair where the Second was currently entertaining Lady Corrian de Borlean again. He gave a crisp bow to the ladies before bending down to whisper in Odilia’s ear.

She listened, her brow lifting slightly before holding out her hand. The page slipped a tiny scroll into her palm and she unrolled it to read the words scrawled there.

Let them see.

The tiniest smile played about her lips and she nodded, more to herself than anything, slipping the scroll into her sleeve before returning her attention to the page, “Show him in.”

“Here, my lady?”

“Here.”

He bowed and withdrew. Moments later, he returned, accompanied by a servant in the Ducal Chalasse livery bearing an exquisitely carved wooden box. Whispers followed him as adepts and guests alike turned their heads to watch his path through the salon, eyes on him and on the Second that he stopped before.

He dropped to one knee beside her and said to her, “My lady Second, His Grace the Duc of L’Agnace presents you with this gift as a token from him to you.”

A token, yes, Odilia mused as she ran her fingers over the lid of the polished wooden box. A token of what, well that was anyone’s guess. By the evening meal tonight, there would be any number of rumors flying around about what happened right here and right now. She would not disappoint.

She lifted the lid of the box and it seemed half the salon was craning to see what was inside. Even Corrian leaned forward, seeing the rich brown velvet and wanting to know what it was hiding.

Odilia reached inside the box, her fingers delicately lifting the necklace from where it lay. It had been many years since she had been a jeweller’s daughter, but she could still see how exquisite a piece this was. White pearls in a gold setting, and a bold, gleaming, golden topaz right at the center. She held it up to examine the setting and the jewels and she saw more than heard the whispers, watching out of her periphery as heads turned to companions, as lips moved, as hands and fans lifted to try to disguise the gossiping.

And she smiled, “Inform His Grace that he honors me with this gift. I am delighted to accept it.”

Jocaste watched her Second from across the salon. Odilia, what are you doing?

Storyline: A Dangerous Assignment

“I would have thought that you would be deep in preparations for the Longest Night. Is Dahlia House not missing their Second and her critical eye? Who else will ensure Dahlia triumphs at the Cereus Masque?”

“You are in a jesting mood, Your Grace,” Odilia said, her head high as her horse pranced under her. “And I am a talented woman. I can do many things at once.”

“I would expect no less.”

“I would hate to disappoint.”

Roland de Chalasse, Duc of L’Agnace, smiled at her, his seat sure in his saddle as his stallion tossed his great head. The horse was impatient to be out of the city streets and in the freedom of the countryside to run how he pleased. The Duc’s gloved hands held the reins firmly, allowing the stallion the freedom to make his opinions known without ever sacrificing his control over the animal.

Odilia nó Dahlia shot him a sly smile, her brown eyes glancing at him from under her lashes as her gelding followed the stallion’s lead down the Rue Courcel and out the western gate of the City of Elua.

He had been almost surprised to receive her card asking if she could call on him. It wasn’t an assignation, he hadn’t sought her out purposefully after she had so neatly manipulated and manoeuvred him into lifting the silver embargo those months ago. He had been quite impressed with her, actually, but it wouldn’t do for the Duc de Chalasse to be seen to be captivated by her, the King’s Courtesan.

The Dahlia Queen, some of the more daring gossips were starting to whisper. With all the business of the King finding a wife, no few of the courtiers had whispered about his mistress and what could become of her. What few options there were available for her.

And here she was, walking his borrowed horse beside him, her dark eyes trained on the gates and the rolling countryside beyond.

Just what did she want from him?

He kept his peace as they enjoyed their ride, giving the horses their heads and letting them run as they pleased through the meadows and grasses of the countryside beyond the City of Elua. The air was brisk, winter threatening to come in earnest, the nights were getting colder and the sunlight during the day was a crisp, cold kind of light. Merciless. It was one of his favorite times of year.

The horses slowed, cantering along a rocky stream. His ducal guards fell back, giving the couple some space as they rode on. At some point, the contained wildness of the forest and stream would give way to organised gardens and manicured meadows, but for now it was pleasant to canter upstream towards the copse of young birch trees.

Safely away from the tall, white walls of the city, Roland turned his horse to cut her off. Her horse danced back, her hands sure on the reins as she kept her seat. He was pleased to see her eyes betrayed nothing when she looked at him, no anger or frustration, just expectant politeness. He let his horse prance a circle around hers, saying, “I am no fool, Dahlia. You want something from me. Come now, what paltry favor would you ask?”

“Paltry?” Her brows lifted, “The last two favors I have extracted from you have hardly been paltry.”

“No,” he agreed, smoothing his gloved hand down the proud neck of his stallion. “They have been earth-shattering in their intensity.”

She watched him, the tiniest flicker of a smile toying at the corner of her mouth. “Precisely.”

“You would ask another grand gift? Careful, Dahlia, you may soon seem ungrateful.”

“Hardly,” she said. A lock of her dark hair had fallen from her golden hairnet, the curl framing her face prettily as she looked at him. And he watched, more interested than he should be, when she chose to set her haughty mask aside and speak freely and openly with him. She shifted slightly in her saddle, “You know what is happening in the palace. The latest excitement of the court.”

“The women presenting themselves to your royal lover to win his hand?” He took pleasure in the soft viciousness of the words, “Yes. I have several bets going. Do you want me to deal you in?”

His eyes glittered, “Or will you ask me to interfere?”

“I don’t give a damn about those women,” Odilia said coldly, and it was her turn to urge her horse around his, the pretty features of her face at odds with the cutting, simmering anger in her eyes. “What I care about is the gossip of the court and that they will think me replaced. Or weak. They want to see me frightened and threatened.”

“You don’t seem to scare easily.”

“I don’t,” she said, drawing her horse up beside his again so she faced him, meeting his gaze squarely. “And I want to make that unquestionably clear.”

He surveyed her, considering this new opportunity. Just what was this move on that famous chessboard of hers? It was certainly a bold one, he did like it. But he wondered what had prompted it. Was she lashing out in defense or taking an aggressive offense now? Was she truly feeling threatened and trying to mask it? How fascinating that he could not tell.

His head tilted back, regarding her contemplatively before he said, “Do you remember once, I told you that you had a soft heart.”

“I remember.”

“It does not seem so soft now.”

“It is not.” The winter sun flashed in her dark eyes, her brows lifting as she continued, “And do you remember, Your Grace, when you said I was not the threat the rest of the court and country thought I was?”

Oh, yes, he remembered. She had been seated across from him in his carriage and they had been speaking so daringly about what they could offer each other. And he remembered well what he had said then, echoing it now, “But you could be.”

She leaned toward him in her saddle, the leather creaking, her face fierce and eyes unblinking as she hissed, “That is what I want from you. And in return, I will give you what you want.”

“And what did I say I wanted?”

The smile on her lips did not thaw her eyes, “Influence. Over the King. Over the country.”

His gloved hand reached out, fingers toying with the lock of her hair. Green eyes roved over her, measuring this girl from the streets against her ambition and what she could give him in return.

Finally, he spoke, his voice little more than a whisper as he breathed to her, “Do you understand what you are asking of me? Do you understand what an arrangement like this will mean, little Dahlia?”

“I do.”

His gloved fingers ghosted across her cheek, brushing the curve of her bottom lip, “Very well.”

Storyline: Music and Mystery

When the request came from a certain patron of Cereus House for Elodie’s presence a week before Midwinter, she made no attempt to refuse. After all he was a Lord in good standing and, perhaps more importantly to her, she’d heard a rumor of a new harp acquired from abroad in need of quick fingers to play it. And so, Elodie arrived an hour before the party, taking care of the more intimate parts of her employment with rather more impatience than Cereus’s reputation expected in her haste to go see the harp. The patron in question seemed more amused than dismayed, fortunately; he knew where he ranked in her list of interests when he hired her.

“After all,” he said, “I count myself fortunate to have your services at all. Cereus’s Midwinter fetes would make the angels themselves proud in their choreographed perfection, and music is no less a part of it all than the drink or decor. To have Cereus’s most prized harpist performing for me, a week before Midwinter, on an instrument obtained at no mean price… My guests will still be talking next weekend as they dissemble to parties all across the most elegant parts of the city. That is what I have truly brought you here for. The rest is merely a lovely perk of your presence.”

“I thank you for your kind understanding. The harp, my lord?” Elodie prompted and, laughing, he led her to it.

The instrument made no secret of its high price with a pillar gilded with fresh-polished gold and held up by carved angels. It dominated the room, lithe and powerful as a swan. For all the instrument’s delicacy of sound, the tension of each tight-wound string pulled powerfully against the structure, and there was not a musician in the city who could not tell of some friend-of-a-friend whose poorly maintained harp had given weigh under that pressure and exploded into splintered wood and alarmed onlookers. But this gleaming instrument – this was freshly made and built to last.

Elodie got to work at once, checking the tuning. “A servant already took care of that,” the Lord told her.

“Yes,” she replied, “but the strings are new and must be tuned more frequently. Every hour, I will take the instrument aside to check the tuning once more – do you have a room where I might do so unobtrusively, and two servants to help me carry it there?”

“Of course,” he replied and then watched as she, at last, allowed herself to try the strings for more than just tuning.

The first note was tentative, quiet as a cheeping songbird. The second bellowed like a hurricane.

“Good dynamic range,” Elodie muttered and her fingers flew. High notes chimed like temple bells, low boomed like lion roars. Here was a fragment of song as sweet as new love; here was one as grim as death. Notes rising, surrounding, filling the ballroom with frenetic energy and joy and –

The music stopped. Elodie stepped back from the instrument, though she couldn’t resist one last soft brush over the strings. “It will do.”

—

High nobles and cultural figures from across not only Terre d’Ange but many allied nations as well came to the city to celebrate Midwinter. Tonight’s guest list was the sort that could only be managed at such a time as this: when all had already arrived in the city but none had yet been lost to the many parties and other obligations planned long in advance. They eyed each other in a canny way, each in turn doing their best to secure an alliance while promising no decisive aid. Pockets of conversation formed and dissipated across the ballroom whose open nature thwarted hope of private negotiations. People made do. Here they congregated in the closest thing to a shadowy corner they could; there they danced closer than even the local fashion with one’s mouth always be at the other’s ear. And here – close to the harp whose wide belly was formed to boom out sound loud enough to fill a ballroom, here where the songs surely concealed all voices from any but the companion closest by – they talked.

They talked, watching carefully for the approach of any other guest.

They talked, and paid no heed to the harpist.

Elodie ignored them at first, focusing entirely on the new instrument – some of the strings in the middle range were quieter than on her own harp, so she needed to remember to pluck them more deeply to compensate; the string spacing on the low notes was ever so slightly wider than she was accustomed to, so she watched her fingers until her instincts had adjusted. But this was one week before Midwinter, a performance she’d been practicing for months, and all too soon the muscle memory took over. It was meditative for a time, to simply let her hands do as they’d been taught as her consciousness drifted after them. But then, well, although she’d never admit it, the playing got a little boring. It was good to be bored while playing – it meant your tune was well learned and without surprises, after all, provided you could avoid being so bored that you became completely unfocused and made a mistake. But it was, well, boring.
The conversations meant to be unheard were so, so easy to eavesdrop on. Keep your eyes low and no one paid any heed to a musician. She was as much a part of the scenery as the paintings on the wall except that – irony of ironies – people tended to keep delicate conversations away from the paintings in case they concealed hidden passages with hidden listeners. The harp, though – people conversed around that.

It was something about trade, she could hear that much. Trade, and warnings about people who might get in the way of it. Phrases like “I’ll handle him,” with a faint and ominous emphasis on “handle.” Or “don’t worry about that. Changes are coming,” with “changes” spoken much the same way. She played a little louder, that they might raise their voices, and a little softer, that she might hear them better, but, for all she strained her ears, it was hard to make out just what they were talking about, until –

Until –

And then it happened. She heard the truth, she heard the plan, she heard what all those ominously emphasized words meant, and she got distracted. Right as the song changed keys. And her fingers kept dancing along by instinct, just as they were supposed to, but her feet – that should have hit the pedals just there, that should have changed those sharps to flats – her feet didn’t move. And suddenly the song was a cacophony of clashing pitches. Suddenly she wasn’t invisible anymore.

Their conversation stopped. Their eyes were on her. She improvised as well as she could, trying to make the wrong parts sound like they’d been a daring choice, a flirtation with dissonance always meant to resolve into sweetness. Perhaps it worked. Perhaps it was convincing. Perhaps.

By the time the clock next tolled, the pair had wandered off. Using all the poise she’d been taught at Cereus House and inwardly thanking Blessed Elua that her makeup hid her skin’s shocked pallor, Elodie calmly swept away with the harp to the side room for re-tuning.

“Thank you,” she told the servants distantly. “It should be about ten minutes until I need you again.” Alone at last, she allowed herself to let out a long breath and tried to think. It was urgent that the news of this plot be passed on, but to whom?

With all the nobles in the room, surely someone- surely-

And then the door opened.

She looked up.

—

Petrea, the Second of Cereus House, was aghast when she was awoken by a servant hours later.

“What do you mean, she vanished in the middle of an assignment?”

“I’m… afraid what I mean is that she vanished in the middle of an assignment. The city guard has been told, and our own guards have been scouring the city as well, but… Elua’s angels, I promise I would have woken you if I’d any inkling she’d still be gone! I assumed some patron at the party offered to pay her marque, or perhaps there’d been a secret lover, or…”

“A secret lover for Elodie? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, a secret musician looking for a duet partner then. I swear to you, I didn’t know! If anything has happened to her… Well, Elua willing, we’ll find out soon enough.”

“And if we don’t? We’ve already lost six hours. If she hasn’t shown up already, she’s either hiding, being hidden, or dead. We’ll have to make investigations. If anyone knows anything…”

“We’ll find out. I promise, we’ll find out.”

“A bold promise. … I know it must sound terribly cold, but… it’s a week until Midwinter. She was to play the harp.”

“Is. She is.”

“Even if she is not gone entirely, she may return in no state to perform. Or she may have just proven herself untrustworthy to do so. In any case, we must plan alternatives.”

“Fayette?”

“Contracted out for the night already.”

“Marlene?”

“Out. All of the musicians fit to perform are out, hired by patrons who paid very dearly to have them away from Cereus House on that night. Are we to save our fete at the expense of ruining theirs? Shall we become known as the House for those who fetishize unreliability?”

“Fine – fine! I have an idea. Her party – she went because the Lord had recently acquired a new harp from overseas. The harp merchant, I remember her – Chantae d’something-or-other. Sister of one of the patrons here and I’ve heard she plays. The sailors say the winds have been abnormally fair lately; if she’s newly back from traveling and arrived earlier than expected, she may not have other plans for Midwinter.”

“Will she play well enough for Cereus House?”

“What other choice do we have?”

—

Chantae stepped into the courtyard with a rather bemused expression and a cloth bag nearly as tall and twice as wide as her on her back.

“Please, come in. May we help you with your, um,” a servant said, glancing uncertainly at her burden.

“My harp. Cased. No, thank you; you look very strong and capable, but I wouldn’t ask you to carry my head for me either.”

She followed him inside, placed the instrument delicately on the ground next to her seat and accepted an offer of tea. “I hear you need a harpist?”

“Yes,” the servant answered. “The Second, Petrea, will be along in just a moment to discuss it with you.”

“Fine. Has she been warned that I’m a harper instead?”

“Um,” the young man mumbled. “May I ask the distinction?”

“The large harps with pedals and carved pillars and such are played by harpists. I deal in them, as they’re popular in Terre d’Ange, but they’re delicate; wrapping and unwrapping them on the road is a slow process and they really shouldn’t be exposed to too many different temperatures or humidity. The smaller, simpler harps of Cruithne have no such troubles; since I spend most of my time on the road, that’s what I play. I can pluck out a tune on the larger, but it’s not what I have the most practice on, and a week’s not enough time for me to be able to pretend otherwise. So, Cruithne harp, harper. Is that acceptable?”

“I’ll ask, but – given the royal family’s history with Cruithne, I suppose it could be said there’s a certain exotic romance to having a harper rather than a harpist. I’m certain it will be acceptable, my lady.” He hesitated a moment, before adding,

“Will you be alright with working for us for the evening? I’m certain your musicianship is superb, it’s just – those working the Midwinter Masque have usually trained for many years in the arts of humble servitude, and -”

“And I don’t act like a delicate flower of the Night Court? Don’t worry,” Chantae laughed. “Merchants only succeed if they know when to speak up and when to shut up. I’ll act every bit as delicately as you need me to.”

“Thank you. And… we still don’t know why Elodie vanished, so…”

“So I’ll be careful, too.”

Storyline: Gentlemen Bring Word from Afar

The evening was chilly, so Petrea and Marco sat by the fireplace in her private apartments at Cereus House. He was in the City of Elua for several days, stopping on his way to Alba from Caerdicci Unitas. The silver embargo had been lifted, so Marco had no shortage of work and found himself passing through the City of Elua much more frequently over the past months. The past year had been slim, so he was making up for lost time and profits this fall.

Petrea had been quiet over dinner, much more distracted than usual when Marco was visiting. Her attention was elsewhere and they had retired early.

He sat against the corner of the chaise with her in his lap. She curled against him, comforted by the warmth of his body and the steadiness of his heartbeat.

“You are troubled, my love. What can I do?” he asked, stroking her hair.

She sighed and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face against him. She mumbled something into his chest.

“My ears are up here, not inside my shirt,” he laughed.

She looked up at him and wrinkled her nose in mock anger.

“I said: it feels like everything is going wrong and there is nothing I can do to fix it and unless you are here for the next month and able to step in as Second of Cereus House as well as plan the Midwinter Masque, then I do not believe that you will be able to fix it, either.”

“Ah. Well, yes, I think that may be beyond my capabilities. I am here to listen to you, though, if that will help.”

“I don’t know. I am just, well, it all feels as though it is falling apart. I laid out a very clear plan for the ball and, at every turn, there is some problem or someone has made a mistake. How do the silk dyers mistake blue silk for white? Why did the servants bring out brandy glasses instead of champagne flutes? Why have pheasants been delivered and not duck breasts? Where are the gooseberries for the jam? These are not small mistakes, Marco!” Her voice raised at every sentence and her face grew redder.

Marco took her chin in his hand and silenced her with a finger to her lips, “My love, you have time. The ball is not tomorrow. People make mistakes. You are clearly frustrated, but you are speaking of fabric and glasses and foodstuffs. You have planned this ball for many years and certainly there have been mistakes before. You have a large, experienced staff to assist you. What truly troubles you?”

Petrea looked away, her face falling.

“It is not just the ball; you are right. In years past, I have been able to focus solely on that and nothing else. This year, however, my attention is forced elsewhere and, if I’m being honest, my absence from the Night Court last year contributed to this. I fear that many of these ‘mistakes’ in the ball preparations are guild leaders testing my mettle, seeing how I – how our House – responds to the constant pressure from them. They want to see me fail so that they can talk of our crumbling leadership.”

Her voice grew bitter. “And Aliks certainly is not doing me any favors. Did you know that she – ”

She was interrupted by a light knock on the door and a young adept peeked his head in. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but the Aragonian gentleman has just returned to the City and is asking for you and, er, you did give specific orders that, uh, he was to be admitted the moment he arrived no matter what, and, um, well…”

The adept rambled and looked at the floor. Everyone in the House knew that she was not to be disturbed when she was with Marco, yet she had told them to admit Ramiro as soon as he set foot in the door.

Her face brightened noticeably. “Oh! Yes, please invite him to my chambers. Immediately.”

“Ramiro back in town, eh?” Marco smiled at her mischievously and tugged on a lock of her hair. She had made no secret of her relationship with Ramiro and took no steps to keep the two apart, yet this would be the first time the two had crossed paths for more than a brief conversation.

“It would appear so. You know that lifting the silver embargo has been even more beneficial to him than it has been for you and he is gobbling up the attention of the nobles here as he swaggers around, negotiating deals.”

“And I am sure that’s not all he has been gobbling up in the City,” he teased, pinching her thigh.

She laughed aloud as Ramiro burst into the room. His eyes flew to Petrea, his gaze full of fire.

“Mi florecita, how I have missed you!” He was at her side in an instant, on his knees before her.

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles, his dark eyes never leaving hers, “It has been too long since I have been in your presence, mi amor. I have counted the hours until we could be together again.”

She turned to him and leaned forward, giving him a deep smile and a kiss on the cheek. “It is good to see you, too, Ramiro.”

She gestured towards the man in whose lap she sat. “I believe you are acquainted with Marco Meridius?”

Ramiro blinked, coming out of his reverie. His eyes slid to Marco, who grinned at him. “Ramiro, how nice to see you again.”

Ramiro dropped Petrea’s hand and jumped to his feet. “Marco!” he cried, “What a wonderful surprise to find you here, as well!”

Petrea bit her lip to cover a smile. Surprise? Yes. Wonderful? Not as much.

“Perhaps we should not be shocked to find each other here. It was bound to happen sooner or later with the trade embargo being lifted,” Marco said plainly.

Ramiro nodded. “And what better place to meet than here?”

Marco chuckled.

Petrea motioned Ramiro to sit in the chair across from them, but instead he grabbed a tufted stool and pulled it close to the chaise. Petrea waited for Marco’s reaction, but none came. Ramiro liked to engage in intimate conversation, no matter the topic, but his tendency to ignore social niceties of personal space, which often put others ill at ease.

“So, Ramiro, what news from Aragonia?” Marco asked, lazily draping an arm across Petrea’s shoulders.

“Ah, well, things are much better now that we can trade for our silver. My father was extremely impressed with the way I finagled that Lancelin fellow into pushing for the embargo to be lifted.”

“That was your doing?” Marco raised his eyebrows. “Hmm. It was an interesting turn of events. One day, an embargo. The next, no embargo. I expected proclamations and fanfare, but, instead, business just went back to usual. It was quite an odd situation.”

Ramiro shrugged.

Petrea rolled her eyes inwardly. Of course Ramiro would believe that it was he who was responsible for lifting the ban. She truly hoped that word did not reach his father about what really happened with both the dinner and the lifting of the embargo. Strange that it seemed to simply vanish as though it had never existed. Perhaps, though, not so strange. Those who worked in the shadows clearly wished to remain there. She wondered what moves her chess playing friend made for the Duc de Chalasse to relent.

“So Marco, my friend, your business has picked up, eh?” Ramiro was all business.

Marco nodded. “Truly the lifting of the embargo has been a great boon. Not just for silver, either. With the movement of the ore, other materials and goods are finding their way back onto the trade routes, as well.”

Ramiro’s head was bobbing as Marco spoke. “Yes, yes, all excellent news.”

Ramiro took one of Petrea’s feet in his hands and began massaging it, as he often did when they were alone. She closed her eyes and leaned back against Marco’s shoulder. After a moment, Ramiro paused, as though something important had occurred to him. He looked up and gave Marco a questioning look. Marco shrugged and Ramiro went back to rubbing Petrea’s foot.

“Your muscles are extremely tight, my sweetest,” he commented. “You are troubled.”

Marco huffed a laugh. “She was just beginning to tell me of her troubles when you walked in.”

Petrea sighed. “I am frustrated with everyone and everything, Ramiro. Keeping up with my duties as Second, trying to keep up with the goings on in the City, plans for the ball – you are coming, yes?”

Ramiro shrugged. “I will do my best, but I make no promises. I still do not understand these duties you have. You are a Servant of Naamah, you call it. Is it your duty not to serve her? What else is there?”

Petrea gave him a smile. “The Second is a position of leadership in one’s House. It is not all parties and patrons. We are still a business, as we fought so dearly to prove, and must operate as such. There are accounts to keep, adepts to bring in and train, hired staff to manage, and now my Dowayne is considering lighting a candle to Eisheth!”

Ramiro frowned, working his fingers into her muscles. “What does it matter why she is lighting candles? Everyone lights candles every night?”

“It means she wants to have a baby. It’s some D’Angeline thing,” Marco explained.

“Ah, that would complicate matters for you. She would retire?” Ramiro asked.

Petrea shook her head. “Oh no, not Aliks! That would be far too easy for her. Her plan is to simply continue running Cereus House – essentially managing the entire Night Court – while carrying a child, lying in after giving birth, and then raising a child.”

Marco frowned. “That does seem…complicated. I assume this is with Waldermar?” Aliks’s love affair with the Mandrake adept was the worst kept secret in all of Terre d’Ange. Nevertheless, everyone pretended it was a secret.

Petrea nodded. “I have no idea what her plans are for his involvement. Who knows where this child would live? I assume here.”

She waved her hand. “The whole thing is simply preposterous. The ripple effects of the Dowayne of Cereus House having a child with an adept of another House are too many to even begin to list. And she accuses me of scandal.”

Ramiro nodded sagely and continued his ministrations.

The trio sat in silence for a moment. Neither man knew which scandal Petrea referred to; both secretly suspected it was the one he had caused.

It was Ramiro who finally spoke first. “Marco, word about town is our lady has taken a new Tiberian patron. She has been seen with Crescens Emerentius. Perhaps you have some competition, eh?”

Marco chuckled, toying with a lock of Petrea’s hair. “Ah yes, I know the man. He’s here with his sister, to present her to King Gustav in hopes to marry her off.”

Petrea groaned. “He is one of the most arrogant men I have ever encountered!
It takes every bit of my extensive training to get through the assignations. Of course, I have dealt with men of ego, but this is beyond the pale. He cannot stop talking about himself and his accomplishments – how much he has done in such a short time. Oh how, it is tiresome! Not one that, but he seems to believe that he can impress me with the names of people he has met while visiting here in the City! I must bite my tongue not to retort that I have had half of them in my bed!” She paused and poked Ramiro with her free foot. “I am trusting you two with private information.”

In fact, she trusted that none of this would stay private, what with Ramiro gossiping worse than any new adept. She wanted this to get out. Petrea knew that information about Crescens’s sister, Aurea, was scarce and rare information is always valuable. Petrea knew from Marco that Aurea was proud; she would likely not appreciate insults to her brother and would want to confront the person starting them. If Petrea could draw Aurea to her, so much the better. If nothing else, knowing the Second of Cereus thought poorly of someone would close other doors in the Night Court to him…and keep him away from her. Perhaps deflate his overly large ego.

Marco barked out a laugh. “That would fit with what I have seen of him. His father is well liked enough, but the little I know of Crescens? I would not have picked him to accompany Aurea. Let us just say that he does nothing to bolster her chances.”

“Aurea seems rather quiet, does she not?” Ramiro asked.

Petrea frowned. “She has been seen out and about and does the appropriate amount of socializing, but nothing more. She certainly has not visited the Night Court. Yet.”

“Yet? You have plans to change this?” Marco teased, pulling her closer and placing a kiss on her brow.

Petrea shrugged and gave him her most innocent smile. “Mayhaps.”

Ramiro put her foot on his thigh and motioned for her to give him her other foot, which she did. “Ah, Ramiro, you could make your marque at Balm House.”

“I think that would be quite boring,” he responded.

“Balm House is nice for a night, but there are more preferable Houses.” Marco grinned at him.

“Ramiro, have you had a chance to make the acquaintance of Évrard de Bretel? He spends much of his time in the Gaming Room at the Palace and I understand that you have been given apartments there,” Marco mentioned.

Ramiro brightened. “Beautiful accommodations! And yes, I have met Lord Bretel. Wonderful fellow. We have traded much money over dice. I believe he is engaged in a new love affair.”

“His family invests significant funds in various trading enterprises. I have worked with them often. Évrard always has a story to tell about someone, knows everything. He is most interesting,” Marco explained.

Petrea knew Lord Bretel well; she had used him as a contact many times to keep up with the gossip of the City. She wondered if Évrard had been in contact with Aurea Emerentius. If nothing else, he would have tried. She would have to ply him for information at their next assignation.

Ramiro’s hands had moved up to knead the muscles in her calf. Petrea let out a soft sigh of contentment. Absent-mindedly, Marco trailed his fingers up and down her hip as their conversation continued. Petrea could feel her attention waning. Trade, politics…much though she tried, she could not seem to focus on these topics much longer.

She felt her eyelids begin to grow heavy and the men’s voices seemed to fall away. “I am bored of this,” she said abruptly, untangling herself from Marco and Ramiro and standing.

The two men stopped talking and looked at her.

She looked slowly, deliberately, from one to the other.

“I am going to bed. You are more than welcome to sit by the fire and continue your business conversation, but I am finished here.”

She snatched her skirts and stalked off towards her bedroom.

Marco and Ramiro looked at each other, stunned. What had just happened?

After a momentary pause, Marco gave Ramiro a broad smile and gestured towards Petrea’s departing figure.

“Shall we?”

Ramiro grinned devilishly. “Oh yes. We shall.”

Storyline: Counting Cards

The dinner with Aliks had left Nik stunned. He knew none of them were as young as they once were and he had fond memories of his first introductions to the City of Elua and to society, but the plain fact was that they were all slowly getting older. Nik had inherited the County what, three years past now? The family was in a fine state, but things were changing. He had thrown his weight behind the Courtesan and her relationship with the Crown Prince… well, he was King now and still no closer to being wed. That was why Nik had started frequenting the Hall of Games again. The gossip was far better there and there were far more people there willing to lose money for no good reason.

He found himself at a table of younger Namarrese lordlings who were already well into their cups when he sat down. No challenge in taking their coin, but he wasn’t really there for that. He needed news. He wanted his finger back on the pulse of the Court. There were no rumors yet about the Longest Night; his friendship with Aliks ensured that he’d had an invitation to the fete at Cereus House. Perhaps he’d lose that good fortune once she retired? If she retired. Though, he couldn’t conceive of a Dowayne remaining in office when one was considering a permanent relationship with another, be they adept or no. He was close enough with Petrea and had come to know Aimee. Well, whatever would be would be.

Distracted, he found himself losing a few hands at plaques. He frowned, realizing there’d been another person who joined the table after him. Focusing, he realized there was a grinning face across the table from him. As he moved back to the present, the name of the person came back to him as well.

“Michel nò Bryony… I thought you’d moved back to Eisande!”

“I had, my Lord, but with the Longest Night coming up, my Dowayne asked if I’d make a special trip back. Even though I’ve completed my marque, Rachelle wanted her best people available for the gambling.”

Niklos nodded in response, a wry grin on his face. “Well, that explains why I’m down twenty sovereigns right now. I think I’ll cut my losses. Can I interest you in a drink?”

He stood, Michel rising as well, and they headed toward the bar. Niklos noted a number of eyes following him, curious, until Michel leaned in to comment to him. “There’s a book open on you, my Lord. More than one, actually. One is regarding whether you’ll serve as Sun Prince again, with this likely being the current Cereus Dowayne’s final year heading her House. The other, however, is if you’ll ever marry. I think there are a number of ladies looking to be winners in that bet.”

Storyline: An Old Friend’s Advice

It was shortly after sun set when Dowayne Aliksandria’s carriage arrived at the Shahrizai town house. The hostler took charge of her carriage, horses, and driver while a servant with downcast eyes led her in to the dining room.

Dinner was amazing, as always. Each course more delicious than the last. And the company – well how does one describe dinner with a dear friend? Aliks had known Count Niklos Shahrizai for many years. They met when she was still making her marque. She had been cast as the Winter Queen in the Longest Night Masque the same year he was selected to be the Sun Prince. Later, he contracted her as a patron and their friendship had never faded.

“My lord, please send my compliments to your chef.” She said, dabbing her lips with the silk napkin.

“And your usual marriage proposal?’ he asked with a smirk, gesturing a servant to deliver the message.

“Not this time, my lord.”

“Oh?’ he said, his eyebrows raising a bit, “Was the dinner not as good as usual?’

“Oh no, if anything she appears to have out done herself yet again, but there is something I wish to discuss with you that may affect my ability to wed.”

“I am intrigued.”

“My lord,” she began, “you and I have known each other a great many years and I would like to think that, as such, we have developed a certain familiarity with each other, In that vein, I would ask if I may speak frankly with you this evening?”

“Aliks, please, say what it is you wish to say, you know we don’t suffer on pretense betwixt us.”

She smiled, looked down, took a deep breath then began, “I have been, for some time, engaging in a clandestine affair with Waldemar nó Mandrake.”

Count Niklos nearly choked on the wine he was drinking as the laughter took hold of him, “That is the least clandestine of affairs my lady.”

“Well, that may be true, but I have to at least pretend it’s a secret. After all, what would it look like for the Dowayne of Cereus House to be going to Mandrake to be tied up and whipped?” she said indignantly.

“I trust that’s not all you do there,” he said with a smirk.

“Well, as it happens, Waldemar has asked me to light a candle to Eisheth.”

“Hence no marriage proposal,” he noted.

“Exactly.”

“Congratulations.”

“I haven’t said yes,” she replied.

“Is it your intention to say no?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, I wanted to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

“I think it matters not what I have to say, but what you want, my dear. But since you asked, I think you will make an amazing mother. Elua knows you’ve raised enough adepts in Cereus House. But in all the time we’ve known each other, I’ve never heard you express any interest in children of your own.”

“Both of those things are true and I worry about if and how my life would change once I had a child. I have worked very hard to get where I am. I do not wish to give it up.”

“A lady can do both,” he pointed out.

“But can this lady?”

“This lady stood up to the City Judiciary. I don’t know if there is aught this lady cannot do.”

Storyline: A D’Angeline Desire

Corrian de Borlean knew she had a reputation. To be perfectly frank, she kind of enjoyed it. When she was younger and of age to play the courtship game, she had shied away from it and spent as much time at her father’s country estate as possible, only going to Court when required to by her mother. After her mother’s passing, her father had stopped pushing the issue all together, which gave Corrian plenty of time and space to bed every eligible maid and lad in the county village, plus several ineligible ones to boot.

Time, however, had continued to pass, and what was amusing for an 18-year-old lady, her father found annoying in his 27-year-old unmarried daughter. If she had her own way, she would never have married, and would have continued to find her pleasures in any bed she chose. But her father was all she had left and she would do anything for him, which is how she found herself in the Hall of Games at the palace trying to flirt and compete with girls a decade her junior. She needed a husband, her father had said, but she would not play devoted wife to just anyone.

The gossip in the Hall of Games was her favorite part. This courtier talked of that courtier’s dalliance, all while the first was eyeing a married lady across the room. It nearly shocked her when the topic turned to the King. “His Majesty needs a wife. It is said that his personal assistant is assessing possible candidates as we speak.”

“Oh? Why is it that there is a rush to wed the King?” she asked, trying to play coy, but genuinely interested.

“Wy, the business of Odilia, of course. If the King weds a noble lady, then it will put to bed the rumors he intends to wed his mistress,” said the plump lord next to her, a Monsire Valles.

“I wouldn’t wish to marry him,” said the lady next to him. “To go into a marriage knowing one’s husband has a mistress already? No it’s too much.”

Corrian laughed to herself. A husband with a mistress would be a fine thing. He would be less likely to scoff at his wife’s own dalliances. It had just been a passing thought, truly, but as the night wore on she kept circling back to it. The King was not so much younger than her, so her age would likely be less of an issue. Oh, the idea sat well with her, and by the time she retired to her quarters in the palace she had decided, she would pursue the King.

The ladies who were openly vying for the King’s affections were obvious and dull. If she tried to get his attention that way she would be lost in the crowd. No, she needed to find a different strategy, and what better way to learn what the king likes then to go the her in the first place. So Corrian made an appointment at Dahlia House with Odilia, herself.

Jocaste encouraged Odilia to take the appointment. Lady Corrian de Borlean was not a woman known to be a vicious gossip or noble keen on advancing at any cost. The rumors of Lady de Borlean was that she was a true connoisseur of Naamah’s delights and, so, an assignation with her could be just what Odilia needed to return to herself again.

Odilia sent her acceptance, as well as a date and time, and prepared herself for that duty to which she had devoted her life – Naamah’s Service.

When she arrived, Lady de Borlean would be presented to the salon for rest and refreshment among the younger adepts and other guests of the House. Only once she was relaxed and comfortable, enjoying the music and atmosphere of the elegant Dahlia salon, would Odilia approach her personally.

And when she did make her move, it was with her head held high – upright and unbending – as she greeted her guest.

“Lady Corrian de Borlean. Welcome to Dahlia House.”

Storyline: A Secret Liaison

The tiny room was dark and stuffy, but Marion Basilisque didn’t care. It could have been on fire for all she cared. What she cared about was that Évrad had grabbed her around the waist and pushed her inside, shoving her against a wall and pressing himself against her back as he did so. It was utterly unexpected and utterly thrilling.

She was quite in love with Évrard de Bretel and, when he had suddenly grabbed her hand and dragged her away from their lunch in the salon and dragged her down the hall, searching – desperately, it had appeared – for the smallest, most inconspicuous room, she had no idea what was happened, but couldn’t wait to find out.

She tried to speak, but he shushed her, his breath tickling the nape of her neck and causing her to shiver.

“Wait…” he murmured.

For what?

After a moment, he chuckled quietly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear. “I just had to get you out of there.”

“Wha- what?” she stumbled to form words.

He pressed his forehead into her hair and sighed.

She held her breath waiting for his answer. He wanted her alone!

“I simply could not listen to Oudine prattle any longer. She chatters on like a chipmunk; although a chipmunk would probably have more interesting things to say. I do not know how you stand to be in her presence as much as you do.”

Marion was confused. Why was he talking about Oudine? What did she have to do with anything? Certainly, their hostess, Oudine de Fhirze, thought she was the center of the world, but Évrad rarely did. If anything, he did his level best to brush her aside at every opportunity.

“Évrad, whatever is going on?” she whispered.

“Oh! Forgive me, Marion.” His voice was gentle. “I must have scared you, grabbing you as I did. That was unkind of me. I saw an opportunity to escape her loathsome presence, so I took it!”

He dropped his hands and stepped back. A wave of disappointment rolled through her. He had not wanted to be alone with her; he simply wanted to get away from Oudine. She should have known.

“Évrad, forgive me.” She cleared her throat, gathered her dignity, and turned around. “But, if you simply wished to be free of Oudine, why did you not leave? Why have you dragged me into this closet like I am a broom?”

She swore she could hear him smile in the darkness.

“You had started to tell me some news of – what is her name – Aurelia? Aurea? From Tiberium. I wanted to rest of the story,” he whispered excitedly.

Silently, she chastised herself for not knowing better. Of course. Gossip. She had begun to tell Évrad about Leonia Emerentius Secunda, the senator’s daughter, but had been interrupted by Oudine raving about foreigners invading and the need for strong D’Angeline rulers. She had gone to yell at a servant and Évrad had taken the chance to pull Marion from the salon.

He took a step forward; his forehead bumped hers. “So, what news? You always tell me the best things, dear.”

Marion ducked her head. His face was too close.

“Um, well, I have heard a few things being said in the Night Court,” she muttered.

Évrad huffed a quiet laugh against her cheek. “Ah, yes, I hear you have been spending much time at the Night Court of late. A special adept there, perhaps?”

Marion bit her lip. She wanted to scream and pound his chest. No, there was no special adept! She went to the Night Court to distract herself from him! And now here he was, quite literally within her grasp. And yet, she had not the courage to reach for him.

She shook her head, causing his lips to brush against her earlobe. She shivered. Pure torture.

“No, um, no one special. Just, uh, as you are aware, a good, um, place for entertainment.”

Through the closed door, they heard Oudine screeching down the hall. “Évrad! Marion! Where are you?! Did you leave?!” She sounded both angry and sad.

Évrad sighed and leaned his cheek against Marion’s temple, continuing their whispered conversation. “Tell me quickly, so we can get back to Her Imperiousness. It will be unpleasant no matter what, but I fear the longer we are gone, the more she will whine.”

“Er, yes. You are probably right,” Marion agreed, desperately distracted by the feel of him against her, the touch of his arm against her shoulder, his leg brushing into her skirts.

She cleared her throat, trying to compose herself. “Um, so, yes, Leonia. Well, her father, in addition to, um, being a senator, is a trader in, um, fine goods. He has been, uh, doing much business with the, um, Cereus Second’s lover, Marco. At least, according to the adepts at, er, Balm House. She, uh, is here with her brother Crescens, I think his name is. He has taken to visiting the Night Court and leaving Leonia in the care of her maids. I, um, have not heard of her visiting – ”

“Ah, so she is not indulging in the D’Angeline culture as her brother is?”

“Not that, um, I have heard.”

“Hmm…interesting. I suppose it is not too late for me to call on her, then,” he whispered wryly.

“Oh, Évrad, do not cause trouble for this poor girl!” Marion’s heart squeezed, as it did every time he spoke of another woman. “Aurea is here to meet the king. She cannot – “

“Why does everyone keep calling her Aurea when her name is Leonia? It is not a proper nickname,” Évrad interrupted. “That bit confuses me.”

“Really? Don’t you speak Tiberian?” Marion was surprised. Évrad was highly educated.

He shook his head and she felt goosebumps on her arms as his nose tickled her hair.

“It’s her hair,” she whispered quickly. “She…she has golden hair – “

“Are you cold, Marion?” he interrupted again.

“What?”

“Are you cold? You have goosebumps on your arms and you keep shivering.”

He started to rub her arms as if to warm her up.

Her mind went blank.

“I wonder what I could find out about this brother at the Night Court…” Évrad was now murmuring not to Marion, but to himself. But he was doing it against her throat. And she was in agony.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Évrad, lost in thoughts of sniffing out gossip, did not notice that she had shifted, or that his face was pressed into her throat as he absently rubbed her arms.

She thought that perhaps this was what the Valerian adepts and the Mandrake patrons felt, the co-mingling of pleasure and pain. For while she stood there in absolute bliss, her heart ached. Évrad was her friend and nothing more, she reminded herself. She would never have the courage to advance their relationship or confess her feelings to him and she was certain that he did not share her feelings.

His breath was hot on her neck. Her heart pounded and she held her breath. Perhaps if she stood perfectly still, she could hold this moment forever.

“ÉVRAD! MARION!” Oudine’s screeches from down the hall broke Marion’s reverie, causing her to gasp.

Évrad froze.

“We have to get out of here,” he whispered against her skin.

“No!” Marion’s voice was desperate.

“What?”

He paused. “You said no. She is going to find us. She is going to start opening doors soon. This is not going to be pretty, Marion.”

“I, um, I, er, well,” she stammered, her mind racing.

The moment was broken. It was over. But neither of them was moving. Marion was still pressed against the wall and Évrad was still rubbing her arms, his mouth at the crook of her neck.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she thought she felt him lean into her. But she wasn’t sure. Well, surely he wasn’t. And Évrad would never…

And then.

Then he pressed his lips to her shoulder in what could only be described as a kiss.

Marion was frozen, her blood roaring in her ears. Even in his drunkest moments, he had never kissed her. Even in his drunkest moments, he held to a line. He had just crossed that line.

He did it again. A feather-light kiss pressed to her shoulder.

She shivered hard.

“Still cold?” he murmured.

“No,” she breathed.

He chuckled. “I didn’t think so.”

“Évrad, please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Please, please don’t, don’t tease me.” She was practically in tears, her voice full of panic. “Just, just, please don’t. I could not bear – “

He grasped her face in his hands and stroked her cheeks with his thumbs.

“I would never tease you, Marion.”

His lips found hers in the darkness and he pulled her in for a deep, passionate kiss.

For as many times as Marion had dreamed about kissing Évrad, the flesh and blood man still left her breathless and dizzy.

He pulled away and she let out a deep breath that she did not realize she had been holding. He leaned his forehead against hers and sighed contentedly.

“I have been wanting to do that for some time now,” he admitted, wrapping his arms around her waist.

He had?

“I think about kissing you every time we go to Night’s Doorstep.”

He did?

She could not think of a response, so, instead, she kissed him. Lightly at first, brushing her lips over his. She needed to prove to herself that this was real. She couldn’t help but tug his lip between her teeth and then everything changed. It wasn’t passionate or sensuous; it was a kiss of desperation, of need; full of every ounce of longing and heartache. She knit her fingers through his hair and dug her nails into his scalp.

“Please don’t draw blood, love,” he whispered. “At least, not here.”

“Oh! Évrad! I am so sorry!” Marion drew away quickly, taken aback and embarrassed by her own boldness.

“Come back here,” he chuckled, his hands drawing her hips against him. “I only meant to imply that a head injury will be even more awkward to explain to your awful friend. I did not mean to say that you should stop.”

“Oh.”

In response to that, he bit her earlobe.

Marion’s back slammed against the wall as her knees turned to jelly. Évrad chuckled and licked her collarbone, his body pressing into her. Her head spun and she fisted his shirt, holding on for dear life as she gasped for air.

“I would not hold on to that if I were you, my darling.” Évrad placed gentle kisses along her throat. “I do not think I will be wearing it in a moment.”

Her heart was pounding so loudly that she swore the entire household could hear it.
She pressed a hard kiss to his lips. He kissed her back with equal fervor, his breath growing ragged.

From down the hallway came the screeching shouts of Oudine.

“She’s getting closer,” Marion whispered desperately.

“Then we had best move this along.” Évrad reached for the laces on her bodice. “I’ll try not to rip anything..”

Oudine stalked the house, calling for her friends. It had been nearly an hour since she had left them in the salon, only to return and find the room empty. She was furious that they had deserted her. The servants had not seen them leave and Marion’s carriage and Évrad’s horse were still at the estate, so they were somewhere in the house. But what had happened? Where had they run off to? Why had they left her?

“ÉVRAD! MARION! WHERE ARE YOU?! I KNOW YOU BOTH ARE STILL IN THIS HOUSE!” she shouted.

From down another hallway she heard Marion’s cheerful voice.

“Coming Oudine! We’re here!”

She stomped towards Marion’s voice, her face thunderous. Why had they been avoiding her for so long, especially when she was such a good hostess?

Upon seeing them, Oudine’s anger drained and she burst out laughing.

Marion’s hair was a mess and Évrad’s shirt was rumpled.

Oudine gave her friend a sly look. “Oh, I see. I leave you two alone for one moment and he drags you off for a little romp, Marion? Well, I suppose he was bound to get around to you sooner or later.”

Marion and Évrad exchanged a glance.

Évrad began to speak, but Oudine waved a dismissive hand.

“It is all right, Évrad. We both know how you operate. Well, Marion, I hope this got him out of your system. Perhaps, now you can stop mooning over him. I was growing so tired of hearing about it. But, really, it was awfully rude of you two to run off like that and leave me. I was in the middle of a conversation and you just left.”

Oudine had turned and was sauntering back towards the salon where the three had been lunching, not noticing that her friends were not following.

Évrad grinned wickedly at Marion and took her hand. “Oh, Oudine!” he called after her. “I do apologize, but Marion and I will be leaving now.”

Oudine turned and gave him a quizzical look. “Well, whyever would you be doing that? We were not finished with our lunch and Marion and I have plans this afternoon.”

“You must excuse us, but I have just made other plans for Marion this afternoon. You see, she may have gotten me out of her system with one small dalliance, but, well, ” He looked at Marion and his eyes glittered. “I am just going to need more than that.”

For the first time in her life, Oudine was speechless.

Storyline: Gossip in the Gaming Room

The click of dice and the slap of cards intermingled with the shout of triumphs, groans of defeat, and murmurs of conversation in the palace hall. Nobles young and old gathered around gaming tables to entertain themselves, to gossip and flirt, and to see and be seen in each other’s prestigious company.

A small group sat at a corner table, ostensibly playing a hand of Knave and Fool, but the game had not progressed in hours. Lord Évrard de Bretel absently swirled in wine in his goblet, his eyes scanning the room, searching for something, anything, to hold his attention because his opponent certainly wasn’t. He turned and glanced down at the stack of coins in front of him on the table, then up at the woman who sat across from him. She sighed and gave him a bored look.

“Why are we still sitting here?” she whined. “We aren’t playing and I don’t even like this game! You said we would only be here for a few minutes to mingle and we’ve been here for hours, Évrad! Hours! I’m so bored I could scream.”

Lady Oudine de Fhirze was known as something of beauty, but her pinched brows and angry pout ruined the image she worked so hard to maintain. Oudine was also known well as something of a spoiled brat, an image she need not work to maintain. She came from a family of wealthy vintners in Namarre and her father had doted on her for her entire life, giving her anything and everything she asked for. As a result, she expected everyone else to do the same. She surrounded herself with only the richest and most influential young people in the City – like Évrad and the other young lady who shared their space.

Marion Basilisque was completely oblivious to her friends’ bickering as she sat, her back to the wall, her eyes fixed on a beautiful towheaded woman sitting at a table across the room.

“Isn’t she just the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen?” she sighed.

“What? Who?” Évrad asked, looking around, completely confused.

“The young Tiberian girl!” She pointed toward the blonde. “The one with the famed golden hair! You know her; she is one who has come to be presented to the King!”

Marion lowered her voice and looked and gave her friends a conspiratorial look. “I have heard about the city that, among the ladies coming here, she could be the most likely to win the King’s hand.”

Oudine rolled her eyes and snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, Marion. She’s a senator’s daughter. She’s a commoner. She may be gentle on the eyes, but Queen of Terre d’Ange? What a preposterous notion.” She raised her voice, then continued pertly. “No foreign woman would make a suitable Queen.”

It was no secret that Oudine and her family supported King Gustav taking a D’Angeline bride and Oudine took every opportunity to reinforce this opinion.

“Must you go on like this every single time someone brings up these suitresses? It’s tiring,” Évrad glared at her. He didn’t care much who the King wed, so long as it took plenty of time, giving him much to discuss amongst his friends.

“It’s just not appropriate for all of..” she waved her hand vaguely at the room, “..them to come and parade themselves in front of our king like a bunch of sheep before a shepherd.”

“I don’t know why you care so much. It’s not as though any of this affects you,” Évrad pointed out. He swallowed the wine in his goblet and motioned for a passing servant to bring him another.

Oudine tossed her hair and gave him an arch look. “There’s just no reason for the King to take a foreign bride. There are plenty of perfectly respectable D’Angeline noblewomen who would make far better queens. And it’s not like Terre d’Ange needs alliances. A marriage to some foreign girl would just lead to meddling in D’Angeline affairs by some other country.”

Évrad gave her a wry grin. “Respectable D’Angeline noblewomen, hm? Offering yourself up, Oudine? Think you’d make a good queen, eh?”

Oudine scoffed. “Well, I would certainly be better than what’s coming in from across the borders. Not that I would want to be queen. It’s far too much work. Besides,” she reached across the table and smiled condescendingly at Évrad, “when would I have time for my friends?”

Marion had stopped paying attention as soon as Oudine had begun her rant and gone back to gazing at the Tiberian girl. Marion didn’t particularly like Oudine, but being seen with her opened doors to Marion that might have otherwise been closed. Plus, when Oudine grew tired of fancy clothes and baubles, Marion was all too happy to scoop them up.

Évrad tapped Marion on the hand with a card, grabbing her attention. “So, dear, what is it that you have heard about this Tiberian lovely? Should I go and introduce myself?” He waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

“Oh Évrad, you’ve ‘introduced yourself’ to half the men and women in Terre D’Ange. Must you be crossing the borders, too?” Marion giggled. “Besides, I don’t think it would wise to have a liaison with one of the most rakish men in the City of Elua when you have come to be presented to the King as a potential bride.”

Oudine made a disgusted sound.

“Come now Oudine, we’ll go over together. I’ll introduce myself to the young lady; we’ll all go off and you can…entertain her gentlemen escorts.” He winked. “You are so skillful at entertaining the local gentlemen. I’m sure Tiberian men would appreciate those same talents.”

Oudine’s jaw dropped. “Évrad, you pig! How could you suggest such a thing?!” She snapped open her fan and furiously fanned her face.

Évrad turned away from teasing Oudine. He knew he could only push her so far before she would throw a tantrum and ruin the whole afternoon. He didn’t particularly like Oudine, but Marion somehow picked up the best tidbits of gossip and Marion was always tagging along behind Oudine. Why that was, he could not fathom.

“So, Marion, the Tiberian girl?”

“Well, I don’t actually know much about her, but you know I will!”

He gave her a pointed look. “Marion, love, you know I depend on you for my best morsels of information.”

Marion touched his hand. “Oh Évrad, don’t worry. I have much else to tell you.”

“Yes? Well, don’t hold back.”

Her eyes shone with excitement. “When I was last home, my family was housing the Skaldi girl – Gisilia, I think her name is – and her delegation. And Évrad, you won’t believe this – she’s traveling with birds! Birds, Évrad! It’s like something from a carnival!”

“BIRDS?!” Oudine screeched, her voice so loud that several people turned to see what the commotion was. She noticed and cleared her throat before continuing at a more normal, though still high volume. “What is she, a circus performer? Perhaps she’s a falconer? I suppose a falconer would at least be useful. Perhaps she is not here to wed the King, but one of his stablehands?” She laughed loudly at her own joke.

“That’s quite enough, Oudine,” Évrad snapped at her. “You are being cruel and it’s uncalled for.”

“No, I’m not,” she continued primly. “I’m being honest. I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking, but is afraid to say. We don’t need a foreign queen. We need a D’Angeline queen. Perhaps King Gustav could marry his Dahlia lover, hmm? Has anyone thought of that?”

In fact, many had not only thought of it, they had whispered about it. Many had wondered – and whispered – what would happen to Odilia once the king wed, particularly if he took a foreign queen who was not familiar with D’Angeline ways?

Évrad turned back to Marion, who, as usual, had shrunk into herself when Oudine grew bombastic.

“So, this Skaldi girl, eh?”

Marion immediately perked up. She was a little in love with Évrad and preened at his attention. “Well, aside from her…pets…she is traveling with two quite large, formidable men. They seem to be, perhaps, soldiers of some type? It’s difficult to tell with the Skaldi; the men all look fearsome to me.”

“Savages,” Oudine muttered, sipping her wine.

Marion ignored her and continued. “She seemed kind, I suppose. She was very quiet, very polite. More than anything, though, it felt very much as though she simply did not want to be here. I almost felt sorry for her.”

Oudine opened her mouth to speak but Évrad held up a finger to stop her. “Don’t start, Oudine. We all know how you feel about the Skaldi and how much you would agree that this young lady doesn’t belong here. No need to say it yet again.”

Oudine harrumphed. “Well, at least this whatsername and I can agree on something. Besides, aren’t there Skaldi men who need wives?”

“I’m sure there are many Skaldi men who need wives. I bet you would make a perfect Skaldi bride. After all, you do love draping yourself in fur in the winter,” Évrad countered acidly, then quickly turned his attention back to Marion before Oudine could start ranting again.

“Anything else? You must share everything with me.” His eyes sparkled and her heart melted.

“Um, well,” she tried to think. Évrad loved gossip, so she listened for even the tiniest rumor she could find, just to have an excuse to talk to him.

“Well, as I said, it would appear that she has come at the strong urging of someone else and, if she had her own way, she would have stayed in Skaldia with her, um, animals.” She said the last word quietly, so as not to set Oudine off on another tirade.

“You traveled with her from Camlach, yes? Did you get to know her?” Évrad was greedy for gossip like a child for sweets and Marion was desperate to feed him.

Marion shook her head. “No, I only met up with her for a day or so. I do not think her to be meek, however much she is here against her wishes.”

Her paused and her face suddenly lit up. “Oh! I almost forgot! It is said that she could be the great granddaughter of Waldemar Selig, himself.”

At this Oudine gasped. “Waldemar Selig?” she hissed, leaning towards her friends. “The monster who almost destroyed our country? One of his descendents comes to wed our king?? This is another plot by the Skaldi to rule us!”

Évrad guffawed. “Oh Oudine, the conspiracies you imagine! A young lady, thrice removed from the man, is presented to our king in a legitimate offer of marriage, but it’s not, in truth, an offer of marriage, it’s a secret plot to undermine our government? How? Let me guess,” he sputtered through his laughter, “by birthing a half-Skaldi king? And then what? Marrying him off to another Skaldi girl? Until eventually, the entire D’Angeline royal line is just full Skaldi blood hundreds of years from now?”

Évrad wiped tears from his eyes and took a deep breath. He gave Oudine a sympathetic look.
“Oh, you dear girl. I do wonder sometimes how that mind of yours manages to get you through every day.”

Oudine sputtered. Marion covered her mouth to hide a giggle.

Évrad shook his head and stood up. He brushed off his trousers and straightened his jacket. “Ladies, we have been here far too long. I’m off to Night’s Doorstep, if you’d care to join me.”

Oudine pouted. She hated Night’s Doorstep.

“Night’s Doorstep?” she whined. “Why do we always have to go there? It’s dirty and foul-smelling!”

Marion touched Oudine on the arm gently. She had anticipated this turn of events and planned for it. “Don’t worry Oudine, I have an extra pomander you can use. We can peruse that jewelry stand you loved so much the last time.”

“Oh alright,” she relented. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind some more jewelry. I haven’t bought anything in a few days.”

Marion gave her a bright smile. She loved Night’s Doorstep. Évrad always underestimated the strength of the wine and became more and more affectionate the more he drank. He never seemed to remember anything the next day or, at least, he acted like he didn’t. But Marion remembered.

Évrad clapped his hands. “Let’s not dally, ladies! I’m sure there is someone at The Cockerel who has news of these suitresses! And someone who has that delicious tsingani wine!”

He winked at Marion and held out his hand to her. She blushed as he led her out of the gaming room. Oudine trailed behind them, her grumbles and complaints following the group through the hall.

Storyline: Gisila and Her Birds

Gisila sat quietly on a cut log in front of a fire, struggling to enjoy her last night before entering the D’Angeline capital. She wasn’t from the wilds by any means, but she’d never seen this many people in one place. Even at this distance, she thought she could hear a murmur carried on the wind, though that could be just her nerves. So many people gathered together, were any of them going to be friendly? Would she be in danger? When she’d set out, or been sent out as it were, she’d insisted on the smallest number of warriors to accompany her, taking only the two men of the men that guarded her. Not only did she want to be received kindly by the King of the D’Angelines, she was accustomed to largely being left to her own pursuits so she needed the time on the journey to get mentally prepared for what lay before her.

She reached up and touched the feathers on the breast of her pet crow, Agnetta, her fingers looking for the familiar softness. The bird turned and preened a strand of Gisila’s dark hair, the feeling soothing Gisila a bit. Of all her birds, Agnetta was one of the most special. As though they could hear her thoughts, the birds she’d insisted on traveling with stirred in their woven cages, breaking her reverie and stirring her to action. She went to check on them, moving through the motions of their care almost without thought.

There were only three cages attached to the wagon, and they held the birds that Gisila couldn’t stand to leave to the care of others. Two of them held birds that were going to be released as soon as their injuries were healed, but one contained a young magpie that she had found after a storm sitting on her steps. The bird had been so young it didn’t even have the most rudimentary of flight feathers so she’d taken it in. She was worried that it wouldn’t be able to be free or happy so she insisted on taking it. The bird stirred a little under her gentle touch, ate as she handed it food and remembered when she’d left.

“Gisila! You are going as a delegate and potential suitor to the King,” her grandmother Ishild had said sternly, emphasizing her words with thumps of her staff on the wooden floor. “You have to represent us well, girl, leave the birds at home!”

A different woman would’ve immediately bowed to the matriarch’s wishes but despite her quiet nature, Gisila was stubborn. Arguments about her beloved birds were not new.

She spoke firmly and evenly, her quiet voice carrying easily, “I am The Blackbird, not taking them would be dishonest. We are Skaldi, the cold doesn’t care for pleasantries and lies. They should see me for who I am or not see me at all.”

The two women stared at each other silently for a long moment before Ishild nodded and said, “Good, girl. I will pass along to the chief that you will leave in a week.”

“Is it still struggling?” a voice said quietly near her, making her turn head to see Gebhard, the older of her two companions, standing near her. Despite being known as Widowmaker, Gebhard had a gentleness about him that helped put Gisila at ease. He was unmarried and if people whispered that he had a lover in the warriors’ barracks, they were wise enough to do it where he couldn’t hear them.

“Yes, she’s just not doing as well as I wanted. The finches and red-breast will be ready to be free again in a week or so but this little thing,” she furrowed her brow for a moment, “I just am not sure what she’s missing.”

Gebhard nodded, “Companionship maybe?”

Gisila sighed, “You’re likely right. None of us are meant to be alone, are we?”