Blog – Longest Night Midwinter Masque

Storyline: A Careful Handling

“Do we know when Etienne will go off to join his beloved Kusheline Lord and leave us to fend for ourselves?” Tryphosa Katseros nó Valerian was lying on a long settee, a sheaf of papers in one hand and a glass of cool white wine in the other. Said papers were reports on the latest class of novices within the House, their progress in various lessons, and areas of improvement noted by the tutors.

“Autumn, from what he has told me,” Rosanna replied from across the room. They lounged in the apartment of the Second going over the minute details of running an old and respected establishment. When the public imagined the Court of Night Blooming Flowers, they did not imagine courtesans reviewing lesson plans and tallying expenses, but without such work, all the pleasures they were known for would simply not happen.

“I imagine he hopes to attend the Masque with his lord. A rather romantic way to exit one chapter of life and open the next.” With a sigh, Tryphosa dropped her reports to lay a hand over her heart and posed in a rather dramatic manner.

“And here I thought I was the romantic one.” If the private collection of love stories arranged by author across more than a few shelves was anything to go by.

“Well yes, but you’re not galavanting off to a castle for an early retirement.” Tryphosa propped herself up on one arm and rolled her dark eyes. “Not that Etienne doesn’t deserve his happy ending of course.”

“Of course.”

A soothing kind of silence fell across the two friends. Old friends too. When Tryphosa first came to Terre D’Ange as a child, under the tender age of ten, her family had aspirations of making their fortunes in the trade of Hellenic wares. Successful merchants with an eye for beauty, they had done well for themselves in their homeland before taking the risk to expand abroad. It was almost by accident that their daughter came into contact with the Servants of Namaah. During a festival she became separated from her parents and was found by a priest of the angelic patroness and cared for until the family reunited in the temple. Apparently, the young girl had made an impression with her own appreciation for beautiful things and having easily taken a nap at the feet of a sacred statue. Being slightly older than the usual age of recruitment, there was some concern about the order making an offer for her marque, but the deal was eventually made. It seemed almost fated.

Meanwhile, Rosanna had always yearned to worship Naamah through the honor and esteem of the ancient Houses in the capital. It was not as common for the children of a comte to take the oath and foster to become a courtesan, but having learned to read on histories of famous lovers and patrons, she had been determined. Nothing pleased a young Rosanna more than to read and re-read the tales of her heroine, the anguissette Phèdre. It was her grandfather who saw in her the makings of a courtesan, as his own dear wife—who had passed before their final grandchild was born—had been a lay servant of Naamah. None of his own children or any other grandchildren, of which he had many, had followed in her footsteps. Once more, it seemed the divine had a guiding hand in her fate too.

When first she met Tryphosa, her fellow novice was still learning the ways of the city. Fascinated by stories of her upbringing in Hellas, young Rosanna desperately wanted to be friends. In turn, the Hellene girl found not only a compatriot in Valerian House but a patient ear to listen as she adjusted to her second new home. Together, they learned more than either expected during their tutoring years.

Older than them, and assigned as a mentor was Etienne, who took the girls under his proverbial wings with his infectious delight. Add in their favorite companion in Mandrake, and the group was as thick as thieves. For years. Now all that was about to change, for the better to be sure, but change nonetheless.

“It is…bittersweet,” Tryphosa said at last.

“The best sort of sweet,” Rosanna replied softly.

“I’m going to miss him, fiercely so. Yet I am happy for him, too. He is in love. That is the greatest gift any D’Angeline could hope for. And if he did not step down, we would still be waiting in the wings for our chance to lead the House. It’s like the changing of seasons, fresh beginnings and times fading.”

Rosanna smiled over at her friend. “You are rather in a poetic mood. Should I call for an Eglantine to take down your verses?”

Tryphosa waved her off and took a long sip of her wine. “I’m trying to honor the past whilst being excited for the future. Let me have my moment in the sun.”

Speaking of suns, or rather sons and the passing of one leader onto the next, something came to the mind of the Dowayne to-be: the dauphin, the new dauphin. Although a much different circumstance, he too was transitioning from one chapter in life to another, one of leadership and high expectation. Having been born into a noble lineage, Rosanna had long ago been taught to keep a sharp eye on the goings on of the royal family. She had visited the palace and even their hunting lodge as a girl several times, always with a member of her own family. More often than not, one in specific.

“Grandfather knew the old king. He told me…he told me much of what he thought of him. Wrote to me when he passed into the Terre D’Ange beyond this life. As he did with the elder prince, may Elua watch over him now. What do you think of the new dauphin?” Turning to her fellow courtesan, she watched for any little tells that would reveal what lips might not.

“Hard to say, he’s been away for so long at his studies, I don’t think many of us have a clear idea of what he’s like. Especially since he’s only ever visited us once, for a Showing rather than an assignation. The same at Mandrake. His older brother went through the Mont with his friends, in full, as so many young nobles do, from the very top at Cereus House to the edge of Night’s Doorstep. At least then we knew in which direction the elder prince’s desires pointed. That spoke much about his own person and philosophies. But Prince Gustav? He is a stranger to us.”

A very true statement. Much could be deciphered of a patron based upon which house they visited and with whom they spent the night. Royalty did not often come to them anyway, not since King Imriel, at least. The royal family did not have the injection of Kushiel’s lineage as he did and not nearly as much now two generations later.

Nodding to herself, Tryphosa turned to her companion and asked the same of her. “And what does the Dowayne-to-be think of him?”

Now it was Rosanna’s turn to think. Standing, she went to the chilled bottle of white wine they had in a cask, kept cool by ice harvested in the cold house, and topped up her glass.

“By the accounts I have heard from—and I have my ways as you know—he seems to be kind, more of a lover than a fighter. Untested perhaps, but we all were at some point. I think he has been cruelly thrown into something he was not in any way prepared for, and so must be feeling so unsteady. However…I think he has potential.”

“There is much in those words coming from your own sudden change of life as there is reflection in our dauphin, I think,” Tryphosa said and held out her glass for more as well. Crossing the room, Rosana poured the remainder of the bottle for her friend.

“Although far more tragic in his case, there just might be. I could prepare every day for the rest of my life, and I am not sure I will ever be fully ready to manage Valerian House. There will always be some circumstances I will not account for. Angels willing, I will perform diligently and do our house proud. Yet, the weight on my shoulders will always remain.” Sighing, the courtesan who began life as the baby sister of a noble Eisandine family sat next to her unlikely friend and they toasted one another quietly.

“You will not be alone in this, I will be there every step of the way. We can plan our own way to mark the ascension of a dauphin. Leave our mark with a memorable soiree, what say you?” A sparkle was in the eyes of the soon to be Second. Often they had discussed themes and scenes, ways to mark Mara’s Eve, all manner of holidays and festive occasions. Now they finally had the chance to expand on those day dreams and make them reality.

“You wish to recreate the night with the King of Persis, don’t you?” Rosanna asked, a mischievous gleam in her own gaze.

“Perhaps. I shan’t say until I know where you stand on the matter.” Tryphosa winked. Taking a sip of her wine, she laid back at ease once more, now that the heaviest of topics was at last spoken aloud between them. “I cannot wait to tell our friends in Mandrake about the changing of the guard, to steal a phrase from the soldier boy I see every so often.” Tryphosa giggled rather like a novice girl learning her first chapters in their lascivious manuals. “Oh we will have to plan some sort of celebration, don’t you think?”

“We are to keep our ascension quiet until Etienne makes his own announcement,” Rosanna reminded her, and Tryphosa pouted. “None of that. We are to be discrete in this, as we are in all things. I agree, we shall have a farewell for our darling Etienne and something for us too. But not until all in readiness. Patience is key, my friend, it makes the anticipation all the greater.”

Storyline: Fate and Fortune Tossed

The bay horse danced impatiently under its rider as he drew the animal to a stop at the crest of the hill. Head tossing and black mane flaring, it tugged on the reins, wanting to run. This easy, measured pace of traveling was not nearly exciting enough for the horse, nor its rider.

“Take heart, friends,” Maël de Rocaille called back to his travelling companions. “We have made the river!”

The two other riders picked their way along the trail, reining their horses to a stop beside their friend, as together they looked down at the lush banks of the Aviline River flowing patiently onward toward the sea.

“A welcome sight,” Sebastien L’Envers said, flexing his hand in his riding glove to stretch the cramped muscles that had been holding the reins. His dark eyes scanned the rest of the hills before them, picking out traces of paths that would make the passage easier. “From here we turn north, follow the river, and soon enough we will get you home.”

The third rider did not share his companions’ pleasure in seeing the river. They had been skirting the southern edge of the central mountains and plateaus for ten days, and it would be another ten days of travel through the river valley before they would see the gates of the capital city. He wished it were another month of travel. He had no desire to return to the city, not after the news had come. He had requested the longer journey through the lowlands around the southern edge of the highlands instead of cutting across the mountains and plateaus, trying to buy himself as much time as he could. But he could not delay forever.

His mother’s letter, tucked into the breast of his simple jerkin, was well worn from countless rereadings of her perfect penmanship. But the artful swirls of her calligraphy did not make the words any sweeter.

From Her Majesty by the Grace of Elua, Sovereign of Terre d’Ange, Queen Anielle de la Courcel to His Royal Highness, Prince Gustav de la Courcel.

My son,

Ever do those who bear the responsibility of leadership have to carry the burdens of the people they lead without choice but to sacrifice the needs of their heart and emotion for the strength to caretake the needs of the many. I wish I could write to you with the warmth and comfort of a mother and offer assurances that all will be well. But I must set those desires aside in favor of the strength of the crown that calls me to duty first.

The Dauphin, Daniel de la Courcel, heir to my throne and crown, has passed to the True Terre d’Ange That Lies Beyond, waiting for us to join him when it is our time. The plague has taken much from all of us and left those behind to deal with the unexpected and uncertain future. Your country needs you, Prince Gustav, to rise to take the place left by our fallen Dauphin. As you are the second-born of my children, the responsibility of the royal succession now falls to you.

Return to the City of Elua at once. It is time to take your place as Dauphin and prepare for your future as King of Terre d’Ange when my time is finished. The country needs you, you cannot fail them. We will speak of duties, responsibilities, and what you must learn from me when you return to the palace.

Signed,

Your mother, Anielle de la Courcel

The death of his brother was enough to bear on its own but to now face a future he never thought would come to him? He had enjoyed his years at the Rocaille University, studying whatever he wanted to study, expanding his education and knowledge of whatever caught his interest. He had made friends there, real friendships not borne of ambitious hunger or empty flattery. And in an instant, with one letter, it had all changed. The entire trajectory of his life was altered.

“Gustav?”

He came back to himself and looked up at his friends. There was a look of concern on Sebastien L’Envers’s handsome face, the purple in his eyes dark as the wine-dark sea. Maël kept his seat as his horse danced, but there was a quiet sadness in his hazel eyes. The world had changed around them, these three young men, and what they had to help them navigate it right now was each other.

“We’re with you in this, Gustav,” Sebastien said softly.

“You will one day be our king,” Maël said, stroking his gloved hand soothingly down his horse’s neck. “But we started as friends. Good friends. That will not change.”

Setting heels to their horses’ flanks, the three noblemen cantered down the hill to turn up the river, back to where the City of Elua waited for them.

Storyline: Enter a Rose

During the height of the plague, the only persons allowed to move from home to home, or any other building, were the chirurgeons. Not even worship to pray for the sick was permitted in the temples for fear of spreading the illness. As soon as the terrible quarantine period ended, however, well, the message carriers had never been so busy nor so rich as worried families and friends across Terre D’Ange wrote to find how their loved ones were doing.

Rosanna, Second of Valerian House, was no different, as she nearly instantly began to write letters to each of her seven siblings, her parents, grandfather, and close friends. Once each and every letter was blotted, dried, sealed in wax, and handed off to a trusted messenger, she made her way to the temple district.

“I will return by sundown,” she told her fellow courtesans as she drew on a light cloak for the chill that still hung in the air.

A day at prayer was the very first thing on her mind when the news came of the plague at last being over. Offerings to Blessed Elua and His Companions needed to be left at each altar.

As though a terrible illness was not enough to send the country into upheaval, the disease took from them the Dauphin as well. It was as though the earth was shaking under them when the city criers brought the news to the people. So much tragedy in so little time. As none were taking assignations during the period of mourning, she elected to spend that time in the presence of the divine.

One temple after another found her paying the merchants for incense, fruit, and all manner of libations for the holy shrines. And once within, she knelt in prayer and meditation. Always a devout soul, there was never a feast she missed or a holy day not given its proper due. Now more than ever was a time to reconnect with the divine, something her fellows on Mont Nuit knew very well about her. Ensconced alone at the shrines to every angel and Blessed Elua, she gave up her offerings and knelt in respect at their statues.

She prayed for the royal family, for those who lost loved ones these past months, for the guidance of the angels in the year ahead. By the end of the circuit, which was by no means short, Rosanna felt lighter. More at peace and actually looking forward to whatever the future held. Ready to return to the Mont and her duties.

By sunset she was home again, and not a moment too soon, as the Dowayne was apparently waiting for her. Tapping his foot impatiently, the tall man with a halo of deceptively innocent curls looked to a clock and muttered what had to be some colorful language under his breath. Etienne was wholly devoted to the order and to Namaah and Kushiel, but he was more exuberant than she. In the most endearing of ways. Upon seeing her, his entire demeanor changed as he rushed forward to greet her. The cloak on her shoulders had barely been removed by the time he got to her.

“Rosie! You now come with me, we do not have all night!”

Without further ado, the Dowayne took hold of her by the arm and proceeded to pull her down through the house and to his office. As the Second of Valerian House she was by this point very used to such displays of excitement and only waved at her fellows as they rushed by. Poor Tyrphosa, her good friend, was nearly run over in the process but by the look on her face she was more than used to Etienne’s shenanigans too.

Into the office up on the second floor they went, the door shutting behind them. Folding her cloak over one arm, she watched as her mentor rushed about the room to pour them each a glass of wine. Oh, so it was one of those conversations.

“What is on your mind, Etienne?” she asked as he finally placed the silver cup in her hand.

“Only everything! Really, Rosie, you should know that by now.” He sniffed and took a healthy drink of the red he’d chosen for this meeting. “But you’ve been away at prayer all day, leaving me to wait until we could speak! When I have so much to say!”

“You know I take my place as a Servant of Naamah very seriously. The prayers are needed right now,” was her reply before taking a sip as well. Like all the food and drink served at the House this bottle was excellent. From her father’s estate, too, she recognized the blend quite easily. Now why would Etienne choose this wine? That could not be a mistake.

“Of course, I know that. But I’ve been hearing the most recent news here at home, and you must know!”

“Well, do not keep me waiting then.”

Leaning in, the anxious Dowayne began regaling her with the rumors flying out of Cereus House. Walls talk, and servants even more so. It would seem that after their own Dowayne passed sadly of the plague—Elua rest his soul—the new head of House was singular in her reign. Word had it that she had summoned one of the senior courtesans to her.

“Which one?” Rosanna asked, curious herself. Whoever was chosen would be her peer, another second in command of one of the most ancient institutions of their land.

“I think her name is Petrea. I’ve got my own eyes and ears working because I will not be the last to know just what is happening up there,” Etienne replied and pointed in the vague direction of Cereus House situated at the top of the Mont.

“Heaven forbid.”

“Precisely!” Another drink of the blended red. Shaking his head, curls fluttering almost like feathers, the Dowayne stood up a little straighter now, a look of contemplation on his face. “Geraunt’s passing has also given me reason to think. To consider what more I can offer Valerian House. And what might be out there for me outside of our walls. Especially as the futures of no few Houses are now in flux.” He gave her a knowing look.

“What do you mean to do?” Rosanna inquired carefully.

“You know I have been corresponding of late with an old patron?” Slowly walking the width of the office, Etienne held his silver goblet in one hand and brushed along the trinkets gathered on the desk and various shelves with the other.

Rosanna nodded. They had known one another for some time, her friend and his patron. A lord from the north, he had been called back years ago when his father unexpectedly passed away and left him sole heir to a seaside manor. Despite the distance, the two never seemed to forget one another and she had never seen her Dowayne so excited to read a letter as the day that first missive arrived.

“He has asked if I would ever consider joining him at his home. An estate in Kusheth. As companion, with a place already made for me in both bed and inheritance should he pass before me, but I try not to think about that last part too much,” he said with a small sort of smile.

“Do you mean to take him up on his princely offer?” The hands gripping her goblet tightened. Not with fear but with concern and anticipation.

“I want to, very much so,” he replied with a nod. “Which means, sweet Rosie, that I will be passing my torch to you. Do you think you are ready?”

For a long moment she did not speak. How could she when the moment she had been working toward all her life had finally arrived? At such a tumultuous time, too! Suddenly she did not feel as light as she had upon leaving the temple district, and yet, she was not overwhelmed so much as excited and full of nerves. Assuming command of Valerian House would be the greatest honor of her life, the most impactful responsibility she would ever shoulder.

Something deep down told her that with so much tragedy and change occurring in their world, this was simply one more spinning of the wheel. It was her turn to do what she could for the people and service she loved so deeply.

“I would name Tryphosa as my Second.”

Etienne barked out a laugh. “Trust you to already have the administration figured out before you accept the job!”

Crossing the room, he pulled her into a one-armed embrace and giggled into her red hair. She returned the hold just as affectionately. “Does Tryphosa know of her impending promotion?”

“She will when I tell her!”

Laughing again, Etienne grabbed the bottle of wine and topped up their cups. “I will gladly drink to that!”

Storyline: Complications of Devotion

The plague that had ravaged the land had somehow spared Heliotrope House. Despite his illness, their beloved Dowayne Olivier Mathan nó Heliotrope had not fallen ill, their ranks were not much diminished, and the handful of babes born had all lived. Every day, Second Philomena Desiderio nó Heliotrope led a handful of Adepts and Novices to the shrines of Elua and Eisheth, aiding the priests in keeping them clean, and leaving their own offerings.

Heliotrope was blessed beyond measure.

Mena stretched carefully, her back aching from having been hunched over her desk since breakfast. There was so much paperwork, more than normal. With her grandfather, the Dowayne, needing to rest, more of his duties were falling to her. At least this batch of orders – requests for visits from Patrons, requests for Adepts, official correspondence from the doctor’s guild, and messages from other Houses – had been handled. She understood why the Dowayne had designated a network of Adepts to help run the House. It was too much for one person. However, that network was attached to his time as Dowayne and, as his successor, she would have to decide how she wanted to run the House and who she wanted to aid her. To that end, all the paperwork was on her desk in the Official Second’s office, and she felt like she was going to be buried under it.

The breeze carried a slight warmth that said spring was right around the corner. While not her favorite season, it was still a welcome change after the brutality of both the past winter and the plague. Mena wished she was able to get out in the fresh air, she wished she had a Patron lined up, she wished for many things, few of them within her reach today. She sighed deeply and stood, stretching her arms over her head for a more vigorous stretch. There was a polite knock at her half open door, followed by the smiling face of her friend Vouloir.

“Oh good, you’re already taking a break,” Vouloir said with a smile.

Mena laughed and said, “Better than that, Loir, I’m caught up for the day.”

Loir grinned back and came all the way into the room, “Really? That stack from this morning was massive. I can’t wait until I’m able to actually help you.”

“You’re almost there, once your Marque is half-finished, I can start training you.”

Loir smiled, “And if Lord and Lady de’Marr keep being generous, that will be before the Masque.”

Mena snorted, “Knowing you and them, you’ll be there before summer solstice on the outside.”

Throwing her head back in a loud, honest laugh, Loir said, “That may be true, we’ll see what Naamah has to say about it, I suppose.” She shook her head, her smile taking on a gentle air, “I came in here for two reasons; first, Olivier has asked for you to come up and Lord Montaban sent word, he’ll be around for your dinner.”

Mena smiled, “Good for him, I suppose, that I don’t already have a patron for the evening. Please have my room aired out and the table reset. I’ll see him in there, of course. And see if we’ve any more of that apple wine I like, I cannot stand to drink the red he brings. It’s bitter.”

Loir nodded, “Of course. If you’ve time, you should come by the main salon in between. Dara has the first version of her ball toss game set up.”

“Ooh, I hope I have time, I’m excited to see what she’s come up with. Elua knows we need all the fun and cheer we can get.”

Olivier’s rooms were on the first floor, though it hadn’t always been. Three years prior, he’d fallen off his horse and broken his hip, so the chirurgeon had insisted that his rooms be moved to the ground floor. While he’d made a full recovery and even gone back to riding, his rooms remained where they’d been moved. Mena made her way to the familiar door and knocked three times, just as she always had.

“Come in,” she heard her grandfather say and she pushed the door open with a smile.

Olivier was seated on his sofa near the fire, his feet tucked up under one of the many blankets her late grandmother had made. As his health declined, he left these rooms less and less, though he always made it a point to get out of the bed.

Also seated on the sofa, with Olivier’s feet in his lap was Laurent, the Marquis de Clair of Namarre, her grandfather’s long time lover. He’d been spending more and more time in the House, particularly after he’d been forced to stay when the plague was considered so dangerous that they’d been told to remain indoors.

“Granpère, Laurent, you sent for me?” She took her usual seat on the ottoman in front of the sofa and smiled at the two of them. Mena loved Laurent, he’d always been kind and gentle with her.

“I sent for you, child, Laurent is just here to be attractive, as usual,” Olivier said with nothing but fondness in his tone.

“My deepest apologies, esteemed and dearest grandfather,” she replied with a barely restrained laugh and a half bow.

“Tch,” her grandfather said, reaching out with firm but gentle hands to hold her face, “Why are you so much like me?”

“Lucky is what I’ve always been told,” she quickly replied, “Grandmother always said it was for the best, since your son-“

“Is a disgrace, yes, yes, I know what she said,” he cut in, a little irritation evident in his tone, “If I hadn’t been there when the candle was lit, I would say he was no son of mine, but alas, we have to play with the hand we were dealt.”

Mena smiled, taking Olivier’s hand in her own and saying, “Granpère, I doubt you sent for me to complain about my parentage-“

“Half of it, don’t malign Chrysanthe like that. She’s not cruel, just delicate,” he cut in with a smile.

“Half of my parentage. You can do that with just Laurent, you don’t need me for that.” She finished with a smile.

“I never need you, Mena, I just want you around. However, you are correct. My doctor came around earlier, as I know you are aware.”

Mena felt her heart fly into her throat. Her grandfather’s doctor was a specialist in the wasting sickness that was ravaging his formerly strong body and would steal him from her. She at times hated the man for existing, though she also lit private candles in thanks that he did. Shoving all that back down and schooling her face into one of calm, she said, “I did, sir. What did he say?”

Olivier smiled at her, his eyes brimming with love and sympathy, and she knew that he saw through her. As always. He didn’t comment on what he saw, instead he just answered her question. “When the last risk of blizzard passes, he says it’s time for me to go to Laurent’s home.”

The heart in her throat stopped and dropped like a stone to her feet. She knew what that meant, it meant that the doctor and her grandfather agreed that he had deteriorated to the point where he needed a quieter environment, away from prying eyes, to prepare to meet Elua.

She felt tears flood her eyes, cascading down her cheeks before she had time to think. “If-if you’re sure, Granpère. What-” her voice broke, and she looked into her lap seeing her tears falling onto her dress. “What do you need me to do?”

“Oh my sweet Mena, nothing,” Laurent finally spoke, his gentle voice seeping between Mena and Olivier, soothing over their hurt like warm velvet. “I will handle all the arrangements and I’ll send my carriage for you once the move is complete. You have my word.”

She nodded and reached blindly for his hand, “Thank you, Laurent. It means the world to me to know you’ll be there.”

Olivier gave her hand a squeeze before lifting her chin up again so she had no choice but to look into his warm brown eyes. “Sweet girl, remember to stay this soft, no matter what happens. Elua and Naamah saw fit to bless you with this, never forget that.”

She nodded and said shakily, “I will. For you, I will.”

His face got stern for a moment, “No, for you you will. You deserve it. Save those tears though, I am not gone to Elua yet, Philomena, I am right here with you and what do we say of tears?”

They swam in her eyes, obscuring his face, but she nodded firmly. “That they are only for those that deserve them, for those that value us like Naamah and Elua demand for us.”

“Good girl,” the shape that she knew to be Olivier said, his voice starting to get raspy, “Now, I hear that Lord Montaban is coming to see you?”

She nodded, “He is but he should know his place, he’s not the most important man in my life.”

That pulled a loud, full body laugh from Olivier, that unfortunately started a coughing fit. “Oh, child!” He said when he had coughed into his handkerchief and she’d studiously acted like she didn’t see the blood left behind. “Get out of this old man’s room! Go attend to your patron before he rises even further above his station.”

Mena stood and gave a small, wry curtsy, feeling a smile start, “As you command, my lord Dowayne.”

Luckily she was used to Olivier and fast, she had the door closed before the small pillow he threw at her hit it with a thump. She stood in self-indulgence at the door for another minute, listening to her grandfather’s laugh, trying to burn it into her memory. Lord Montaban could wait.

The fact that Mena beat Kyrie to dinner was not astonishing. He was notoriously late and even more arrogant about it. Sometimes she wondered why she continued to take him as a Patron. To be honest, these days it was most of the time that she wondered why she still saw him. The honest answer was that she’d been seeing him for most of her time as an Adept.

As she lit the candles around the small dining room, she remembered the first day he’d come to Heliotrope. He was older than her, twenty-seven to her sixteen, and was attending one of her grandfather’s parties. Despite the years that had passed, she could still remember the weight of his gaze on her as she’d moved through the party attendees. Once she’d made her way to him, he kept her captive all night, telling her at great length how he was a Lord from Azzalle, a distant relative of the Trevalion family; how he was supposed to be making his way through the Houses as was befitting his station, but she’d entranced him so he’d abandoned his companions to stay; how his elder brothers had all died in accidents or fallen to illness, so he was now the next in line to inherit his family’s lands and title. At the time, she’d known he was boasting to impress her, that relation to the Trevalion family wasn’t something to just tell people. But part of her training had been to learn to hang on a Patron’s every word, to make them feel like they were the most important person to you at that moment. Kyrie had lapped it up like a dog with broth.

“Hello, pet. You’re looking particularly lovely tonight,” his voice broke through her thoughts and she looked up to see Kyrie leaning on the doorframe, looking her up and down.

Her face broke into a habitual smile and she went to greet him, “Kyrie, you came.”

She knew the dance he wanted as well as she knew her own hands. Crafting the illusion that he was the only thing on her mind now, and ever, was as easy as breathing. Her subservience to him was a lie she slipped into as easily as she slipped into his embrace for a kiss.

Kyrie was an artless kisser, though it had taken her several years of other Patrons to realize how the way he covered her lips with his mouth, the way his tongue moved, and the spit he left behind was so below standard. It made part of her angry, he’d been seeing at least her, a fully trained Adept, for well over a decade, and yet he still kissed with less skill than the young man she’d seen three days ago who was brought to Heliotrope for his first proper taste of Naamah’s Arts.

“Ah, pet,” he said when he pulled away, “I see you missed your Lord.”

“Of course. You’ve not been to see me in several days, Lord Kyrie. I was beginning to think that someone else had stolen your affections from me,” she said, taking his hands to lead him to the table, a pout in her voice. The same way she’d talked to him when she was a new Adept and she’d not had her choice of Patrons.

He smiled wolfishly, his handsome mask slipping slightly as he let himself be tugged to the table, taking his seat before she took hers. “Now, pet, what have I told you?”

“That no one is above me in your eyes,” she repeated back easily as she poured the wine, his always first, her second.

The door to the room opened and Loir came in, pushing a cart laden with their dinner. Another thing Kyrie was particular about: once his coat had been taken, he refused to see any more servants, Adepts and Novices brought what he needed. His airs grated, but he’d been a regular even during the Plague when the House had needed it. Things were returning to normal now, but Lord Pierre Kyrian de Montaban, a minor Earl of Azzalle, was a situation they all just flawlessly navigated out of pure habit.

Mena would be lying if she didn’t say she stopped paying full attention to Kyrie in the middle of the first course. His stories were always the same, full of his prowess and downplaying the contributions of others. He didn’t really care for her input, that wasn’t her place with him. All he wanted was a pretty face to hang on his every word and she was quite good at that. Little did he know that she’d already heard of this particular story, only the factual version. Yes, there was a negotiation that involved all the lords of Azzalle so yes, he had been in attendance. Yes, he had offered an idea that had been ultimately taken into the terms, but after so much adjustment that it was a far-reach to say it was the same idea. ‘I really need to start refusing his visits,’ she thought while she nodded and smiled at something he said, ‘He’s served his purpose and it is time, particularly at his age, that he find a wife and make a new heir. I wonder—‘

“—when we wed,” she heard him say, his words suddenly drawing all of her attention.

”When we what, Kyrie?” She said, hoping that she had misheard him.

“Silly pet with her pretty head in the clouds,” he said, leaning forward and taking her hand. “I said that I would be sure to send my parents to a comfortable residence in Caerdicca Unitas when we wed.”

“But why on earth—“ she started to say, only to be cut off.

“Because, silly girl, there’s only room for one woman in the Montaban Household and it is my wife.”

She felt like her brain was underwater, struggling for the surface. Luckily, her mouth seemed to work just fine, “Certainly it would be the Earl’s wife?” She managed to say without stammering.

Kyrie snorted, a loud and rude sound, “I suppose so, but as I am to be Earl, it will be you.”

“But Kyrie, surely your parents—“

“Philomena,” he said, sternly giving her hands a squeeze just past comfortable, “As the man of the house, what I say will go and my parents will go quietly as they are instructed if they know what’s good for them.”

Mena’s poor brain caught up with her mouth in time to stop further commentary. She just nodded, smiled at him in the way she knew he liked and had a sip of her wine. Kyrie started talking again and she fell back into the pattern quickly. Her mind however would now not stop. ‘If they know what’s good for them?’ She felt the cold hand of horror on the back of her neck and promised herself she would start refusing his visits sooner rather than later.

Storyline: Watering the Garden

Aimee walked elegantly to the back garden of Cereus House. As she made her way past one of the novice lectures being led by a fellow adept, she heard the instructions on the subject of poise and composure and to use the senior adepts as examples in order to learn the art. Little did the instructor know that Aimee, one of the most senior adepts, was a roiling, festering pool of rage beneath her statuesque expression and gliding stride. Having reached her sanctuary, a small alcove hidden from the rest of the garden by lush greenery, she finally allowed her training to fall away. Hot, silent tears streamed down Aimee’s cheeks as she sat and tried to soothe the hurt in her chest. Pondering the events of the past few months, she tried to lay everything out dispassionately.

Aliksandra had asked for space and time away from their affair to adjust when she had ascended to Dowayne, and Aimee gave it gladly. With the lack of a Second, Aimee and Petrea had stepped up to fill the gap until an appointment could be made, as was to be expected. Except, Aimee had not taken an assignation in over a month and hadn’t even left the grounds of Cereus for anything outside of official House business in over two. All the while Petrea had spent more time at Orchis than at Cereus!

Aimee took a deep shuddering breath and breathed it out slowly. “You’re winding yourself up again,” she said to herself.

While the Orchis situation did bother her, it would be unfair to Petrea to make anything of it. Petrea completed all of her duties before going and upon returning to Cereus, she always attacked any new dilemma with fervor. It was the small, unforeseen, unscheduled problems of the day-to-day at Cereus House that were causing such havoc. Because once there was a problem, everyone went running to the most senior adept present, and with Petrea at Orchis and Aliks cloistered with paperwork and imminently important House affairs that required the Dowayne, Aimee was the one desperately trying to keep the place together.

And to ice the cake, Aliksandra had just told her that Petrea was to be the new Second.

Fresh tears welled up in Aimee’s eyes, as the past months’ toll manifested upon her face. Before Aliks’ ascension, Aimee knew that it would be Petrea selected, it had to be. Aimee was young for a senior adept much less a Second, and Petrea had far better connections outside of Cereus with the upper echelon throughout the city. But Aimee had done well keeping everything running. Hadn’t she?

Even with Petrea sharing some of the duties, Aimee was the one making sure that effortless perfection of Cereus House graced the Night Court night after night. Wasn’t she?

Feelings of abandonment surged once again inside her, having become a familiar companion in recent months. Taking a final fortifying breath, Aimee stood, and willed the silver of Cereus House into her spine and rebuilt the loveliness that she had embodied since childhood. Reminding herself as she made her way out of the garden that while “All loveliness fades,” so does everything else as well. Time brings changes and how one reacts to them defines whether that change will be good or ill. And Aimee would forswear Naamah herself before leaving Aliks or Petrea to face those changes alone.

Storyline: Choosing a Cereus Second

Aliks was sitting at her desk when Petrea walked in. The mountain of paperwork had not diminished, but she had just barely managed to keep it from growing. When Petrea walked in, Aliks motioned for her to take a seat on the chaise.

“I appreciate you coming so quickly,” Aliks began.

“Of course.” Petrea nodded.

“As I am sure you know, Cereus House needs a Second. We simply cannot go on as we have the last few weeks without one, and it is my duty to name my Second and successor.”

Petrea nodded carefully. She knew this was coming, and yet, she was not sure which way the wind would blow, nor which way she hoped it would.

“Petrea, we have known each other for a very long time, and I feel I can be quite frank with you. You have recently been engaging in behavior somewhat, how can I say this, wild for a Cereus adept. Your time spent at Orchis House seems to bring you joy, but it concerns me as well. The Second of Cereus House must represent the House by my side. So, I would ask you to please alleviate my reservations as I am naming you Second of Cereus House.”

Petrea gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She found tears filling her eyes.

Aliks looked at her, stunned. “This is not the reaction I had expected of you.”

Petrea could do nothing but throw herself into her friend’s arms. The chair squeaked under the weight of both women. Aliks patted her friend’s back and then pushed her away gently. She looked at Petrea’s watery eyes, and found herself utterly confused.

“Petrea, what in Blessed Elua’s name has gotten into you?” Her shock was evident, though her voice was quiet.

Petrea sat back on the chaise and wiped at the tears that spilled onto her cheeks. “Yes, well…” she began. She cleared her throat and started anew. “I…” She paused again, looking around the room, gathering her thoughts. “These past weeks have been difficult for me. I have felt, well, lost since the death of Geraunt. I feel my years are catching up with me, and I have been wondering what I am supposed to be doing with myself. I have been melancholy, full of sorrow, perhaps not just for Geraunt, but mayhaps for myself, as well. For my youth. I have been, well, I think I have been drowning my sorrows, as it were.”

They shared a rueful chuckle at this. “I think one could argue that point, my love,” Aliks scolded gently. “But, as I have said, if I am to name you as my Second, I must be able to trust that you can fulfill the duties of the office. And they are not small, nor few. Are you up to this challenge?”

Petrea’s eyes glimmered with hope. “I am! More than certainly I am! This gives me…a purpose I fear I have been lacking. I know that much work goes into being a Second, and I know that you will need to depend on me. And I swear to you, on the names of Blessed Elua and Naamah themselves, I will not let you down.” Her voice had grown with determination as she spoke.

Aliks reached over and took her friend’s hand. “I trust that you will not. Now that that matter is settled, I have your first task.”

Storyline: Petrea’s Concern

The passing of the Dowayne of Cereus House had affected Petrea nó Cereus, an adept of Cereus House, in ways that she had not expected. Something about the death of someone who had been a constant presence in her life for most of her life was causing her to question her own mortality. She was passing four decades, and every time she passed a mirror, the face reflected in it reminded her of the canon of her house: All Loveliness Fades.

She felt in her bones her loveliness fading. The lines at the corners of her eyes and lips. The sag of her skin. The rounding of her belly. And was it her imagination, or were patrons’ eyes skipping over her more often? Was she losing the favor of those seeking beauty? Her skills as a Servant of Naamah had certainly not dulled in her years. If nothing, her experience only improved her ability to entertain and pleasure those who sought her company! Perhaps it was only her mind playing tricks.

So it was that Petrea found herself more often at her place of refuge: Orchis House. An odd choice some might think for a Cereus, but over the years, Petrea had developed a close friendship with the Orchis Second, Santiago. Where Cereus House was a place of decorum, there was nothing of decorum to be found at Orchis House—a breath of fresh air. And since the death of her Dowayne, Petrea had found herself more and more in need of air. And drink. She would slump into a carriage and trudge to the doors of Orchis. She would then be whisked into the house by either Santiago or Xixiliya, the Dowayne, with kisses and strong drink. Once inside, her dark mood would fade, and all thoughts of decay would float from her head.

It was on just such an evening that Petrea was deep in her cups, her feet propped on Xixiliya’s lap, her head lolling on Santiago’s shoulder, her gown half off (how that happened, she could not say), and her shoes…somewhere, that a perturbed messenger arrived from Cereus House.

The irritated man in Cereus livery, his hat askew, was brought into the salon by a grinning adept. “My lady Petrea,” the Orchis adept sing-songed. “You have a message. This adorable thing says it is terribly important.”

Petrea tried to sit up but succeeded only in falling to the floor in an undignified heap. Her face flamed as she looked up at the messenger. He wrinkled his nose at her and cleared his throat. She stood as gracefully as one can when having been plied with drink for many hours and smoothed her dress. She looked around for her shoes. She could not find them. They were in the room somewhere.

She brushed back her hair and gave the messenger a bland look. “Yes? What is this message that is so urgent it could not wait until morning? As I am sure you are aware, there are strict instructions that I am not to be disturbed here.”

The man had the decency to look slightly chastised, as he did know of Petrea’s habits. The former Second, now Dowayne, Aliksandria nó Cereus, was Petrea’s best friend and allowed Petrea her visits to Orchis House. Aliks was the one who gave the instructions to leave Petrea alone.

“Yes, well, my lady, you see,” he stammered.

Petrea sighed, her shoulders slumping. Clearly, her evening was over. She could feel her head clearing of the alcohol as the mantle of belonging to Cereus House dropped to her shoulders. “Please,” she said quietly. “What is the message?”

“Dowayne Aliksandria has requested that you return to the house. She must speak with you. Privately.”

“Oh.” It was all Petrea could think to say. She knew what this conversation was about.

Behind her, Santiago wrapped his arms around her. He rested his forehead at the nape of her neck. “It will be alright. Either way, it will be alright. And you can always come here. You know that,” he whispered softly.

While Santiago was one who never seemed to take anything seriously, he also knew when the time called for tenderness. And that was one of the things Petrea loved most about him. She turned and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Xixiliya appeared in front of Petrea with her shoes. The Dowayne slid them onto Petrea’s feet, giving her ankle a quick pat as she stood. “Go home and get this done. Then come back and tell us all about it.” She gave Petrea a wide grin and pinched her cheek. They smiled at each other.

Petrea turned to the messenger and gave a sharp nod of her chin. “Well, let us go then.”

She followed the gentleman to the Cereus carriage and stepped in. Settling back in the seat, she wiped a hand across her face. She knew this conversation with Aliks had been coming since the day of the old Dowayne’s death, and she wasn’t sure which way she wanted it to go.

Storyline: A New Dowayne’s Dilemma

Aliksandria nó Cereus sat behind a desk covered in papers and folios. She looked at the left most pile with some degree of satisfaction then looked at the right pile and groaned realizing it was still the taller of the two. She reached for the folio on top of the right pile and opened it. It contained invoices for the last month’s wine deliveries. She flipped through the third stack of papers and found the inventory for the wine, made sure the two documents corresponded, then signed the invoice and set it on the left stack.

It had been a month since Dowayne Geraunt nó Cereus had passed, taken away by the fever that ravaged the city, and even claimed the Crown Prince’s life. The funeral had been held with all due honors, and now Aliks was Dowayne of Cereus house. And as Dowayne, Aliks was swamped in paperwork.

This would only get easier, she mused to herself, once she named a Second. As it was, Aliks was trying to do both her old job as Second and her new job as Dowayne while relying on two of the senior adepts to catch the pieces that fell through. But this was no way to go on, the roles of Dowayne and Second were clearly defined and so done for a reason. It was a system that had worked very well for centuries, and this last month certainly showed her why it was needed.

The truth is that she had put it off for far too long. She only had two choices, the very senior adepts who were helping her now. But how does one choose between their two best friends? They had been through so much together. When she had been raised to Second, they were the only adepts to not change how they interacted with her. Many others had become distant due to her new authority, but not Petrea and Aimee.

Petrea was the older of the two, and she and Aliks had grown up together. She had come to Cereus House not long after Aliks had and they had gone through their training, schooling, and juvenile antics together. She was an exemplary adept and never failed to do what she was called on to do, but she had a penchant for wildness. She was one to push the very bounds of what was acceptable for a Cereus adept, and Aliks wondered if she would thrive or balk under the responsibility.

Aimee was younger, both Aliks and Petrea were sworn adepts when Aimee began her training, but she rose through the ranks well and quickly. Even though she had started years after them, Aimee had made her marque made less than a year after the older girls. She was graceful and exuded the air of Cereus House but was the shyer of the two, and Aliks wondered if she had the grit to handle the pressure.

The decision was made all the harder with the reality that Aliks had been having an affair with Aimee for the last six months. They had tried to keep it quiet, but nothing travels faster than gossip in the Night Court.

Aliks reached for another sheaf of paper, knowing a decision had to be made soon and with it she would likely hurt someone she cared about.

Storyline Reset: A Heavy Crown and a Heavier Heart

The events of the storyline have reset! Our characters are returned to the beginning of our story to live it again. Read on to set the scene for this year’s adventures!

It had been a terrible plague. It had come from seemingly nowhere, they had had such little warning from the countryside before it had come to the city and Queen Anielle de la Courcel had done the best she could to work with the chirurgeons, the parliament, and the guild assembly to do what they could to stop the spread of the plague.

But she could not stop it all, and so very many had died.

No parent should have to bury their child.

She mourned. No matter how heavy the crown was on her head, her heart was heavier. Her firstborn, her dear son Daniel…

A tear dripped from her lashes to drop onto the sash of the window where she stood in her mourning gown, looking out at the City of Elua sprawled out beneath the royal palace without really seeing the view. Daniel had been so loved, and she had taken great pains to make sure he was ready for the responsibility that would one day pass to him.

But now, he was interred in the family crypt, sleeping beside his ancestors, and his mother was left to pick up the pieces of her broken heart and look forward into an uncertain future.

She had another son, her darling Gustav. He was a sweet soul, kind and gentle. He had been born the “spare,” certainly, but she still loved him dearly, even if she hadn’t invested as much time in his schooling. Daniel had been the crown prince, Gustav would have had more freedom to do as he pleased in his life. But now…

She glanced down at the letter held in her hand. It was clinical and distant, it had to be. The Queen of Terre d’Ange was calling one of her subjects back to the city. Her second son had been sent to the university in Siovale years ago to study as he pleased, and he wrote dutiful letters every two weeks about his studies, his professors, and how he was applying himself to his courses, but she knew precious little of the young man he had become. Once, he had been a boy with bright blue eyes who sat on her lap and listened to the music the court musicians played for them. She remembered how he had run after the balls as the little family had enjoyed lawn bowling in the gardens. Gustav had idolised his older brother, and Daniel had endured his younger brother’s exuberance with loving patience that had shown Anielle he would have been a good king.

And now, she was sending a letter ordering her second son home. There needed to be a crown prince declared. The line of succession needed to be clear.

But she knew that when Gustav de la Courcel returned to the city, he would be a stranger to her.

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