Blog – Page 2 – Longest Night Midwinter Masque

La Gemme Charmant

Dotted sporadically along the great Rue Courcel were squares where the tree-lined boulevard opened into wider, pedestrian areas. Carriages and horses could still pass through, but there were areas paved with flat stones and cafés with tables and chairs where people could gather. To maintain a storefront in one of these squares was the dream of any shopkeeper in the City of Elua, and La Gemme Charmant was well-established. They were in no danger of losing business. The storefront was painted a deep, tasteful green to compliment the grey stone of the rest of the building, and the tall windows had clearly been recently cleaned. The lettering in the banner running above the door and windows was carefully done with a precise hand, the calligraphy a little old-fashioned but nonetheless tasteful.

It was the pride of the square. Perhaps they were not so neatly positioned or well-connected that they could boast patronage by the royal house itself, but most of the nobles that kept their townhouses on Rue Courcel came to La Gemme Charmant for quality and design. They had a legacy of excellence and both of the Master Jeweller’s children exemplified it—albeit in different ways.

The young man stood patiently at the door, his dark eyes watching as the carriage marked with the livery of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers came rolling to a stop in the square outside. His arms folded over his chest, he watched the footman offer a hand to help the passenger down as she disembarked with Night Court grace. The appearance of a Servant of Naamah was always of note to the citizens of the City of Elua, so the jeweller watched as heads turned and steps slowed to see the courtesan. She handled it with the casual acceptance and poise of all the Night Court trained, keeping her head high and her steps even as she crossed the square towards the jeweller’s shop, but the whispers that followed her would be impossible to miss.

The gentleman at the door gave her a small bow. “Welcome. Please step inside.”

The footman waited outside as the adept vanished with a swish into La Gemme Charmant, and it was only once the door had closed and the jeweller had brought the woman into the rooms further back from the windows that both of them let their masks crack. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he drew her close in a tight embrace as they held each other briefly, relaxing into the comfort and familiarity of each other. No matter what the Night Court had done for her when it took her, it hadn’t separated her heart completely from her family, and she held her brother tightly for a long moment.

“Alesander,” she exhaled into his shoulder, letting some of her tension go as she tightened her embrace before pulling back. Her dark eyes looked up into her brother’s dark eyes, and she asked, “How is Father?”

Alesander squeezed her hand before releasing it and saying, “His hands shake more and more every passing week. I am all but running the store myself.”

“The reputation of the work is still well-regarded,” she said, accompanying him to the back rooms of the store where the clients were served infused waters and fruits while they discussed design details. “I hear it. The adepts speak highly of the patron gifts they are given that come from here, and I see the patrons themselves wearing your designs. Even without Father’s hands, the reputation is secure.”

“I hear things, too, Odilia,” her brother said, sitting down with her. “Things I should have heard from your lips, not the gossips that think I cannot hear them while they peruse the jewels.”

To her credit, she did not deny it. She merely looked at him, accepting his words with the strength that Dahlia House had given her before she nodded slowly. “Yes, I should have told you.”

“The Dauphin, Odilia?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“We met during his Grand Tour at his majority.”

“Years, Odilia? Years, and you said nothing?”

“I did not think it would become anything. He was a patron for a night, like all the others. Then he sent me letters while he was at university.”

“Letters?”

“At first just simple correspondence about his classes, about how he was doing, how he missed the city but was coming to love the Siovale mountains. Then he wrote me poems and asked for my advice.”

“What replies were you sending that encouraged this?”

“He was a patron, Ales! I was maintaining the connection as all adepts are taught to do so that a patron may return!”

“And when he did, he kissed you at the Revelry for all to see! See and then gossip! Odilia, people are wondering.”

“People always wonder, certainly about royalty and certainly about Servants of Naamah.”

“But not so often the two together. You understand the implications this may have? What some people will use this to say?”

Her gaze sharpened on him. “What people?”

Alesander sighed heavily, rubbing his hand down his face. She turned toward him. “Ales, what have you heard?”

“Nothing,” he said wearily. “At least, not enough to know for sure. Yet…there are whispers. Some are…discontent with the influence someone like you may exert over the future King.”

“Someone like me?” She couldn’t quite keep the sting from her voice. “A Night Court adept? Or a commoner?”

“Either?” He shrugged helplessly. “Both? For all the great history the Night Court has, the power and beauty and glamor of it can cause as much resentment as admiration. And you, a common-born girl, rising so far as to have the Dauphin in your bed? It’s too much for some to take.”

“Who, Ales? Who is saying these things?”

A muscle worked in Alesander’s cheek before he admitted, “Jacques.”

“Uncle Jacques?” She clenched her hands in the fabric of her skirts. “How…? Why?”

“I don’t know, O. He’s soured, something has made him angry. He’s blaming you for it, for it all.”

“You have to stop him,” she said urgently. “Please, Ales, you have to talk to him. These kinds of whispers won’t be tolerated, not with Gustav poised to be crowned next year. He can’t risk the slander of it, his powerful friends won’t allow it. If Uncle Jacques stirs up too much trouble, then—”

“Does he love you, Odilia?”

She sat back slightly. “What?”

“Gustav de la Courcel, does he love you? Truly?”

“I don’t see why that’s relevant.”

“Love as thou wilt, Blessed Elua said.” Alesander stared hard into her eyes. “Is it love?”

“I’m not…sure.”

“If there’s one thing you always are, it’s sure. It’s why Dahlia took you. You were always confident and sure.”

She clenched her teeth so tightly they began to ache before she finally allowed herself to admit it quietly, “I think he does.”

Alesander nodded. It was no less than he expected. “You understand how that will change things, of course you do. You know better than him, I expect.”

“Which is why I know how badly this could go if Jacques isn’t handled delicately,” she said urgently. “Please, Ales, the last thing we need is for him to get too much attention or, Elua forbid, get the Judiciary involved. This cannot escalate. Please, help me.”

“He barely speaks to me anymore,” Alesander said bluntly. “Whatever grievance he has against you, he’s taking it out on me, too.” He rose to his feet, pulling back away from where she tried to grasp his hand, brushing out his trousers as he said quietly, “I’ll fetch your order for you. You’ll look beautiful in them.”

He withdrew into the back room where the finished orders were kept, and she closed her eyes against the sting of his words, sitting alone in the place that had once been her childhood home before everything had changed.

Season of Again

The sun rose in a clear blue sky on the 100th day after Olivier’s death. The time of official mourning had ended and seemed like the House took a deep breath. Servants, novices, and the children swept the House with brooms made of dried herbs and flowers, other servants took down the black curtains and threw open all the windows. Adepts shook out bedding, took down the black buntings that hung on the outside of the House, uncovered paintings, and talked animatedly about returning to their lives. Word of the sounds of conversations and uninhibited laughter coming from Heliotrope quickly spread around the City. Regular patrons made preparations to attend the House once the sun set.

Mena stood on her balcony and listened to her House, her family, bloom back to life. The first flowers had just sprung from the cold ground, and it seemed fitting. She smiled and for the first time in a long time, it came easily. While the death of her Grandpère had of course been a brutal blow, his illness and decline had been harder in a way. Now she stood alone, for now, at the head of Heliotrope and alone, always, in her blood family. Loir had told her of whispers that Belisario was scheming, that he’d been in Bryony’s library with a visitor who had arrived early in the morning when only the servants were awake and had left before lunch. Mena had a feeling that he was up to something but until she knew, he was of no concern to her.

The knock on her door drew her attention back to things that were her concern, and she crossed her room to the door. When Mena pulled it open, she saw the smiling face of Loir. “Good morning my friend!” She said, pushing her way past Mena into the room, her hands full of a tray with covered dishes and a stack of letters. “I hope our illustrious leader is ready for the day.”

Mena laughed quietly. “I am ready, but I am not illustrious. What do you have for me?”

Loir smiled and set the tray down on the low table Mena kept near her couch. “To me, you are always illustrious,” she laughed, taking the covers off the dishes. “Aevelline sent up your breakfast; porridge, meat, bread with jam; your coffee, and an extra slice of bread with jam. She said to tell you, ‘Philomena. You are getting thin, you’re not eating all I give you and I’m over it, eat!’” Loir did her best impression of their cook’s voice, making Mena laugh.

“I will do my best to eat better,” Mena said, sinking down onto her couch and pulling her robe around her. “I expected this loss, you know? I didn’t expect the loneliness that came with it.”

Loir sat next to her and handed her her bowl of porridge. “Eat while you talk.” The other woman leaned back on the couch, stretching languidly before gathering up her own robe. “I suppose that makes sense if you think about it. Taking care of Olivier and the House took all your time before, so you didn’t see patrons often, you certainly haven’t had a favorite in a long while.”

”Plus Kyrian,” Mena said between bites. Aevelliene’s food was incredible as always. “You’re right, I need to make the time to see patrons again. I can’t yet.” She gestured with her spoon at the paperwork that remained on the tray. “I am behind in this paperwork. Once that’s under control again, I’ll make myself available.”

Loir nodded and scooped up the papers. “I will also keep an eye out for someone for you. It’s my job as your best friend. Now, let’s work on these.” She looked quickly through the papers, nodding to herself. “It seems that these are requests for assignations for specific events.”

Mena nodded, set down her empty bowl, picked up one of the breads, and took the first paper off the stack. “Hmm, let’s see. This one is an easy one, a noble whose son died suddenly. Send Adam, he seems to fit her description of her son, and he’s so gentle. He’ll be a good fit to help her grief.”

As she kept eating, she went through the letters and assigned adepts for each. Several were like the one she sent Adam on, standing in for a loved one. The first time she had spoken to someone who wanted that kind of assignation with an adept, she was surprised. It seemed to her that Balm would be better suited. The patron said that what they needed was the chance to say what they wished they had to their loved one, not to feel better about having not said it. Heliotrope adepts were taught to give themselves fully to their patron and to receive their patron’s all in return. If the patron needed their adept to be someone else, they did. After some time filling these kinds of requests and hearing the adepts reports afterwards, it made sense to Mena. She was surprised that she was fielding so many of these requests, it seemed that their initial patron had spoken to their friends and spread the word.

She managed to eat all the food that had been sent to her while they finished the letters. “Loir,” Mena asked as she drained the last of her coffee. “I need to make you officially Second.”

”Is that the best choice, Mena?” Loir was staring off at the door to Mena’s balcony.

”What do you mean, who else?” Mena was surprised that her friend would even ask that question.

“Perhaps I am better suited to handle the information gathering part of the House work. How will people deal with Heliotrope having a Second who is not a full D’Angeline?”

Mena stood up, her irritation clear in her movements. “I do not care what people think, Loir. Your parentage has nothing to do with your ability to help me run this House. I am not stupid, I know that some at Court treat you as a novelty. I see the requests, remember?” She exhaled noisily. “Honestly, I can not imagine running this House without you, hang the rest of them. If you find that you’re having issues, we’ll address it then. It’s not like I’ll bend to them, I am no Valerian nor am I an Alyssum. Devotion is not blind worship after all.”

Loir laughed quietly. “I am happy to see that you are feeling better enough to be spirited again. Okay, my friend, I will be your Second.”

Mena made a show of bowing dramatically. “Thank you. Now, let’s go down and supervise the preparations for tonight’s salon opening. It’s our first since Olivier died, it needs to be everything.”

Pressing an Advantage

From the desk of His Grace, Roland de Chalasse, Sovereign Duc of L’Agnace to the Armateur Official, Lacordaire Trading Company

Dear Sirrah,

The expansion of Aegon Lacordaire’s business ventures and his ensuing successes continue to impress as the legacy of Lacordaire Trading Company only grows in the wake of his passing. The reputation built by the ships of the Company have ensured continuing returns on investments, something that I value greatly. Master Aegon had a clever mind for business, one from which I enjoyed significant profit. It is in the spirit of this prior trade arrangement that I seek to make use of the Lacordaire Trading Company’s network.

The presence of a Company representative is requested at my ducal townhouse on the Rue Courcel before the week is finished. The Chalasse estate seeks to import some fine and rare plants, expected to be brought to the City of Elua in excellent condition. A full inventory of the requested species will be provided in person.

Present this note to the steward upon arrival and entry will be granted.

I expect great things from Lacordaire.

Signed,

Roland de Chalasse

Idaeus drummed his fingers on the thick wooden desk that used to be his father’s place of command. The Duc wanted rare and living plants. An interesting request. The Lacordaire Shipping Company prided itself on the ability to transport anything, no matter how impossible it seemed. Under the command of his father, they had moved art so fragile a person could destroy it with only their touch. A variety of animals had found their way as cargo, the sailors given strict instructions with their care.

Once his father sent a ship to southern Alba to pick up large blocks of ice, the hulls packed with earth and clay to slow their melt. They transported hundreds of tree-ripened plums to a fête Aegon had put on. The ship, an older one, was practically destroyed with the effort. But his father had his show and didn’t care. Thankfully, he only attempted it once. Otherwise, Idaeus might have taken over a failing company.

Idaeus would attend to this request himself, in person. At some point, he’d have to trust at least some people his father had employed. But he wasn’t there yet. Besides, a request from a Duc was important, and this one was interesting.

Carefully dressed in a well-fitted doublet, Idaeus exited the carriage, ignoring the offer of help from the coachman. The predominantly black outfit accented his pale features, contrasting starkly with his white hair. A light blue trim softened the look and caught the hints of blue in his nearly gray eyes. If he learned anything from his former life as a Mandrake adept, it was how to catch someone’s eye and command a presence. His father also taught him the latter, albeit in a very different way.

A young clerk followed him outside his carriage, a large, leather satchel held carefully at her side. He’d hired her himself, asking around for talent, but also someone new with very few loyalties elsewhere. So far she had proven worth the extra effort in finding her. She did as he asked and didn’t ask annoying questions.

Idaeus walked to the door, knocking, anticipating the business deal with a new-to-him customer.

The footman in the gold-and-sable livery of House Chalasse opened the door for him, welcoming him into the entryway of the fine townhouse where the butler waited, his face schooled to professional neutrality as he greeted his duc’s guest. “Welcome, sir. Is His Grace expecting you?”

Idaeus turned towards his clerk, who quickly presented the note, pulling it from the satchel without looking. He smiled ever so slightly. He’d given her some pointers on how to be prepared properly. It was a fine line. Making sure everything was as he wanted it without being a complete ass.

“Please follow me, Master Lacordaire. His Grace is on his terrace.”

The back of the townhouse opened to a grand courtyard garden. A trellis with an aged grapevine ran the full length of the side, and there was a fountain set against the furthermost wall that added music to the air. The rest of the plants carefully tended by the Chalasse gardeners were all local flowers, all known for providing the best pollen for the bees that came to visit. Two bee boxes were constructed in the corner, and the little denizens darted happily through the honeysuckle, violets, lavender, and early mints.

Standing at the terrace and listening to the report of a young woman wearing the woven basket headdress of a beekeeper, was the Duc de Chalasse. A tall man, still strong and toned even in the beginning of his twilight years, he cut a fine figure in the sunlight as his head turned to regard the butler.

The servant bowed and announced, “Master Idaeus Lacordaire, Your Grace.”

Roland turned to study the man before him. He could see very little of Aegon Lacordaire in his features, but there was something in the bearing and the way the man carried himself that betrayed the family resemblance. So he greeted him cordially enough, “Yes. Welcome. Please, join me.”

His servants had set out a tray of smoked cheeses, bright fruit preserves, and the wine of the house. With a careless gesture of his hand, the Duc de Chalasse made it clear Idaeus and his companion were welcome to partake however they pleased.

“Bring me my ledger from my study,” Roland ordered, and the servant bowed and withdrew. The beekeeper was also dismissed, and she leapt lightly down the steps to return to her dear hives.

“Duc de Chalasse, ” Idaeus said as he took the offered seat. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Your garden is impressive.”

He’d noted the elaborate plants as he walked in. He had little experience with the care of flowers. There was one marked on his back, and he’d been in gardens. But he’d never paid much attention to the keeping of them. He was interested now and would be even more so if there was a contract.

“This is one of my clerks, Enora Daviau.” Idaeus introduced the woman as he picked up the offered glass of wine, taking a small sip. He wouldn’t ignore the food and drink offered by his host, but he also had no intention of taking advantage or allowing any drink to soften his mind.

Enora gracefully helped herself to the offered food. Idaeus knew she especially liked tasting different things, but she’d been taught to be mindful before he’d employed her. She extended those lessons now, thanking the Duc for his generosity.

“Your letter intrigued me,” Idaeus said, deciding there was no reason to pretend it had not.

“That was the intention.” Roland took his own seat once his guests were seated. Pouring his own glass of wine, he surveyed the younger man across from him. “Aegon Lacordaire was an excellent businessman. I enjoyed the profits of his ventures, and he never failed me when I contracted him for my own requests. I hope that I can expect the same discretion and success from you, Master Idaeus.”

“I have no wish to destroy my late father’s business,” Idaeus said. It was true, even if had no love for Aegon. “You can expect the same level of perfection. He had the foresight to train me as his heir. Of course, he had expected more time, but he also loved the trading company and took pleasure in showing me its function.”

The Duc selected a slice of smoked cheese mixed with cracked pepper for a sharper bite underneath the creaminess. Following it with a sip of his wine, he addressed the young Lacordaire. “Shall I take, by your presence here following my letter, that you are interested in accepting my proposed venture?”

“I am,” Idaeus said, after another brief sip of the wine. It was good. “I respect your patronage as a client, and this will be my first time managing this particular type of request. I wanted to ensure I had all ‌the information I needed. I have asked Enora to take notes as well, once we’ve started addressing those details so nothing will be missed or forgotten.”

He’d tracked down charcoal and the appropriate type of paper so there would be no mess with ink. Once they returned, Enora would transcribe the information. The contract itself would, of course, be written with ink directly.

“I appreciate a prepared and thorough professional,” Roland said with a nod. “I have prepared a list of the specimens I would like to have imported, and I am willing to pay properly for them. Well do I know the hazards that can come with this kind of work, cost will be no object to see it done right.”

Idaeus gave a slight nod as Roland said cost was no object. He would quote a fair price. One didn’t need to inflate prices when their business was solid. The Lacrodaire Company was prosperous, though he had plans to make it better than his father had. He didn’t need to cheat his customers to obtain that goal. He also refused to risk that reputation.

The Duc’s butler returned with the ledger and a small folio, bowing crisply to present them to his master. Roland extracted a piece of parchment from the folio and passed it across the table to his guests. Upon it, in his exacting penmanship was written the following:

Item: four (4) barrels lotus flowers from Menekhet, packed in water, white and blue

Item: four (4) crates tulips from Khebbel-im-Akkad, assorted colors

Item: two (2) crates white ginger lilies from Bhodistan

Item: two (2) crates marigolds from Bhodistan

“Thorough as your company is,” Roland said as he watched the merchants survey the list, “I do not expect you to travel to these countries personally to survey the packing of the specimens. However, I expect your agents along the trade routes to do their due diligence to ensure that the flowers are of the best quality and kept in excellent condition as they are brought to Terre d’Ange. I’m sure this is reasonable?”

If Idaeus didn’t have a company to oversee, he would have been tempted to fill the order himself. He had traveled outside of Terre d’Ange’s waters, but not as far as Bhodistan. At some point he would see every port, but he needed to be here until he was more established as the owner outside of his father’s shadow.

“It is reasonable,” Idaeus said. “I will ensure they are delivered in pristine shape. The price will be fair and all care taken to ensure they are not damaged in transit. Would you like an invoice drawn up before they set sail?”

“The sooner the ship sets sail, the sooner it may return triumphant,” Roland said easily, taking up his wine again and choosing a slice of creamy sheep’s milk cheese from his tray. “I would not want to delay them with the drudgery of paperwork. No, I will send my financial representative to your company office within two days, but I am a man of honor as I know Master Aegon once was. I am satisfied for the moment with a gentleman’s agreement.”

Idaeus gave a small smile when the Duc said the ship should sail soon so it can return triumphant. A genuine one. The nod of agreement he gave at the notion of his father being a man of honor was less genuine. His father probably was honest with the Duc. Attempting to cheat the Duc wouldn’t have fit in any of his father’s goals. But Idaeus knew who Aegon truly was.

Setting his goblet down and courteously wiping his fingers clean on the napkin cloth prepared with the tray, Roland de Chalasse extended his hand to the young Master Lacordaire across from him, asking, “Are we, then, agreed to do business?”

“I will not disappoint you,” Idaeus said, knowing he wouldn’t. If he was good at anything, it was details. Everything would be just right. He would follow the Duc’s requested storage and check his father’s books for any shipments of a similar nature to see if there’s any additional notes. “I appreciate the hospitality as well. The wine is excellent,” he said as he handed the list to Enora.

“I will send a case of it as a gift of my gratitude when the shipment is delivered successfully,” Roland said easily, giving the gift with the thoughtless ease of the wealthy. “If there are no further details to discuss, then I look forward to your message when the cargo arrives. My financier will come to your company office for the paperwork, but I believe we are done here. Please do not think me rude, I have been away from the City for some time, and the appointments do pile up. Lorin will see you out.”

“Your gratitude would be appreciated,” Idaeus said. He would most likely use it to impress future clients coming to him. It was good wine, but a case would be lost on him. He hated losing any sense of clarity even when business wasn’t a factor. But he also knew that some would take offense to a rejected gift. “I always appreciate business that is kept to the point, I take no offense. Besides, I have cargo that requires special considerations to plan.”

Roland rose to dismiss his guests, green eyes watching them as they left. He certainly hoped this gambit paid off. It would certainly serve to see if young Maël was as useful as he seemed to think he was.

Idaeus stood with the Duc, glad to have a shipment that would give him the opportunity to show his ability. He was also glad the Duc was straightforward. There would come a time where he’d enjoy having his negotiation skills challenged. But first, he wanted to learn every aspect of this business perfectly.

Two Letters, Sealed with Honeybees and Roses

From the private desk of His Grace, Roland de Chalasse, Sovereign Duc of L’Agnace to Rosanna Baphinol nó Valerian, Dowayne of Valerian House

Granddaughter,

Now that the spring has come, and the flowers are in their budding and blooming, I hope to host you in my townhouse for an afternoon. The duties of your position have kept you from coming to visit me, and that will not stand. You have written to me of some of your struggles and some of the stories of Mont Nuit, I would like to hear you regale me with them in person.

How did the celebrations of Mara’s Eve fare in your House? I hope you did your House proud with your arrangements? I wish to hear of it, you know what high expectations I have of you, especially in your dear grandmother’s memory. I know she watches you in the True Terre d’Ange That Lies Beyond, filled with pride for all you accomplish.

I seem to remember another letter you sent me with some gossip from last autumn. You wrote to me how the Dauphin was seen showing some clear affection to one of the other adepts of the Night Court. I wish to know what you know of her. The King-to-be surely has discerning taste in courtesans, and I am sure the attention will turn to her soon enough. I am relying on you to provide me an advantage.

Prepare yourself to receive my carriage, Rosanna. I expect your visit when I send it for you.

Your Grandfather, R

From the private desk of Rosanna Baphinol nó Valerian, Dowayne of Valerian House to His Grace, Roland de Chalasse, Sovereign Duc of L’Agnace

Dearest Grandfather,

Be assured that nothing would make me happier than to visit you here in the City! Being away from L’Agnace in the autumn was a struggle, but I bore it well, I am proud to say. Hopefully, this coming year I will have settled into my role and have a little time to come to you during the height of the apple season and hear all about the new hives and varieties of honey you craft as well. I do miss you so, but I am sure you know that.

Mara’s Eve was a resounding success, and I am very proud not only of myself but of my adepts. We had the pleasure of three making their debut, and they did us all great honor. As such, I have, of course, made my thanks known by taking great time in the temples to send prayers and lay offerings at the feet of Namaah, Kushiel, and Blessed Elua. I will let you know that the prayer scrolls you gifted me from Grandmother are well cared for and very well used, they are among the greatest gifts I have ever received.

You ask about the gossip of our King in waiting—well, there is much to tell. While I trust our messenger to deliver this letter to you safely, I will not write down what news I have for you in great detail. Just know there are many moving pieces, but when are there not?

What I can say here is that I have made the acquaintance of the courtesan upon whom the Dauphin has bestowed his affection and that you will be most delighted—as she is a Dahlia. Odilia is her name, and I have had the pleasure of her conversation. And I recall how you were once a favored patron of that House. A good companion for a member of the royal family, I should think.

I look forward to visiting you, Grandfather. I will have our footmen look for your carriage!

All my love,

Rosanna

A Honeycomb Maze

Roland de Chalasse, Sovereign Duc of L’Agnace, brought the blown glass cup to his nose, inhaling the smoke and peat of the amber liquid inside. An Alban liquor, he could almost smell the sweet grasses and clover of the mash underneath the woodsmoke scent. He took a small sip, letting the liquor sear through him as he teased out the toffee and caramel notes within the deep, rich earthenness on the tongue, before leaning back in the comfortable armchair, waiting with practiced and coiled patience as Maël de Rocaille took the seat across from him.

There was a small fire in the hearth, the nights had been chilled of late and comfort was key, so the warmth of the fire spread over them as the candles in their clever mirror-lense contraptions filled the fine study with golden light. Certainly enough light to see the chessboard set on the table between the two armchairs, already set for a game. Roland considered the options of with whom the young Rocaille could have been playing before disregarding it.

“Very well, bold and brazen Lord Maël,” Roland said evenly, crossing one leg over the other as he tilted his silver-and-honey head. “I have come at your challenge and I am intrigued as to why you believe I will need your help.”

Maël smiled easily, swirling the amber liquor in his own glass before taking a small sip himself. Setting the glass down to rest on his lap, still cradled carelessly in his hand, he rolled his neck as though loosening a tight muscle before he said, “My uncle told me some stories about you, Your Grace. It is well known that whoever holds the duchy of L’Agnace has closer influence to the crown, and the L’Agnacite blessing of Anael makes the region the breadbasket for the city. The City of Elua is quite comfortably held in the palm of your hand, isn’t it?”

Roland did not rise to the bait, simply continuing to watch the auburn-haired young man across from him with the quiet patience of a predator lying in wait.

“It’s easy to grow comfortable when all of the City knows the power of your family and when the House of Courcel is raised to play nicely with you, taught by the court and crown that the Duc de Chalasse is a valuable ally and advisor to court. David de la Courcel knew it well, I’m sure. He was raised to be Dauphin from the time he was born, he knew all of these things, naturally. Her Majesty would have made sure of it.”

“So? His Highness has returned to Elua’s embrace in the True Terre d’Ange That Lies Beyond.”

“Precisely,” Maël said softly. “All the plans you had in place, all the careful maneuverings and the way you surely stacked the deck in your favor have all gone with him. You prepared for a game that has been completely upended now.”

Roland’s head tilted slightly as he asked, “Surely you do not think I have spent this last year idle?”

“Of course not.” Maël smiled. “But so has everyone else. I told you I’ve seen the sycophants gathering and courtiers flocking? They have also been desperately trying to make the adjustments necessary to keep their places in court once the Dauphin is crowned king. But, see, they are all at a disadvantage. Even you. I don’t discredit the resources at your disposal, but Gustav was not raised at court the way David was. He has spent most of his adult years at the Rocaille University. With me. No one in this city knows him, he is an unknown player set to inherit most of the power on the chessboard, and that frightens the courtiers. If you’re smart, it’ll make you nervous too. David was taught to play nice, how to move through the court, how to continue things as they were and have always been. Gustav hasn’t. He poses a very real risk to the status quo of the palace, the status quo that everyone has gotten so very used to. If you want to have any kind of advantage over the other nobles trying to curry favour with him, you need a voice on the inside and someone who knows him. A friend who he already trusts.”

Roland’s green eyes were hard and cold as glittering emeralds in his impassive, unreadable face. And Maël dimpled innocently as he all but chirped, “Convinced yet?”

Roland took another sip of the Alban whisky, pointing with it as he observed, “Let us say you are right in your analysis, Rocaille. You certainly seem to be observant and discerning, more than many would expect from a Siovalese lordling more used to – what was it you said? Books and exhausted academics? – than the intrigues of the royal palace. Why should I not learn what I need to know from L’Envers? I know he also kept the Dauphin company at your university.”

“Besides the fact that Sebastien spent most of his classes enduring the after-effects of his late night carousing, spending his time and his pocket money on himself more than anything else,” Maël said with a wry twist of his lips. “Now that he has returned to the city, he has plenty of his own duties to attend to as the Sovereign Duc of Namarre. Surely he is a closer peer to Your Grace than I, but there are only three people in this city that can give you the access and influence you will need to keep your power in court secure. He’s busy, she’s not one to come to this side of Rue Courcel, and I am here. I am your best bet.”

Roland sat silently for so long that Maël wondered what thoughts were spinning in his mind. He was too difficult to read and Maël did not know him well enough to even begin to speculate. All he could do was wait – he had played his hand and the move was now in Chalasse’s hands. The duc’s emerald eyes dipped to consider the chessboard between them, studying the nonstandard arrangement of the pieces and he asked, buying himself more time, “Who was your opponent in this game?”

“I had a guest some time ago who used it to think strategically,” Maël answered, glancing down at the board, too. “She has a gift with the chessboard and I had quite a collection for her to choose from as she laid out her thoughts.”

Roland hummed slightly, recrossing his legs and lifting his glass again to enjoy the perfume of the whisky before he said, “Well, you have laid out your case nicely, Maël, I am quite nearly convinced to accept your offer.”

Maël kept his flush of victory controlled, stifling it with another searing sip of whisky. “Quite nearly?”

“Some things can only be proven with time,” the Duc de Chalasse said with a wry smile. “You are bold to dive so deeply into courtly politics. You must be very confident you can find your way through the maze of it all.”

Maël shrugged. “I’ve always been lucky. And I am the Dauphin’s closest friend. I think I’ll be alright.”

He sat up to set his glass aside. “But! As my first gift to hold up my side of our tentative alliance, I will let you know this: Gustav has spoken to me that he wishes to expand the palace conservatory. For a man who spends as much time reading as he does, he does have a passion for the exotic flowers and plants of the world. They may make excellent gifts to encourage his conservatory?”

“Duly noted,” Roland smiled slightly. “I think I have just the idea.”

When the Duc de Chalasse returned to his apartments within the royal palace, he did not even bother to look at his valet as he ordered. “Bring me my writing desk. I have letters to write.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Evidence of Things Not Seen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Falcon in the Dive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“School friends?”

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

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

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

“I should expect no less.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Letter, Sealed in Heliotrope

Dear Mama and Papa,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do not worry, I keep my dagger sharp,

All my love,

Loir

A Withering Flower

The year prior…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Insidious

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

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

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

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

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

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