Odilia slowly set Gustav’s letter down on her desk. Her fingers trembled. Her heart was beating a hummingbird’s wing rhythm in her chest. Her fingertip slowly traced the ink of his name, feeling the faint scratch of the quill nib against the parchment, where his hand had shaped his name after he had poured his heart onto the page, pouring it out for her. All of this for her.
It was a thought that plagued her often since the sangoire cloak had been stolen years ago. All of this—the theft, the unrest, the embargo, maybe even the push for him to choose a queen—all because of her. And because she had thought she could have a prince as hers.
Because he had only been a prince when he had come to Dahlia House the first time. Young and fresh-faced like the dawn, the next generation of hope for the kingdom now reached manhood. Responsibility on his shoulders, and still he glowed with Elua’s Grace.
Something was blurring her vision. Something hot welling in her eyes. She tried to cling to her pride, tried to keep the granite walls around her heart from cracking.
She missed him, too. That night, the night that he called the start of his joy, she hadn’t known how deeply she would be changed by it. By him.
~
Several Years Ago
“The young Duc L’Envers is handling the arrangements,” Adept Clarine said. The adepts lounged about the salon of Dahlia House. The morning meal finished, they had some time to themselves before the salon opened for the evening, and all any of the adepts could discuss was the legendary celebration that the Duc L’Envers was putting together for the young Prince Gustav de la Courcel.
“All of the arrangements?” Helyan lounged across his chaise, blond hair strewn in a silken curtain across the cushion, “He’s planning all fourteen nights? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
The prince was celebrating his coming of age. Starting with the night of his natality, he was spending one night at every House on Mont Nuit to sample all the pleasures of the Night-Blooming Flowers, before the last night where he chose for himself where he would go to spend his final night. Of course, they had begun with Cereus House, but the Dahlia adepts couldn’t fault them for that, since it just gave them the chance to shine, despite what the delicate Cereus adepts would have presented to the young prince.
“Fourteen nights is rather spectacular,” Eliane said as she fussed with the candelabras, making sure they were at just the perfect angle to have the candlelight gleam on the marble and gild of the salon. “Traditionally it’s only one night.”
“The boy’s only the second son and will likely never inherit the throne,” Clarine said, her pure white fur wrapped around her shoulders contrasting with the inky black of her hair. “I’d say he deserves every one of these nights and more.”
“Make a good impression,” Helyan teased, “and he might keep coming back to Dahlia for all of those future nights.”
And wasn’t that, at its core, what all the adepts on the Mont were hoping for? That they could catch the eye of the prince and enjoy him as a patron? A long-standing patron was the goal of all the courtesans of the Night Court. A royal patron was even better.
“What do you think, Odilia?” Helyan craned his neck to look at where the young brunette sat on the window bench. “Do you think Dahlia has a chance of dazzling this debutant?”
Her head turned from where she was looking out at the gardens and she smiled. “I think there’s always a chance.”
The carriage pulled up right as the sun kissed the horizon, and the guards in Dahlia livery stepped forward to help the guests down. The two young men looked up at the Dahlia mansion, taking in the lanterns glimmering gold, the windows thrown open to let the night breeze stir the curtains like slashes of jewels against the pale stone. The taller young man clapped his companion on the shoulder, a sparkle in his eye as he led the way up the steps to the entry where the doors, each bearing a stained glass window in the shape of a perfect dahlia, opened for the two of them.
Cloaks were taken by fresh-faced youths, and they were shown to the entrance of the salon.
A tall, elegant blonde greeted them at the doors, “My lords, welcome to Dahlia House. You are welcome here at our salon for the evening.”
“Yes, we are quite looking forward to the famous pride of your House,” the taller gentleman said, his eyes scanning the salon where the adepts were positioned quite casually, seemingly in no rush to greet them.
“We have been anticipating your visit, Your Grace,” the blonde said, having easily identified him as the Duc Sebastien L’Envers. “I have every confidence that Dahlia will make a lasting impression upon you. And upon you.” She turned her attention to the second young man in the Duc’s shadow. “We welcome you here tonight and any future night you wish to return, Your Highness.”
As one, the adepts rose and turned towards the gentlemen, bowing or curtsying together to greet Prince Gustav de la Courcel. He tried not to blush. The new levels of attention people gave him now that he had reached majority were still slightly uncomfortable, but he managed it well with a return of the courtesy. “Thank you for your welcome. I am sure this evening will be very enjoyable.”
“Certainly,” the blonde said with a smile before clapping her hands. “Music! Let us do our part to celebrate our prince’s natality!”
The musicians struck up a tune from their place at the side of the salon, and a servant offered the gentlemen glasses of Serenissiman sparkling wine.
Sebastien took his glass with a warm smile for the servant, taking a sip and murmuring to his friend, “at least they’re not swarming.”
“No,” Gustav agreed under his breath. “They’re just waiting, and watching.”
That was worse. But they were welcomed warmly enough with conversation and music, and Jocaste watched from her place before gauging the temperature of the room. A few of the adepts danced together, nothing to rival the tumbling and skill of Eglantine, but they certainly would have shone among the royal court for their skill at the court dances.
There was roast peacock and slices of exotic fruits, sallets of edible flowers along with slivers of raw meats marinated in spices and drizzled with sauces. Nothing too heavy, no grand banquet with twenty courses, but light and expensive foods that were brought around on trays, easily portioned to eat with one’s fingers. Something the Dahlia adepts did flawlessly, while Gustav was terrified to dripping something on his clothing.
Jocaste approached the gentlemen again, taking a seat with them on their couch with a smile. “Perhaps not the level of spectacle you have seen thus far on your birthday tour, but nevertheless I hope you are enjoying your time here at Dahlia. My philosophy is that Dahlia is the House of the most independence. Our words are Upright and Unbending, that is the core of who we are, but that also allows us our own agency and our own voices. No one will fawn over you or press themselves upon you, Your Highness. You are free to choose how to spend your time here, in any and all things.”
“Thank you,” he said, holding his wine glass in both hands so he didn’t tremble too badly. “It is a beautiful salon and your adepts are very skilled at conversation. Among plenty of other things, I am sure!”
“Thank you for saying so.” She accepted what he felt was a horribly awkward compliment with effortless grace. And she continued, “truly, the gem of our salon isn’t in conversation or music, though they are important. No, our greatest entertainment is in our chessboard.”
Sebastien let out a little gasp, grinning. “Yes! The legendary chessboard!”
Gustav glanced between them. “Is it…made of gold?”
“No, Prince Gustav,” Jocaste said, rising to her feet with a smile. “Let us show you.”
She signaled for silence, and the salon quieted in an expectant hush. She smiled and said, “the time draws nigh. The Game is afoot.”
A ripple of laughter among the adepts. Jocaste’s eyes scanned the salon, searching for the adept she knew would do this best. “Odilia.”
The prince followed the turning of heads to where a young woman with dark hair and dark eyes had looked up from where she had been adjusting one of the flower arrangements on the low tables.
Jocaste smiled at her. “Will you play?”
A dark brow rose. “Who is my opponent?”
The blonde returned her attention to the two guests with her, and Gustav immediately said, “oh, no, I’m not very good. Um, Sebastien?”
The young Duc L’Envers let out a laugh. “Very well! I will oppose the lady.”
The Adept Odilia stood, a rustle of emerald green silk. “Then I accept.”
Jocaste clapped her hands. “Pieces! To your places!”
She reached down to wind her arm with the prince’s, drawing him up to his feet as she said, “this, Your Highness…This is where Dahlia shines.”
He watched as the adepts and novices moved to prearranged places, and he only just now processed that the grand dance floor in the center of the salon was black and white squares, a chessboard built into the very floor. And clearly this had all been arranged, the living pieces had been assigned and wore the chemises appropriate for their side, white versus black.
Sebastien let one of the novices show him to his place behind the white side lines, and Odilia took her place behind the black side. Together, the pieces bowed or curtsied to each other, Sebastien following a moment later once he relapsed.
“The guest has the first move,” Odilia said. Gustav stared at her. She was so composed, so confident and sure in herself as she stood there, patient and poised.
Sebastien finished his glass of wine and said lazily, “E2 to E4.”
The novice playing the corresponding white pawn moved, and the game began.
Jocaste led the prince slowly around the chessboard, letting him see all angles of the game in play. She saw how bright his eyes were, how focused he was on the game, and she asked him quietly, “a thrilling game, isn’t it, Your Highness?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said truthfully. “The board and pieces we have in the royal palace seem to pale in comparison to a living game.”
“Chess is the King’s Game,” Jocaste said as they strolled, “Many forget that it is also a strategy game, designed to help leaders train their minds for war. It can be played for leisure, as His Grace seems to favor. But his opponent is very much a strategist.”
Gustav watched the brunette pace back and forth behind her side of the board, her dark eyes intent on the white pieces moving. “She seems more a general than anything.”
“At Dahlia House, we say Naamah bestowed herself like a queen to the King of Persis,” Jocaste said, bringing them to a stop at the corner of the black side, her head tilting as she also observed Odilia’s focus. “What is a queen but a general for her people in their time of need?”
The game did not last very long. Sebastien was distracted by the male adept flirting with him and had no interest in taking this seriously. This was merely another celebration for his friend’s majority! He was determined to have a wonderful time tonight for both of them. So when Odilia flashed her smile of triumph and called, “checkmate!” Sebastien accepted his loss with a rakish smile and a wave of his hand, saying, “so it is. Well played, Lady Dahlia! Here, a victor’s token!”
He pulled an emerald and gold ring from his finger and handed it to his defeated king, “There, offer that to the victor as her prize.”
The adept crossed the board and knelt before Odilia, offering the ring to her. She glanced down at it and held it up to examine before sliding it onto her thumb, “I accept your suit for peace, Your Grace, and will withdraw my armies from your lands.”
Another ripple of laughter around the salon, and servants offered both players fresh wine so that they might toast to each other without fear of hard feelings. Sebastien let himself be pulled away to the window alcove by Helyan, and Odilia knew he would be crowing about the Duc’s attention for a week at least. She took a sip of her sparkling wine and turned to return to her chaise only to find her way blocked.
“Your Highness,” she said softly, looking him in the eye. She did not curtsy. “Did you enjoy the game?”
“I thought it a fascinating exploration of your House canon,” he said, the trace of a flush on his cheeks as he stood before her. “I wonder if I might…that is, may I walk with you, Odilia?”
“You may,” she said, glancing down only once to where he offered his hand. “Shall we to the balcony? The evening air is clear, and it will be quieter there.”
He smiled at her, feeling something flutter in his chest. “I would like that.”
~
Odilia sighed, leaning back in her chair and pressing his letter to her chest. They had spoken that night about everything and nothing. About their childhoods, how similar and how different, about their ambitions and anxieties. He had chosen her for the night, but all they had done was talk, him asking her counsel and confiding in her his worries now that he was a man of the royal family. The demands of court were not the same as the responsibility of running a House, but they both faced choices in their paths. A crown would likely never come to him but that did not change the pressures even on a second son, and Jocaste had already told Odilia of her intention to lift her up as Second when Jocaste rose to Dowayne.
And on the fourteenth night of his celebrations, when he could choose for himself where he wanted to go, what House he wanted to return to, he came right back to Dahlia and to her arms.
She remembered the young man he had been, her heart quickening at the memory of the long nights they had spent talking, entwined in each other’s arms. He had been fresh and honest, so eager to learn, so humble as he asked her for advice. He had been filled with ideas, she had helped him shape them into plans, ways that he could use his position as the second son to better Terre D’Ange. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t the Dauphin, everyone had the power to change the country if they were driven enough. And he had promised her so many wonderful things, showering her in gifts as he let himself fall in love with her. Something she hadn’t stopped.
She had loved him then, with the heart of a younger woman, before she had known how things could change, and how dangerous love was.
“Oh, my Coeur Courcel,” she whispered to no one, “what has happened to us?”
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