Heliotrope – Longest Night Midwinter Masque

…It’s Another

Mena did not sleep easily the day after Florian’s visit. Belisario was out of control, even for him. She knew that she could go to Bryony and get his Dowayne to get him in hand. However, she wouldn’t do that. Belisario was vindictive, conniving, shameless, and capable of the particular brutality of someone raised in Heliotrope possessed. She didn’t want to cause him to turn on Bryony if she could avoid it.

So, she tossed and turned, failing to really rest. When sunset finally came, she pulled on her robe and headed down to see how preparations for the night were going. She helped the adepts readying the front parlor, the routine soothing her more than she had expected. One of her close friends Dara was in the back salon setting up games for the patrons and adepts. Dara had an almost unstoppable good humor and sunny disposition. When Mena peeked in, she was seated on the floor in trousers and her chemise top, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper.

“Dara, what are you up to now?” Mena asked, laughing lightly.

“Oh Mena! I didn’t hear you,” Dara said with her trademark rich laugh. “I’m trying to come up with new games! The Longest Day is coming, I know our visitors would love some unique entertainment!”

Mena grinned at her. “You know I always love your games. Let me know when they’re ready to be tested, I’ll make sure to come down.”

Dara nodded and bent back over her work. Mena wandered away, enjoying the familiarity and comfort of her House coming to life. The kitchen smelled incredible, but she knew better than to intrude on Cook so she wandered back towards the front of the House.

There was a loud knock at the main door, so she headed over to answer it. There was no one standing there when she got there, making her shake her head. As she was closing the door, she looked down and saw a small box. Bending down, she picked it up and turned back into the House, greeting Loir who was coming down the stairs.

“Hello there, sleepy-head,” Mena said teasingly as she opened the box lid. “I hope you slept well, I’ve been up—“

Her scream had people come running from all parts of the House. She stood, frozen in shock, the box and its contents lying on the formerly clean rug. A decomposing and headless rat lay oozing on the carpet, causing more screams and running to get something to clean it up. The box lid lay near Mena’s feet, the inside covered with words written in what looked at first glance like blood:

precious pet

it took a while but i found this

it reminded me of your future

so i had it brought over

think of me

-K

If It’s Not One Thing…

“Philomena, you’ve got a guest.”

Mena looked up, confusion on her face. A young novice stood in the doorway of her office, clearly nervous. Clara was new, a transfer from Orchis. “A guest? You should just bring them to me, darling. No need to be nervous.”

Tension slid from the young woman’s shoulders. “Sorry, it’s just when an advocate showed up at Orchis, someone was in trouble. Particularly one with special privileges.”

Mena smiled. “That makes sense, Clara. Trouble is much less likely here. Please show them in.”

Clara nodded and disappeared for a few minutes, then returned and held the door open for someone to enter. “Dowayne, your guest, Special Advocate Bonheur.”

Mena laughed and quickly came out from behind her desk. “Oh, Florian, you had to scare the novices didn’t you?”

She quickly embraced the man, gesturing for him to sit. “Clara, this is Florian Boneur, my mother’s husband. Please send up light tea. Florian, what brings you here?”

Florian was a handsome man, thick, dark hair, cut short, styled fashionably. He looked younger than his almost sixty years, something he used to his advantage at all opportunities. He laughed richly. “Oh Mena, you know I can’t resist! I do it in court all the time, it’s the one joy I still retain. “

She laughed, scoffing at his dramatics. “Oh. I wouldn’t let Chrysanthe hear you say that. You know how she pouts.”

Florian nodded. “Your mother sends her regards. by the way. She is very proud of her ability to keep me entertained, let’s keep my wording to ourselves, shall we?” He nodded his thanks to the novice who had returned with their tea. “All jokes aside, I’m here for serious reasons. First, it is time to read Olivier’s will.”

Mena didn’t mean to inhale sharply, but she did. “Is it that time already? Very good, I’ll have it sent to you”

Florian nodded, “Very good, very good, even though we all know he left it all to you, Laurent, and the House, we need that official copy. The second piece is that your father is contesting it, claiming that it was made under duress and undue influence. He’s had an advocate file his claim with the Judiciary.”

Mena sat for a second, trying to process this, her hands starting to shake. “Even for him, this is unmitigated gall. What do we do, Florian?”

“You give me the document and leave the rest to me. I was Olivier’s advocate, this is mine to handle.” He took her hands in his and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “I should be able to keep you out of the mess for a while, maybe even the entire time. Please, trust me Philomena.”

Mena nodded. “Thank you, Florian. You’ve always been kind to me, more so than Chrysanthe. I trust you.”

Florian sighed. “Your mother tries, you know she does. You were wanted, so much. She just didn’t count on Belisario causing so much grief and pain.”

Mena nodded. “I know, I’ve heard some of what he did after. What does Belisario want, exactly?”

“Everything that’s not Heliotrope.”

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.”

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

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.

Across a Crowded Room

Gabriel d’Albon stood in the grand parlor at Heliotrope House, feeling very much out of his depth. His father had died suddenly several months past, and Gabriel only now felt like he was getting his feet under him. His estate was not a large one by any means, and he had spent most of his life preparing to take over the estate, but there had been much that the late Lord d’Albon had insisted on managing himself, so Gabriel still had much to learn when he suddenly taken over last winter. He felt fortunate every day for the Seneschel and other retainers who helped him day and night to keep everything running smoothly.

Now, he finally felt comfortable leaving western Siovale to venture to the City of Elua to visit his father’s—well, his—townhouse. The house was run by a more than competent staff who laughed at his anxiousness, insisting that they had not seen his father in years, and he need not worry about them. They welcomed Gabriel to the City, excited that the young lord had taken it upon himself to visit personally.

There were extended family members in the City, some of whom Gabriel had met over the years, and some who Gabriel had not known existed! One of them was a fun loving distant cousin who insisted that Gabriel join him here at one of the twice monthly fêtes put on at Heliotrope House, high atop Mont Nuit. Gabriel had heard of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers and its skillful and glamorous Servants of Naamah, but it was nothing like he had expected. He had met one or two Servants of Naamah over the years, but they were folks passing through, and he never thought to engage one. It had felt too…formal. He instead found himself in the back fields with the occasional lover or friend. Nothing special, more curious fumblings than anything else.

“So, cousin, have you spotted anyone you want to contract tonight?” Mateo, Gabriel’s cousin, sidled up, a drink in his hand. Mateo was dressed in the finery common to the City, and Gabriel felt shabby and unfashionable in his country clothes. Mateo had assured him that his outfit, the one he wore to the Midwinter celebration at the estate, was perfectly acceptable, but amongst the gowns and velvet vests, Gabriel’s woolen breeches and roughspun cotton shirt made him feel like a bumpkin.

Gabriel took the offered drink and shook his head. It was a fine wine, and it went down smooth. “It’s all very overwhelming, Mateo. I think I might retire to the townhouse,” he said quietly.

“What? No! We just got here!” Mateo gave him a serious look. “Gabriel, I know this is very different from Siovale. But I promise that this is a—” He searched for the right word. “—gentle House. The adepts here are trained in devotion. They are kind.”

Gabriel bobbed his head. He was a lord now, and weren’t lords supposed to do things like this? “Just..please don’t leave me to stand alone?”

Mateo bumped his shoulder and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry, cousin. I’ll guard you.” He wiggled his eyebrows then sobered. “And besides, if this is too much, we can make go visit Balm House tomorrow and luxuriate in massages with scented oils.” Gabriel had heard of Balm House and its adepts trained in relaxation of the body.

Mateo had dragged him to this fête, insisting that it would be a good introduction to the Night Court. He had explained to Gabriel that Heliotrope adepts treated their patrons as true lovers and not merely playthings or guests at a performance of skills. Gabriel thought that sounded well and good, but the fête was louder and more crowded than he had expected. Guests of all ilk danced and chatted while they drank fine wine and ate fine food. Beautiful adepts—male and female—circled the room with serving platters. Gabriel considered asking to contract with one of them, but not a single one caught his interest.

He stood next to Mateo and scanned the room, trying to gather enough courage to leave the corner where he had stationed himself. From across the room, he caught a glimpse of a head of golden curls turning the corner. The young man turned, and for the briefest of moments, their eyes met. In that instant, the world disappeared, and time seemed to stand still. Gabriel lost himself in the depths of eyes the color of chestnuts in early summer. His throat went dry, and his heart hammered in his breast. A voice—perhaps that of Blessed Elua himself—whispered, Yours.

Just as fast, the moment broke. The beautiful young man smiled shyly and ducked his head. Another man grabbed his arm and pulled him from the room. The world rushed back in on Gabriel. He heard music and chatter of guests, smelled the food and wine, and saw the delightful party in front of him.

“Gabriel, Gabriel?” Mateo shook his shoulder.

“Yes?” He said, his voice wobbly.

“Are you quite alright? You seemed to get lost there for a moment.”

Gabriel shook his head and smiled at Mateo. “Yes. Yes, I am quite alright.” He pointed toward the door where his fair haired angel had disappeared. “Did you see the two young men over there? They just raced out that door. Who are they?” He tried to keep his voice even.

Mateo shrugged. “Probably two adepts of the House. Likely sneaking in. Probably haven’t had their debut yet if they aren’t out here serving.” He gestured to the room and the adepts carrying trays of drinks and canapés.

“How…how would I find out their names?”

Mateo gave him a curious look. “They haven’t had their debut yet. You cannot contract either of them. You understand that, right?”

Gabriel nodded, looking back across the room. “Yes, yes I know. I just…it’s just…Mateo, I must find out who one of those young men is. I think I have fallen in love.” He turned to his cousin, hoping that his gaze conveyed the seriousness of the situation.

Mateo gave him a searching gaze. Then his lips tilted up, and he broke out in uproarious laughter. He pounded Gabriel on the back. “Oh, cousin! This is your first foray into the Night Court! You cannot fall in love now!”

Adam nó Heliotrope and Alain nó Heliotrope were not supposed to be at the party. In fact, they—along with the other adepts who had yet to make their debuts—had been specifically instructed to stay in the novice wing that evening. Only adepts actively seeking patrons were permitted to attend and serve at the bimonthly fêtes. But Alain had insisted that no one would notice if they snuck in for just a moment. No one will see us if we peer around the pillar and look! Alain had said earlier. Just one minute, Adam! Don’t you want to see the grandeur! Please. Alain had a way of looking at Adam that made him agree to anything. It had been that way their entire lives. Sometimes they got away with things; sometimes they didn’t.

And that was how Adam found himself hidden behind a pillar, gazing out at the magnificent scene before him. And it was magnificent. Lords and ladies in all their finery danced and mingled gaily, eating and drinking…Alain clutched Adam’s arm, whispering fiercely about how much he wanted to join in, but Adam held him back with a strong hand on Alain’s shoulder. They could not enter that room!

Adam stood in that dark corner, thinking about the time when he would serve the patrons, and wondering when it would feel right. Heliotrope House had no rules about an adept’s age for debut. It was simply a matter of when one decided. Though Adam was approaching twenty, it still did not feel right. He could have gone to Mena at any point and asked to prepare for his debut; he would have felt fine. He was ready…in his mind, but he wanted to feel ready…in his heart. He wanted to feel called. And he hadn’t felt called. It was not right. Yet.

His eyes roved the scene, never settling on any one person. Finally, Alain decided he was finished ogling. “Alright, let’s go back,” he said plaintively. “I’ve seen it.”

“Was it everything you had hoped?” Adam asked drily.

Alain scoffed. “Not really. Maybe. I don’t know. But let’s get back before we are caught.”

They turned to leave, and Adam gave one last scan of the room and was suddenly struck, his feet stuck to the floor. His eyes caught on a man standing at the far corner of the room, almost hiding it seemed. He was tall and broad chested, with a chiseled jaw and short hair the color of deep mahogany and verdant eyes. His simple clothes spoke to a country life, not the usual city dweller.

Adam gasped. His heart clenched, and he felt a deep stirring in his belly. Something in this man drew him. Pulled at him. For the first time in his young life, he…wanted.

He could not move. Could not speak. Could not think. Alain was pulling on his arm, saying something, but Adam could not hear for the rushing in his ears.

The man’s eyes paused, meeting Adam’s, and the floor seemed to fall out from beneath him. He felt the gentle flapping of doves’ wings, and heard a distant whisper—ever so quiet—Yours. It seemed as though an eternity passed as they stared at each other.

Alain pinched him hard, and Adam broke from his reverie. He ducked his head and turned, Alain all but dragging him from the room. He let himself be pulled down the darkened hallway, his mind still a muddle, through hall after hall until they were back in their shared bedchamber. He swayed on his feet.

“Adam! Adam! What’s wrong?” Alain shook his friend’s shoulders and searched his face, voice high with fear.

Adam blinked and gave his friend a serene smile. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing is wrong, Alain.”

“Then why do you look drunk?”

“I…I need to speak to Mena.” He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Alain, it’s time. I am ready.”

Alain looked baffled. “Ready? Ready for what?”

“I’m ready to make my debut.”

Where the Sun Sleeps – Part II

Two incredibly complicated holy days and festivities held nearly back to back from one another made the new Dowayne of Valerian House very busy. Even her own strict schedule of prayers and visitations to the Temple district had to be realigned in order to make sure that preparations for the Longest Night and Mara’s Eve went off without a single hitch. Indeed, she was still in the final stages of the latter, but Rosanna made sure some of time and effort was dedicated to honoring the passing of one of their own.

When the news of Heliotrope’s loss made it to her, Rosanna instructed her Second, Tryphosa, to immediately send a letter of condolence as well as the best flowers that they could attain in winter. Having incorporated Philomena into her life only recently, she did not know the deceased well but knew the other woman’s heart must be broken. So, a gift to her in the form of lavender syrup from Eisande was also sent, the product of her own family’s extensive cultivation. A token from one Dowayne to another, beyond the socially acceptable and expected offerings.

Arriving at the wake, Rosanna dressed in somber colors, umber and burnished bronze, with her hair piled atop her head and covered in a veil. Modest and respectful, with her back fully covered. She paid her respects to the dead, saying a prayer over him and wishing a swift arrival to the Terre D’Ange that awaited them all in the next realm.

After that, she maneuvered through the mourning crowd to find his heir. As was to be expected, she appeared wan and sorrowful, and sympathy welled up quickly in Rosanna’s heart. Being close to her own beloved grandfather, she knew such a time would be upon her one day as well. Even thinking of it made her eyes sting.

“My sincere condolences for your loss, Philomena,” she greeted kindly. “I am sorry that I did not know your grandfather better, but his reputation was a splendid one. He will be in my prayers, as will you. If you should ever need me, for anything, my door is always open to you.”

Mena reached out and gave Rosanna a hug, “Thank you so much, my friend. I appreciate your attendance, I know it’s a difficult period to make time. I will be sure to reach out to you so we can catch up after the mourning period has passed.”

Loir noted the sky growing lighter, so she slipped up next to Mena and whispered to her, “It is getting to be time.” She then moved silently to her room to gather what she needed and change her clothes. Olivier had commissioned a garment for her that mimicked what the priestesses she grew up with wore, without being a copy. Loir had overseen the construction so it represented what she remembered with what she knew now. It was easy to put on, and she picked up her basket of supplies and went out into the garden.

For three days, the strongest had been stacking the supplies that the weaker had been purchasing and former adepts had been arriving from all over Terre d’Ange. In the final hours of the wake, the oldest three began building the pyre. A collection of large flat rocks had been installed at the most eastern point of the property at some point in the House’s history. Dowaynes of the past had erected three stone walls around it; a gap on the west wall allowed access with the east remaining completely open. There, the elders carefully built the pyre as they’d been taught, being assisted by all the children, as was custom. The pyre took shape, the materials selected as was the custom: apple wood that burned long and hot on the bottom covered with bedding from his deathbed so that all of him went to Terre d’Ange Beyond, then walls on three sides of the same wood. One by one, each person in the House took a piece of their own clothing or bedding and filled the gaps between the logs: a piece of each of them died with Olivier.

While that was happening, Mena cleared her throat and spoke to the gathered mourners. “Loved ones, thank you for coming to remember Olivier. The time has come for us to lay him to rest in our customary way. You are welcome and encouraged to stay and even to participate if you want. Again, thank you for coming, each of your faces has made the mourning easier.”

As she made her way outside, the members of the House lined up from the bier Olivier rested on all the way out to the pyre with Mena and Loir at the end. Loir had placed herbs among the fabric pieces and had carefully rubbed a thick oil-based anointment on the logs. The space smelled comforting and relaxing, making the tension and grief start to drain out of Mena’s body as she stood waiting.

The adept closest to Oliver lifted him from the bier, his long illness made him light enough that she needed no assistance. Carefully, she passed him to the person next to her, murmuring, “May Elua welcome you, you will be missed,” as she did. One by one, each person in the line passed him to the next, some speaking quietly to him one last time before relinquishing him to the next person. After many long minutes, he made his way from Laurent to Mena’s arms.

When she held him, she was instantly reminded of all the times he’d held her over her life, and her tears started again. She moved towards the pyre, it was her job as his surviving family to lay him down one last time. As she did, memories flashed through her mind like lighting in the night sky: Olivier at her bedside when she was sick; Olivier helping her pick flowers for the wreath she wore when she dedicated herself to Namaah; the two of them talking for hours about everything and nothing; the proud look on his face when she’d debuted; how he’d held her as she cried; each moment broke her heart as it paid tribute to the man he’d been. It was hard to place him on the bed so lovingly made for him, a sob breaking out of her without her control as she did so. When she turned around and saw the mourners gathered in the space and only Loir to comfort her, it took all she had not to collapse next to him. She heard his voice in her head telling her that she had to stand tall for herself and for the House, that she would find her Sun, that he loved her more than he loved himself, that he was proud of her.

Loir reached for Mena when she stumbled, pulling her in for a tight hug. She didn’t want to release her, but she had to in order to move the ceremony forward. Two of the children came forward with the canopy they’d woven of the flowers brought by the mourners. Loir took it from them with gentle hands, then turned to lay it over the roof of the pyre. She then took wood and carefully built up the missing wall. When it was complete, she turned to the assembled and said, “Olivier has gone to a place where we cannot follow. In time, our steps will lead us to where he is, but for now, he has gone ahead. We will remember him always and keep him alive in our hearts by speaking freely of him. He wanted to remind us to be good to one another, and to make sure that his beloved Laurent and cherished Philomena know that they were loved deeply and fiercely.”

She paused for a moment to glance over her shoulder and saw the signs of the sun’s imminent arrival. Turning back she said, “In my homeland, we also commend our dead to the sun and sky, this is why he granted me the gift of being his Dernière Montre, the one who stays with him until the end. And now, that watch begins.”

From her basket, she retrieved a bottle of Olivier’s favorite alcohol and a flint. She poured the alcohol on the bottom of the pyre, soaking the fabric and other tinder that she had added there. Loir found herself humming the first song she remembered hearing, a lullaby her mother sang only when her children were frightened. While she couldn’t recall the words, the melody was enough to soothe her own grief. The sounds of the mourners weeping faded into the background as she finished her task and stood. The first edge of the sun was starting to cross the horizon and she took a deep breath, crouched down, and started the fire. While it started small, it traveled quickly, and she smiled, pleased at the work they’d put into Olivier’s final tribute. She then knelt on the stones, close enough that she could feel the heat, but out of harm’s way.

Dernière Montre meant ‘Last Watch,’ and that was what she would do, be the last watch over him: she would stay where she was until the fire burned itself out, then she would carefully gather the ashes into the jar Olivier had selected, sealing it carefully. Then she would inter his remains next to his wife’s remains and reseal their resting place. She was to be the last mortal hand that touched him, the last person to wish him well on his last journey. Loir bowed her head and offered up prayers as the mourners began to leave the space.

By the time Mena made it back inside, the sun was almost at its highest point, and she was beyond exhausted. Once his ashes were interred, the official mourning period would begin, and every member of the House would have a white item on for the next month. Her grief ebbed a little as she accepted a bowl of porridge from the cook and headed towards the parlor to oversee the removal of the bier.

The room was silent when she arrived, and something about it put her on edge. Now that he had been mourned, Oliver had told them to return to the love and laughter that was the trademark of their House. Silence was not what she should be hearing. As she approached the bier, she saw the cause for the silence: a large vase with an extravagant floral arrangement sat in the middle of it, a red ribbon tied around the vase with a card attached to it. The reason for the silence was that all the flowers were dead; dried, shriveled and in some cases, white with mold. Mena gasped and reached for the card with shaking hands.

Pet, I hear the old man finally died. Could not have been a man who deserved it more than him. May Elua shut him out of Terre d’Ange Beyond so he wanders the land forever

—K

Where the Sun Sleeps – Part I

The Masquerade was a wonderful event, one that Mena enjoyed to the fullest in Olivier’s honor. It was what he would have wanted, nothing was of more value to him than the happiness of his family. That included the entirety of the House, so they all did their best to honor him.

Once they returned home and slept off their revelry, the mood shifted. A pair of adepts gathered all the children into the playroom, closed the door, and spoke to them at great length about what had happened to Olivier. How they handled it, Mena did not know, she was busy with preparations. The novices swept every corner of the House, washed the floors, helped Cook, and covered all the art. The adepts were busy day and night for three days, changing curtains, covering mirrors, setting out the incense and candles, and making sure every member of the House had suitable mourning garments. Loir oversaw everything for the first two days, before she joined Mena at the Temple of Elua.

The space reserved for death vigils was small without feeling claustrophobic. Loir had arrived just before sunset, as was the custom in Heliotrope. She slipped in, laying her coat and bag down on the couch that was along one wall, and knelt next to Mena, taking in her friend’s appearance. It was clear that she’d been crying, her eyes were red rimmed and a little swollen, and her hair was still partly in the arrangement she’d worn to the Masque. Has she slept? Loir asked herself, her brows furrowing as she reached for Mena’s hands. They were ice cold, her fingertips were even a little red, so Loir squeezed them gently.

“Come on, love,” she said quietly. “Why don’t you and Laurent nap while the Priestess and I do our part?”

Mena stared at her for a long moment, her eyes clearly showing her deep grief and soul-deep loneliness. Loir waited, her thumbs idly rubbing circles on the backs of her friend’s hands. Mena drew in a shuddering breath and said, “Yes. Yes, that’s what we should do next.”

An Acolyte of Elua gently touched Mena’s shoulder, drawing her attention and encouraging her to stand. “Please, follow me, Sister. Let us care for you so you can care for the dead.”

Loir smiled encouragingly as Mena and Laurent were led away before she stood and retrieved her bag. When his wife had died, Loir had spoken at length to Olivier about how death was handled in Jebe-Barkal. He had been fascinated and had asked her to carry out a few of the things she had mentioned when his time came. She laid out the contents of her bag on her side of his body and looked over at the Priestess who would be helping her prepare his body for entombment. The woman smiled gently, and Loir returned her smile, then turned and took her first good, long look at Olivier. The toll his sickness had taken on him was visible in the frailty left behind. She closed her eyes for a moment, speaking to Elua and the goddess of death who she’d grown up with as well, asking them to care for the man who helped raise her, who’d taken her in without question, who’d been the sun for everyone who knew him. Opening her eyes, she spoke to him. “Olivier Mathan nò Heliotrope, beloved of so many, guiding light of Heliotrope, I come to you humbly, as your graveminder. My hands will be the last that touch your body, may they convey to your spirit our love and respect. My hands will be the last ones to seal your tomb, may you be welcomed into the afterlife by all that have gone before you. My body will be the last one to leave your graveside vigil, may you flourish in Terre d’Ange Beyond in perfect love and health until we meet again.”

She took a deep breath, reaching to uncover him and start his preparations with hands that did not shake.

The week since Olivier’s death had passed as a blur for Mena. She felt like she was moving through her life under someone else’s control for the first four days, but now she was feeling more lucid. Mourning in Helitrope was a serious and sacred affair, so much so that the wake seemed to materialize over night. She stood on the back porch, watching the sun inch closer to the horizon. It was a moment of peace, something she hadn’t felt this whole week and knew would not come again until the funeral was completed. That was three days away though, first came the wake. She would receive mourners for the next three nights, from dusk to dawn. At dawn on the third day, his funeral would be held in their tradition.

She sighed and headed inside towards the front parlor. The entire House was present, spilling through the public rooms, already speaking quietly among themselves. None of them had seen Olivier yet, they would when the parlor was opened. Mena stepped through them, giving and accepting sympathy as she went. Pausing at the parlor doors, she turned and said, “My House, my family, join me in remembering our departed Olivier as he wanted. Eat and drink freely, let merriment fill you if it comes.”

With that she opened the doors and stepped in. Olivier was laid in the middle of the room on a wooden table. He was dressed in what he’d selected: a pair of pants made by his late wife, a sweater knitted for him by Mena, and a shirt selected by Laurent. Where the flowers had been found, Mena did not know, but he was surrounded by gentle banks of all varieties of sun-following flowers, the bright yellow of sunflowers somehow existing with the purples of the ground covering heliotropes. He had a gentle smile on his face, and a wreath of flowers and grasses adorned his head. Loir stepped close to her, sliding her arm around Mena’s waist and leaning her head on her shoulder. Mena returned her gentle hug and said, “Vouloir, he looks splendid. You have made us all proud. Will you stay with me while the mourners come? For a while anyway.”

Loir nodded and gestured towards the door, “Of course, my friend. Here they come now.”

Petrea nó Cereus, Second of Cereus House entered the Heliotrope House quietly. She had made sure that she would be among the first to arrive, wanting to show both the respect of her position and the support to her friend. She took in the assembled adepts who murmured quietly amongst themselves, a somber air filling the hallways and public rooms. She scanned the space for Mena, but did not see her in the groups gathered there. Petrea made her way towards the parlor, where she knew the late Dowayne would be lying in state, offering gentle smiles and soft words of sympathy to those she passed. She could see the depth of sadness in everyone’s eyes. It was a far different atmosphere than the highly formal one of Gerault’s funeral. Olivier had so clearly been loved, and Petrea’s heart ached for the members of Heliotrope House. If only it could have been so with her passed Dowayne.

Moving into the front parlor, Petrea’s eyes landed on Mena, who stood near Olivier’s body, another woman—perhaps this was Loir?—leaning on her shoulder. Petrea approached silently, not wanting to interrupt. She stepped up to Olivier, so lovely in his vestments, so peaceful in death, his soul gone to True Terre d’Ange Beyond, his body surrounded by beautiful flowers. His body had been carefully prepared, and he looked…loved…was, again, the word that came to Petrea’s mind. This was a manifestation of Blessed Elua’s tenet. Heliotrope House had truly loved Olivier, and they showed that love for him in this way.

Raising her eyes from the bier, Petrea met Mena’s eyes and offered a small smile. She walked around to her friend and gave her the kiss of greeting. “Mena,” she said, taking her friend’s hands. “On behalf of Dowayne Aliksandria and all of Cereus House, please accept our deepest condolences on your loss.” She bit her lip and looked away from a brief moment, thinking carefully on her next words before continuing. “Aliks did so wish that she could come to pay respects personally upon the death of another Dowayne. She is, however, somewhat unwell, and we did not want to risk bringing any sickness to your House.” Petrea paused, then spoke again, her voice softer. “I also wanted to come see you myself. To visit you as, well, as a friend. To offer any support. Please know that I am here for you in this difficult time.”

Mena gently squeezed Petrea’s hands. “Thank you for coming, my friend. I hope Aliks feels better soon, being sick in the winter is miserable.”

She looked at the ceiling for a minute, inhaling deeply before she looked back at Petrea. “I wish that Gerault had allowed you out of your House, I am sure you would have loved Olivier, and I know he would have loved you. Please,” she said and gently squeezed Petrea’s hands again, “come and visit. We’d love to shower you with the love you deserve.”

Petrea’s smile wobbled slightly at the sentiment. She then turned to the younger woman standing with Mena. “You must be Loir. It is my pleasure to meet you. Mena speaks so highly of you, and I am pleased to finally have the chance to see you in person. I wish it could have been under different circumstances.”

Loir took Petrea’s hands in hers. “Petrea, it is wonderful to meet you as well. Thank you so much for coming and for your condolences, it means so much to me and to the House.”

Petrea glanced around the room and saw that there were other mourners, but none stood close enough to hear their conversation. She leaned in close, her voice barely above a whisper. “I assume you are now the Dowayne, Mena, and Loir—” She glanced at the other woman. “—I am guessing that you will be named Second. As Cereus House has a new Dowayne and Second, we are familiar with the changes and upheaval it can cause within a House.” Her lip raised in a wry look. “Although I suspect your change in leadership will be far smoother than ours. I, personally, and Cereus House in its position in the Night Court, will do whatever we can to help you with this transition. We are all here for you.”

Mena smiled gently, “Thank you for that. Luckily for us, Olivier was very sick for a very long time. I have been working as Dowayne privately for more than a year. I will, of course, come and call you for advice with the public aspect.”

Loir’s laugh was less restrained, “I will certainly come see you. We Seconds have to work together since we get to do the dirty work. Speaking of that—” She leaned in closer to Petrea. “—If I’d had any idea how terrible Gerault was behind closed doors, I would have come and sped his return to Elua for you.” She winked before stepping away to speak to another adept.

Petrea bit her lip to hold in her laugh at Loir’s candor, so appreciative of the support she knew she now had in this House. She gave Mena’s hands one last squeeze. “I will let you greet the rest of your guests. Please do call on me.” She stepped away and made her way through the crowd gathering around Olivier.

Adam nó Heliotrope sat in a corner on the grand staircase in the main foyer of the House, pressed against the wall next to his best friend, Alain. The two young men often found themselves in such a position—pressed together, hidden away. Olivier often found them where they shouldn’t be, spying on events they shouldn’t. But he would find them hiding no more.

“What are you thinking, sweets?” Alain whispered, using their private nickname for each other. His arm was wrapped around Adam’s shoulders, and Adam’s wound around Alain’s waist.

“I couldn’t pick out a particular thought. Everything is so jumbled up. This doesn’t feel real,” Adam murmured back. Olivier’s death felt impossible to Adam. Olivier had been Dowayne for Adam and Alain’s entire lives; they had known no other steering the steadfast ship of Heliotrope. Having never known his own father, Adam looked up to Olivier like one. How did a young man go on without his father? Adam had loved Olivier so fiercely. Tears welled in his eyes, and his throat tightened. He buried his face in Alain’s shoulder, clutching his waist as though his friend could hold him steady in the sea of grief.

Alain ran a hand through Adam’s hair and made soothing sounds. His own sadness was not as sharp, for he has come to the House not as a babe, but a young boy. “You know I will always take care of you, right?” Adam nodded, his tears staining Alain’s shirt. He kissed Adam’s head and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Why don’t we go back to our rooms? I think you need some privacy to grieve appropriately.”

The two stood, almost as one. Alain put a hand on Adam’s back and guided him up the stairs and back to their quarters. They moved silently, as they always did, slipping away unnoticed.

Niklos arrived in the big, glittery family coach. A pair of cousins arrived with him; they’d been patrons in Heliotrope one of the years he wasn’t in the City. Their mood was somber, and well it should be. Olivier had been well known and well loved in the City, and his loss was a difficult one. Upon their entrance, they were directed toward the parlor, and Niklos could already see a crowd gathering near the bier. He thought he spotted both Mena and Loir in that direction and looked to his cousins. “You don’t have to follow me, but I hope you will pay your respects to the new Dowayne and the House.” With a brief nod from both of them, Niklos turned and moved slowly towards Mena, murmuring his sympathies to any member of Heliotrope that he passed.

He recognised the stately woman speaking to Mena as the Dowayne of Dahlia House. She grasped the Heliotrope adept’s hands warmly, a kind and gentle smile on her face as she offered soft words of comfort and strength to her. No more than that, she did not take up much time, but Jocaste ever had a large heart, so she had come to offer what comfort she could.

She nodded to Mena and the other Heliotrope at her side, before lifting her skirt and stepping back to free her for the next person seeking her time.

He slipped up to Mena quietly, having nodded to Jocaste as he passed her. He was familiar enough with the Dowayne of Dahlia House, as she had helped facilitate his chess matches earlier in the year. He rested a hand on Mena’s upper arm and leaned in, whispering his condolences to her softly and promising her that he would be in touch soon. He thought to invite her to dinner away from the House, once things had settled once again.

A Year in Review and Looking Ahead

Cereus House was abuzz with activity as servants and adepts alike prepared for the upcoming Midwinter Masque. It was the highlight of the year for the House, and this year had been one of changes, to put it mildly.

Petrea nó Cereus sat in the Second’s bedchamber, waiting for her friend Aimée nó Cereus to arrive so that they could dress together. Petrea marvelled at how different this was from a year ago. This time last year, Aimée had been ensconced with Aliksandria—then Second herself—drinking wine, giggling, and likely just getting out of bed from an afternoon romp, to begin dressing in finery for the masque. Petrea had been alone in her own room, her plain costume laid out on her bed. Marielle had poked her head in and asked about borrowing thread to fix up some mishap with a mask or dress or trousers.

But this year, Petrea was the Second. And Aimée was not in bed with Aliks. She was on her way to Petrea’s room. Their friendship had blossomed over the year, and with Aimée’s assistance—and the invaluable advice of the Seconds from Dahlia and Heliotrope Houses—she was beginning to feel less like she was fighting stormy seas in a rowboat.

Aliks was now the Dowayne. An overburdened, burnt out Dowayne, thanks to the untimely death of her predecessor, Gerault, who had kept so many secrets from her, they might never truly discover them all. Petrea’s heart went out to her best friend, who spent her days locked in the Dowayne’s office, seemingly only emerging in the wee hours of the morning to take in a few hours of sleep. At the same time, Petrea wished that Aliks had taken more time to help train her, so that she need not turn to others for help. But almost more than that, Petrea wished that Aliks’s and Aimée’s relationship had not become so deeply damaged and strained. She knew that Aimée was hurt and angry. Aimée did not want to discuss the intricacies of their relationship, so Petrea did not pry.

Petrea knew that Aliks could not push the two of them away forever. She knew that Aliks needed both of them. And Aimée and Petrea both needed Aliks. But greater than their personal feelings, Cereus House needed the three of them to come together to bring it back to its glory.

The Shahrizai townhouse was quietly gearing up for the Longest Night. Numerous cousins had flooded into the City as the days got shorter, and there was a constant flow of invitations to various fêtes on the actual night. A number of the older members of the family were invited to the event at the Palace, and the younger members had invitations to the houses of their friends in the City. All save Niklos, whose invite lingered on his desk. Not just an invitation, but an invitation with a token. His invitation was signed by Petrea nó Cereus and was for the Masquerade on Mont Nuit itself. That news had been a wildfire amongst House Shahrizai when it arrived. Older family members commented that they couldn’t recall the last time a Shahrizai had been invited to spend the Longest Night on Mont Nuit, and the younger cousins pestered Niklos about how he had received the token and why he had been singled out. All he could tell them was that he had spent a significant amount of time in the City since he had arrived this year, and apparently his attempts to make connections with people were paying off. There were numerous late night conversations in the library, and Niklos had explained his plans to the family. The Longest Night would be a time for them all to enjoy themselves…and to gather what information they could; there was already a strategy going into the new year.

The Heliotrope carriage ride to Cereus House was uncharacteristically silent. News of Dowayne Olivier’s death hit the House hard, he was deeply beloved and had been their Dowayne for decades. Even though they had all been preparing for months, it still hit them like a kick to the chest.

None were hit as hard as Mena, the new Dowayne. Olivier was her grandfather, the man who raised her, taught her about Elua and Namaah, who’d shown her love that truly felt like the gentle, constant rays of the sun. The death of his wife, her grandmother, a decade prior was hard, but this was crushing. She knew that his presence, his reputation, had kept her shielded from a lot of things that could come crashing down on her. In the back of her mind, she hoped that the affection people had for him could be transferred in some way to her. The coming months would likely be hard ones; his funeral would have to be held right at the start of the new year, his estate would need to be handled, the House still needed to be kept together, and she had an uneasy feeling about Kyrie. Someone as full of hatred, entitlement, and heresy was not going to go away as quietly as it seemed he had. Without Olivier, she felt adrift, like she had no idea where to begin. Tonight was easy, the House would attend the Midwinter Masque, they would throw themselves into the revelry in Olivier’s honor. Tomorrow would come, but tonight was for Olivier.

As she did every night before laying down her head for sleep, Rosanna prayed. At the niche in her bedchamber, where incense burned and offerings were made, she closed her eyes and bowed her head.

In turn, she repeated the prayers taught to her in childhood, turning to the comfort she always found in the presence of the divine. One by one, she spoke the names of the angels from whom her people descended, who to this day watched over them all in times of peace and turmoil.

Azza the Navigator, Anael the Good Steward, Camael the Flaming Sword, Cassiel the Perfect Companion, Eisheth Lady of Healing and Music, Kushiel the Punisher, Naamah the Bright Lady, and Shemhazai of Keen Mind

A little rhyme was gifted to each Companion, and from them she named a facet of her life where their guidance would be appreciated.Only in the most dire of times did she outright ask for anything from the angels.

Now was not such a time…yet she still felt very much in need of some divine intervention, even just a little.

This year had begun with the change in her path as a servant of Naamah, progressing forward toward that aspiration she had so longed for. Yet, for her to ascend from the office of Second to Dowyane, she lost the mentor who named her to that position to begin with. Eitene was surely a character and for some an acquired taste, but he was her dear friend, someone who believed in her even when the Dowayne before him expressed doubts.

And now he was off to live his happily ever after with the Lord he adored, out in the idyllic countryside. Truly she was glad for him. It was a fairytale, and he deserved his happiness.

Leaving her to run Valerian House. Her dream.

Which was more intimidating than she had allowed herself to understand. Even with her own Second, Tryphosa, to help with the many responsibilities, the sheer volume of planning, especially for the Longest Night, was nigh overwhelming. Seeking solace, she had gone to the temple district on her usual weekly schedule, and where now she became acquainted with a fellow leader of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers. Together they began attending services, discussing faith and duty. Slowly but surely, the worry subsided.

Now the Prince was set to ascend, too. They would have a new King. On her very first Longest Night as Dowayne. It felt as though the stars were aligning.

Snuffing the candles, she left an offering of wine and sweets then pulled herself to bed. Everything was falling into place, no matter if she was prepared or not. Best she face the dawn with a good night’s sleep and faith in the powers that be that all would be well.

At the end of next year, Gustav will become King of Terre d’Ange.

Odilia had barely slept since Lord Maël had come to bring the news. Too many thoughts roiled through her head. Was he ready? What help did he need? What could she do? What was her place and responsibility to do? His letters, sent regularly over the years he had been gone from the city at his studies in the Rocaille University, had a special place in her private desk, kept under lock in their own drawer, but she had read them enough that she hardly needed to look at them to remember his words.

Ah, his words! Young and impassioned, excited to share with her all of his triumphs and asking her advice on his challenges. Some of them had been sent with small gifts, books and bookmarks, or a fine new pen with an inlaid handle, some were only his words and his honest voice. It was strange, she thought abstractly, to feel such a rush of true and dear affection in her chest for the young man in her letters. He hadn’t signed them with his title, only his name, which had made it easier to let herself forget who he was. Then the plague changed it all. He was poised to rise like a brilliant star, shining in glory for the entire country. She was a loyal subject, surely that was the only reason why she worried for how to help him. He was to be her king, it was her duty to serve the crown in whatever it needed. It couldn’t be anything more than that.

“Odilia?”

She came back to herself with a sharp blink, refocusing on the details of her personal dressing room and tearing her eyes away from the chessboard before her.

Silvére hovered in the door. “Are you ready? We’re gathering for the procession over to Cereus.”

“Yes,” she said, rising. “Yes, I am ready.”

She was an adept of Dahlia House, she had to be ready for whatever would come next. Upright and Unbending.

Manuel Cassid sank to his knees, preparing—as he had every year since the age of ten—to offer prayers to the Perfect Companion on the Longest Night. This night, however, he was praying not just for himself, but perhaps for his entire country. And unlike every other Vigil, he was not alone.

Kneeling beside the Cassiline brother, Gustav closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to quiet, sinking into a meditative calm as he began the Vigil. While the rest of the city danced and drank and feted the night away, waiting for the midnight hour when the Sun Prince would return to rejuvenate his Winter Queen and begin the cycle of the year again, he would kneel in Cassiel’s Vigil.

He prayed, like he had truly never prayed before.

Cassiel, he whispered silently in his heart, Guide me in this year to come, that I may be the Perfect Companion to my country. As Cassiel was the Perfect Companion to Elua, what was a king but a perfect companion to his people?

He still had so far to go.

The sun slowly set over the City, and the Longest Night began.

The Sun Also Sets

After visiting Bryony, time flowed more normally. Mena went to Cereus for tea and made friends with Petrea, while Loir wrote weekly about the goings on at Laurent’s. Mena’s aunts visited with their families, and Olivier seemed to slow his decline. Business in Heliotrope carried on as it always did: two babies were born, a novice left them for Balm while one joined them from Dahlia and another from Camelia, a marque was made and a party was thrown, and Mena felt herself relaxing. She even resumed seeing patrons, something that she realized she had missed.

All her life, she had been told that love was the warmth of the sun, but she realized that she’d not really understood that to the depths of her soul. Mena had never seen mountains, but she’d listened to the dye merchants one evening tell of how they dominated the sky, how their shadows were cold and complete no matter the position of the sun, how there was snow on some that never melted, and above all, how they were dangerous beyond comprehension. She, in that, understood that Kyrie was like that, blocking out the warmth of love from all around him and bringing with him a risk of ruin and demise. It took all she had to not shiver as she listened, but she allowed herself to pull her shawl tighter around her shoulders. A mug of hot cider appeared in her vision, and she looked up to see the smiling face of the caravan leader. He was young for a leader, but his men trusted him completely, something that was honestly rare at any age.

She wrapped her hands around the mug and smiled back at him. “Thank you, how did you know this was what I needed?”

His smile was easy and open, making his already handsome face breathtaking. ‘“You don’t have to be a Heliotrope to know what people need, Dowayne.” His tone was light and teasing, she found her smile widening. He went on,“Make sure you ask Dom about what he saved us from on this trip. And make sure you get warm, Dowayne”

Mena couldn’t respond because the man slipped away back to his seat across the room. She watched as he sat down in a plush chair and picked up his own steaming mug of cider. He was seated alone, though a nearby adept leaned over and whispered to him, making him laugh easily. Gods, he was gorgeous, dark hair, tanned skin, strong frame. She realized that, even though his caravan had been coming to them for over a year, she somehow did not know his name.

“I barely know what else to tell you all, surely someone has questions,” the man speaking, who had to be named Dom, asked, good humor lacing his tone.

Mena shifted to sit up more and cleared her throat. “I have one for our brave visitor. I heard a rumor that you did more than just look at mountains and think of their dangers. Please tell us about your bravery so we can celebrate you as you deserve.”

Dom blushed to the tips of his ears and down the open neck of his shirt, looking immediately at his leader. “Boss, really?”

Mena looked over at the leader, seeing his ready grin, how he didn’t answer but raised his mug and an eyebrow at Dom. Dom sighed. “Have any of you ever seen a brown bear the size of a horse?”

As the yearly Cereus Masque looked closer and closer, Mena felt unexplained tension rising. She checked and rechecked that preparations were going to plan; they were. The adepts and novices were all doing well, including the two who would have their debut at the Masque; nothing out of the ordinary. The House was in good physical repair, the larder and pantry were full to the brim thanks in part to how busy the House was after the Plague. The dye merchant, who still had not introduced himself, and his caravan had just left to return to their hometowns for the solstice. The House was quieter in their absence, something she didn’t think she’d notice as acutely as she did.

Perhaps it was personal, this feeling of rising tension. She had not heard from Kyrian in months, and while that should be good news, it was a fact that made her uneasy. A knock at the door to her rooms pulled her thoughts back to the present. Happily pushing Kyrian out of her mind, she called out, “Yes, come in.”

It took a moment, but in came one of the children, a boy around two with deep auburn hair and big brown eyes, with an envelope held in each hand, his face showing deep concentration as he crossed the carpets on unsteady legs. Mena smiled, big and bright, beckoning to him. “Oh, baby James! I see you’ve brought me my letters!”

James happily babbled an answer and sped up, excited now to reach her. Mena had no idea how it was in other Houses, but in Heliotrope, babies and children stayed with their parents. Their nursery only got used in the evenings, when someone was ill, or if a foundling had just arrived. Mena leaned down and scooped James up onto her lap, making a silly noise when she did to encourage a laugh from him. “Why thank you for bringing me the post, sweet boy,” she said as she extracted the letters from his chubby little hands. They were surprisingly unwrinkled given how they’d gotten to her. She set them aside and focused on James. “Now, let’s see if you’re still as ticklish as you were yesterday!”

He was; his laughter rang through her rooms and down the hall. Mena laughed along with him, pretending that he’d trapped her when his hands tangled in her hair. She played with him like this until his mother came around the corner. “Alright my sweet angel, let’s go get some food and let Mena open her letters.”

Mena made a show of holding onto James for a minute, enjoying the way he laughed. When he was back in his mother’s arms she said, “He is such a sweet, happy baby. You were truly blessed to have him.”

His mother smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as she left, her response trailing off as she left Mena’s rooms. “I know. I just love him so much.”

For a minute, Mena just sat there, the feeling of longing for love and closeness washing over her. That was a problem for another day, she knew, but sometimes her rooms felt too quiet.

She sighed and looked at the letters. One was from Olivier and the other was from Loir, neither one a surprise. Loir wrote every week, letting Mena know how things were going, telling her about the visits from her aunts and many of Olivier’s friends, as well as giving her any updates from the churigeons. She set that one aside for after Olivier’s. Carefully opening the envelope, she pulled out the single sheet of paper. The handwriting was the same, albeit shakier than it had been. Still, she smiled, he had taken the energy to write her and in her mind’s eye she could see him, a lap desk with an ink bottle balancing precariously on his lap, writing her this letter:

My dearest baby duck, it has been a while since I called you that. It’s true still, you are and always will be my baby duck. Things here are going as expected. I know that you’ll think that you want to come visit, but we both know you are too busy right now. Don’t worry, I know that you’d be here every second if that was possible. I wanted you to know that I love you more than all the snowflakes that fall in winter and more than all the rain that comes in the summer. You have done well with the House, perhaps better than I did when I was Second. I have no doubt that you will be the best Dowayne. I know too that you are lonely, lacking your own sun to bask in. It will come, my sweetest baby duck, it will come, and it will be like the rain never existed. I am getting tired now, I will end with this: you are loved, so deeply. Never doubt that. I have loved you since you were born, Always, Your Gran-perè

She sat for a minute, holding the letter to her chest, tears gathering slowly on her lashline, a few managing to spill down her cheeks. He knew, as he always did, exactly what she needed.

The day of Cereus’s Midwinter Masquerade dawned cold, bitingly so, with high, thin clouds. The sun’s rays slid slowly through the streets and across rooftops to reach Mena where she stood on her balcony, bundled against the cold. She had no idea why she woke up in the haze of pre-dawn, she just had. It was rare this time of year to see the sunrise, so she had taken the opportunity to step out and watch the winter sun rise above the rooftops of the City, the castle, and Mont Nuit. After a few minutes, she went back to her bed to sleep until midday.

She thought that she would sleep fitfully, but she had instead fallen deeply asleep as soon as her head hit her pillows. The smell of coffee and fresh bread pulled her into wakefulness, and when she opened her eyes, she smiled. There was Claudette, her favorite maid, with a tray and her usual bright smile. “M’lady Mena,” she said with her heavy rustic accent. “It’s time to get up and eat! Then I’ll help you with your hair. The party should be great fun this year!”

Mena stretched, surprised at how rested she felt, sitting up and taking the tray with a nod of thanks. “That it should Claudette. Will you be spending the evening with the rest of the servants?”

“Aye, I will! It’s my first Midwinter party, I am very excited!”

Mena smiled. “What House is hosting the servants’ ball this year?”

Claudette was pulling Mena’s costume out of her wardrobe, fluffing it out before laying it over one of the overstuffed chairs. “That would be Jasmine, m’lady.”

Mena reached out and put her hand on Claudette’s arm. “Just Mena, Claudette.” She laughed. “I know it’s hard to adjust, but I promise, the only lords and ladies are the ones that come visit us.”

Claudette laughed easily and heartily. “I know mi-Mena,” she said while she laid out what she needed to do Mena’s hair. “And you’re right, it is hard to adjust. Not every House is as relaxed as Heliotrope.”

Mena knew Claudette’s family had worked for a different House for several generations, though she didn’t know which one specifically. “Mm,” she said, nodding. “You say that Jasmine is hosting? You really got lucky that the first Midwinter you’re old enough to attend, the party is there. That is one thing off my mind, however, I know that all of you will be happy and have a wonderful celebration this evening.”

She got up and moved to the stool so Claudette could start on her hair. The time passed easily since they were able to talk comfortably with each other. Soon it was time to get into her costume, and Mena started to feel excited for the evening. Technically, she could get in and out of the dress on her own, but she let Claudette continue to fuss over her.

Mena was about to put her mask on when she heard the front door of the House slam open. She jumped, her heart in her throat immediately, though she didn’t move. It was like her feet were frozen to the floor. There was a commotion, and she heard several pairs of feet running up the stairs and down the hall. Time seemed to slow, seconds stretched out to an eternity as Loir’s tear-streaked face came into view. The young woman skidded to a halt, her hands braced on the doorframe, her eyes locked on Mena’s. The world started to shift under her feet and she knew: he was gone.