Philomena nó Heliotrope – Page 2 – Longest Night Midwinter Masque

The Struggle is Real

The weeks since Kyrian was banned from the House had been hard ones. Loir and Davide kept telling her that it was acceptable, that it was encouraged, but all Mena could feel was the time slipping through her fingers. She needed the time to sit with her thoughts and feelings, but somehow that time was not available to her.

First, it was the trip to the City Guard in the early morning hours of the next day. When she had arrived to make her formal complaint, she was shocked to discover that Kyrie had been let go almost as soon as the dye merchant had left. It seemed that despite the man’s statement, the event was brushed off as a dramatic adept, an over-protective merchant looking to curry favor, and an apologetic Earl. When Mena sat down with the Captain and explained the whole story, the man had the good grace to be horrified that his men had let Kyrian go. When he heard the story from Mena—not just the victim, but the Second of Heliotrope—he immediately called the men in and gave them a full dressing-down. He reminded them that the policy was to hold the person until the full story was received, no matter their social status. The Night Court had rules, after all.

Unfortunately, Mena learned it was too late for charges to be levied because he’d been let go without the proper paperwork being filed. She’d left, both glad that she’d come alone and regretting it. This way no one from the House witnessed her step into a tavern just outside the Night Court, tuck herself into a corner, and cry into a mug of beer and a homemade lunch.

After, she spent a few days clearing paperwork, getting orders in for what the House would need for the upcoming seasons. Though it was hard, she also ordered what they’d need for the funeral and mourning period for Olivier. She scheduled the visits to Namaah’s temple for the young ones, made arrangements for the two pregnant adepts to be moved to downstairs rooms, and made appointments with the marquist. While this was paperwork and management that the House needed, normally she did not do it all at once, choosing to handle it instead as it came up. However, she had bruises and a split lip that needed to heal without worrying the patrons, so all the paperwork for the month got done.

As luck would have it, she was healed enough to go out when her appointment with the Dowayne of Bryony came. She dressed carefully, her shoulders still sore from Kyrie’s hands, and made her way through Mont Nuit to the door of Bryony. Even from outside, she could hear the laughter and loud conversations, and it made her smile. Bryony was always full of laughter and high spirits.

The door opened and a smiling novice beckoned her. “Second Philomena! Welcome, welcome! Dowayne Arietta is expecting you!”

Mena smiled in return and followed the young woman through the door and deeper into the House. “Thank you, I appreciate the warm welcome.”

The young woman looked over her shoulder and beamed back at Mena. “You are always welcome here, Philomena.”

They reached the open door of the Dowayne’s office and the young woman curtsied and took off with surprising speed back to the public area of the House. Mena laughed and shook her head, feeling her mood finally lighten. She knocked on the door as a courtesy and went in. Dowayne Arietta was seated on her couch, going through paperwork, but she looked up and smiled.

”Philomena, it’s been too long! Come, come, sit, tell me what’s brought you here today.”

Mena approached the woman, leaned over to give her the kiss of greeting and then sat in one of the chairs Arietta indicated.

“It has been too long, Arietta. And it’s been a long time since you’ve come to one of Olivier’s parties.”

Arietta shook her head. “It truly has been a long while, at least a year. How is he faring? I heard that he’s out of the city to convalesce?”

By now, the exclusion of the truth was so normal she didn’t even flinch. “He is indeed out of the city. He’s under the care of his normal chirurgeon, and the newly minted Count Shahrizai of Angiers kindly sent one from his family as well. He’s in good hands.”

Arietta looked at her quietly for a long moment. Mena did not squirm under the scrutiny, though it was more of a struggle than normal. The silence stretched, while the Bryony Dowayne searched Mena’s face for….something. She seemed to find it because she nodded and looked back at the papers in her hand. “That is good to hear. I know that he’s had trouble since he broke his leg. I’ll make sure to light a candle to Eiseth and ask her to keep him in her gaze.

Mena bobbed her head. “Thank you for that. I’ll be sure to let him know when I go see him next. That actually brings me to the reason for my visit. He asked for his son to come see him, and I promised that I would come here and make that happen.”

Arietta set her papers down with a laugh. “You’ve got to know that you’ve agreed to a fool’s errand, dearest Mena. Belisario will never agree. Are you in my office to ask me to order him to go?”

Mena shook her head. “No, Dowayne, I would never ask for that. It would make the visit unpleasant for Olivier, and I will not be party to that. I am only here to ask to see Belisario privately and to let you know that I will be asking him and doing what I think is necessary to try to convince him.”

”So you’re here to see him and to let me know to ignore all yelling and noises that come from the room the two of you are in?” Arietta threw her head back and laughed. “Thank you for that courtesy, my dear. I can see Olivier and Geraldine’s raising in you all the time, but at times like this I can almost hear Olivier’s voice coming out of your mouth. He did a good job training you for this, my dear. A very, very good job.”

Mena laughed quietly. “Thank you for the compliments, Dowayne, it is good to hear. And I will certainly pass on your message to Olivier when I see him next.”

Arietta nodded as she got up and headed to her desk to look for something. “Good, good. I will have Belisario fetched for you, if you don’t mind waiting across the hall in the library. And when you go see Olivier, please take him this.” She held out an envelope full of money and slips of paper. “These are his winnings and his notes to be paid. He’s done very well with his bets on the Court, as usual. “

Mena stood, taking the envelope and tucking it into her pocket. “He usually does, no matter how unlikely his calls may seem. He is, of course, with Laurent if you wish to send him a letter. I know that he misses his friends in the City.”

Arietta smiled and went with Mena out the door and across the hall to the empty library. “I will do just that. I’ll also send in a light tea for you while Belisario is fetched.”

A few minutes later, the door swung open and in strode Belisario. Mena had found a spot to sit in a window seat and drink the tea that had been brought to her. She looked up and took in his appearance. Despite being Olivier’s son, he never came to Heliotrope. The relationship between the two was the very definition of contentious. The two were almost diametrically opposed; where Olivier was calm, calculating but never manipulative, gregarious and friendly, Belisario was brash and cunning, and without fail left Mena feeling like she had been evaluated for worth the way most people inspected a carriage.

Belisaro strode over and gave her a smile that was more condescension than kindness. “Little Philomena, Peré’s darling, what brings you to my door?” He sat down in a chair opposite her and crossed his legs. “Everyone knows that you rarely come down from his high pedestal, let alone visit a House like this fine establishment. Things must be pressing if he let his little bird out of her gilded cage.”

Mena ignored the digs. She may not see Belisario often, but he was like this every time she did. “Your father is dying. He’s asked for you to come see him.”

Belisario’s face betrayed no emotion. “Is he now? That’s interesting, he has asked for me. To what end, little bird? What benefit would I see from such a visit?”

“I see that age has not brought any mellowing of your nature, Belisario. Your benefit would be in granting a dying man’s wish, Word has already been sent to your sisters, and they are on their way. You, as usual, are the only one making this an issue.”

“Of course they would, vapid little lap-dogs. I don’t pop to when the old man snaps his fingers, I have self-respect.” He didn’t even bother to sneer, his contempt for his family was so much a part of him that he didn’t need to.

“For Elua’s sake, Belisario, why are you like this?” She felt herself getting louder, as always happened when she had to speak to him. “You don’t have self-respect, you’ve got an inflated ego. For some reason, you’ve made hating Olivier into half of your miserable personality.”

Belisario’s eye twitched, “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here into my House and insulting me, child,” he said, venom leaking into his tone. “You know nothing of the old man and how he and his insipid, vacuous, base excuse for a wife treated me. Growing up—-“

Mena cut him off. “You were raised in Heliotrope by your parents who loved you deeply, Belisario, not in some back-water hovel on the Skaldi border. For some reason, despite your baseless vitriol, they love you until their dying breath. Olivier has days, maybe weeks, left on this earth and all he wants is to see his son. No wonder Heliotrope had no place for you, all you can value is yourself.”

“Loved me? Is that what you think it was like? There was no love, they had no space in their tiny hearts for me, all they could see was Tobias.”

“Yes, yes, always Tobias. Poor little Belisario, always in Tobias’ shadow,” she mocked. “How dare they pay more attention to him when he was deathly ill as a child, when Belisario needed praise heaped on him for learning not to soil himself. Poor Belisario, no one showered him with attention, no one fawned at his feet.”

The man’s face was blotchy with rage and he spat out, “Do not mock me, caged bird. You forget who you’re speaking to.”

She surged to her feet, “Oh I know full well who I’m speaking to, you are the one who forgets. You are a base Bryony adept, taken in likely because a losing bet always makes the House more money. I am Heliotrope’s Second, I made my marque at twenty, when did you? Oh that’s right, your patron gifts were so small they were clearly given out of pity, not praise. You were what, thirty? And your father was the one that made your marque, how pathetic.”

Belisario stood and stepped towards her. “You would not be here if I hadn’t agreed to sire you on his favorite adept, Philomena Desiderio. That is the place I am speaking of, remember who allowed you to exist, me, your father.”

“And you are so low that my mother retired and fled after being sullied by your hands. She could not stand to look at her own child for the memory of you.”

“Are you sure that was because of me and not because of you? I am a Bryony, I know the worth I carry.”

Mena inhaled deeply, pulling her shawl around her. “You overestimate it, as usual. The only reason the old Dowayne agreed to take you in was because he owed Olivier money and, like I said, the odds on you always favored the House. Isn’t that also why you agreed to lie with my mother as well, to settle gambling debts? For a Bryony, you are awfully good at losing money.”

Belisario opened his mouth to reply but she held her hand up to stop him. “Go, or do not, I do not care. In fact, I would prefer you didn’t because you are so insufferably pompous that I am very sure you would start a fight with a dying man just to ensure you got the last word, and I want better than that, better than you, for Olivier.”

She swept past him to the door, which she just realized had been left ajar, and stopped. The sounds of people trying to quietly flee the hallway made her eyes narrow. Without turning around she said, “One last thing: know that I do not think of you, but when I do, it is only to wish that you had died and not Tobias.”

Slipping out of the door and down the hallway between adepts and patrons who were all trying very hard not to make eye contact with her, Mena escaped Bryony and headed back across the Night Court to her home, glad to leave Belisario behind her.

Courtesans, Pious and Fervent Both

It was the day before the Blessing of Eisheth festival, a day before the light-hearted revelry began weaving healing and peace with music and song. Like all festivals, this day was reserved for a more sedate ceremony, one Mena’s family had always attended. Olivier always said that the blessings of Eisheth were always available, even if a candle was never lit.

Mena slipped her shoes off at the door to the temple and began washing her hands and face with the fresh spring water that splashed in one of the anointed fountains. The shoe removal was something that wasn’t required, but you did not enter Eisheth’s Temple unclean.

“May Eisheth cleanse my body and spirit as she did Blessed Elua,” she murmured quietly as she finished her washing and entered the temple.

Congregants milled about at the various niches where candles and incense could be lit for private prayers. Others clustered around the statue of the angel herself, shown amongst the symbols of her arts and animals that flocked to her along the coast she once called home. Dolphins frolicked at the base of the statue whilst sea birds carved of fine marble were sculpted at the top. Behind the grand depiction were scenes of Eisande, murals of musicians and healers, lovers and sailors, and all who found peace in Eisheth’s gentleness.

Among them were a few of her descendants.

A redhead covered in a silken cowl and bowed in prayer, her marque quite visible, was one of them.

Rosanna counted Lady Eisheth as an ancestress on her father’s side. Long had the Baphinol family tended to the lands once beloved by their angelic foremother, caring for the people who lived on their estate and tended the fields of lavender and grapes. No few of her lineage became musicians, such as her elder sister Joia with her vielle, or her two eldest siblings Dizier and the family heiress Cateline who were excellent chirurgeons. It was a testament to the skills held in reverence by the angel that so many of her children followed such trades and careers.

Even though Rosanna was not dedicated to the priestly order of Namaah, she never missed a festival or holy day for any of their esteemed immortal ancestors. They had much to be grateful for, and she would never disrespect them so as to forgo her duties in faith.

“Lady Eisheth, please watch over my family, as once again I am to have another niece or nephew. May the labor be an easy one, may mother and child be well at the end.” She whispered her long list of prayers and lit another candle. With such a large family, she had many loved ones to wish for, but Eisheth was loving and patient, and Rosanna swore she could feel the angel’s presence at every visit to the temple.

Mena made her way to the statue of the angel and looked up at her, feeling more of her calming love settle around her like a cloak. When she was ready, she looked around to find a niche to offer up her prayers in. Most niches had two or three faithful in them, except for one. One glance told her why; clearly the occupant was an adept. The completed marque of Valerian and red hair made her Rosanna, an adept Mena only knew because of the records Olivier had started in the House. Though very few people outside of the House knew of Olivier’s condition, if anyone had to find out in order for Mena to completely lay herself bare before the angel, a Valerian would be least likely to share what they’d heard.

Mena slid onto her knees on the bench a respectful distance from the other woman and took a deep breath. She carefully lit a stick of incense, feeling her mind empty as she’d been taught, the only thing in it was a tightly wound ball of grief and love.

”Lady Eisheth, gentlest of the Companions, hear my prayer,” she said quietly but clearly, pausing to light one of the candles in front of her. “Please grant Lenora nò Balm your gentleness, care, and knowledge in the coming days and weeks. Lady Eiseth, hear my prayer. Please hold my grandfather, Olivier nò Heliotrope, in your grace and compassion in the coming weeks, that he may have peace and comfort in the days before he comes to Terre d’Ange eternal.”

She looked down, the rows of candles swam in her vision as she let her tears free. “There is nothing left to do to save him, but please grant him this. Lady Eisheth, Angel of Compassion, hear my prayer.”

Hearing soft footsteps behind her, Rosanna waited in respectful silence as the new worshipper came to share the prayer niche. Each could potentially fit up to four people if they knelt in a half circle around the holy icon. However, many had chosen on this auspicious day to instead gather below the main altar. When this newcomer came into her line of vision, she found a somewhat familiar figure. At times she had seen the woman, another of her own order, attending religious festivals. Every time Rosanna went to attend, she was sure to find this same courtesan somewhere in the vicinity. It would seem they shared a heart of devotion.

Such a heartbreaking thing to hear her pray for a loved one nearing the end of his life.

Although she herself had never lost someone so near to her before, she could feel sympathy for what she must be going through. Many on Mont Nuit loved fiercely, even if their manner of loving differed vastly. When one of her incense sticks threatened to prematurely burn out, Rosanna offered one of the nearby candles to help her lit it anew.

“My sympathies for your family,” she whispered kindly.

When the candle was offered, Mena took it gratefully and relit her incense. “Thank you, they are appreciated,” she replied. For a moment, she stared at the candles not really seeing them, before she turned and said, “You’re Rosanna from Valerian, right? I’m Philomena, from Heliotrope. I’ve heard of you, plus I’ve seen you at the temples. There aren’t many devoutly raised adepts, so finally getting to meet you feels like a blessing.”

“I am. And I share the sentiment. Perhaps our meeting today was guided by the Lady’s hands.” Smiling sweetly, Rosanna studied the somewhat familiar figure of the courtesan at her side. Yes, she had seen her face at festivals and holy days in the past, they just had not had the chance to be introduced before now. “Devotion moved me to become one of Namaah’s Servants to begin with. I felt called to service. I am glad it brought me here so we could finally meet.”

Outside, the sound of happy revelers and music began to infiltrate the temple. Not that music was ever an unknown in Eisheth’s domain. Even now, an unseen harpist filled the air with a sweet melody. Surely by now, the plays and entertainments organized by the temple of the divine patroness of the arts would be starting.

Mena exhaled slowly, letting the gentle notes of the harp slip into her mind and give her peace. She nodded and said to Rosanna, “I was born into it, both devotion to Namaah and devotion to Elua and the Angels. Both devotions bring me such peace.”

Considering a question swiftly, Rosanna looked to Philomena. “When your prayers are concluded, if you are in the mind for some company, I would be happy to attend the festivities together,” she offered.

The Heliotrope looked up at the ceiling for a moment, watching the smoke swirl towards the high ceiling. “I feel as though my prayers are never over these days, and yet, there is less comfort to be had.” Turning her head, she looked at Rosanna and smiled. “I would like the diversion and the company.”

Smiling brilliantly, Rosanna concluded her prayers, adjusted the veil atop her head, and stood. All around them several more of the faithful rose and did the same, preparing to move from the dusky inner sanctum of the temple, and its incense filled air and into the light of day.

“I am glad of it. Let us worship in joy together and get to know one another. I do not often get the chance to converse with my fellows in Heliotrope, despite the collection of romances I keep in my quarters.” She giggled and held a hand out to assist the other courtesan to her feet. “I would very much like to know you better, Philomena.”

Mena smiled, releasing her worries to Eisheth and Elua, and took Rosanna’s offered hand. “I would love that, Rosanna. And please, call me Mena. All my friends do.”

As they walked out into the sun, Mena said, “You said that devotion led you to Namaah’s service. That wording is intriguing. I would say that Namaah called me to service, that devotion guides me. I am sure there’s a story behind your words.”

Autumn’s First Kiss

The first chill breeze of Autumn came whispering through the City of Elua, hinting at the cooler days and darker shadows and misty mornings of the autumn season, and, like perfect clockwork, the invitations arrived for Dahlia’s Revelry.

The patrons that received the gilded invitations sealed with the Dahlia imprint in the burgundy wax dressed to impress – of course, anyone who came to the Night Court dressed to impress, but the Dahlia Revelry was a little different than just attending the public salons. Invitations were also courteously extended to the other Dowaynes and Seconds of the other twelves Houses, if they chose to accept them.

An invitation also found its way to the Rocaille townhouse at the edge of the Noble’s District. Addressed to Lord Maël de Rocaille and his Bosom Contraband, Maël nevertheless knew exactly what this was: a way to circumvent the scanning of the secretaries and staff of the Royal Palace Courcel. It had taken him two tries to read it correctly; the first time he had scanned it he had seen and his Bosom C and filled in the rest with Companion. It was only when he had picked up the letter opener to slice the embossed envelope open that he realised what it really said. And, young and mischievous as he was, he enjoyed a good chuckle at it. Very well, Dahlia, he thought to himself, I see you appreciate a good game after all!

It seemed that he would need to spirit the Dauphin out of the palace once again, for there was no way Gustav would be missing this Revelry.

The whispers of the Autumn ripened into full fruits and the lanterns were lit in Dahlia House, so it gleamed gold as the royal jewels they wore as monarchs in their pride.

Valerian House had their Mara’s Eve celebration at the end of winter, Cereus House hosted the Longest Night, but Dahlia House began the harvest season with their Grand Revels. In the style of Old Hellas, it was a grand symposium with music and food and drink where patrons courted the favour of the Dahlia adepts, all competing for their regal attention and approval. The fruits of the season were piled high in bowls and on platters; lush apples, rich plums, glossy blackberries, bunches of grapes draped over the gilded rims like wine caught in the illicit arc of spilling. Pomegranate quarters nestled among sweet figs, pears, and cherries. Dahlia adepts wore the jewel tones of the harvest season; some choosing the shimmering gold of the sheaves of grain rippling in the fields, some wrapping themselves in the deep green of the vines bearing the bountiful fruit, some choosing their favourite of the fruits on offer to inspire their clothing.

As this would be the first formal event outside of her own House as Dowayne, Rosanna took the matter of what to wear quite seriously. With Etienne well and truly gone, not too far as he was simply ensconced in his beloved’s townhouse until the new year, the title had officially been passed to her. Now she needed to make a statement with her inaugural appearance. Which was made all the more complicated as her good friend did reside in Dahlia too. Honestly, she relished the challenge.

A deep burgundy gown was finally selected, with a wide neckline and wide trailing sleeves with dagged edges. Her long, autumnal, hair fell to her hips, accented by a copper diadem of fallen leaves. To her right hand was Tryphosa, in burnt orange and deep olive green. As the newly appointed Second, it was her joy and duty to attend.

“Dahlia has not spared any expense,” Tryphosa observed and plucked a drink from the tray of a passing server.

“They never do. As is their right and doctrine. Truly regal,” Rosanna replied. In her mind she was already considering the expense of such an event, the elegant decorations and attention to theme. What surrounded them was the work of an experienced Dowayne. Come February, she would be expected to host the events of Mara’s Eve, the first test of her abilities as a House leader.

“You’re thinking too much, my Lady Dowayne,” Tryphosa whispered.

“I believe I am thinking just the right amount,” Rosanna gently corrected. “We will enjoy ourselves tonight, of course. But this is a unique opportunity. We must learn from Dahlia’s success. Come, let us mingle.” And so she led the way deeper into the revelries, her friend and Second at her side.

Mena was nervous, a first for her. She had of course attended Dahlia’s Revelry before but this time there were stark differences. Olivier was not standing in the upstairs Adept only Salon, fussing with the cut of his tunic, nor was Laurent there to offer his thoughts on clothing or to tease them about going to visit the House he said was “you, but rigid”. In their place was a small army of Adepts, since this was Mena’s first year, the whole process was different. Loir, who would be attending with Mena, sat on a backless stool, her laughter ringing through the Salon as Emilié finished her hair and a servant pulled the back of her dress tight. Her marque was newly finished, by the d’Marrs as Mena had predicted, so her dress was mostly open, held to her body with three ties. In honor of autumn, her dress was the color of the tall grasses that grew outside her family land and hid game and predator alike.

Mena had seen this as an opportunity to use the bolt of deep blue fabric the dye merchant had gifted her. It was a sample of a dye he was sourcing from parts unknown, part of the deal that would make him wealthy. There was no other fabric like it in the city, he’d gifted it to her as thanks for her House’s hospitality. The gown it made was simple; it went to the floor, clung where it needed to, with a high neckline that went from shoulder to shoulder, but a deep back. She loved it and made a mental note to wear it when the caravan returned.

Dahlia House was impeccably decorated, as expected, and Mena felt her nerves being replaced with happiness. She loved parties. Loir slipped her hand into the crook of Mena’s arm and whispered, “This is gorgeous, Mena. I cannot believe they do this every year.”

”They do, and it is always incredible,” Mena whispered back. “You know, every House has a function like this that we traditionally hold. Next year, we’ll hold Helio’s again.”

Loir laughed quietly, “I’ll hold you to that. Now though, we need to go mingle and observe.”

Mena nodded, “Agreed. And remember, Olivier sends his regrets, but he’s got a personal commitment that prevents him from attending.”

Loir nodded and slipped off into the crowd, towards the garden, while Mena moved to circulate through the rooms.

Petrea loved a party. Any party, if she was being honest with herself. But this party was different. She was not here for revelry, dancing, or cavorting, as was her usual modus operandi. She was here in her official capacity as Second of Cereus House. She was here to represent her House, to mingle with the Dowaynes and Seconds of the other Houses, to make the acquaintance of those deemed important or influential enough to be invited to the grand affair, and most importantly, she was here to prove that she was a capable Second. Oh, she had heard the rumors that swirled through the salons and bedchambers of Mont Nuit: that she was nothing more than an aging adept looking for a good time and that she was no more fit to be a Second than a stableboy.

All of these thoughts had swirled through her head the entire morning as she prepared. Aimee had stood by her side, listing off the day’s duties and assisting with the tiny buttons that ran up the back of Petrea’s deep blue gown. It had become their routine. They took breakfast together and then helped each other dress as they each gave the other an update on their respective tasks. Standing there, on the magnificent veranda in Dahlia House now, listing off the many tasks that Aimee would be taking care of while she, the official Second, would be here—indulging in wine and conversation—took away some of her nerves.

She tucked a lock of her golden hair back behind her ear and straightened her shoulders. She had been standing along the wall for too long, and that would not do. She was the Second of Cereus House. It was time to act like it.

Maël’s brows had lifted when he had seen what Gustav had chosen to wear, but Gustav had only smiled his secret smile and assured his friend that it was perfect. And it certainly was when he entered the grand gardens of Dahlia House and saw the adepts and patrons glance at him. He wore only simple boots, soft hose that clung to his legs, and a flowing poet’s shirt of soft white. His hair combed only by his fingers, his collarbone and throat exposed by the loose neck of his shirt, he seemed like he had stepped from the music of the Hellene stories of heroes returned home and he certainly felt like he had come home again as he saw her see him.

Across the garden, Odilia sat draped in a rich plum gown that gathered at her throat and fell in pleats down her body, belted with a chain of golden vines to make her seem a harvest goddess herself. Her dark eyes lifted at the whispers that rippled through the gardens, falling on him bathed as he was in the soft light of the lanterns and gleaming white and gold like Elua Himself. He saw her hand lift to touch her chest, as though soothing her heart that skipped for him and he smiled. When he smiled, it reflected in her own face like a sunbeam, glowing and rosy and focused on her and her on him.

He made his way through the patrons, adepts, and servers, intent on his goal, her face the only thing he could see as he came to her, boldly reaching for her hands as she sat on her couch.

“Odilia,” he breathed to her, savouring the feel of her soft skin under his touch again, as he always did – it was always a gift when he could touch her, when he could see her face and smell her perfume.

“Your Highness,” she said, recovering some of her composure even as her eyes glittered. He tugged gently on her hands to pull her to her feet, standing with her as though they were the only two people in the garden, in the city, in the world.

“I would be a shameful guest if I did not come to Dahlia’s Revelry without a tribute gift for my Dahlia queen,” he said to her with his mischievous, slightly boyish smile. “May I give you my gift?”

She eyed him, her brow lifting, but she permitted him his game, “You may.”

The world spun for a moment as he pulled her into his arms, cradling her close as he kissed her sweetly. She gasped – she wasn’t the only one – her hands gripping his shoulders to help herself balance as he swayed with her, but she kissed him back. She knew she shouldn’t, this was so public and so many people were watching, and he was the Dauphin, she was only a Servant of Naamah. But was this not what the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers was for? Indulgence and delight?

She let herself delight in his kiss, her hands relaxing on him – trusting him – and sliding to comb up through his loose hair to savour him.

Rosanna was conversing with one of the patrons of Dahlia House, a curious one who saw her own marque and came with earnest questions about such a distinctly different practice than the one hosting. They were smiling and making light discussion when from the corner of her eye movement pulled at her attention. The patron’s too, if the shocked and grinning gasp was anything to go by.

“Now I have never seen the elegant autumn revelry celebrated quite so…enthusiastically before,” said the patron.

“Nor have I,” she replied with a perfectly polite smile. On the inside she was positively ecstatic, but those emotions were tempered down. Later, she would seek out her friend and ask all about the Prince who kissed her later.

Loir was standing with a small group of Dahlia Adepts, whispering Night Court gossip when the Prince’s approach caught their attention. Their conversation stopped mid-word as they watched him approach the Second of Dahlia House. They were too far away for even Loir’s well-trained ears to catch their words, but the kiss rendered words useless. One of the Adepts grabbed Loir’s arm tightly as they stood, stunned by what they saw. A Dahlia, kiss in public?! With a Prince! Loir felt her heart racing at the implications. The kiss ended in an intimacy that made Loir look away instinctively, lovers like that deserved their privacy.

“W-w-where were we?” An Adept said with a light laugh, and Loir released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

“Well, I think we were talking about Bryony House,” she said with a light laugh, “Though I am sure their numbers did not include that development.” As the conversation started back up, Loir tried to organize her thoughts and the events so she could let Mena know when they returned home. This needed to go into the books for sure.

Petrea heard a gasp and turned from her conversation with the young Lancelin of Siovale just in time to catch the kiss to end all kisses. All her years of training at Cereus House could not stop the look of shock from her face. It took her mind a second to catch up with what her eyes were seeing. The heir to the Perigeux duchy cleared his throat quietly, freeing her from her momentary reverie. She blinked and turned back to the gentleman, once again the picture of a trained adept.

She put her hand on his arm, apologizing for her impertinence. He smiled in his dark-eyed way and waved off her concern. He continued speaking about…something…and Petrea continued to nod and make appropriate murmurs of agreement when appropriate. But her mind was not on her companion’s words. There were larger pieces in play now, and Petrea knew that she had just witnessed a major shift in the game she had unwittingly joined. She would need to navigate this carefully as Second, and Aimee was not the one who could help steer her.

When the kiss ended, Odilia looked up at him, bright and beautiful as they smiled into each other’s eyes in a way that could never be feigned. In a way that was noticed by many of the eyes still watching their Dauphin kiss the Second of Dahlia House, a woman more proud and distant than most of her comrades. And she smiled at him like he had sprinkled the stars in the sky above them himself.

“Well,” the Dahlia Dowayne said from her throne among her favourite lovers, lifting her goblet in a toast, “it seems our Revels have truly begun!”

Maël’s eyes swept across the gardens, tracking the ripples of the gossip and seeing the spreading whispers as the fête continued, and it was not just the Autumn chill that came kissing his neck. No, he knew that nothing good could come of this.

Days Like This

Content Warning: Physical and Verbal Abuse

Mena sat on the back veranda of Heliotrope and stared out at the back garden. The sun was setting, the House was busy getting ready for the night ahead, and all she really wanted to do was go lie in the grass and watch the sky. Unfortunately, that was not in the cards tonight. Kyrie was coming to the House, and he was sure to already be in a mood.

The night before Olivier left the House, she told Kyrie that things within Heliotrope were starting to change, demanding more of her attention. As was his custom, he brushed off her comment with something about how women’s work didn’t concern him since it wasn’t very difficult. Now, Mena had been “dodging” him for weeks, according to his increasingly angry letters and visits to the House where he’d been turned away. He’d said things like he was “owed her presence” because he was “her only long-term Patron” so “nothing was more important” than he was, as well as “you’ll see me or you’ll regret it”, which happened to be what made her break and see him. She knew she needed to rid herself of him, and she knew it would be a delicate thing, but threats were something that she couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t that she thought he’d follow through, but there were children, staff members, and novices in the House who she needed to publicly stand up for. Olivier had made sure she understood that the Dowayne was the wall of safety behind which everyone else could shelter.

So, the next letter she received, she didn’t open it, just sent a missive back telling him to come to the House. Truth be told, she didn’t have the energy for him, but she’d find it, somewhere. She’d hoped it would be found in the garden, but that didn’t seem to be the case today.

“No, let me through! I do not care that it is not the appointed time, I will be seen now.” She heard a voice she knew getting closer and closer before the door slammed open, and an irate Kyrie blasted through, followed immediately by the young adept who was on door duty tonight.

Turning her head to look at him, she said, “Kyrie. You’re early”

She looked over to the adept and tiredly nodded. “Thank you, but I’ll handle him now.”

The adept’s face twisted into something suspicious and concerned, but he bowed just the same and left the way he came, albeit much quieter.

“Early, the way I see it, you’re late.” His voice was quiet, full of venom. Mena knew this Kyrie: He was upset because things didn’t go exactly the way he wanted. Normally, she would switch on the charm and sweet talk him back down. Tonight was different.

“Kyrie, I was busy. I made it clear that I wouldn’t be able to see you until next week,” she said firmly but not bothering to hide her exhaustion. “I made time for you tonight. Is that not enough?”

“Enough?” He came into her view finally, his face pulled into a heavy sneer. “Enough, Philomena? After all I’ve done for you and this wretched House, you think that a sliver of your time is enough for me?”

White hot anger simmered beneath the surface of her calm façade. For a moment, she just blinked at him, forcing her mind to slow, to feel the warmth of Naamah around her, allowing it to soak into her and soothe her. As she looked at him, she could see him getting more and more angry the longer she was silent.

She took a deep breath and said, “Kyrie, the House has more than expressed its gratitude for your presence during the Plague. That debt is repaid.” He opened his mouth to speak, rage starting to etch lines in his face. She held up a hand to silence him and went on, “I feel you need a reminder that I am the Second of this House, and I have duties that I have to fulfill.”

Kyrie took a step towards her, throwing his cloak off with such force that it knocked over the flower arrangement on the table next to where Mena sat. She didn’t flinch, but she felt the warmth she wrapped herself in start to burn. “You forget your station, pet,” he snarled. “I am a lord of the land, that debt is paid when I deem it so. As for your so-called duties,” he scoffed and tossed his head back. “You wouldn’t have them if not for my Patronage. My coin bought that marque and you would do well to remember that.”

The heat was pressing on her skin, as though her own anger and Blessed Naamah’s had merged and her control snapped. Surging to her feet, she stepped towards him, her back straight, and her gaze fixed on his face.

“You think you paid for this marque? Don’t be ridiculous.” She gestured almost wildly at herself. “The idea that the occasional coin left on my table could afford you this is lunacy. Let me tell you who paid for this.” Taking another step towards him, she began to count on her fingers. “Name-day gifts, something you never gave me, from Olivier, my mother, my friends. A marquis of Camlach, another of Eisande, and the one from Kusheth who comes to me four times a year to this day, and a handful of higher ranking nobles whom I can’t disclose. Several merchant caravan leaders come when they have done well, including one from Alba, his gift paid for inches, Kyrie, inches.” She was so close she could almost touch him, though she did not. “And let’s not forget, the d’Marr’s, not only did they treat me like a human and not like a ‘pet.’ Their gifts over the years bought sections the length of my hand, fully limned.” She laughed and shook her head, turning away from him. “Since I have known you, Kyrie, you have barely given me enough to line base. Gods, you really are a pompous ass, aren’t you?”

He was silent for long enough that she thought perhaps he’d understood finally so she turned around and looked at him, taking in his pale skin, blotchy with rage, and his shocked expression. She was not expecting his face to twist into disgust, his words flung like a dagger. “You really couldn’t resist your base nature, could you, girl? You are nothing but a common whore in a fancy package, just like your precious Naamah.”

Mena felt her stomach drop to her knees, and she fought the urge to gasp. Instead, she felt another surge of molten rage fill her. “You will not speak of Blessed Naamah that way in this House! We do not tolerate heresy!”

Kyrie laughed, sharp and humorless, and turned away. “Heresy? Are you completely delusional, Philomena?” He whirled around, voice dripping with venom. “Naamah was nothing but a whore, jumping at the first chance to lie with a man, just like every one of her ‘servants’. The only reason Blessed Elua tolerated her was because she was of use to Him. You think your calling is to serve here? Your only reason for existing is to marry me, have my children, and then I’ll dispose of you like the trash you are.”

His words were incomprehensible to her, crashing around her mind like angry hornets. Pulling herself up to her full height, she looked him in the eye with narrowed eyes. “You are the one who is delusional, Lord Montaban. I can not comprehend your perversion of the story of Terre d’Ange’s founding. You are not worthy to speak Naamah’s name, let alone enjoy her communion. You, my lord, are a disgrace to everything this land stands for. Blessed Elua—”

The blow that landed heavy on her face snapped her head sideways with such force she lost her balance and fell to the floor. Stunned and tasting blood, she turned back to see Kyrie hovering over her, his face cold and cruel. He grabbed her shoulders with a punishing grip, hauling her up and shaking her. “Never speak His name again. You are not worthy to utter His name unless you are on your knees begging for forgiveness for using His Holiness to justify your own base nature.”

Mena grabbed his forearms and jerked, breaking his grip and pushing him back. She stood back up, still feeling the surging hot rage coursing through her. “You will never touch me or another adept again, Kyrian. How dare you put your hands on me like that?”

She became distantly aware of the sound of someone running through the garden, and banging behind her, but paid it no mind. Kyrian was regarding her from a little distance. His eyes narrowed with something that sent fear, thick and cold, slithering down her spine. “You know,” he said quietly, violence vibrating through his voice as he stalked slowly towards her. “I have not seen your protector Olivier in several weeks. Is it possible the withered, spineless excuse for a man has finally died? If so, there’s no one to keep me from taking what I own over that wall and—”

In the blink of an eye, Vouloir was between Mena and Kyrie, the knife she received from her father in hand. It glinted in the moonlight as she held it steady towards Kyrie’s gut. She snaked her arm out, shoving Mena behind her unmoving form.

“There is always me, you miserable pile of camel dung. Your disgusting tongue will never form our Dowayne’s name again, or I will come to your home myself and remove it.” Vouloir’s back was strong, steady, and very warm under Mena’s cheek where she leaned on her. “Leave this place now, and never darken our door again.”

Kyrie snorted and took a step forward. Loir did not move, did not waver. Mena did not understand how her voice was so calm as she continued. “Our Second is so far above you, you lowly, squirming worm, that your filthy hands will never touch her again. And believe in this as much as you believe in Blessed Elua: Come to Heliotrope again, and those steps will be your last. My blade is sharp and thirsts for the blood of heretics.”

Kyrie opened his mouth to speak but whatever he was going to say never got started because two very important things happened at once: the door crashed open, finally broken off its hinges by the bulky shoulder of someone Mena did not know, but had to be a patron, and, most importantly Aevelline, their cook, had made her way from the back door of the kitchen, and hit Kyrie in the back of the head with her favorite pan. His eyes rolled back as he crumpled boneless to the floor.

All of the hot rage drained out of her, and everything she’d been holding in crashed, flooding her body with ice as though she’d dived into a frozen pond. She gasped, the pain from the blow radiating from the side of her face, her vision blurring from it but also from the tears that started to flow. She felt unsteady on her feet, and she clung desperately to Loir, looking around her to see what was happening. The patron who’d broken down the door was heaving Kyrie’s limp form onto his shoulder with one hand, the other ran through his dark hair with clear agitation.

“Want me to dump him in the deep part of the river?”

Loir spoke before Mena could gather the words from the darkening fog that was her mind. “If it were up to me, I’d gut him and leave him on a rock for the vultures as a message that heresy and violence have consequences.” She sighed and shifted a bit so she could wrap her arms around Mena. “But I know that the Dowayne would want him turned over to the City Guard. Let them know what we know happened and ask them to come speak to the Second for the rest of the story.”

The man nodded, a tight smile on his face. “Of course, Loir.”

Mena looked as best she could at the man, and said quietly, “Come back when you are done. You deserve a reward.”

He smiled and headed to the door, muttering something Mena had no chance of hearing. Her whole head was starting to ring like a struck bell, the darkening fog finally catching up to her. As it overtook her, she said, “And buy Aevelline a horse, she’s too good to walk anywhere any more.”

Cook’s laughter was the last thing she heard before the fog won and she hit the floor.

To The Boiling Point

“The post has arrived, my lord. Three letters from the Court, one from the financier, and one from Lady Helen,” the footman said from just behind Kyrian, setting the mail on the table next to the bed. Kyrian rolled out of bed, going to stand by the open window. He was still naked from the night before where a maid whose name he did not know had been his plaything.

“You are sure, footman, that there’s no missive from my pet?” Kyrian asked without looking away from the window. The view of the boats on the distant river was more interesting than what was happening behind him. If he had looked, he would have seen the footman studiously ignoring the young maid who was frantically pulling on her clothes. He would’ve seen the pitying and sympathetic look the footman had given her as she slipped silently out the open door. But he didn’t see any of it because servants and women were not something that Kyrian bothered with unless he had a need.

“Yes, my lord, I am sure, no news from Heliotrope since last week. I’ll take my leave so that my lord can look over the correspondence in peace,” the man said, the door closing quietly behind him.

Kyrian stood for a moment longer, looking out and thinking about his pet. He didn’t understand why she was avoiding him; it was not her usual behavior. Just before Olivier finally left the House, she’d said that she was going to be busier in the coming weeks and months, so her time would be limited. Surely, as her lord, that meant that their visits would have to be shorter than usual. That had not been a concern for Kyrie; he was able to get what he needed from her in a short time.

He grabbed his robe off the chair and pulled it on before sitting in his chair to see what the world had brought him today, trying to push thoughts of her out of his mind. First, the financier had written to say that the merchant ships his late brother had purchased and arranged were bringing in the profit expected, so the Montaban house would maintain its station. Kyrie tossed the letter aside, uncaring. He knew he should be wanting the family name to improve, but right now, he was incapable of finding it within himself to care about the Montaban name. Things weren’t declining, that was enough. Once his pet came to him permanently, he would have the means to improve their status. She was pretty, well-bred, and a joy in bed. He was sure that she’d continue to make money. It rankled that something that was his was making money for others, let alone for Olivier. Elua, how he hated that man; he was always making it harder for Kyrie to have access to his pet, claiming that she was no one but her own. Kyrie scoffed, he knew better. That was his pet.

Next, Lady Helen. He sighed heavily, already irritated. What on earth could his mother want now? She was installed in a modest home on the edge of the estate, well-appointed but modest. She had a servant and a cook, plus an allowance. Women were needy like horses but, unlike the animals, they could speak and write. He ripped open the envelope and scanned the letter, then tossed it into the rubbish pile next to his desk. He thought, ‘Hmm, why hadn’t the maid grabbed that on her way out of the bed? Odd.’

Helen, as expected, was pressing him for information on his brother’s whereabouts. He kept telling her that his brother was indisposed, but that wasn’t enough for her, evidently. He really wanted to tell her that his worthless older brother was rotting at the bottom of a ditch near the Skaldi border, but that would evidently upset her. Kyrie put his feet on the desk and pondered for a minute how to proceed. At the time, he’d not known the content of his father’s will, so it seemed that a ditch near Skaldi was the best solution to his problem. If their father’s will had not stated clearly that failing to care for her would result in forfeiture of land and property, Kyrie would have thrown her out on the street. Truth be told, their father would have as well when she had produced the two heirs, but the title and all the things that went with it were from her family. This clause was part of the marriage agreement that had allowed their father access to her to begin with. Both he and Kyrie had tried and failed to find a way out of it; Gerard was another matter altogether.

Gerard did not agree with the way that Kyrie and their late father handled themselves, so when the old man had finally died, he’d started making changes. Things like moving their mother back into the main house, sending money to the toys he and his father had enjoyed and discarded, and worst of all, he put Kyrie on a strict allowance with stipulations. Kyrie scoffed and poured himself a glass of wine remembering the audacity of his brother. Expecting Kyrie to stop enjoying the servants and settle down with one woman was already too much, but Gerard had made it clear that their father’s teachings on Elua and women had been wrong. Heresy, he’d called them, in the screaming match that had led to Kyrie taking action. Kyrie took a long swig of wine and laughed, the only heresy was the belief that Elua expected all His people to be equals. There were rich and poor, D’Angeline and unfortunates, men and women, and that showed that Elua Himself knew that some were just better than others. Kyrie laughed harder and jotted down a note to have someone go speak to Helen and remind her that she was in that house on her lord Kyrie’s good will, so she needed to act accordingly.

He scooped up the Court correspondences, Lady Helen completely forgotten. The first two were normal, who attended what event, what was upcoming on the social calendar. All of that was handled by his valet, so Kyrie tossed them over his shoulder to discard them. The man would find them and make Kyrie’s schedule accordingly. The last one Kyrie read carefully, his anger rising again. Gustav, or should he say, the Dauphin had returned. He did not know the current Dauphin, but Gerard had been on good terms with the recently departed Daniel. No one was close to a Courcel because of their annoying morals, so it is not as though they were friends, but they were friendly enough that condolences had come when Gerard had died. Kyrie could only assume this new Dauphin would be the same.

The letter was from one of his friend group, a higher ranking man with similar ideals. The man collected gossip and sent it out to the rest of the group when they were away from Court. According to the missive, the relationship between the new Dauphin and his mother was formal with no hints if they were as close as she was with her late son. Worse, there was proof that prior to him going to the University in Siovale, he had been a regular visitor to Dahlia House. Of all the Houses, it had to be that one.

Kyrie balled up the paper and threw it at the wall. Dahlia. Dahlia adepts never understood their place; they never properly deferred to him when he’d been forced to visit their public salon in the past. His pet rose to mind again, and righteous indignation swept through him. How dare she. She was his, not anyone else’s. What could she need to do that was more important than serving him? He had to put a stop to this. There was only one way to do that.

He would go to Cereus and order the Dowayne to fix his pet. And while he was there, he would take his fill of the new Dowayne.

To See Olivier

The day Mena was to head out to Laurent’s estate to see Olivier had finally arrived. Though it had really only been two weeks, to Mena it had been a lifetime. She woke early, as the carriage ride would take three hours, and she didn’t want to miss any time with her favorite people. The chirugeons so graciously sent by Niklos had examined her grandfather and come to the same conclusion as his usual one: he was near the end of time here. They suggested that word be sent to Moon House, a place that was staffed largely by retired Balm adepts and specialized in caring for the dying. Today was the day that Eléonora nó Balm, the woman who was picked for Olivier, was arriving at the estate. While Mena’s presence wasn’t required, she would not miss this for all the money in Heliotrope’s coffers. This visit, like all to the Marquis’s home, was to be a homey affair, so she didn’t need to put on anything fancy. She opted for a dress like the ones she wore before patrons arrived, albeit a new one. It was loose enough that she was able to put it on alone, which granted her private time for her thoughts.

Yawning, she laid out her light coat and slipped her feet into her favorite shoes, her thoughts shying away from speculation on Olivier’s condition and settling to the equally unpleasant topic of Kyrie and—

The door to her room slammed open, saving her from that line of thought, but startling her so much that she swore like a merchant. Loir, for who else would it be since no one else was as comfortable with Mena as her, started laughing. “Thank Elua that Kyrian isn’t here to hear such unladylike words come from your mouth.”

Mena snorted her own laugh. “Oh please, don’t remind me. I am ready to be free of him.”

Loir came over and picked up the brush, helping Mena with her hair. “I know you are, but I have a feeling that, when all is said and done, getting rid of the plague will have been less of a feat than yourself from disentangling him.”

Mena sighed, letting her shoulders drop. Loir was her closest friend, someone that she never had to keep up appearances around. “I know, Loir, he didn’t handle this last week well, did he?”

“I think a cat would handle an ice bath better,” Loir said, her hands making quick work of Mena’s hair, braiding it and having it pinned up in half the time it would have taken Mena herself. “But they say that the first step is always the hardest, do they not?”

“Let’s pray you’re right, I have too much going on to have to add the alternative to my list.”

“This bread is incredible,” Eléonora said, dipping said bread into her soup. “I am glad to know that we don’t have any worries about your diet, Olivier.”

The group was seated in the large conservatory at the de Clair estate, enjoying a comfortable meal. Eléonora had arrived and immediately it was clear that she was a perfect fit. She slid into a space in Mena’s little family that she didn’t know existed until the other woman filled it.

Olivier laughed, his hearty, room-filling laugh filling the large space as easily at it filled Mena’s heart. “The bread at Heliotrope is famous. Our cook is magical, everything she makes is delicious, but baking is where her talent really shines.”

He stopped for a moment to cough into a handkerchief, dark blue to better camouflage the blood, before continuing. “She sends unbaked loaves to us daily.”

“I tell her she should sell them and make money for her family,” Mena chimed in, “but she’s insistent it’s for us to love and share alone. Eléonora, the next time you come to the city, please come by the house. We’d love to share our hospitality with you.”

“Please, call me Leona,” the other woman said with a smile. “I would love to experience food that’s referred to as ‘magical.’ To the matter at hand, if no one objects?”

Mena felt her heart drop, but she kept her face calm as nodded. When she looked around the table, she saw tears in Laurent’s eyes, so she reached out for his free hand, lacing their fingers together in support. Olivier’s face was tired, his raw emotions visible. Mena wished she was closer, she wanted to do something to ease his pains.

Leona smiled, a gentle smile spreading across her face. “I am here with you all until the end, and beyond if you need me. I promise to do anything and everything to ease this transition for you, Olivier.” She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it firmly. “I will take care of you, and I will make sure your loved ones are taken care of, as well. Pass that burden of care to me, all of you, and just revel in your time together.”

Tears choked Mena’s throat, stealing her voice and making her shake slightly. All she could manage was a tight nod, her vision swimming. She felt a warm, strong hand take her free hand and squeeze it. It was Leona, she knew it, and she let herself take the comfort freely offered.

They all sat in silence, letting the hard fact sink in. Olivier’s days were waning, his sunlike warmth slipping towards the horizon. Mena took a deep breath, letting the knowledge filter through her body, promising herself that she would soak in as much of Oilivier as possible every visit she was able to make. That way she could carry him with her through the cold days that would inevitably come, and she could pass that warmth to others when they needed it.

She made eye contact with him, feeling his love wash over her. When he smiled at her, it was easy to return it. Olivier nó Heliotrope was a paragon of the House ideals. Mena hoped she could manage to walk in his footsteps and be a credit to both him and the House.

In the evening, after the moon rose, Laurent took Leona to familiarize her with the ins and outs of his household, leaving Mena with Olivier. Hours prior, Mena had moved to the deep sofa Olivier was reclining on, burrowing into his side like she had as a child. He had wrapped one arm around her, still turning the pages on his book with the other hand. Mena had her embroidery project on her lap, working diligently, letting her responsibilities slip away and be replaced with the familiar comfort of the man who raised her.

Laurent and Leona hadn’t been gone long when Olivier spoke. “Your mother and the duke came to see me yesterday. It was so good of her to come all this way to see an old man.”

Mena set her work down and turned to lean her cheek on his chest, “You’re not just ‘an old man’, Gran-père, you’re her Dowayne.”

He laughed, loud and full, only coughing lightly as he spoke. “You’re sweet child, but I’ve not been her Dowayne in decades. Even before she left the house, she had detached from us all and turned her light elsewhere. We’re all lucky that she landed on the duke, he was always one of her kindest patrons.”

Mena made a quiet noise of agreement, “That is true, the duke is so very kind. He’s as kind as he is intelligent and devoted to her. I suppose in that way, she’s living Heliotrope still, despite not being with us.”

“Ah, baby duck,” Olivier sighed deeply, closing his book and pulling her closer. “That hurt hasn’t gone yet has it? I had always hoped that by this time, you would have found your own sun to help you fill that spot with warmth. And understand why Chrystanthe did what she did. It has never been that she didn’t love you or want you, child. She loved you so much that she saw that she wouldn’t be able to shine on you like you needed. She set aside herself and asked me to nurture you into your best self.”

Mena nodded but didn’t respond. This was a conversation they’d had countless times over Mena’s life. Chrysanthe had married the duke and left the house when Mena was three, breaking the House tradition of parents raising their children. While growing up, Mena heard so many stories of her mother; how delicate Chrysanthe was, how she had always been suited to receiving devotions not bestowing them, how her mother had spoken openly that she wanted a child so that she could feel the love of a child. She’d heard the whispers that the only reason Chrysanthe had agreed to Olivier’s plan was that she assumed any child she bore would look at her with the singular focus she craved. All of the older adepts spoke critically of her, saying that while she was a Heliotrope, she wasn’t a true and balanced one, how she was selfish, on the edge of being an embarrassment to the house.

“You know,” Olivier’s pensive voice cut through the fog of her thoughts, bringing her mind away from the turbulence that was her mother. “I would like to see Belisario one last time.”

Mena nodded, “I will go to Byrony and tell him to come. It has been long enough, I am sure he’s let it go. Or if not, I know Arietta will escort him here herself.”

Olivier was silent for a long moment before he spoke quietly, “Your grandmother and I never could figure out where we went wrong with him.”

Mena shook her head, “You know it’s not wrong. He’s just devoted to Namaah and Elua differently. Just like his sisters and brother went to different Houses, Belisario was always for Bryony.”

Olivier shook his head, “If it was just being for Bryony, I would not be so troubled. The others, they stepped on to their paths easily, to Balm, to the guards, to a quiet life in Aragonia—” he trailed off, tipping his head back, clearly struggling. Mena didn’t interrupt his thoughts, she knew that as much as Chrysanthe was like a millstone on her neck, Belisario was Olivier’s.

After a few minutes of thought, Olivier finally spoke again. “It was like no matter the love we shone on him, it was never enough. He views love as his due, not a gift from Namaah to be shared. I have tried and tried to understand, we all have, but he just jealously hoards everything he can grasp as though Elua and Namaah will come and take it from him at any moment.”

He started coughing, more violently this time, the attack grabbing him in its jaws with incredible speed, making him shake with the force of it. Mena moved quickly, giving him his handkerchief, shifting to her knees so she could lean him forward to help, and running her hand smoothly over his back as she tried to soothe him through it. She chose to ignore how thin he was, how he felt like little more than skin laid loosely over bone beneath her palm. Leona and Laurent returned, both out of breath as though they had run when they heard him start coughing. Leona reached into her apron and pulled out a small bottle. Moving with a speed and grace that only decades in Balm could grant, she gently cradled Olivier’s head and helped him drink from the bottle. When he was done, she leaned him back and smoothed his wrinkled clothing with soft hands. He smiled at her, reaching blindly for Mena’s hand and squeezing it tightly when he caught it. She sat, still on her knees, holding his hand, until the medicine gently pulled him into sleep.

“Child, we should let him rest now,” came Leona’s soft voice.

Mena nodded, taking a moment to set his book safely within reach, tucking him in so he stayed warm. He was always so cold now. She stood carefully and looked at Leona. “Thank you. Already, you are easing his suffering.”

Leona nodded, but didn’t respond, instead taking Mena’s hand in hers as quiet comfort. Laurent spoke quietly. “Your carriage is out front whenever you need to head back to the city.”

Mena took a deep breath and nodded, “I will go now. I have so much work to handle. He asked me to go to Byrony. I’ll send word when I do.”

Laurent’s face fell, and he sighed. “I went before we left the city. Belisario refused to even speak to me. I am afraid it’s a fool’s errand.”

Mena pulled her hand gently from Leona’s grasp and cupped Laurent’s face. “He will see me, Laurent, or he will pay.”

Whispers at the Table – Part 2

Mena heard them coming before they arrived. Loir had a razor sharp wit and a quick tongue that always managed to stay on the right side of propriety. If it hadn’t been for her desire to deeply bond with people, to understand them, and to honor them, the combination of that wit and her confidence in her place would have landed her in Dahlia.

When the door opened, Mena smiled and went to greet her friend. “Niklos, it is wonderful to see you after so long. I am glad you sent word. We were beginning to worry about you.”

She took the robe from Loir and made a shooing motion. “Off you go, Loir, the Olivier Party has started, and I’m sure the merchants will be arriving soon. Perhaps you’ll find a favorite.”

Loir sighed as she turned to leave. “I am sure my favorite will be no merchant, Mena. I saw more than enough of them back home, and they do not interest me. My Lord, it was a pleasure to see you.”

He grinned as Loir sighed. “Perhaps they might be no favorite of yours, Vouloir… but you could very well be a favorite of theirs. And that is a complicated line to walk. Best of fortune to you!” He turned back to Mena, pausing as she went to pull on her robe.

Mena turned her attention to Nik as she pulled on her robe. “Please, sit, sit! We aren’t standing on any ceremony you don’t want tonight. Leonardo opened your wine for you; we still have that crate you sent. And dinner will be here very soon.”

Taking a seat at the table, he smiled at Mena. “You should sit, too. There’s to be no dancing attendance tonight. And I’m glad to be back in the city. The plague caught us all unawares in Kusheth. I am glad you look as hale as you do. How are things here?”

She slid into her chair with a quiet sigh. “Things went shockingly smoothly in Heliotrope. Very few of us became ill and we had no deaths, thanks in part to us already being careful because of Olivier’s health.” As she talked, she selected a few items from the array on the table and placed them on the plate in front of Niklos. “I can not say the same for other Houses, unfortunately. Rumor has it that Balm and Valerian were hardest hit, but I have not heard any official confirmation of that.”

He nodded slowly, having heard something similar about Valerian. “One can’t be too surprised, considering the more… interactive nature… of those Houses. They would have put themselves into close proximity to sick people. I would be willing to bet some of the Balm adepts fell ill trying to assist in healing, especially if the chirurgeons felt someone’s situation was a milder case.” He smiled as the plate appeared in front of him, poking at things briefly. “How is your Dowayne? I know he’s been slowly declining for some time, but is he still in good spirits?” Niklos knew all too well what losing someone was like. Sometimes, and this was infrequent, it was like Uncle Demitrios’s passing, but often it was much… messier.

“I believe that to be the case about Balm, I know that there are adepts who refuse to see outside help and only get their care there. As for Valerian—” She sighed, trying to choose her words. “— heard that unlike Cereus where fragility is expected and sacred, Valerian treats fragility as something for the patron to explore and push. So they had a few adepts who were already healing, who’d been pushed to a limit that was normal, but the plague overwhelmed them.”

It hurt her to hear of fellow adepts who suffered and died when it was, to her, an avoidable situation. She wasn’t an expert, and she wasn’t sure how much of what she’d been told was true, but she hoped that Valerian found a way to honor Naamah and still guard those among them that were delicate.

Giving her head a small shake, she looked up from her plate and opened her mouth to answer, when a knock drew her up short. In came their meal, on a cart that would be left, and in a pot that was set on the stove. The novice who brought it curtsied to Niklos and then to Mena before leaving on silent feet.

“It seems we have roasted fowl, cheese, and Cook’s best bread for our meal, as well as some manner of soup that will be ready soon.” She smiled at him. “It is simple fare and I’d offer an apology but Cook’s bread is the best in the city and could carry a meal alone.”

She uncovered the fowl, the aroma filling the room. “Please, eat as you will. I know there is always more in our kitchen.” Leaning back, she sipped her wine slowly before she answered his most important question. “This is a matter of great discretion, it goes without saying that it cannot leave this room. No one outside of this household knows, but our Dowayne is in the last stage of his life. He was advised by his chirurgeon to retire to the home of his lover, the Marquis de Clair.” Mena turned her head towards the open door and gazed out into the garden, feeling tears gather in her eyes. “He departed this morning.”

Nik had been treated to the food produced by Heliotrope’s kitchens and their redoubtable cook in the past, and he knew the meal would be outstanding. He moved to serve them both and paused as he saw Mena’s eyes go distant, refraining from immediately beginning to portion out as she spoke.

He winced softly, his brows drawing together. “Oh, Mena, I’m so sorry… if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. Your Dowayne has always been a wonderful man, and he has certainly been kind to me throughout the years. We have some Eisandine chirurgeons that we have contracts with. Not to say his chirurgeon isn’t good, but perhaps another set of eyes….” he trailed off as he saw the sparkle in her eyes, and stood silently, stepping around the table to embrace her tightly. “If there’s anything at all…” He just held her for a time, offering silent support in place of failing words.

Mena leaned into him for a moment, then said quietly, “Thank you, Niklos. Here in the House, I am the one they lean on. I am to be Dowayne after all. I don’t have anyone who’s there for me to lean on like this. It means a lot to me.”

She wiped her eyes and smiled at him. “I also appreciate the offer of a second chirurgeon. He’s been looked at by a man who teaches in Eisande, and the answer is all the same. Whatever it is that’s eating him from the inside has almost finished him. He’s coughing blood now, and the chirurgeon has gone.” She waved her hand. “Somewhere that I can not remember, he’s gone somewhere to get things to ease Olivier’s pain. That’s all that’s left now.”

Ignoring the way her hands shook a little, she reached over and started cutting the chicken into slices. “It’s harder than most people realize. He is my grandfather by blood.” Her hands were steadier when she carefully placed slices of the chicken she knew Niklos preferred on his plate. Looking up at him, she continued, “Now that you know, that makes—” She stopped to count, her brow furrowing for a moment. “That makes nine people in the world that know.”

He nodded slowly, taking in all the news. Nik hadn’t moved from her side as he watched her steel herself to the loss that she knew was coming. At her revelation that Olivier was her grandfather, he started. There had always been rumors, of course. Noble or Night Court, whenever someone younger was suddenly thrust into the spotlight before their course, there was always some reason why. They were the illegitimate child of someone powerful. Their parent had done some great but secret service to the realm. Or, in Mena’s case, it was just a simple family connection. He made a mental note to have Jacob send the best chirurgeons they knew to the de Clair estate—with introductory letters, of course—he would not have his friend’s grandfather suffer any worse if there was some way he could help prevent it.

He slowly retook his seat, his eyes on Mena. “Are you certain that tonight is still a good night for us? I have no desire to overtax you unnecessarily. But, I also couldn’t bear missing out on your cook’s food. The kitchens of Heliotrope are well-praised.” He smiled faintly, taking a slow sip of wine and waiting for Mena’s reaction.

Mena returned his smile, feeling some of the weight off of her shoulders after telling someone. She understood the need for secrecy, particularly after the plague, but that didn’t make it any less upsetting. “No, I am very sure that tonight is good. I invited you, after all. I knew what was going on here and I craved friendly company. Now—” She sipped her own wine and exhaled. “—I will leave you to puzzle out the mystery of my parentage. I know the Shahrizai mind loves a good puzzle, and this one is quite twisted up. I would like to know what you were up to while the plague trapped us all.”

He grinned. Now that he knew some of her heritage, it might be easier to puzzle out her family. He might not, though. Sometimes a little mystery was fun. He took a sip of her wine and cleared his throat before responding. “What was I up to during the plague? I was at my parents’ estate. My father issued quarantine orders and closed the property before even the city was closed. We had no contact with the rest of Kusheth, let alone any further afield, from early March until the third week in May when word finally reached us from the city that the quarantine had been lifted. We got very little news in, as Father has never kept many pigeons, and the ones he sent out when we quarantined were returned quickly with acknowledgements from the various family members who had been informed. It took a messenger of the Royal Guard to get him to open the gates, and if we’d been missed, I likely would still be on the estate. Not that I fault him… none of the residents of the estate caught the plague, and since it was spring, there was plenty of work to be done anyway. It was just… so miserably boring. I can only lose a game of chess to my father so many times before I begin to feel like he’s toying with me. Toward the end of our playing, even I could see the mistakes I was making, I just couldn’t see how to avoid his traps. Life on a minor holding in Kusheth is rather pastoral and bucolic, if you want to be a farmer.”

Mena laughed. “Niklos, not only did you, a.Shahrizai, describe your home as ‘bucolic’, you lost at chess repeatedly! The scandal! Don’t worry, your secret is safe here.”

He grinned and shrugged, choosing not to bring up Demitrios… he had to make certain everything would go according to the man’s wishes and will. But wouldn’t that be a surprise for his old friends, once he felt comfortable telling the whole tale. “Of course, we heard later that some members of the family passed, I think only one to plague, though, thank Eisheth. Thanks to Father’s proactive stance on the plague, though, we missed the funerals, but I believe the family understood. That might be a reason why I was sent to the city for this year—they probably figured I’d been cooped up with my parents enough already this year.” He chuckled before taking a bite of the chicken on his plate. “It could be an interesting summer.”

Mena nodded. “I think it will be an interesting summer. There’s whispers in the palace that Prince Gustav has been called back, patrons are finally coming back after so long stuck with the handful here, and the Weaver’s Guild finally signed a contract for dye with this new caravan. Things are finally changing.”

Niklos leaned back in his chair, a frown on his face. Prince Gustav—well he supposed he was the Dauphin now—had been called back? That was both good and bad. Things might be changing more rapidly now that he was back in town. Nik had never been thoroughly impressed with Gustav. He always seemed a bit of a fop, and there had been rumors that his eye had been caught by one of the Night Court adepts some time ago.

Nik took a deep breath and smiled. “Well, it’s good to hear the Weaver’s Guild was able to get some business done. And it’s better to hear that you’re getting some options on patrons again. I can’t imagine how difficult things must have gotten.” He took another sip of wine. “Are there any other rumors out of the palace? Anything that might have made ripples on the Mont without disrupting the rest of the city?”

Mena swirled her wine glass and rolled her eyes, “You have no idea how tedious those months were for us. We had a handful of dedicated patrons who still came.” She felt her face twist at the unbidden thought of Kyrian before she smoothed it out and went on. “I’m sure you can imagine how that played out. As for the rest of the Mont…”

Trailing off, she thought through all the information Loir had given her over the last weeks. “Well there’s something happening at Cereus that I think Aliks should tell you about. Dahlia is starting to buzz like a kicked hive. Prince Gustav’s imminent return has even the most stoic and shall we say frigid of them invested in what’s happening outside of their walls.”

She realized belatedly that might have been petty wording it as such, but she knew Nik, and knew he wanted honesty from his friends. And what sort of Heliotrope adept would she be if she denied him what he wanted most?

”I did hear through the grapevine that Bryony made an absolute killing during our months of isolation. That’s not surprising, it is Bryony after all, but I heard that this was exceptional by their standards.” She leaned in a sly grin on her face. “I heard that one merchant lost a ship at the games tables. The adept was evidently only nineteen with their marque barely started, of course. The limner’s apprentice says they scheduled it to completion off that one patron, with money to spare.”

She sipped her wine before going on. “And that was just the one story that made it out fastest. Loir heard it when she went for her most recent appointment. Word from the other houses hasn’t made it to our ears, unfortunately. You know how insular Mandrake and Valerian are, you’ll have to go there for information. If you do—” She gestured with her hands and winked. “—Remember how good Cook’s bread is.”

He chuckled softly. “I would have been one of those dedicated patrons, if I hadn’t been stuck in the wilds of Kusheth. But things happen for a reason, right?”

He was a little surprised at the almost catty comment about Dahlia, but Mena wasn’t wrong. And he appreciated her unvarnished words. “A merchant lost an entire ship to Bryony? Must have been a Caerdicci… they tend to have more lust than brains.” He sounded exasperated, he’d had some not great experiences in Tiberium, and some of the merchants still set him off.

He continued picking at his food. It was delicious, but he was enjoying the conversation more. There had been so much he’d missed out on for those months. “I hadn’t planned to check into Valerian, and you know my preferences don’t… lean towards Mandrake. They do put on a fabulous showing, and their table is one of the better ones in the city… but that might be because they contract with Valerians to be present as servers. Usually one of the Valerians…” He trailed off. Some things he wouldn’t speak about in another House. “Well, we’ll be able to talk about that later. You should come to the townhouse for dinner some time. Maybe once things are more settled for you?” He smiled sadly, knowing exactly what was going on and the implications of that.

Mena gestured excitedly. “Are you referring to the Adept Comme Assiette? That is something that must be experienced at least once even when it involves things past one’s own boundaries.”

She caught the sadness in his smile, though her own didn’t slip as she said. “Or, you send a messenger with a time and place, and I’ll come visit while I can go tell Olivier all about it after, if that’s alright with you. You know how he loves a good tale.”

Whispers at the Table – Part 1

Mena sat on the sill of one of the wide windows, lost in thought. Every minute that passed made it clear that Nik would be attending dinner with her. It was good. Olivier had said his goodbyes to the House just an hour before and had set off for the d’Clair villa. Everyone wept, Olivier included, but they all knew it had to be this way. Mena had felt a clawing panic rise up as the carriage left the courtyard and turned towards the Western Gate. Even though she was to go to see him in four days, it was the first time they’d really been apart like this since she was born.

Shaking her head, she stood from her seat and made her way back to the kitchen, touching the shoulders of the adepts who sat around the main salon.

As she left the room, she heard Dara say, “Come on, loves, Olivier wouldn’t want us to sit around with long faces. We’ll have guests soon! Remember, there’s the monthly Olivier Party tonight! The dye contract went through with the Weaver’s Guild, so the caravan that found the supplier will be in high spirits. We don’t want their first taste of our signature dye to be with tear streaked faces! Come on now, up we go.”

Mena smiled, pushing open the kitchen door. Dara was always good for a party. She loved games, loved making new games to keep the parties new and fun. Recently, she had become intrigued by an old Hellene game that Mena could not understand clearly, but Dara claimed would be fun with a few small changes. The next night the House was closed to all but scheduled visitors, she promised she’d show everyone.

“Cook? I’m sorry to bother you,” she called out across the room. Food preparation was in full swing. The party needed food, dinners needed to be served to patrons, adepts needed to eat, and children needed to be fed their evening meal. Mena felt guilt wash over her.

Cook turned to her with red rimmed eyes and said, “Oh, my sweet, you are rarely a bother. What can I do for you?”

Mena smiled apologetically. “I am expecting Lord Niklos for dinner. Would it be too much to ask for a meal to be served in one of the back dining rooms?”

Cook’s face split into a wide grin. “Lord Niklos is coming back! Thank Elua. I was worried something had happened to him. Of course I would be glad to feed my favorite Shahrizai, I’ll even break out a bottle of his favorite wine. Now, shoo, girl.” She gestured at Mena just like she would a novice. “I have work to do. Go get the room opened and ready, and I’ll see to the rest of it.”

Niklos had been pleased that Mena had gotten back to him so quickly. He was only slightly surprised that she had been the first, considering her arrangement with the Azzalese lord, but he had responded to set up a dinner with her. And now the evening was upon them. He dressed appropriately—no one would ever accuse any of the Shahrizai of being improperly attired for any occasion, but as this was a friendly dinner and nothing of more serious import, he was dressed a little more casually. White shirt and black breeches—he’d always hated hose—and a brocade vest with the Shahrizai crest over his heart. Jacob had ordered one of the coaches for him as there was no one else in the city to use it, and the coachman was in need of a distraction, or so Jacob had told Niklos. And so Niklos had set off for Heliotrope House.

The ride to the Mont was uneventful, but Niklos was too distracted to pay attention. He had a lot on his mind: he would need to speak with the Queen and the Dauphin regarding his investiture with Demitrios’s lands and titles, and there seemed to be undercurrents of activities happening all throughout the city. Jacob had reported that some of the Houses were not taking as much business as was usual, even for the summer, and that implied something. But Niklos didn’t yet have the information he needed to make a play, which is partially why he’d been sent to the city in the first place. He would have to see what information he could get from Mena and see which way the winds were starting to blow.

The small dining room on the back corner of the house was Mena’s personal favorite. It was quiet, removed from the hustle and bustle, was heated by a stove instead of a fireplace, and had large double doors that could be opened in good weather like tonight. She set the table casually—she was entertaining a friend after all—made sure the lamps were high enough, checked that the stove had enough fuel, and threw open the doors. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath of night air.

There was a rapid knock on the door, and it swung open before she had the chance to respond. A small flood of people came through it: Cook’s assistant with two bottles of wine; an older child carrying a glass bowl of flowers; another child pushing a small cart with small dishes full of pickled vegetables, meatballs, cooked vegetables and other foods to tide them over while dinner was finished; the butler, his expert eyes scanning the room to ensure everything was to his standard; and at the end of the flow was Loir, wearing a grin.

As people set down what they were carrying, the butler looked at her, worry flashing over his face. “My lady, are you sure that opening both doors is wise? It is still chilly, and the last thing we need is for you to be sick for even a day.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you for your concern, Leonardo, I will have Loir bring me my heavier robe once she’s passed on her message.”

That seemed to mollify him. He nodded, uncorked Nik’s wine so it could breathe, needlessly turned the flower bowl, and headed to the door. “Do not hesitate to send for blankets or more fuel, my lady.”

Loir stepped aside to let him pass and grinned at Mena. “His Lordship is here. Would you like me to bring him back after I bring you that robe?”

”You can bring him and my robe at the same time.” Mena laughed. “The Lord Shahrizai has seen me before I was ready for the public, so I doubt he would be offended by the sight of a heavy robe.”

Loir nodded. “He is very pragmatic and level-headed. Two things I never thought I’d see in a Shahrizai.”

Mena threw her head back and laughed. “How much of D’Angelline politics did you learn in Jebe-Barkal?”

”When I made my intention clear, Papa gave me a thorough course in politics and history. Mama wanted me to do what I thought would elevate me, and Papa wanted me to be prepared.” She shrugged, still laughing. “It’s not my fault I also got his Camlachian sensibilities. I’ll return with both of your packages, Lady Second.” Loir dropped a curtsy that was deeper than ever needed, making Mena roll her eyes and laugh even harder.

”You better, scoundrel. I know where you sleep.”

Niklos slipped out of the coach to a flurry of activity. Stable boys rushing out to aid the coachman with the horses and two servants opening the doors to the main entry hall of the house. He was glad he wasn’t wearing a cloak. He always hated people fussing over him, and the servants stumbling over taking his overgarments would have annoyed him more than he would have wanted.

As he stepped into the entry hall, he was brought up short by a dark-skinned young woman waiting for him. A faint smile crossed his lips as he recognised the robe in her arms. “I presume you’re to take me to Mena, as you have her robe in your possession? ” He stepped up to her and gestured deeper into the house. Pleasantries could be exchanged at any time, and as this was a private dinner between friends, there was no negotiation needed. “And what might this humble noble call you, my dear?”

Loir laughed lightly and curtsied. “My Lord Shahrizai, I know it has been some months, but I can’t have changed that much. It is Vouloir, your second favorite Heliotrope. If you follow me, Mena is in the back dining room. And you’ll remember how Leonardo hovers about her health.”

He grinned, his teeth showing briefly. He had met Vouloir once before, and the woman was as quick-witted as he remembered. Still, there was something else there to it. “You must be shouldering some additional responsibility, Vouloir, and that has given you a more somber mein.” He chuckled, nodding at her comments about Leonardo. “I do remember Leondaro’s fussing, indeed, but that’s his job, isn’t it? And the back dining room? I’m shocked! I didn’t realize my presence merited the back dining room. I shall dine on this tale for weeks, once someone gets back to this blessed city for me to share it with!” He teased lightly. The cousins he would tell would indeed be impressed, as Heliotrope was known for its well-presented rooms. None of them, however, had been invited to as intimate a space as one of the private dining rooms.

“As you should, my lord.” Loir smiled at him. “With the exception of your lordship, the esteemed Shahrizai family often overlooks our hospitality in favor of others. So let them be so jealous that it flavors their morning tea.”

Kushiel’s Keys

Spring had begun clear and bright, and Niklos was at his parents’ estate in Kusheth when news broke of the plague ravaging the City of Elua. His father, the wise man he was, had immediately placed a quarantine on their lands, sending out their last pigeons to some of the family locally. So, Niklos had weathered the entire spring on the border of Mohrban-Shahrizai lands, no cousins visiting, and no little news coming in. He had his books, to be certain, and his father made sure he was also helping out around the estate, but spring had always provided time to visit the family… and decide who was headed to the City for the summer. The cousins often drew lots or wagered their chances over card and dice games, and with his father’s quarantine, Nik figured he’d be left out of the running.

In mid-May, word from the City had gone out, informing everyone that the plague had lifted, so Nik’s father had ended his quarantine. With the news of the plague abating, they also received a message they should have received in February. Apparently, Great Uncle Demitrios had died at the end of January and had named Niklos his heir to his County. Days after, messages began flooding into the estate, the most important one from Demitrios’ Steward and Secretary, informing Niklos that the will had been verified by the Judiciary in the City of Elua and had been accepted, and that legally there was no bar to his inheritance. There had been other letters from jealous cousins, but the will stipulated that the County was to go to the most senior Shahrizai of Niklos’ generation who was not currently in line for their own title.

Nik didn’t make it to the City until the second week of June. There had been far too much going on. He’d had to make the trip to Angers to assure the staff and folk of the titled estate that he had no plans to change anything at the moment, but that he was looking forward to discussing the running of the County and seeing where they could improve. He also was shown the books of accounts and was surprised to see that the estate was doing well financially, Great Uncle Demitrios had been a good steward of his lands.

Upon his entry to the City, Nik took up residence in one of the townhouses the family owned. There were cousins already in residence, but rumor of the inheritance had already spread to the Shahrizai in the city. There was some squabbling, but most just continued on with their usual summer activities. He was introduced to Jacob, the townhome’s butler, and was informed that someone from Jacob’s family had served with the Shahrizai for generations. The man was considered impeccably trustworthy by all the senior members of the family. Nik was certain they would get along fabulously.

He had been in the city for a few days, getting settled before reaching out to some of the people he knew from his previous visits. His first letters went out to some of the nobles he’d gotten to know, but many of them remained unanswered. Some people had moved up in the world, and his inheritance was not generally known, so he was ignored. Some were out of the City on their own business. Finally, he began sending out notes to those he recalled from the Night Court, including Aliksandria nó Cereus and Philomena nó Heliotrope. His last time in residence, he had spent a good amount of time in all the houses of the Night Court, and had enjoyed his time in both Cereus and Heliotrope. He expected that, with the calendar moving to full summer, patronage would be reduced in the Court, and he might be able to see some of his old acquaintances and renew some old relationships.

When Mena received Nik’s letter, it was the most welcome of distractions. Today was the day Olivier was moving to the Marquis de Clair’s home. So instead of thinking about that, she read her friend’s letter and thought about how to reply. She finally decided on a quickly handwritten note:

Dear Lord Niklos,

Welcome back to the city, my friend! Please, come to Heliotrope this evening as our cherished guest. We would love to catch up with you, and it would be our pleasure to offer you a meal.

Mena

She folded the missive up as she went out into the hallway to find someone to carry the message back across town.

Complications of Devotion

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

Heliotrope was blessed beyond measure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But Kyrie, surely your parents—“

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

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