Tag: Night Court

Across a Crowded Room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gabriel, Gabriel?” Mateo shook his shoulder.

“Yes?” He said, his voice wobbly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why do you look drunk?”

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

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

“I’m ready to make my debut.”

A Ripple in Still Water

Weeks earlier at Cereus House…

The Dowayne of Cereus House sat, as she had for the past year—year and a half?—at the large desk in her office. As soon as she had taken over, she had ordered the staff to move the desk closer to the window so that the light might shine through the glass. Aliksandria had never liked where Gerault had the large, polished oak desk during his tenure. It had always seemed to her to be too far from any light, too hidden in the dark corner. And now she knew why. Gerault had, in truth, been hiding. Hiding so much. From her. His Second. Aliks had always held her Dowayne in the highest respect, but that had been dashed to smithereens in the days, weeks, and months since his death. He had driven the House into practical poverty, and secret disrepute. And how she was left to pick up the pieces of her House. To return it to its place of glory. 

Aliksandria nó Cereus was a proud woman, and she held herself to the highest standards, higher than she held any other of Cereus House. She expected nothing less than perfection from herself. And her recent visit with her best friend and Second, Petrea, had been troublesome to say the least. For certain, Aliks knew that she had let some things slide, but she had been utterly confident that she was still conducting her duties as Dowayne. That she had simply been passing some things along to Petrea, as one did with the Second, while she fixed Gerault’s mess. But it was apparent that this was simply not the truth. Was she just blind? She had missed the signs of Gerault’s deceptions, and now she had missed the signs of her struggling friend. And her still struggling House.

Aliks shook her head and straightened her shoulders. Perhaps it was this perfection that had led her astray. Perhaps, it had been just this trait that Gerault had preyed upon that had allowed his many follies—her desire to take care of everything by herself. Perhaps, she need not take on everything alone. Petrea’s words echoed in her mind. Do you really think that you would not do better with this if the three of us worked on it together? Petrea had said that she and Aimée missed Aliks. And in the dark depths of the night, when Aliks was alone in her bed, she admitted to herself that she missed them, too. Her last encounter with Aimée had been an angry one, and she fretted about it when sleep eluded her. 

The Dowayne rose from her desk and swept from the office, closing the heavy door behind her. She walked silently to her private apartments, requesting a bath and clean clothing be brought to her. A young adept filled Aliks’s bath with hot water and scented salts then helped wash her hair. She luxuriated in the bath but did not tarry long, as she knew that her Second—Seconds—were waiting on her. 

A simple gown of green taffeta, embellished with fine embroidery at the decolletage and a delicate silver necklace were laid out for her. She dressed with care, pinning her hair in a low chignon with a mesh caul. It was not a formal look, but one befitting her station. She was meeting friends in the privacy of their own home, and she would dress for the occasion. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she noticed that her cheeks were paler and her face more drawn. Dark circles had formed under her eyes. It was not the visage of a new Dowayne. Aliks vowed to change that. Loveliness might fade, but one was not to help that along.

Aliks slid her feet into a pair of slippers and stepped from the room. She gave nods to the adepts and servants in the halls as she made her way to one of the larger salons, where they often hosted smaller dinners. From behind the cracked door, she heard Petrea and Aimée speaking in low voices. Though she could not make out their precise words, from their tones, she noted that their conversation seemed intimate. They spoke as two who held a close bond, and Aliks could not decide if she was glad of this, or if she was jealous of this. She could not take the time to examine these emotions, however, as she had been summoned to meet them.

Pushing open the door, Aliks entered the room. A table was laid with the finest tableware, set for three, and cloches covered steaming dishes. Candles illuminated the space, filling it with brightness and warmth. Petrea and Aimee stood from their chairs, both giving her smiles, though Aimee’s might have a touch colder than Petrea’s. 

“Aliks,” Petrea greeted her. “Thank you for taking the time to dine with us.”

“I do not believe I was offered an option not to,” Aliks responded dryly. Aimée gave a small sound of disapproval, and Aliks cringed inwardly. “But,” she continued hastily, “I would not have turned down your invitation, and I do appreciate it.”

Petrea motioned toward the third chair at the table. Aliks settled into it gracefully, and her dinner companions followed suit. They sat in silence for a moment, none of them knowing quite what to say to one another. It was only the extensive training of their House that kept them from fidgeting.

As though by some unspoken agreement between the other two women, it was Aimée who spoke first. “Aliks,” she began, her voice stiff. Petrea reached over and placed her hand on Aimée’s arm. It was a small gesture, but Aliks recognized it for exactly what it was. Calming. Steadying. Soothing. And it made her ache. She wanted to be the one to calm, and steady, and soothe Aimée. Aimée shifted her eyes and inclined her chin ever so slightly at Petrea before beginning again, her voice far more smooth. “Aliks. Petrea and I fear that you have been living in Gerault’s shadow, hiding in your office, buried under his misdeeds for far too long. We must move forward. Cereus House flounders while you comb through ledgers and letters, trying to uncover his secrets.” Aimée shook her head. “You must move on from it. It is time to focus on the path ahead.”

Petrea took over. “The Dauphin is to be crowned at the end of this year, and you may be called upon to advise him. Your position as Dowayne of Cereus House is a crucial one. And our, well, my position as Second is also a crucial one. If we are to serve the Crown, we must retake our place in the Night Court. For too long we have left other Houses to lead by default.” She glanced at Aimée. “Aimée and I have been planning, and we have come up with ideas for regaining our rightful seat at the head of the Court of the Night Blooming Flowers.”

Hearing Aimée and Petrea’s speeches, Aliks’s mind began to spin. Her eyes brightened, and a grin spread across her face. She steepled her fingers under her chin and leaned forward. “Oh? Please, do elaborate. I am very interested to hear this.”

Aimée and Petrea exchanged large smiles and leaned forward. “We thought you would be interested to hear of our ambitions,” Aimée replied somewhat smugly.

A Kiss of Power – Part II

A passing adept, a young man with golden hair and a mask to match, presented them with a tray of sparkling wine. Ever the hostess, and holy servant in her own right, Rosanna gestured to her guests first. Only after they made a choice did she take a glass for herself. “Will you be attending the prayer service and Showing to follow? We are presenting two of our finest in this year’s graduating class to begin their service to Naamah.”

Would the Dauphin take the opportunity? Not all who attended the party would watch or place wagers for the honor of fulfilling the first assignation of a newly minted courtesan. With so much to do, it was not required, but those who did were included in a great honor as well as a rare display of Mont Nuit’s finest connoisseurs of the sharp pleasures. There was a reason this holiday was so closely guarded, part of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers they might be, but every Valerian and Mandrake knew they…stood out. Not all D’Angelines understood them, and that was all well and good, they did not need to. However, power was power which took many forms. Perhaps the King-to-be would discover something useful this night. That was the purpose of his visit after all, and Rosanna would ensure he had every chance to experience whatever he wished. 

Lord Garnet attempted to keep his face blank, then remembered he did not need to underneath his mask. When last he had stepped foot in Valerian House, it was for a Showing, too. He hadn’t known what to do, not wanting to disrespect the canon of the House, but he had not enjoyed the Valerian adept’s cries of pain as the Mandrake had flogged him. And the Mandrake…the bright smile on her face as she had given the pain was one he had tried very hard to forget. He wasn’t made for these Houses, no matter how his Lady Sapphire insisted he needed to learn how their kind of power dynamics worked so he could better accept the service of his people.

“I do not think we will participate in the prayers,” Lady Sapphire said evenly, surveying the golden-haired Valerian with a cool eye as she accepted her drink before turning her attention back to the russet-red of the masked Dowayne. “But I am quite looking forward to the Showing afterward. Which of Mandrake’s finest will be assisting in demonstrating their yielding skills?”

“That pleases me greatly,” the Dowayne replied before sipping at her bubbling wine. Her red lips wrapped almost sinfully around the fine crystal as if by second nature. “As to the Showing, a very talented courtesan will have the honor. Ives nó Mandrake will be providing his services.”

Not only was he Rosanna’s own preferred Showing partner, but he was also a dear friend. Tonight was not for them, however. She would facilitate the premier and Showing, he would make a marvelous display of skill, and her new adepts would shine all the brighter. 

“I look forward to seeing how he will encourage his Valerian to offer the very best of themselves for display,” Lady Sapphire said. Because that was really what a Mandrake-Valerian showing did best; a good Mandrake knew all the right ways to play the Valerian until they were glowing with the unique beauty of their pain-pleasure and danced along the edge of great Kushiel’s agony itself. 

Ah, there it was. Understanding. Now the pair before her made sense, at least to her unique position in the world. Odilia, even without her guise tonight, knew just what made the tug and pull of dominance and submission elevate beyond what the untrained eye could see. Oh, she did like this Dahlia, she did very much. 

Lady Sapphire gestured with one elegant hand, saying, “But I understand three new adepts are debuting tonight. While my lord and I will not join in the bidding for their virgin-price, I would like to see them. Will you give us a tour of the public rooms open for the fête tonight?”

“I would be delighted. Please, follow me, they are not far.” 

When she turned, it was clear that her finished marque was not on display. Not tonight, not when the evening was celebrating the new members of her House, she would not be taking any lover of her own this evening. Instead, she devoted herself to the praise of Mara, Naamah, and Kushiel, and excitedly looked forward to the debuts on schedule. 

Through the guests, she led the pair, rubies gleaming on her throat and golden chain hanging in hand. It was not a crushing press of a crowd, not everyone in Terre d’Ange understood the particular gifts of Valerian and Mandrake Houses, and those that did were on a short list—many of them Kusheline. Though not all. As they walked, they saw a lord wearing a bronze mask like a priest of Kushiel and with blue-black Shahrizai hair speaking with a distinctly non-Kusheline lord. The second lord was smaller, lithe, dressed in black, with a grey mask that complimented the silver of his hair. He certainly stood out among the black and red of the salon’s decorations.

Beyond the main salon were the public rooms, upstairs and down the quarters and dungeons, and towards the back and near the garden, still sleeping in winter, was the space set aside for special occasions. A small stage was in the center of the round room so that spectators might watch from every angle. Any manner of furniture could be brought onto the dais or hung from the ceiling. On the far most wall was a tall cabinet and shelves, holding every sort of aide de amor imaginable. The entire space was elegantly decorated in scarlet, black, and gold, and already scented with cinnamon, lit with fanciful lamps, and softened with a great many velvet pillows.

Nearby was a curtain, behind which whispered voices could be heard. Shadows of three individuals could be seen through the somewhat opaque fabric. They went silent when it was clear they were not alone any longer.

“Worry not, my dears, I am only escorting some of our honored guests to meet you. Come out now,” Rosanna called, and the two instantly obeyed. Moving with so much grace, eyes averted, hands gently held before them, the debuting adepts were both dressed in fine white, virginal silk with black collars at their throats. No lead though, for they would attain that when their first patron would win them. “Lady Sapphire and Lord Garnet asked to meet you.”

Together the two made honors toward the couple, moving in perfect tandem. A whispered welcome was spoken all as one, two voices resonating perfectly. Rosanna watched with pride in her eyes.

Lady Sapphire pulled Lord Garnet firmly with her to approach the debuting adepts, her brown eyes studying the details of the two of them, while his blue eyes focused on her alone. She turned her head to murmur to her companion. “This is why I have brought you with me tonight, my lord; so that you may hear for yourself how these young adepts view the concept of service.”

She turned her eyes back to them and, feeling the weight of her gaze, both shivered slightly. She commanded them, “You are prepared to offer yourselves to sacred service tonight. What does your House teach you about what it means to serve? Answer me.”

The more timid of the two spoke, his breath trembling at the command in her voice, “W-we are taught it is a gift, my lady.”

“A gift?” Her dark hair rippled as her head tilted with the leading question. 

“Yes,” the second debuting adept said with a nod. “While we offer our bodies and accept pain with our pleasure, it is a gift to offer ourselves so deeply and fully to our patrons.”

“Not everyone understands the place that pain has in pleasure,” Lady Sapphire said as she paced a slow circle around the new adepts. “How can you discern who understands the value of your gift and who only seeks to slake their cruelty?”

“We…we have to learn to feel when the lash is wielded with love, my lady,” the second answered again. She dared to lift her eyes to glance at the woman in rippling blue silk and, for that, Lady Sapphire paused before her. She never touched the girl, but held her gaze with complete and controlled composure. 

“And how do you know,” Lady Sapphire asked softly, “when the patron you are serving is worthy of your fullest submission?” 

The young adept gripped her hands tighter together and whispered, “Because…because they care. They care about us, in the pain and afterward.”

Lady Sapphire hummed, her lashes lowering as she considered this before turning away without another word to the adepts to rejoin her companion, murmuring to him, “Much to consider, don’t you think?”

He nodded slowly. 

“Very well done, dear ones,” Rosanna praised the two. Coming forward, she pressed a kiss to each of their worried brows, soothing away the shivers, and helping ground them once again. Only when they had returned to a state of calm did she walk them back to their safety behind the curtain. For their passing of the Dahia’s questions they would receive something nice as a reward, extra dessert or some such thing. After ensuring her adepts were properly cared for, she returned to her guests. 

“Have you found the answers you sought?” She inquired as she rejoined them at the far side of the room. 

Lord Garnet, still reluctant to speak and reveal himself, pressed his lips together. Lady Sapphire tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, beginning to draw him away as she said, “Much to consider, like I said. Do enjoy the rest of your celebrations, we will not take any more of your time. There are surely many things that require your attention now.”

Outside, a clock struck the hour, a low note that hung in the air, not ominously but in anticipation. Soon the highlight of the evening would commence. Something Rosanna herself needed to be prepared to introduce and facilitate. By now surely Ives would be looking for her to begin the preparations for the night’s prayers, Showing, the bidding, and all that would go on until the final guest left. 

She stood watching the couple withdraw to make space for the final preparations for the prayer service, and did not hear the cat-silent steps approaching her until the voice spoke, “There is a rumor, you know.”

Rosanna startled, her hand flying to her chest as she bit back the squeaking gasp of surprise, spinning to glare at her usual Showing partner, Ives nó Mandrake. A tall, well-formed man, with sable hair that just brushed his shoulders and fell into his icy-blue eyes, he was dressed in red with accents of black leather, his arms left bare, and his robe loose—ready to be slipped off to bare his marque when the Showing began. She scowled at him, seeing the way he dangled the information before her, teasing her with it as he looked almost innocently after the couple that had just left. 

Finally, Rosanna took the bait, she couldn’t help it. “What rumor?”

He smirked in his victory, before his brows arched, and he said, “The whispers in Mandrake House say that there was a time where our previous Dowayne went to visit Dahlia House. I don’t know why, and it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that it is said his eye was caught by the novice that served the wine for his visit.”

He enjoyed drawing it out, finally purring, “It is said that he offered to buy her marque on the spot. He revealed too much of his hand, of course, and Dahlia naturally refused, but still…it is curious. Had he succeeded…could you imagine?”

Rosanna bit her lip, glancing back the way Gustav de la Courcel had gone with Odilia nó Dahlia on his arm. She had seen the way the Dahlia had moved through the salon here, seen the way she circled the debuting adepts, felt for herself the weight of her gaze when she had met those eyes. 

Yes, surely it was for the best that Odilia had remained at Dahlia House. Whatever storm was on the horizon with those two, it would only be worse if she had the deep purple mandrake flowers inked into her skin instead of the dahlia. 

But Ives was still right—it was curious.

A Kiss of Power – Part I

While most of the grand manors which occupied Mont Nuit relaxed once more after the horologist called the dawn after the Longest Night, two barely slept and were propelled into the second most important holy day of the year. For them, at least. 

A pair of months apart from the Longest Night, the Houses of Valerian and Mandrake were unique in celebrating Mara’s Eve. The former perhaps with more pomp and circumstance than the latter. Not for any lack of care, but Valerian House always hosted and marked the occasion with a graduation of great importance. 

Rosanna remembered her own debut some years ago. Only the most talented Valerian adepts were permitted to make their first assignations on this most revered of days. The night before was spent in prayer, meditation, and worship to the first anguisette, Mara, daughter of Naamah Herself. No matter if one did not hold the mote in one’s eye as She had, all who lived in this House walked in Her footsteps. Incense and offerings of fruit were made to those angelic deities, as well as to Kushiel, who bestowed His mark upon those He deemed worthy and necessary to fulfill His will. Not so long ago, one such chosen had visited this very House, though she was not part of it. She was someone Rosanna had always admired, having read her life story so many times now. 

Making this night a memorable one was no small necessity; Her first Mara’s Eve as Dowayne, 

Tryphosa’s first as Second. 

“We have received an unusual letter,” Tryphosa said as she entered the elegant office. Seated at the desk, Rosanna looked up from the final entertainment schedule with a curious look on her face.

“How so?”

“It is from Dahlia House.”

Quickly breaking the gold wax seal, the new Dowayne read through the elegant script with great speed and interest. Thank goodness she was already seated, handling the request within the missive would have resulted in her falling into a chair without much grace otherwise. Something her friend noted instantly. 

“What does it say? They never write to us,” Tryphosa asked. 

“Odilia nó Dahlia wishes to know if she could attend our Mara’s Eve fête…with the Dauphin.”

Tryphosa did hit the chair cushion rather abruptly now. Staring at one another in both shock and barely restrained excitement, the two read over the letter once again. It had been a generation since a member of the royal family had visited Valerian House. Not since King Imriel. To host a future monarch would be the sweetened topping to an already auspicious occasion. 

“This feels like the hands of the angels presenting us with a blessed opportunity,” Rosanna said to her Second. “Odilia is a rising star amongst Mont Nuit and the Dauphin. He is said to be quite enamored of her.” Scanning the letter, she could not ignore the request for secrecy. No one could know that the future King was in attendance, as his courtesan sponsor explained, she meant to introduce him to the various power dynamics to be found throughout his kingdom. While his being present under her roof would be a great honor, it would have to be a secret one. No preening to the other Dowaynes that he had graced her House. But a blessing was a blessing, no matter how it came packaged. 

“What do you mean to do to hide him?” Tryphosa inquired. 

For a moment, Rosanna thought over the plans already made, the food and drink already ordered, the Showings and music and other sensual entertainments she had worked so hard to arrange. Months of planning were scattered over her rosewood desk. As were some odd remnants from the previous holy celebration. 

A smile appeared on her pink lips. “We will make our Mara’s Eve a masked ball, my friend. We shall all be hiding along with him.”

So when the invitations were sent out, to the favored patrons, the scions of Kushiel and Naamah, descendants of past anguisettes, to Mandrake House, it was with the challenge to arrive in the guise of precious stones. Dazzle one another as the polished gems they were, and do not forget a mask.

~

In one of the unmarked carriages rolling slowly along the winding avenue that snaked around Mont Nuit to each of the Houses of the Night Court, a nervous gentleman in a doublet so dark a red it almost seemed black looked at the serene woman across from him in a deep, rich blue gown. He fiddled with the mask in his hand, which was created with facets to look like a gemstone and said, “I don’t understand what we’re doing here, Odilia?”

“I said I had procured invitations to one of the most exclusive parties in the city, my prince,” she said with a tiny smile. “Do you doubt my abilities?”

“Never,” he said at once. “Only…I have come this way along the rue before. Why are we going to Mandrake?”

“To Valerian,” she corrected. 

“But why?”

“Tonight, they celebrate their most sacred holiday,” she explained. “Mara’s Eve is when they honour Naamah’s daughter, the first anguisette. You’ve been to Valerian House before, yes? For your Grand Tour?”

“Yes,” he said, “but not to participate. They arranged Showings for me, since I… was not practiced in their arts.”

“I am not bringing you here in the hopes to unlock your hidden Shahrizai lineage,” she said quietly, her fingertips smoothing across the smooth satin gloss of her own mask, resting on her knee. “Rather, you will soon be put in a position where the people of this kingdom will serve you. They will be your servants, Gustav.” He shifted uncomfortably, and she smiled at him, not unkindly. “You were never raised for royal command, I know. This evening, behind the safety of the mask, will allow you to experience the different kinds of service and submission that come with the dominance of your power. No one will know who you are, and in the seas of blacks and reds that Valerian is known for using in their decorating, another lord in dark red will be easily forgotten.”

She leaned forward to take his hand, stopping him from worrying the carved faces of the facet mask with his fingers. “Trust me, Gustav. I thought about this and have done everything I can to protect you.”

He sighed. “I know. I do trust you. Of everyone around me, you are one of the few whose ambitions I do not need to question.” He lifted her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles, whispering, “What would I do without you, my dahlia?”

She smiled and took her hand back as the carriage turned into the drive leading up to the Valerian mansion, saying, “I am sure you would manage.”

Together, they donned their masks and their identities for the night. No longer Prince Gustav and Odilia nó Dahlia, but Lord Garnet and Lady Sapphire. Her marque carefully covered by the shimmer blue of her gown and the fall of her sable hair, her identity was safely hidden. And who would look for the future King here in Valerian House, of all places? Everyone knew his tastes by now, the gossip had made sure of that. 

Hooded attendants guarded the grand double doors of Valerian House. Only the presentation of an invitation gained entrance tonight. Tokens were not enough on Mara’s Eve, the guest list was very succinct and highly coveted by certain D’Angelines.

Upon entering, the scent of cinnamon and amber incense filled the senses. White candles in gold sconces lit the way, illuminating the vivid tapestries with their violently beautiful scenes. 

In the banquet room, hot, mulled, red wine flowed from heated fountains. Platters of roasted venison and other red meats were paired with winter vegetables and all manner of other aphrodisiac delicacies. Each little detail was made to evoke the red mark in the fabled anguisettte’s eyes and the flowing blood which bubbled up under a loving lash. 

Practiced courtesans invited guests to open play in the common areas, almost foreplay as the more intense scenes were reserved for the dungeons and private rooms down red carpeted halls. Simple pleasures such as utilizing the cuffs built into chaises, ropes hanging from the ceiling, toying with dripping red candles, could be found in every corner of the public salons.

For those making their formal debut, a special room was reserved for each to be presented by their Dowayne, and the bidding for their first night would commence later in the evening. It was plush with velvet cushions, thick drapes, and a little stage for each new adept to ascend so that all might see them; tonight there were two.

Ebony haired Shahrizai walked with adepts on one arm and a goblet in the other, giving homage to the niche shrine of their ancestor as they strolled to the private space reserved only for them. They were avoided quite clearly by the stoic yet elegant members of House Morhban, their rivalry never-ending even for a holiday such as this.

Music floated through the rooms, setting a sensual rhythm for all the guests to relax and enjoy. Although the players were hidden, their presence could be felt as every honored attendee might think they had their own private performance to set their scenes. 

Through it all walked the new Dowayne, draped in a blood red gown that only made her fiery hair glow all the more. Rubies dripped from her neck in a stunning collar, its leash held by her own hand as this was her domain and party. An equally gleaming mask sat upon the upper half of her face, leaving her red painted lips to smile and speak to her guests. And through it all, she kept a sharp eye out for anyone who might be her very special guests for the evening. 

In doing so, she noted the adepts under her roof and what they were doing, who they flirted with and what caught their, seemingly, averted eyes. A pattern arose, whispers behind shackled hands or fans, curious gazes peeking out from behind elegant masks. They were following a specific couple.

Strolling through the crowd, she soon found the source of their interest. Upon viewing them, Rosanna could very much see why. The presence of the woman she knew to be attending as Lady Sapphire was palpable. Familiar. Commanding. What Valerian would not be drawn to such a refined and sure presence? Even she felt a little shiver up her spine just watching her. Which made her think it so very curious about the gentleman at her side. His costume had not been revealed to her, but only she and Tryphosa truly knew who he was. Curiosity piqued, and hostess duties certainly not forgotten, she crossed the space to greet them.

“Good evening, guests,” she said and dipped a pretty curtsy. “How are you enjoying Mara’s Eve?” 

The kohl that lined the lashes behind the shimmering blue of the mask made her brown eyes all the darker as she watched the Dowayne make her curtsy. She did not offer one in response, that was not the game of the evening. Instead, she maintained her eye contact without blinking, answering, “Valerian House has surpassed itself to celebrate Naamah’s daughter. It is a pleasure to attend, just as surely as it is Valerian’s pleasure to serve tonight.”

Lord Garnet, at her side, studied the red-haired woman who approached them. While one of the hosting House, judging by the deferential way that she offered the curtsy, she nevertheless moved with the self-assurance of someone who could lead. Perhaps the Dowayne? He wondered how one could lead a House when one’s whole life revolved around submission. But he kept his peace. The fewer noble guests who heard his voice and realised his identity, the better. He was only here to watch and learn. Already it was beginning; he saw how comfortable his Lady Sapphire was, how effortlessly the guests here wore their power under the allure of the masks as the adepts and novices of the House offered trays of drinks with yielding hands and lowered eyes. 

Lady Sapphire seemed very comfortable with it all, as did the guests with Shahrizai blue-black hair and Kusheline eyes. He worked to emulate them, remembering the tutors that had taught him a royal posture. Now it meant a different kind of power, another kind of authority. Perfect timing for it, as Lady Sapphire gestured to him. “Lord Garnet and I are quite enjoying our evening thus far. Aren’t we?”

He nodded slowly, remembering his mother’s voice telling him that moving slowly was read as power more than speed was. A prince did not rush through anything, nor would a king. 

“I am so glad to hear that,” Rosanna smiled demurely. Not in the way Alyssum did, in their pious and delicate manner, but in her way which drew comfort in drinking in the power of another. The disguised Dahlia and the royal who accompanied her were a cool drink in the ever warming heat of the salon. “This is our most holy celebration, and the first after Dowayne Etienne took his leave. To serve our guests at such an important time gives us every pleasure, earthly and heavenly alike.”

The Desert Begins to Bloom

Petrea nó Cereus found her Dowayne without trouble. Aliksandria was where she always was: squirreled away in her office. Aliksandria nó Cereus had been Dowayne for over a year, and it seemed that she had yet to leave that office. While Petrea’s heart went out to her friend, she did hold some measure of resentment towards her. There were so many other duties to attend to, and Aliks had been almost entirely absent since Dowayne Gerault had died. Petrea was tired of making excuses, tired of handling everything in both her own role as Second and those of the Dowayne. She thanked Blessed Elua every day for Aimee—her right hand. 

Petrea knocked lightly on the closed door and entered before Aliks had a chance to answer. The entire room was littered with papers, scrolls, books, and ledgers. The sheer amount of paper shocked Petrea. She had not entered this room in…she couldn’t remember how long…but it had certainly not been this disorderly the last time. Behind the massive wooden desk sat Aliks. Her hair was tied up messily, her face drawn, her fingers ink stained. And her eyes. From the dark circles below them to the blankness in her gaze, Aliks looked less like a Servant of Naamah than a beggar in the streets. 

“Aliks?” Petrea said quietly. She was, at the sight in front of her, now questioning her decision to interrupt the Dowayne, but needs must, and this interruption was truly critical.

At her voice, Aliks started and dropped the parchment she was perusing. “Oh, Petrea! I’m so sorry, I did not hear you enter.” Her voice sounded tired and unused. She cleared her throat and offered a weak smile. “Please,” she said, gesturing around the room. “Come in. If you can find a please, sit down.”

Petrea gazed around the crowded and messy office as she stepped in. She moved a stack of ledgers from a sofa and sat. Her eyes scanned Aliks’s face. Yes, this needed to happen. “Aliks,” she said slowly. “Please come sit with me.”

Aliks nodded and stood from her chair. She stretched her neck and shoulder, working out the kinks that had surely developed from hunching so long. Striding over to Petrea, she sank down next to her friend. She took one of Petrea’s hands. “What can I do for you, love?”

Petrea reached up and undid Aliks’s hair to run her fingers through the tangled strands. “This is too much, my dear,” she murmured. “You have to stop. You cannot go on like this.”

Aliks sighed, her shoulders slumping. She closed her eyes and leaned into the soft touch of Petrea’s fingers massaging her scalp. “I know, Petrea. I know. But there is just so much. You cannot possibly imagine how terrible things truly are. How much Gerault lied. How much he cheated the House. It is going to take me…years, I fear, to untangle us from this web that he has left me in.” 

Petrea made a soothing sound as she continued to gently work through Aliks’s hair, scratching her nails against Aliks’s scalp. “You’re right. But, love, this is not the way.” She gave Aliks a shake, and Aliks opened her eyes. Petrea’s voice was firm as she continued. “Aliks. You have been hidden away in this office while the rest of the Night Court spins around us. Things in the City are happening that you have no idea about. We cannot have that.”

“I know! I know!” Aliks began, but Petrea held up a finger to stop her.

“Aliks,” she said with great seriousness. “You are the Dowayne of Cereus House. The First and Foremost of the Houses of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers. You—we—cannot have you absent. We are floundering. We need you.” She paused. “I need you.”

Aliks blinked. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. It was as though this was some great revelation. “But you…you…I have heard that…you are doing so well! Everything I hear is so positive about you! What could you possibly need from me?”

“Aliks! I have been scouring the Night Court for other Seconds to advise me! What do you think they will be saying about that? I am constantly making excuses for why no one can meet with you! I have turned to Aimee for guidance time and again—”

“Aimee?” Aliks interrupted, puzzled. “What does Aimee have to do with this? She is not the Second.”

Petrea clasped her friend’s cheek. “You have no idea of Aimee’s strengths. But I do. And I tell you now that she is likely the only reason I am not the laughingstock of Mont Nuit. And to be fully honest with you: I am not the Second, we are the Second. Aimee and myself.” Aliks gasped, and Petrea nodded. “It has taken both of us to lead in your absence. With no training or assistance from you, I have turned to Aimee to be my partner as Second,” she said sharply.

Aliks’s face fell at her friend’s admission. “Oh, Petrea, I am truly sorry. I had no idea!”

“Of course not. You have not left this office, save to sleep.” Petrea’s voice then gentled. “But that must change.” Aliks bobbed her head in agreement. “If nothing else, we miss you. You are my best friend. You are Aimee’s lover. We miss your company. You have abandoned us in a time when we should all be coming together. We need you. And you need us.” Petrea waved her hand around the room, indicating the mess. “Do you really think that you would not do better with this if the three of us worked on it together?”

Aliks shook her head, her eyes falling to her lap where she still clutched Petrea’s hand. “No. But I cannot ask this of you. I cannot let either of you into this mess. It is mine, as Dowayne, to clean up.”

“You and I both know that is simply not true.” Petrea squeezed Aliks’s hand. “The job of the Second is to be the Dowayne’s shadow. To protect and prop up the Dowayne. To assist the Dowayne in all matters of the House. You know this. I know this. Aimee knows this. We are not prepared to let Cereus House sit in ruin any longer. Things are afoot in the City—no, the country—that may cause instability. And as goes Cereus House, so goes the Night Court. We must have stability and strength within these walls.” She raised her chin. “I suffered at Gerault’s hand with only my love of this House to keep me sane. I will not see my House fail. Not now. Not again. Not ever. Now,” she said, rising. “Go take a bath and change your clothes. You are dining with Aimee and me in an hour.”

“But, Petrea, I cannot leave this—” Aliks began.

“I will accept no excuses,” Petrea interrupted. “We begin planning tonight.” She placed a kiss on her friend’s brow. “I will see you in an hour, love.”

With that, Petrea turned and walked out of the room, leaving her Dowayne sitting on the sofa, quite stunned. 

Where the Sun Sleeps – Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

—K

Where the Sun Sleeps – Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

A Moment After the Masque

The Longest Night Masquerade at Cereus House had been more than Niklos could have dreamt of. Certainly there had been stories he had heard, and rumors as well, but nothing could really compare to being there himself. The tables had fair groaned under the weight of the food, and the ballroom of Cereus House had been bedecked as a winter forest. The costumes were stunning, as Markus nò Eglantine had promised when Niklos had picked up the outfit the adept had designed for him three days before the Longest Night, as the couturier swore he would be far too busy to meet Niklos at any time closer to the event. And with what Niklos had seen the adepts of Eglantine adorned in, it was no lie. The freedom afforded the adepts was surprising, though he knew of the traditions of the Longest Night. A number of the adepts that he had made acquaintance with over his Grand Tour had stopped to greet him as well, which he felt boded well for his hopes to continue pursuing them. The Masquerade, performed to renew the Winter Queen by her Sun Prince, had been moving. Niklos had almost found himself crying. He’d seen it before, either at one of the Shahrizai holdings or within his parents’ home, but to see it at Cereus House was something different. Something almost holy. The Winter Queen was, as usual, represented by a Cereus adept, and this year her Prince was a Mandrake. Niklos wasn’t sure if that prophesied anything for the year, but both adepts had done a beautiful job of things, and he was honored that he had been invited to witness the event.

“I really must send a thank you to Cereus House,” Niklos thought to himself as he crossed the atrium of the townhouse, “addressed to both Petrea and Aliksandria. One of them was responsible for my invitation, but it is always a good idea to keep all pathways open.” Calling for tea and some food, Niklos headed to the stairs to the bedrooms. The letter could wait until he woke up, though he would leave himself a note to not forget it.

A Year in Review and Looking Ahead

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

~

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaving her to run Valerian House. Her dream.

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

“Odilia?”

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

He prayed, like he had truly never prayed before. 

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

He still had so far to go.

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

The Sun Also Sets

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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