Night Court – Page 4 – Longest Night Midwinter Masque

Whispers at the Table – Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Changing Times and Different Paths

“My lady Dowayne, you have a guest in the front parlor,” the footman said. He seemed a bit excited about this particular guest, which was odd. This was Cereus House, and while they certainly had a very respectable clientele, it was still the Night Court, and outliers were never new.

“That is odd, I have no appointments that I am aware of. Did the guest give you any indication as to what they needed?”

“No my lady, he simply said he wished to speak to you. In fact he was quite terse about that.”

“Well, that is unusual. I suppose you will have to send him in.” Aliksandria nó Cereus closed her book and took a sip of her tea as she awaited this mysterious new visitor. Her days in her new position had certainly included strange new experiences, and she supposed unannounced, terse visitors would be included on that list, as well.

The door opened, and the footman reentered followed by a man of some three decades or more whose dark brown hair starting to be gilded with the barest hints of silver. His long hair was pulled back from his face and tied in a club behind his neck. He wore a serviceable tunic and breeches of dove gray with a cape over top and peeking up from behind his shoulder was the pommel of a sword.

So this is why the footman was amused, thought Aliks. It is not every day one sees a Cassiline brother in the heart of the Night Court. Aliks herself was taken aback. What on earth could the Brotherhood want with her? While the Night Court and the Cassiline Brotherhood did not stand in opposition to each other in the strictest sense, they certainly did not view each other with any flattery. All these things went through Aliks’s head until she looked into the brother’s caramel brown eyes.

“Manuel?” she gasped, barely able to believe her own eyes.

He nodded then crossed his arms, bowed, and said, “Manuel d’Cassid, in Cassiel’s name, I protect and serve.” Then he straightened and relaxed, and his face cracked a smile. “And look at you, Aliksandria nó Cereus, Dowayne of Cereus House.”

Forgetting all sense of propriety, Aliks launched herself into his arms and hugged him. As she did that, Manuel lifted her off her feet and spun around. As he set her down, they both heard the shocked gasp from the poor footman and laughed.

“You can relax,” Aliks said to the footman. “Manny here is a dear old friend and is most welcome in Cereus House. You may return to your duties.” And with that the footman left the two in the Dowayne’s office. Turning to her friend, Aliks asked the obvious question, “What are you doing here?”

“I am on Cassiel’s business. I have been given a posting in the city, and am to report tomorrow morning. As I have the very rare luxury of a few spare hours, I thought I would visit.”

Tears began to fall down Alik’s cheeks. “The last time I saw you…”

“I know,” he said, gently then reached out to touch her hand. “A lot has happened since then, and we are neither of us the people we were at ten years of age.”

Wiping her tears, Aliks began again. “What is your posting? And where are you lodging this evening?”

“To answer the second, I have a room at an inn at Night’s Doorstep.”

“You could stay here,” Aliks offered.

“I can’t. It isn’t even proper for me to have come here at all. I can’t spend the night in the Night Court.”

“I understand,” she replied. “But know you are always welcome, and should you choose to stay, a private room away from adepts and patrons alike will be available to you. And the posting?”

“I am to join the personal guard for His Royal Highness, Dauphin Gustav de la Courcel.”

“My, we have both come up in the world, haven’t we,” Aliks observed then rang a bell to order some tea and luncheon.

Kushiel’s Keys

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Lord Niklos,

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

Mena

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

Crowning Joy – Part 2

Standing on the balcony of Dahlia House, Gustav finally felt at ease. He crossed to her, his heart leaping at the sight of her face again, his breathing evening out in comfort as he came to stand with her. She did not curtsy to him. Of course she would not, she was a Dahlia.

“You are just as beautiful as I remember you in my dreams,” he said.

She smiled, her dark eyes sparkling at him, saying, “You seem taller. Is this what happens when you go to university? You grow in intelligence and body, too?”

He blushed. “You are teasing me.”

“You do not seem to mind,” she said, resting her hands on the railing as she looked out across the view of the gardens. “After all, you sent me so many poems, I must catch up to your compliments.”

He glanced away, joining her at the railing.

“It is good to see you,” she said quietly. She did not look at him, however, giving him the safety of semi-solitude as she asked, “How are you?”

He was sure his friends had asked him the same question, surely many people had, but it was different when it came from her. She did not expect anything of him, just himself, whoever he was. She had made it clear the first night, for his majority, that he—just as he was—was enough. She had chosen him that night; he had never forgotten how special it made him feel.

“I breathe,” he said just as quietly. “I open my eyes in the morning and close them at night. I sit on a horse, I walk on my feet, I dress myself and eat and drink. But I am not living.”

Her hand touched his, and he clasped it at once.

“Your poems were beautiful,” she said softly. “I enjoyed every one of them. But I liked your letters better. I could hear the honesty of your heart in them as you told me of your day, your classes, your professors, your friends. You can be honest with me, Gustav.”

“I know,” he whispered, twisting his fingers with hers. “I just….Odilia, I do not know where to begin.”

“Come,” she said, stepping back from the railing and pulling him with her. “I will call for wine, we will return to my rooms, and you can tell me.”

“I did not bring my purse.”

“It is a gift,” she said with a smile. “I have made my marque, my Dowayne permits me to choose my patrons as I see fit. And I choose you tonight, Gustav. Come.”

He followed her through the halls, glancing only briefly at the frescoes of Naamah and her lovers on the walls. Far more mesmerising was the play of the lantern light on her dark hair. Her rooms were as he remembered them—though he had not paid much attention the first time he had come here—with tall windows and heavy woods, jewel tone upholstery and plush pillows. Truly an apartment of luxury, tastefully decorated to be subtly elegant.

The wine already sat waiting for them by her chaise, a clear, bubbly prosecco in the crystal decanter to help soothe the early summer heat. She poured two crystal goblets for them and lowered herself onto the chaise, holding out her hand to him. Sitting next to her, he took a deep breath and found the words, knowing she would listen.

He unburdened his soul to her, pouring all of himself into her dark eyes, offering the troubles of his heart into her hands. And she did not stop him, did not interrupt him, just let him speak. She refilled his wine and held his hand and, when he wept for his brother that he had lost, she stroked his hair as he cried against her shoulder. This could not have been the grand romantic reunion he had wanted or she expected, but it was what he needed. When she wound him in her arms and pressed her lips to his forehead, the weight and stress of the last month was lessened.

She leaned back, letting him lounge against her, and her fingers combed through his hair and he nestled into the scent of her skin and the perfume of her gown.

“Odilia?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He heard the smile in her voice as she said, “Of course.”

“I would like to see you more often, now that I am returned to the city.”

“I would like that.”

His head turned slightly, his lips brushing against the fabric that covered her heart, and she paused for just a moment before resuming stroking his hair. This couldn’t be anything more. It just wasn’t smart.

He would be the king one day. He could not lift a courtesan up with him. This was only a dream, a naive hope for a romance written in the stars. She was too practical to allow this.

But perhaps for the moment, she could indulge his fantasy. After all, that was what the Night Court did best.

Crowning Joy—Part 1

It had taken some time for Maël to learn the schedule of the palace, but he was nothing if not a quick study. He waited just long enough to be sure he could do it, then made the arrangements to sneak the Dauphin of Terre d’Ange out of his own palace. Careful timing, stealthy steps, and careless confidence all worked together, and soon enough, the two young men were in the nondescript carriage waiting for them, rolling down the Rue Courcel away from the royal palace and towards the City of Elua proper.

“So,” Maël said, fixing his friend with his shrewd look, “it’s a lady you’re going to visit?”

“Yes.”

“The same lady whose poems I have helped you write over the last few years?”

The tips of Gustav’s ears turned a delicate shade of pink. “Yes.”

“And your mother does not know about her, judging by the fact that we are sneaking out like youths in the night.”

“Yes.”

“Is that all you are going to say today?”

“No.”

Maël pretended to let out a huff of irritation but could not hide the amusement twitching his cheek. Neither could Gustav, who shot him a sly, little smile. He seemed lighter, Maël thought, the farther they got away from the palace. The weight of his new title did not weigh him down so heavily.

Maël may not have known the full brunt of that weight, but he understood the long shadow cast by expectation. Gustav was facing his title unexpectedly, Sebastien had been raised as the Duc L’Envers all his life, but Maël had more time to wait. His uncle’s health was always in flux, and Maël knew eventually the county title would pass to him, but until then, he had a freedom that Sebastien didn’t understand–not with how he had been raised and trained all of his life as the Duc of Namarre—and that Gustav had just lost. Maybe his uncle had told him to get closer to Gustav, to become friendly with the prince because of how it would be advantageous for the Rocaille family later to regain some of the honor by companionship that they had lost in David’s betrayal, but Maël had found Gustav to be genuinely likeable. Charming and charismatic, he was deeply intelligent and connected to his feelings. It was easy to follow him, easy to love him, easy to be loyal to him. What had begun as clever maneuvering had become a real friendship, and Maël couldn’t really pinpoint exactly where or when it had happened.

“Well,” he said. “I feel like I know her already, with all the synonyms you begged me for in your poems. I will look forward to meeting your…what did you call her? The guiding star by which you set your heart’s course?”

Gustav sat a silent crimson, mumbling something under his breath that was surely unflattering to his friend’s character and gross mangling of his very heartfelt verses.

“Where are we headed, then?” Maël glanced out of the carriage. “Does her family have a house in the Noble District?”

“Not exactly.”

The carriage jolted slightly as it rolled onto the bridge that crossed the river leading to the slightly lower-class districts. Maël glanced at his friend. “Is she…the daughter of a merchant?”

Gustav shook his head, but Maël saw how he was sitting up on the padded bench, a light shining in his eyes as they traveled onward. Whoever she was, she was clearly special to the dauphin.

Which was why he felt a pang of dismay when they turned another corner and entered Night’s Doorstep.

“Gustav…”

Gustav blinked almost innocently at his friend, but Maël could see underneath the blithe mask was something else. Something more serious. Gustav was trusting him with this, trusting him with the knowledge of his lady—what and where she was.

For all that Maël was a schemer—he knew he was, he was a son of Siovale, and he knew well that knowledge is power and that all knowledge is worth having—he was not willing to destroy his friendship with the crown prince of the country over a secret woman. So, when the carriage rolled through the gates of Mont Nuit and began the journey up to the great mansions of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, all he said was, “I would have been able to prepare better if I knew where we were going.”

Gustav nodded, accepting that, but not apologising for not telling Maël all of the truth.

Maël watched the avenue roll by though the carriage window. He did not spend much time in the City of Elua, but he had been once or twice on university business, and the first time he had visited the City after his majority, his uncle had given him the gift of a night at the Night Court.

Bryony House had been his first experience. His uncle knew his competitive nature and had gambled on his nephew enjoying the games of chance at the Bryony gaming tables. Maël had enjoyed the games well enough, but the joining of bedplay and gambling games was not one that he initially appreciated. Money was money, gambling was gambling, and pleasure was pleasure. He enjoyed the competition of the risk and reward of victory, but he discovered he was not quite the target patron for the adepts there. Somehow, he doubted Gustav’s lady was from Bryony House, however. Which left him to wonder to which House she did belong.

When the carriage turned onto the drive leading to the Dahlia House mansion, he was not sure if he was surprised or not. He had not been to Dahlia House before, it hadn’t been one that had caught his immediate attention. So this may well be an interesting experience for him. The footmen in the Dahlia livery bowed to the young men as they opened the carriage door. Gustav clearly knew where he was going, climbing the steps to the Dahlia House confidently. They swung inward at his approach, and for a moment, Maël could see the sliver of golden light fall across Gustav’s face, lighting his Courcel blue eyes with a gleaming light.

The Dahlia House salon was a grand hall, candles set just so to reflect the light in the mirrors mounted on the walls to fill the room with golden light. The rich jewel tones of the drapes complimented the sumptuous nature of the salon with one side of the hall open with glass doors to a grand balcony overlooking the gardens which rivalled even those of the royal palace. The novices of Dahlia House slipped between the mini courtesan courts the full adepts held, serving trays held perfectly as they provided the food and drink to the patrons there courting their Dahlia monarchs. Along the walls were the older novices, those on the brink of their coming of age, painted gold and standing as living statues.

Maël took it all in as he followed Gustav through the salon, skirting the great black and white checkered dance floor in the center of the salon. Gustav seemed to know where he was going, or at least what he was looking for, he was focused on a singular mission and barely acknowledged the adepts and patrons alike that nodded to him with low murmurs of, “Your Highness.”

A stately woman with silver ribbons threaded through her hair rose from her seat to approach the Dauphin. “Your Highness, welcome back to Dahlia House.”

He took her hand and brushed a kiss to her knuckles. “Dowayne, thank you. Is she…?”

“I believe I saw her take a moment on the balcony.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

He took off with quick steps, striding for the balcony, and before Maël could follow him, the woman was addressing him. “I have not seen you in the salon before, my lord. May I make your acquaintance?”

Maël was many things, but rude was not one of them. He presented himself properly to the lady, introducing himself, “Maël de Rocaille, my lady.”

“Jocaste nó Dahlia,” she introduced herself, taking him by the arm and leading him to the couches in her corner of the salon. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Rocaille. Welcome to Dahlia House.”

Maël tried to turn his head, craning to keep an eye on his friend, and Jocaste smiled. “Have no fear, my lord. No harm will befall him here. Only joy.”

Gustav stepped out onto the balcony, his head turning until he found the figure standing in the shadow of one of the ivy-wrapped support pillars. The moment his eyes fell upon her, he felt the serenity wash over him like a wave, filling his chest with light as he took a step toward her. “Odilia…”

She turned, a look of surprise on her face morphing slowly into one of affection as she answered, “Gustav.”

A Careful Handling

“Do we know when Etienne will go off to join his beloved Kusheline Lord and leave us to fend for ourselves?” Tryphosa Katseros nó Valerian was lying on a long settee, a sheaf of papers in one hand and a glass of cool white wine in the other. Said papers were reports on the latest class of novices within the House, their progress in various lessons, and areas of improvement noted by the tutors.

“Autumn, from what he has told me,” Rosanna replied from across the room. They lounged in the apartment of the Second going over the minute details of running an old and respected establishment. When the public imagined the Court of Night Blooming Flowers, they did not imagine courtesans reviewing lesson plans and tallying expenses, but without such work, all the pleasures they were known for would simply not happen.

“I imagine he hopes to attend the Masque with his lord. A rather romantic way to exit one chapter of life and open the next.” With a sigh, Tryphosa dropped her reports to lay a hand over her heart and posed in a rather dramatic manner.

“And here I thought I was the romantic one.” If the private collection of love stories arranged by author across more than a few shelves was anything to go by.

“Well yes, but you’re not galavanting off to a castle for an early retirement.” Tryphosa propped herself up on one arm and rolled her dark eyes. “Not that Etienne doesn’t deserve his happy ending of course.”

“Of course.”

A soothing kind of silence fell across the two friends. Old friends too. When Tryphosa first came to Terre D’Ange as a child, under the tender age of ten, her family had aspirations of making their fortunes in the trade of Hellenic wares. Successful merchants with an eye for beauty, they had done well for themselves in their homeland before taking the risk to expand abroad. It was almost by accident that their daughter came into contact with the Servants of Namaah. During a festival she became separated from her parents and was found by a priest of the angelic patroness and cared for until the family reunited in the temple. Apparently, the young girl had made an impression with her own appreciation for beautiful things and having easily taken a nap at the feet of a sacred statue. Being slightly older than the usual age of recruitment, there was some concern about the order making an offer for her marque, but the deal was eventually made. It seemed almost fated.

Meanwhile, Rosanna had always yearned to worship Naamah through the honor and esteem of the ancient Houses in the capital. It was not as common for the children of a comte to take the oath and foster to become a courtesan, but having learned to read on histories of famous lovers and patrons, she had been determined. Nothing pleased a young Rosanna more than to read and re-read the tales of her heroine, the anguissette Phèdre. It was her grandfather who saw in her the makings of a courtesan, as his own dear wife—who had passed before their final grandchild was born—had been a lay servant of Naamah. None of his own children or any other grandchildren, of which he had many, had followed in her footsteps. Once more, it seemed the divine had a guiding hand in her fate too.

When first she met Tryphosa, her fellow novice was still learning the ways of the city. Fascinated by stories of her upbringing in Hellas, young Rosanna desperately wanted to be friends. In turn, the Hellene girl found not only a compatriot in Valerian House but a patient ear to listen as she adjusted to her second new home. Together, they learned more than either expected during their tutoring years.

Older than them, and assigned as a mentor was Etienne, who took the girls under his proverbial wings with his infectious delight. Add in their favorite companion in Mandrake, and the group was as thick as thieves. For years. Now all that was about to change, for the better to be sure, but change nonetheless.

“It is…bittersweet,” Tryphosa said at last.

“The best sort of sweet,” Rosanna replied softly.

“I’m going to miss him, fiercely so. Yet I am happy for him, too. He is in love. That is the greatest gift any D’Angeline could hope for. And if he did not step down, we would still be waiting in the wings for our chance to lead the House. It’s like the changing of seasons, fresh beginnings and times fading.”

Rosanna smiled over at her friend. “You are rather in a poetic mood. Should I call for an Eglantine to take down your verses?”

Tryphosa waved her off and took a long sip of her wine. “I’m trying to honor the past whilst being excited for the future. Let me have my moment in the sun.”

Speaking of suns, or rather sons and the passing of one leader onto the next, something came to the mind of the Dowayne to-be: the dauphin, the new dauphin. Although a much different circumstance, he too was transitioning from one chapter in life to another, one of leadership and high expectation. Having been born into a noble lineage, Rosanna had long ago been taught to keep a sharp eye on the goings on of the royal family. She had visited the palace and even their hunting lodge as a girl several times, always with a member of her own family. More often than not, one in specific.

“Grandfather knew the old king. He told me…he told me much of what he thought of him. Wrote to me when he passed into the Terre D’Ange beyond this life. As he did with the elder prince, may Elua watch over him now. What do you think of the new dauphin?” Turning to her fellow courtesan, she watched for any little tells that would reveal what lips might not.

“Hard to say, he’s been away for so long at his studies, I don’t think many of us have a clear idea of what he’s like. Especially since he’s only ever visited us once, for a Showing rather than an assignation. The same at Mandrake. His older brother went through the Mont with his friends, in full, as so many young nobles do, from the very top at Cereus House to the edge of Night’s Doorstep. At least then we knew in which direction the elder prince’s desires pointed. That spoke much about his own person and philosophies. But Prince Gustav? He is a stranger to us.”

A very true statement. Much could be deciphered of a patron based upon which house they visited and with whom they spent the night. Royalty did not often come to them anyway, not since King Imriel, at least. The royal family did not have the injection of Kushiel’s lineage as he did and not nearly as much now two generations later.

Nodding to herself, Tryphosa turned to her companion and asked the same of her. “And what does the Dowayne-to-be think of him?”

Now it was Rosanna’s turn to think. Standing, she went to the chilled bottle of white wine they had in a cask, kept cool by ice harvested in the cold house, and topped up her glass.

“By the accounts I have heard from—and I have my ways as you know—he seems to be kind, more of a lover than a fighter. Untested perhaps, but we all were at some point. I think he has been cruelly thrown into something he was not in any way prepared for, and so must be feeling so unsteady. However…I think he has potential.”

“There is much in those words coming from your own sudden change of life as there is reflection in our dauphin, I think,” Tryphosa said and held out her glass for more as well. Crossing the room, Rosana poured the remainder of the bottle for her friend.

“Although far more tragic in his case, there just might be. I could prepare every day for the rest of my life, and I am not sure I will ever be fully ready to manage Valerian House. There will always be some circumstances I will not account for. Angels willing, I will perform diligently and do our house proud. Yet, the weight on my shoulders will always remain.” Sighing, the courtesan who began life as the baby sister of a noble Eisandine family sat next to her unlikely friend and they toasted one another quietly.

“You will not be alone in this, I will be there every step of the way. We can plan our own way to mark the ascension of a dauphin. Leave our mark with a memorable soiree, what say you?” A sparkle was in the eyes of the soon to be Second. Often they had discussed themes and scenes, ways to mark Mara’s Eve, all manner of holidays and festive occasions. Now they finally had the chance to expand on those day dreams and make them reality.

“You wish to recreate the night with the King of Persis, don’t you?” Rosanna asked, a mischievous gleam in her own gaze.

“Perhaps. I shan’t say until I know where you stand on the matter.” Tryphosa winked. Taking a sip of her wine, she laid back at ease once more, now that the heaviest of topics was at last spoken aloud between them. “I cannot wait to tell our friends in Mandrake about the changing of the guard, to steal a phrase from the soldier boy I see every so often.” Tryphosa giggled rather like a novice girl learning her first chapters in their lascivious manuals. “Oh we will have to plan some sort of celebration, don’t you think?”

“We are to keep our ascension quiet until Etienne makes his own announcement,” Rosanna reminded her, and Tryphosa pouted. “None of that. We are to be discrete in this, as we are in all things. I agree, we shall have a farewell for our darling Etienne and something for us too. But not until all in readiness. Patience is key, my friend, it makes the anticipation all the greater.”

Enter a Rose

During the height of the plague, the only persons allowed to move from home to home, or any other building, were the chirurgeons. Not even worship to pray for the sick was permitted in the temples for fear of spreading the illness. As soon as the terrible quarantine period ended, however, well, the message carriers had never been so busy nor so rich as worried families and friends across Terre D’Ange wrote to find how their loved ones were doing.

Rosanna, Second of Valerian House, was no different, as she nearly instantly began to write letters to each of her seven siblings, her parents, grandfather, and close friends. Once each and every letter was blotted, dried, sealed in wax, and handed off to a trusted messenger, she made her way to the temple district.

“I will return by sundown,” she told her fellow courtesans as she drew on a light cloak for the chill that still hung in the air.

A day at prayer was the very first thing on her mind when the news came of the plague at last being over. Offerings to Blessed Elua and His Companions needed to be left at each altar.

As though a terrible illness was not enough to send the country into upheaval, the disease took from them the Dauphin as well. It was as though the earth was shaking under them when the city criers brought the news to the people. So much tragedy in so little time. As none were taking assignations during the period of mourning, she elected to spend that time in the presence of the divine.

One temple after another found her paying the merchants for incense, fruit, and all manner of libations for the holy shrines. And once within, she knelt in prayer and meditation. Always a devout soul, there was never a feast she missed or a holy day not given its proper due. Now more than ever was a time to reconnect with the divine, something her fellows on Mont Nuit knew very well about her. Ensconced alone at the shrines to every angel and Blessed Elua, she gave up her offerings and knelt in respect at their statues.

She prayed for the royal family, for those who lost loved ones these past months, for the guidance of the angels in the year ahead. By the end of the circuit, which was by no means short, Rosanna felt lighter. More at peace and actually looking forward to whatever the future held. Ready to return to the Mont and her duties.

By sunset she was home again, and not a moment too soon, as the Dowayne was apparently waiting for her. Tapping his foot impatiently, the tall man with a halo of deceptively innocent curls looked to a clock and muttered what had to be some colorful language under his breath. Etienne was wholly devoted to the order and to Namaah and Kushiel, but he was more exuberant than she. In the most endearing of ways. Upon seeing her, his entire demeanor changed as he rushed forward to greet her. The cloak on her shoulders had barely been removed by the time he got to her.

“Rosie! You now come with me, we do not have all night!”

Without further ado, the Dowayne took hold of her by the arm and proceeded to pull her down through the house and to his office. As the Second of Valerian House she was by this point very used to such displays of excitement and only waved at her fellows as they rushed by. Poor Tyrphosa, her good friend, was nearly run over in the process but by the look on her face she was more than used to Etienne’s shenanigans too.

Into the office up on the second floor they went, the door shutting behind them. Folding her cloak over one arm, she watched as her mentor rushed about the room to pour them each a glass of wine. Oh, so it was one of those conversations.

“What is on your mind, Etienne?” she asked as he finally placed the silver cup in her hand.

“Only everything! Really, Rosie, you should know that by now.” He sniffed and took a healthy drink of the red he’d chosen for this meeting. “But you’ve been away at prayer all day, leaving me to wait until we could speak! When I have so much to say!”

“You know I take my place as a Servant of Naamah very seriously. The prayers are needed right now,” was her reply before taking a sip as well. Like all the food and drink served at the House this bottle was excellent. From her father’s estate, too, she recognized the blend quite easily. Now why would Etienne choose this wine? That could not be a mistake.

“Of course, I know that. But I’ve been hearing the most recent news here at home, and you must know!”

“Well, do not keep me waiting then.”

Leaning in, the anxious Dowayne began regaling her with the rumors flying out of Cereus House. Walls talk, and servants even more so. It would seem that after their own Dowayne passed sadly of the plague—Elua rest his soul—the new head of House was singular in her reign. Word had it that she had summoned one of the senior courtesans to her.

“Which one?” Rosanna asked, curious herself. Whoever was chosen would be her peer, another second in command of one of the most ancient institutions of their land.

“I think her name is Petrea. I’ve got my own eyes and ears working because I will not be the last to know just what is happening up there,” Etienne replied and pointed in the vague direction of Cereus House situated at the top of the Mont.

“Heaven forbid.”

“Precisely!” Another drink of the blended red. Shaking his head, curls fluttering almost like feathers, the Dowayne stood up a little straighter now, a look of contemplation on his face. “Geraunt’s passing has also given me reason to think. To consider what more I can offer Valerian House. And what might be out there for me outside of our walls. Especially as the futures of no few Houses are now in flux.” He gave her a knowing look.

“What do you mean to do?” Rosanna inquired carefully.

“You know I have been corresponding of late with an old patron?” Slowly walking the width of the office, Etienne held his silver goblet in one hand and brushed along the trinkets gathered on the desk and various shelves with the other.

Rosanna nodded. They had known one another for some time, her friend and his patron. A lord from the north, he had been called back years ago when his father unexpectedly passed away and left him sole heir to a seaside manor. Despite the distance, the two never seemed to forget one another and she had never seen her Dowayne so excited to read a letter as the day that first missive arrived.

“He has asked if I would ever consider joining him at his home. An estate in Kusheth. As companion, with a place already made for me in both bed and inheritance should he pass before me, but I try not to think about that last part too much,” he said with a small sort of smile.

“Do you mean to take him up on his princely offer?” The hands gripping her goblet tightened. Not with fear but with concern and anticipation.

“I want to, very much so,” he replied with a nod. “Which means, sweet Rosie, that I will be passing my torch to you. Do you think you are ready?”

For a long moment she did not speak. How could she when the moment she had been working toward all her life had finally arrived? At such a tumultuous time, too! Suddenly she did not feel as light as she had upon leaving the temple district, and yet, she was not overwhelmed so much as excited and full of nerves. Assuming command of Valerian House would be the greatest honor of her life, the most impactful responsibility she would ever shoulder.

Something deep down told her that with so much tragedy and change occurring in their world, this was simply one more spinning of the wheel. It was her turn to do what she could for the people and service she loved so deeply.

“I would name Tryphosa as my Second.”

Etienne barked out a laugh. “Trust you to already have the administration figured out before you accept the job!”

Crossing the room, he pulled her into a one-armed embrace and giggled into her red hair. She returned the hold just as affectionately. “Does Tryphosa know of her impending promotion?”

“She will when I tell her!”

Laughing again, Etienne grabbed the bottle of wine and topped up their cups. “I will gladly drink to that!”

Complications of Devotion

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

Heliotrope was blessed beyond measure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But Kyrie, surely your parents—“

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

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

Watering the Garden

Aimee walked elegantly to the back garden of Cereus House. As she made her way past one of the novice lectures being led by a fellow adept, she heard the instructions on the subject of poise and composure and to use the senior adepts as examples in order to learn the art. Little did the instructor know that Aimee, one of the most senior adepts, was a roiling, festering pool of rage beneath her statuesque expression and gliding stride. Having reached her sanctuary, a small alcove hidden from the rest of the garden by lush greenery, she finally allowed her training to fall away. Hot, silent tears streamed down Aimee’s cheeks as she sat and tried to soothe the hurt in her chest. Pondering the events of the past few months, she tried to lay everything out dispassionately.

Aliksandra had asked for space and time away from their affair to adjust when she had ascended to Dowayne, and Aimee gave it gladly. With the lack of a Second, Aimee and Petrea had stepped up to fill the gap until an appointment could be made, as was to be expected. Except, Aimee had not taken an assignation in over a month and hadn’t even left the grounds of Cereus for anything outside of official House business in over two. All the while Petrea had spent more time at Orchis than at Cereus!

Aimee took a deep shuddering breath and breathed it out slowly. “You’re winding yourself up again,” she said to herself.

While the Orchis situation did bother her, it would be unfair to Petrea to make anything of it. Petrea completed all of her duties before going and upon returning to Cereus, she always attacked any new dilemma with fervor. It was the small, unforeseen, unscheduled problems of the day-to-day at Cereus House that were causing such havoc. Because once there was a problem, everyone went running to the most senior adept present, and with Petrea at Orchis and Aliks cloistered with paperwork and imminently important House affairs that required the Dowayne, Aimee was the one desperately trying to keep the place together.

And to ice the cake, Aliksandra had just told her that Petrea was to be the new Second.

Fresh tears welled up in Aimee’s eyes, as the past months’ toll manifested upon her face. Before Aliks’ ascension, Aimee knew that it would be Petrea selected, it had to be. Aimee was young for a senior adept much less a Second, and Petrea had far better connections outside of Cereus with the upper echelon throughout the city. But Aimee had done well keeping everything running. Hadn’t she?

Even with Petrea sharing some of the duties, Aimee was the one making sure that effortless perfection of Cereus House graced the Night Court night after night. Wasn’t she?

Feelings of abandonment surged once again inside her, having become a familiar companion in recent months. Taking a final fortifying breath, Aimee stood, and willed the silver of Cereus House into her spine and rebuilt the loveliness that she had embodied since childhood. Reminding herself as she made her way out of the garden that while “All loveliness fades,” so does everything else as well. Time brings changes and how one reacts to them defines whether that change will be good or ill. And Aimee would forswear Naamah herself before leaving Aliks or Petrea to face those changes alone.

Choosing a Cereus Second

Aliks was sitting at her desk when Petrea walked in. The mountain of paperwork had not diminished, but she had just barely managed to keep it from growing. When Petrea walked in, Aliks motioned for her to take a seat on the chaise.

“I appreciate you coming so quickly,” Aliks began.

“Of course.” Petrea nodded.

“As I am sure you know, Cereus House needs a Second. We simply cannot go on as we have the last few weeks without one, and it is my duty to name my Second and successor.”

Petrea nodded carefully. She knew this was coming, and yet, she was not sure which way the wind would blow, nor which way she hoped it would.

“Petrea, we have known each other for a very long time, and I feel I can be quite frank with you. You have recently been engaging in behavior somewhat, how can I say this, wild for a Cereus adept. Your time spent at Orchis House seems to bring you joy, but it concerns me as well. The Second of Cereus House must represent the House by my side. So, I would ask you to please alleviate my reservations as I am naming you Second of Cereus House.”

Petrea gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She found tears filling her eyes.

Aliks looked at her, stunned. “This is not the reaction I had expected of you.”

Petrea could do nothing but throw herself into her friend’s arms. The chair squeaked under the weight of both women. Aliks patted her friend’s back and then pushed her away gently. She looked at Petrea’s watery eyes, and found herself utterly confused.

“Petrea, what in Blessed Elua’s name has gotten into you?” Her shock was evident, though her voice was quiet.

Petrea sat back on the chaise and wiped at the tears that spilled onto her cheeks. “Yes, well…” she began. She cleared her throat and started anew. “I…” She paused again, looking around the room, gathering her thoughts. “These past weeks have been difficult for me. I have felt, well, lost since the death of Geraunt. I feel my years are catching up with me, and I have been wondering what I am supposed to be doing with myself. I have been melancholy, full of sorrow, perhaps not just for Geraunt, but mayhaps for myself, as well. For my youth. I have been, well, I think I have been drowning my sorrows, as it were.”

They shared a rueful chuckle at this. “I think one could argue that point, my love,” Aliks scolded gently. “But, as I have said, if I am to name you as my Second, I must be able to trust that you can fulfill the duties of the office. And they are not small, nor few. Are you up to this challenge?”

Petrea’s eyes glimmered with hope. “I am! More than certainly I am! This gives me…a purpose I fear I have been lacking. I know that much work goes into being a Second, and I know that you will need to depend on me. And I swear to you, on the names of Blessed Elua and Naamah themselves, I will not let you down.” Her voice had grown with determination as she spoke.

Aliks reached over and took her friend’s hand. “I trust that you will not. Now that that matter is settled, I have your first task.”