Tag: Night Court

J’adoube, Count Shahrizai

Niklos walked into the receiving chamber at Dahlia, uncertain as to how today would play out. He thought he’d faced most every adept in Dahlia who played chess. And some of them had been challenges. His father was good, but there were some adepts who used strategies that Niklos had never seen before, and his father had been good at making certain that Niklos’s playing stayed nimble. He settled into a chair to wait, smiling at the young novice who brought him a small tray of snacks and a cup of tea. He had learned early on not to ask who his next tutor would be—often the novice either didn’t know or had been instructed not to say. The one time he had pressed the issue he found himself without an opponent for a fortnight and was only welcomed back when the Dowayne herself had written and instructed that he could return. He would not seek to press that specific issue with Dahlia House ever again.

Finally, an adept entered the waiting hall. Lithe and sleek, with silver-blond hair that might have been a better fit for the canon of Cereus House had it not been for the haughty cast of his face, the adept glanced across the small salon before settling on the Shahrizai Count. 

“Lord Niklos?” That was all the respect to his title Silvère would give. Oh, he knew the status of the Count of Angers, that was quite certainly the business of Dahlia House, but it was also quite certainly theirs to enjoy a challenge. “She is ready for you.”

Niklos set his teacup down on one of the small tables. He’d visited often enough to know that it would be taken care of without his attention. He languidly rose to his feet, his eyes quickly examining and dismissing the adept who had been sent to direct him. He nodded and gestured. “Please, lead on. I’m looking forward to meeting the next person I get to square off against.”

Silvère guided him up a flight of grand stairs, away from the public eye of the grand Dahlia salon with its famed life-sized chess board—Niklos was a little disappointed, game after game he had played here against the adepts and still he had yet to see the grand board in action or play on it himself—and up to the back of the mansion, stepping out onto the second-floor terrace that overlooked the gardens. Silvère paused there and gestured the Count forward. “Onward. She waits at the north corner.”

The gallery spanned the back of the mansion, tracing the silhouette of the grand house and curling around to the corner before it stopped at the corner turret. There, tucked into the privacy of the semi-hidden corner, was a table set with a chessboard with pieces of green marble and carved ivory. A decanter of wine sat breathing between two Serenissiman blown-glass goblets and a small dish of ripe blackberries. 

He was surprised when the adept stopped at the top of the stairs, gesturing him along the gallery. Previously, he had been escorted all the way to whomever was waiting for him. Either he had regained the trust of the house, his opponent wished for their interaction to remain unobserved, or he was going to be unceremoniously escorted from the House. Whatever the reasoning, he quirked a small smile and continued down the gallery, noticing the adept waiting for him by one of the corners. As he got closer, he realized he wasn’t certain who was waiting for him. He squared his shoulders, glancing around to see that they would, in fact, be alone.

The figure at the railing turned, her dark eyes studying his face for a moment before she spoke. “Good evening, Lord Niklos.”

She stepped into the light cast by the lantern, dark hair caught up in a jewelled net away from the completed marque that graced her back. Her hand gestured to the chair set at his side of the table. “Please, sit. Be comfortable.”

She poured the wine with her own hands. “I have heard the gossip among the adepts about your chess games. They really have enjoyed the challenge, though we are running out of adepts to present you with a new face with each of your visits.”

He nodded as he neared her, not surprised that he would have reached the Second eventually. “Well met, Second Odilia. I’ve heard some interesting rumors about you. It warms my heart to hear that your adepts are gossiping about me as well.” He took one of the seats, relaxing into it as he observed the board. “This is quite a lovely set, is it a treasure of the house?” His eyes flickered to the decanter of wine as she poured. “It has been quite a challenge, playing through your adepts. You have some very skilled members of your House. It has been quite enjoyable. Though I could always play some of your adepts again, if their pride wasn’t too bruised from losing to a simple Count.”

Her smile flickered across her face as quick as a lightning flash, there and gone in a breath as she settled herself into her own seat. “Ah, perhaps. Dahlia does not wager on games the way Bryony does but we have our own strategies. Perhaps one or two of them did not play as hard as they could have? A hard-won win might be enough to whet the appetite to have a patron return again.”

Her fingers gently caressed the edge of the chess board. “As for the set, it is mine. A gift from the Dowayne when she named me her Second. It is quite a treasure, isn’t it? You named it rightly when you called it so.”

“Well, I would hope that none of your adepts would take it easy on me for any reason, so hopefully, they will still be interested if I were to offer them a challenge again. And it is a lovely set, certainly a treasure.” He reached out for one of the glasses of wine, taking it and smelling it, his eyes crinkling with pleasure. “This smells Aragonian. Is it?”

“Yes,” she said, leaning back in her seat, comfortable in her power here in her own House. “I keep a small selection for myself from the House collection, and I have always favored the Aragonian spices. Does it meet your standards?”

“I am certain it is fantastic. I have faith that your House has impeccable cellars, and that your tastes will align well with my own.” He took a small sip, tasting the wine as he looked over the board, and then examined her as he swallowed. “It is exquisite, as I am certain you knew. I have a feeling that our interactions here will prove most enlightening for both of us.” He leaned back into the chair, comfortable. He did so enjoy sitting across the table from a Dahlia. They had some of the same instincts that his cousins did, and it kept him on his toes.

“Then shall we begin?” She gestured to the board between them. “The guest has the first move.”

He smiled and nodded, focusing his attention on the board and briefly considering before opening the game by moving one of his knights. If the Second had been briefed on his play style from any of the adepts he had faced off against, he wanted to throw something new at her. His father had always warned him about a knight opening, saying it was an aggressive move, and it was a gamble if you didn’t know your opponent; but Niklos felt in a gambling mood this evening, and there was a need for a certain amount of aggression as well. It felt like the calendar was speeding up, and things were moving quickly enough that he was barely keeping ahead of it all. He took a slow sip of wine and waited patiently for Odilia’s move. The dance had begun.

They played in comfortable silence for the first set of moves. His aggressive opening was countered by her patient, almost teasing strategy as she left pieces undefended, baiting him to chase them across the board. 

“What brought you to Dahlia for this series of games, Lord Shahrizai?” She asked it after he had captured one of her pawns, showing absolutely nothing on her face about the loss of the piece. “Many patrons who enjoy gaming go to Bryony or Orchis for their amusements. How did Dahlia catch your interest?” Well did she know that after the events of the Autumn Revelry, more and more eyes were turning to her House and to her in particular. Was he one of them that looked to influence the Dauphin by courting her attentions?

He leaned back in his chair, assessing the board as pieces were picked off. He’d spread his troops out. Perhaps too much. He could recover, but it would take adjusting his strategy. And then there was her queen. Almost overprotected in its position. His father had played like this for a time, it was usually a trap, and he couldn’t fall for it. “What brought me to Dahlia? The rumors in the city are that Dahlia raises the best chess players to be found. Sure, I could have gone to Bryony and frittered away my inheritance. I’ve joined Orchis for one of their open showings, and they were quite amusing. But, if I wanted a challenge, I needed to come to Dahlia. And, thank Elua, the rumors have proved true. Dahlia… Dahlia is a House I can learn things in. And I do so enjoy learning many things.” He grinned, almost irreverently, and took another sip of his wine, wincing as she captured another pawn. Well, that one was going to be a sacrifice anyway, he’d just hoped to get a few more turns with it on the board. He was developing his own approach.

“I do regret,” he continued conversationally, “that I was not well enough known to your House to have been invited to the Autumn festivities you held. Rumor has that it was quite the spectacle. But I can’t seem to get a straight story from anyone. You must know how rumors are. Would you be willing to share with me some of the highlights that you remember of the evening? I am curious what has the city all aflutter with gossip.”

She smiled and there was something flinty underneath the smooth satin of her face. She threatened his rook with one of her knights and said, “I am sure there are plenty of whispers. What I remember most about the evening was the delicious tartness of the pomegranate I ate. They are my favorite fruits. I quite enjoy the challenge of them that makes the taste all the sweeter.”

Odilia sat forward slightly, choosing a blackberry from the dish and asking courteously, “How did you welcome the start of the season, my lord? Here in the city or at your new estate?”

He smiled, catching the faint hardening of her face as she made her next move. Something he’d said had hit the mark. Or hit a mark at least. Perhaps it was the question about the festivities…or the comment about gossip. Nothing to press on, but definitely something to keep tucked in the back of his mind. He reached for the bowl of nuts and plucked some shelled walnuts, popping them in his mouth slowly, one at a time. He saw the threat to his rook and shifted one of his own knights for defense, backing off from the aggressive opening he had presented. 

“I’ve been in the city since before news of my inheritance came. Before everything happened, the elder members of the family had decided I needed to spend some time here once again, and since I had been shut up on my parents’ lands since the first whisper of the plague, I did not debate any of the ideas. When the inheritance was announced, it was decided I would be the ranking member of the family in The City…at least until the season turned. So now I am awaiting the arrival of other family members, when I will be relegated to the second rank for now.” He relaxed, surprised at how little that disturbed him. Still, if he was to be of any use to the Palace, he would have to be present but unobtrusive enough to hear things without people truly paying attention to him. “At least it was a pleasant summer. When I was here some years ago it was truly unbearable. But then, my parents’ estate is near to Morhban lands, and so near to the ocean, and it always seems cooler there. How did you find the summer?” He blithely looked at the board, seeing at least three traps waiting, and finished the last walnut of the handful he had taken.

She danced one of her remaining pawns closer to his knight, saying, “Summer has never been my favored season. I much prefer the cooling mists of autumn. But for everything there is a time, and this summer, being the first since the plague struck, carried with it its own celebrations of survival. Not everyone survived, of course, and I hope that they find their peace in the True Terre d’Ange that Lies Beyond, but for those of us who have survived, summer was a time to celebrate what we have.”

Her brows lifted ever so slightly as she said, “Which means congratulations are in order. I have heard of your new title, Count of Angers. I never met your predecessor, but I understand that you have large shoes to fill. Of course, any member of your family is almost expected to do great things, I would assume, considering the history of your House. I do wish you luck.”

She advanced one of her own bishops, directly threatening his king.

He nodded slowly, considering the bishop as she spoke. He would have to deal with that first. It seemed a hasty move on her part, but perhaps they were trading playing styles now with her being more aggressive and him playing the more reserved style. Still, he had hoped that she would have shown more promise, considering that she was considered one of the better players in the House. He shrugged, almost to himself, and captured the bishop with his queen, smiling at her in response and saying, “Dimitrios was a gentle hand on his lands and was one of the most respected members of the family. If I can be half the Count he was, I will consider it an accomplishment. He grew up almost directly in the shadow of Melisande’s treason, and he knew how important it was and would be for connections to be created and maintained…” 

He trailed off as he poured himself some more wine and took a slow sip. “I think we’re alike in that way. Friendships are valuable, and if they support what one desires, then so much the better.” He rested his fingers idly on the stem of the wine glass, waiting for her response. “What are your thoughts on patrons, especially reliable ones?”

“My Dowayne made waves when she rose to her place,” she said lightly. “She established a new rule within the House that assignations are not chosen at her desk but by the adepts themselves. No courtesan of the Night Court goes to a bedchamber against their will, but especially in Dahlia do we enjoy our own choice in who we take to bed. Patrons come to the salon here as though offering tribute to a throne and hoping to be selected for a night. Some of my fellow adepts revel in that power and chose as many as amuses. Some of us are more reserved and meticulous in who we select of those that catch our eyes. It is a unique freedom, one that we quite enjoy, each of us on our own terms.”

She retreated one of her knights to make a deliberate trap, testing to see if he would press a perceived advantage. A lock of her dark hair fell from her pins to brush the curve of her cheek and she said, “If, Lord Shahrizai, you are asking if you could become one of my reliable patrons, then I must disappoint you. At the moment, my desk is full of papers and plans for the Longest Night that is coming. I have little time to myself to consider new patrons in my bed.”

She did not necessarily think that was what he was asking, but she was ever cautious as she had seen more and more hungry nobles coming to Dahlia once the word had spread about the autumn party. The eyes watched her; jealous, scornful, hungry, ambitious, lustful, she could feel them all looking at her and looking to pass judgement against her. The nobility circled, looking for weakness, looking for advantages to take, looking for openings to test. She had to keep to her composure, remain reserved and armoured so that they would not find her wanting. Nor use her against the Dauphin.

He raised an eyebrow as she explained how patrons were currently chosen in Dahlia House. He was familiar with Jocaste nò Dahlia, but he had not been aware of how she had changed patronage in Dahlia. Still, he supposed it was similar in other Houses. Bryony adepts, he had been told, often would lay wagers with patrons in their salon. In that light, he supposed he was already a regular patron of Dahlia, as he had spent some time in private with multiple adepts. So his credit, as it were, was good. 

His eyes widened slightly as he watched her withdraw her knight. As his eyes flickered across the board, he saw multiple possible sequences and decided not to pursue the piece. He had already captured one of her knights, and he could afford to allow her to keep the other. Instead, he shifted his queen, capturing another of her pawns. She was down to three, and none of them currently threatened promotion. He grinned at her polite denial, though he was intrigued as the lock of hair slipped from its pins. The look softened her slightly, the unintentional shift at odds with her words. “Sadly, no, Lady Odilia. That was not my query at all, though I do hope we will be able to continue meeting across this field of battle. You are offering quite the challenge, and I am very much enjoying myself. I am very certain an adept of your grace and knowledge has far more demands on her time than a lowly Count of the realm.” He grinned, hoping to show it for the self-deprecating joke he meant it to be. “Should I consider visiting the House in the evening, to see how my peers grovel at the dais of Dahlia?” He chuckled, taking another sip of the wine.

“No one is turned away from the salon who has not proved themselves unwelcome and unworthy of a place here vying for our attentions,” she said, taking a small sip of her wine as she studied the board and considered her options. “You have certainly proved yourself nothing of the sort, so you will be welcomed if you choose to attend. Though discretion is the paramount rule of the salon. Whatever you see, whomever you see, belongs to Dahlia and Dahlia alone. We will be quite displeased if any malicious gossip were to discredit any of our patrons or our House.”

Her brown eyes lifted to his face, something more steely under the tone as she said quietly, “And there is no need to stand on jesting ceremony, Lord Shahrizai. I am no lady. The circumstances of my birth were far more humble, which is well known. I do not need an empty, unearned courtesy.”

She knew she was common-born. Even a place like the Court of Night Blooming Flowers did not let her forget that. So, knowing well that it was a trap, she advanced her bishop to capture his queen. She knew well that it would open her to losing the match, but the night air was continuing to drop in temperature, a long game would not be pleasant for either of them if they froze. 

He sighed, he was always putting his foot wrong when he spoke with people. His mother had always encouraged him to think more before he spoke, but sometimes his impulsivity got the best of him. “I would never consider spreading malicious gossip about anyone I saw in the Night Court, no matter where they were. You have my word on that fact. As for my naming you Lady, you are the Second of a House in the Night Court, which means you have far more knowledge and ability than many who claim the title by birth. So if you think you have not earned the respect of the title, I do apologize, but you are wrong…” he frowned as she captured his queen with her bishop. He had been playing recklessly with the queen but he hadn’t realized he’d left her that undefended…until he took a better look at the board. With a faint smile, he advanced his rook one rank. “I believe that is both check and mate, Odilia…” 

To his surprise and confusion, she smiled, something glittering in her eyes as she said, “Then, by all means, take my king.”

He reached to take the piece, lifting it to consider the craftsmanship of the piece. It really was well made. 

“You are fortunate the game ends so quickly,” she said, sitting back in her chair and taking up her goblet in one hand. “If this was a true battlefield, as this game was once played to emulate, I would have taken you with me.”

He frowned, looking at her. He had heard that she was the best player in the House, for her to seem so relaxed and cavalier was not what he had expected, until he looked down at the board again. His frown deepened, realizing his own king was in check. When he advanced his rook to check her king, he had given her the opening to lay the blade at his own king. “Well… that is an interesting result…”

Perhaps the stories of her strategic mind weren’t so embellished. However, had she learned to play so? Surely her father hadn’t taught her the way his had taught him. 

He looked up at her again and she smiled, “I believe that is our time, Lord Shahrizai. Do you know your way out? Or shall I call a novice to guide you?”

He shook his head minutely, bemused at the result of the contest. “I believe, Lady Odilia,”—and he would continue addressing her as such, she had earned all of his respect—“that I can find my way at least as far as the reception chambers from here. From there, I suspect a servant will suffice to direct me to the doors.” He smiled as he rose, bowing to her. “A most skillful battle. I hope we can meet over the field again in the future.” 

As he stepped out of the nook they were in and towards the stairs, he looked back at the board again. Odilia was definitely someone he should play against more frequently. He had a feeling she would give his father a solid game as well. He hoped that her ability in the game would translate and make her a fantastic ally in his own ambitions going forward. 

He nodded politely to adepts and novices as he passed on the way through the house, not completely lost in the possibilities in his own mind. He reviewed their conversation and the game, and he was distracted enough that he brushed into another guest on his way to the door. The man turned to comment, his face angry, but he blanched when he saw Niklos’s black and gold clothes and thought better of it, murmuring to his friends as he watched Niklos walk through the door.

There was so much still left to do before the Longest Night. Niklos would need to consider his strategy well as he prepared to prove himself to the Queen. 

The Struggle is Real

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let Us Be Friends

Petrea knew that she trusted her friend Santiago, but there was a deeper intimacy between them that allowed her to take his word that she could trust whom he trusted on whom to trust. She sighed. How many levels of trust was that, she wondered?

~

Several months prior…

“Stop frowning, Petrea! You don’t want the Dowayne to see your face like that,” Marielle nó Cereus hissed under her breath at her fellow adept. The two women sat in one of Cereus House’s many solariums, practicing the lyre. They had been sent to practice by the Dowayne, who declared that two adepts of their age were “less competent than children” and “an embarrassment to the House.” 

It seemed to Petrea that she was being punished for some imagined infraction every day as of late. She knew that her music was perfect; she hadn’t missed a single note on the stringed instrument in near twenty-five years, and she had perfected her singing decades ago. And yet, here she sat with an adept young enough to be her child, playing until her fingers blistered. And how was she to explain blisters to a patron? Was that not an embarrassment to the House?

Petrea knew the songs well enough that she did not have to pay attention. And as she played, her mind wandered, as it often did. The weight of the Dowayne’s ire weighed heavily on her mind. She could not imagine what she had possibly done to even draw his eye, let alone his anger. She had tried asking her best friend, Aliksandria, but Aliks merely shrugged her shoulders and suggested that Petrea continue on as she always had. Petrea was grateful for her friend’s subtle support. She knew that it was Aliks who ensured Petrea’s invitations to small gatherings at other Houses and kept patrons coming to her. But she also knew that, as Second of Cereus House, Aliks had much work of her own. Petrea did not envy her that. In fact, Petrea could not imagine how Aliks accomplished everything she did. 

Marielle missed a note and sighed, drawing Petrea from her musings. “I’ll never get this right, Petrea! Whatever am I to do?” The girl whined.

“Here, let me show you,” Petrea responded softly. She demonstrated the notes slowly. “Now, repeat only that phrase until you know it. Then add in the rest.”

Marielle nodded, and the two went back to their playing.

“You’re doing it again…” Marielle said in a quiet sing-song voice several minutes later.

“Hmm?”

“You’re frowning. He’ll never put up with you if your face wrinkles,” Marielle warned Petrea.

Petrea heaved a sigh and set aside her instrument. “Marielle, I cannot do this anymore. Something has drawn his attention, and I do not know what.”

Marielle gave an unbecoming snort. “We all have. Do you not feel the growing tension in the House? Everyone is on tenterhooks here.” 

Petrea shook her head. She had not, in fact, noticed. 

“But you,” Marielle continued,  “you’re strung tighter than a bowstring. Blessed Elua, Petrea, you ought to just go to Orchis House! Maybe they can relax you.”

Petrea gave a small smile. Marielle clearly spoke in jest. But the idea had lodged itself in Petrea’s brain. Orchis House? What could be the harm? She could already do nothing right in the eyes of the Dowayne…

A fortnight later, Petrea found herself in a dark corner of a bright and colorful salon at Orchis House. The walls of the salon were splashed with vibrant hues and shimmery fabric caught the light of hundreds of candles. Lively melodies danced through the air, spun from fiddles, flutes, and tambourines by wandering musicians weaving between guests.. A raised dais stood in one corner and there seemed to be some type of dancing going on where an adept undressed in time to the music while patrons whistled and clapped, cheering her on. Revelers engaged in raucous dancing such as Petrea had never seen. She observed what appeared to be a game—she thought it was a game—where partygoers dashed around a ring of chairs while playful music bounced through the air. The music would suddenly stop, and everyone would dive for a chair. But there was one fewer chairs than there were people. Everyone would laugh as the person without a chair would remove an article of clothing. Another chair would be removed, and the game would begin again. The common theme seemed to be nothing more than fun. Everyone was just…smiling…laughing…having a good time.

Petrea could not decide whether to be scandalized or entertained. Part of her wanted to run away and never returned. But there was another, smaller part of her that wanted to race into the room and join all of the games and dancing and joyful revelry. She shrunk back into the dark alcove, hiding away from everything, afraid to make a move or a sound, lest she be discovered.

She was so distracted she did not notice the dark haired woman in a silk negligee come up next to her. Petrea gasped as the woman threw her arm around Petrea and grinned at her. It was Xixiliya nó Orchis, Dowayne of the House. 

Petrea’s stomach dropped. She had been discovered! And by the Dowayne no less! “My lady!” She said quickly. “Please accept my apologies! I know I am here without an invitation! I simply—”

Xixiliya smacked a wet kiss to her lips, interrupting her. The Dowayne turned to the crowd and gave a loud, shrill whistle. Immediately, everything stopped and the room went deadly silent. “My friends! We have an interloper here!” She shouted to the assembled gathering. She turned and gave Petrea a wide, wicked smile. Petrea stood stock still, terrified. 

The crowd whooped and hollered, cheering and laughing. Xixiliya put a finger to her chin as though in deep thought. Then her face brightened and she held up her finger, an idea coming to her. “Fifty lashes with a wet noodle!” She declared. “Tomas! Bring me the pasta!” She waved her arm at an adept clad only in a pair of shoes.

“Yes, Xixiliya!” He shouted happily and ran from the room.

Xixiliya grabbed Petrea by the arm and dragged her out of the alcove and into the middle of the room. The revelers applauded, clearly enjoying the spectacle. In spite of the embarrassment she felt, something deep inside Petrea unwound. Unloosened.

Tomas raced back into the room, carrying a huge cooking pot full of long noodles. As he approached the two women, he tripped. He went sprawling to the floor, the pot flying through the air, the pasta spilling everywhere. Instead of the gasps Petrea expected, the partygoers laughed and clapped as though the young adept had put on some brilliant show.

“Everyone grab a noodle!” Yelled Xixiliya, throwing her arms in the arm. The revelers raced forward, eager to pick up the spilled food. 

Petrea’s heart raced, something between terror and excitement at the notion of an entire room of people slapping her with pasta. 

Someone put a strong arm around her waist, and shoved a goblet in her hand. “Drink this, love,” he whispered in her ear. “It will make your evening far more enjoyable.”

She downed it quickly—not thinking twice—and the liquid burned going down. She shivered at the strength of the drink and turned to question the man. It was Santiago, the Orchis Second. His eyes twinkled with mirth, his brown hair pasted to his forehead, his chest bare. Her surprise must have been evident because he chuckled at her. “If you think I didn’t notice you, standing here all alone in this dark corner all evening, then you’re quite the fool. Now be a good girl and take your ‘punishment.’ But don’t worry, I’ll kiss it better later.” He gave her a mockingly sympathetic look and spun her around to face the crowd.

Petrea threw her hands over her face as everyone began slapping and pelting her with the noodles, just as Xixiliya had instructed. She found herself giggling as the spaghetti hit her. It stuck to her hands, arms, and dress, and she laughed harder, feeling lighter than she had in…well, she couldn’t remember.

It went on for minutes, and Petrea began to grow warm from the pressing crowd. She had dropped her arms, and she knew she was a mess but couldn’t find it in herself to care. She was having too much fun.

She looked down at her clothing. She had worn what had felt, at the time, like a simple dress. But looking around the room, she felt fussy and overly formal. Overly dressed, if she was being truthful. She suddenly longed to be less clothed, like everyone else at the party. “I don’t like my dress,” she declared, turning to face Santiago.

He met her gaze and gave her a sly grin. “There is nothing wrong with your dress except for the fact that you are still wearing it, my dear.”

She hummed in agreement. “Perhaps you are right. But it took three of my friends to help me put it on,” she replied, batting her eyelashes at him. “I can’t just take it off myself.”

He laughed heartily. “Oh don’t worry about that. I happen to be an expert at removing dresses. And as your new friend, it would be my utmost pleasure to help you remove it.”

Petrea draped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair. “An expert you say? Why that’s simply splendid. And what a kind offer of you, my new friend.” 

He grabbed her hand, and led her away from the party. “Oh, Petrea,” he said, in a low voice, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

~

Picking up her quill and ink, she began to pen her two letters but struggled. How to address them? What tone to take? Was she to mention Santiago’s name? His title? Any reference to a mutual friend? Were these ladies even friends or acquaintances of Santiago’s? 

Knowing she could not navel gaze forever, she wrote out her missives and entrusted them to the care of the most senior messenger in Cereus House to be delivered posthaste. She sent up a prayer to Blessed Elua and Naamah both that her words would be taken as extending a hand in friendship and not a search for political gain.

From the desk of Petrea nó Cereus, Second of Cereus House

To Philomena nó Heliotrope, Second of Heliotrope House

Dearest Philomena,

It would be my great pleasure if you would join me at Cereus House for an afternoon tea. As the newly appointed Second of Cereus House, it is my hope to make the acquaintance of my fellow Seconds. I would be much honored by an afternoon of your company.

In blessed Naamah’s name,

Petrea

~

From the desk of Petrea nó Cereus, Second of Cereus House

To Odilia nó Dahlia, Second of Dahlia House

Dearest Odilia,

I thank you for your kind invitation to your Grand Revels. I apologize that I was not able to do more than simply greet you and your Dowayne both. As a hostess myself, however, I do understand the duties of such an evening.

I would like to extend to you an invitation of my own in gratitude for your hospitality. It would be my pleasure if you would join me for high tea at Cereus House. I am looking forward to making the acquaintance of you and the other Seconds, and I do hope you would honor me with an afternoon of your presence. 

In blessed Naamah’s name,

Petrea

A Matter of Trust

Santiago nó Orchis and Petrea nó Cereus, Seconds of their respective Houses, lay on a blanket in the lush gardens behind Orchis House under a vast, dark sky. A raucous party carried on inside the house, but the noise and light barely reached them. Stretched on their backs next to each other, they engaged in quiet conversation. It was a far different atmosphere than that they had shared months ago. Before.

Santiago rolled to his side and propped up his elbow, looking at Petrea. “I’ve missed seeing you. You don’t visit nearly as often.” He poked her cheek and grinned at her. “Don’t try to tell me you’re too busy for your friends.”

“Don’t try to tell me you don’t understand the responsibilities of being a Second,” she parroted back to him, irritated.

He threw his head back and laughed. “Of course I do. But you’re taking yourself far too seriously.”

She flipped towards him, mirroring his pose, a slight scowl on her face. “Too seriously!” She poked him hard in the chest. “You were trained for this. You, of all people, know that I have been tossed into the sea not knowing how to swim! And at Cereus House, no less! And with everything that is beginning to develop! Everything that I am now somehow embroiled in. Don’t you tell me how seriously I need take this, Santiago nó Orchis.”

His expression gentled. He laid a soothing hand on her hip. “You’re right. You used to spend so much time here, I often forget that you’re not one of us. Forgive me, dearest?” He looked at her imploringly.

Petrea sighed and flopped to her back. “Don’t be daft, I’m not angry with you. And truthfully, I miss my time here. And I miss you. It’s just that…well, my absences at Cereus were becoming…noted. Particularly given my destination.” She rolled her eyes. “It is, apparently, unseemly for the Second of Cereus House to spend nights cavorting at Orchis. As you know, I must play at diplomat now.”

Santiago snorted. “Of course. We are true degenerates here, all of us.”

She turned and grinned at him. “Being a degenerate is enjoyable, one must admit.” Her face fell. “But…”

He laughed and rolled atop her. “But…”

She sighed. She ran her fingers through his hair to give herself a moment. “How do you do it, Santi?”

“Do what?” He asked, frowning at her. Her mood was off tonight.

“Be a Second.”

“I don’t understand the question. What do you mean, ‘Be a Second?’ You just are.” He shrugged.

“No, you aren’t. There is so much to do!” Petrea looked at her friend, her eyes searching for something. “There are so many things to think about! How do you know what is imperative at this moment and what can be put off until tomorrow? How do you know who you must speak to and who you can ignore? Who do you know who you can trust and who will betray you? Who will keep quiet and who will turn around a whisper in any ear they can find? How do you do it, Santi?”

He thought for a moment. “Orchis and Cereus are very different. We are not under the watchful eye of the City. If we do something deemed ‘wrong’ or ‘inappropriate,’ or we give offense, it is laughed off by everyone, including us.” He shrugged. “Patrons come to us for entertainment and merriment. We can put off anything and anyone we wish. There is nothing truly immediate here. Your House, on the other hand, always has eyes on it. Nothing must be perfect here. But everything must be in order for you.”

Petrea thumped her head against the ground and groaned. “You are not telling me anything I do not know.”

He shushed her and brushed a hand down her cheek. “And your Dowayne is still—all these months later—picking up pieces left behind, leaving you to play both her role and yours. And that has not gone unnoticed…anywhere. And, we all know—and yes, I would know even without you telling me—that there has been strife within your House. No one knew exactly what or with whom, but it was whispered that something was unsettled.” He shrugged again. “But now those whispers have stopped. Now word is that the workings of your House go smoothly. Which bodes well for all of us. The Night Court needs Cereus House to be stable, as—” He paused as he considered his next words. “—there is change in the air, and you, my dear,  have certainly found yourself smack in the middle of everything.”

“Again, you are not telling me anything I do not already know.” Petrea grumbled.  “I have tried to speak with Aliks, tried to get her advice on ways to handle this new situation at Dahlia House. About ways to be diplomatic. But she is overworked, overtired, and overwhelmed. The old Dowayne died so suddenly; none of us were truly prepared. And he left such a mess in his wake!” She blew out a breath. “Aliks was trained to be Dowayne, for certain, but she was not ready for this. And I, for certain, was not. Aimee and I have been so overwhelmed, even the two of us working together, just to get the House in order! I need your help, Santi.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “I am not the person to ask for this advice. As I said, we operate differently at Orchis than you do at Cereus. We operate differently than most other Houses. I can be your comfort, your friend, and your lover. And you know I will always share any information I can. But I do not think I can be your advisor.”

“Then what do I do?” Petrea groaned.

“You need to go to other Houses. Other Seconds. There are others I know you can trust.”

“Who? And how do you know I can trust them?”

Santiago grinned. “Patrons believe that we are not listening while we have our fun and games. But our adepts are not simply giggling as they ply their patrons with rich food and strong wine. They just talk less and smile more.” He tapped her nose, as though to make his point.

“There is more than meets the eyes here, isn’t there?” She gave a small smile.

“Xixiliya and I are not fools, Petrea, no matter what we may play at.”

“So who do I speak with?” She asked imploringly.

He thought for a moment. “Philomena and Odilia. Heliotrope and Dahlia. They can be trusted. Things are about to change at Heliotrope and Mena may need you as much as you need her.” Santiago gave a wide smile. “And, besides, who better to speak to about Odilia’s situation than Odilia herself?”

Courtesans, Pious and Fervent Both

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

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

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

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

Among them were a few of her descendants. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Visit to Dahlia

He’d not been wrong. It had taken less than a week for news of his elevation to become the talk of the Palace, if not the entire City. He couldn’t enter the gaming salon at the Palace without all eyes seeking him out. Any table he sat down at was quickly filled and slowly surrounded by an audience. It was all rather… smothering… if he was honest. Not that anyone cared, they just expected the newest Shahrizai Count to have deep pockets and a penchant for losing some of his newly gained inheritance. Nik wasn’t that bad of a gambler, and most nights he left after making sure he at least was not losing on the night. But he didn’t enjoy the attention. Courtiers flinging themselves at him, or more likely at his wallet, and barely any acceptable conversation. Oh, he learned some things, like the fact that it seemed that half of the newer Azzalese lords had married politically, and both husbands and wives were taking lovers. Curiously, a number of the Namarrese holdings were held by quite happy couples. 

One night, returning from yet another night of lackluster gaming and gossip at the Palace for Niklos, Jacob spoke up as Niklos reentered the townhouse. “My Lord, it may not be my place, but perhaps the Hall of Games is not the best place for you to visit.” 

Niklos raised his eyebrows, Jacob certainly had the tenure to speak his mind freely, but he rarely exercised it. 

“I know you and your father are both chess players, and the rumor is you are quite good at the game. Perhaps, and this is merely a suggestion, you might reach out to Jocaste nò Dahlia and see if one of her adepts might be willing to entertain you? Dahlias are known to be quite sharp, and there is rumor that there is a life-sized chessboard in their salon. Perhaps you might find a worthy opponent there? And a contract certainly would be less stressful than making certain you don’t fritter away your inheritance at the Palace.”

Niklos laughed. He hadn’t considered that Houses other than Bryony might indulge in gaming, and Dahlia certainly seemed like the right House for a game like chess. Nodding to Jacob, he grinned. “Once again, I find your knowledge of the City and your thoughts most valuable to me. Thank you, I will have a note for you to send over to Dahlia House shortly. If you could…” 

He trailed off as Jacob cut in, “I’ve already made certain to have some cider brought up to your desk along with some food. Come now, my lord, if I didn’t know your mannerisms and expectations by now, you would have every right to dismiss me from service.” 

Niklos grinned again in silent thanks and made his way up the stairs.

Dowayne Jocaste nò Dahlia,

I am aware that contracts for members of a House of the Night Court are often commenced in person, but I am hoping that by writing, I might be able to have things sorted before I come to visit your House. I find myself searching for someone with whom I can play chess. It is a favorite pastime of mine, and my father, who is my usual opponent, remains in Kusheth. He has little desire for the City. I was hoping to set up a regular schedule to visit with and play chess with one of your adepts. As I hear rumor that there is a living chessboard within your House, it seems apropos to seek out the keen minds of Dahlia, as I have no desire to wager on every single move or which piece might leave the board first. Please let me know if you have an adept who is interested in this contract and when I might be able to meet with you to sign the agreement.

Most respectfully,

Niklos Shahrizai, Count of Angers

He sealed the note with his personal sigil and closed the envelope, sealing it with the three keys of House Shahrizai. After addressing the front, he took a long swallow of the cider and stood, making his way out into the hall, where one of the young hall boys looked up at him. “Is that the letter Master Jacob is to be sending, my Lord? I can take it for you!” 

Niklos smiled and handed the letter to the boy, nodding. “Thank you. Please let Jacob know that I am planning on retiring for the evening as well.” 

The boy grinned and dashed off, and Niklos returned to his chambers.

When the note arrived at Dahlia House, Jocaste considered it curiously. The rumors had certainly spread by now of what had happened at the Autumn Revelry, and there was little doubt that their House would soon see a great deal more interest from the nobles and courtiers of the palace as they came to investigate the House that had turned the Dauphin’s head. And she herself had heard the whispers of the new Shahrizai Count who had been recently elevated. Not one who frequented Valerian House, the word was, but one who seemed to enjoy the Hall of Games. Curious that he would not then choose Bryony. But this was court strategy and she saw it well. 

And there was an adept who had skill at chess, as it so happened. But Jocaste, Dowayne as she was, was still protective somewhat over her Second, who was also her dear friend. The more that Jocaste could shield Odilia from the public attentions of those who would come to gawk at her, the better would the peace of the House be preserved. 

Lord Shahrizai,

Our human chessboard has earned its reputation well as a grand entertainment in our House salon. It is, however, saved for some of our grander events, such as our recent Revelry. While I cannot offer a match in our grand salon, Dahlia House does still have a collection of the boards at the usual size that could entertain your game, should that be enough to entice your visit. Any number of our adepts have trained at the game of kings and will prove themselves to be suitable opponents for your lordship in the absence of your lord father. As such, you will have your choice of them. 

Rather than choose one myself, I will arrange for you to meet with several and play against each of them at your leisure. Dahlia House does things somewhat differently than many of our sister houses on Mont Nuit; the Dowayne does not choose the patrons for the assignation. Rather, as Naamah bestowed herself like a Queen, so do the Dahlia adepts. If you prove yourself well, one of the adepts will choose to accept your contract. 

Upright and Unbending,

Jocaste nó Dahlia, Dowayne

Sealed with the dahlia flower stamped into the golden wax, it was sent across the city to be given to the Shahrizai Count. 

Niklos was deep in the business of examining the ledgers of the townhouse when the note arrived the next day, and so it was put to the side for more pressing matters. When he finally did take the time to read the response, well after dinner, he smiled to himself. The Dahlia Dowayne had made an interesting proposal, suggesting that Niklos play for the honor of setting a regular game at Dahlia House instead of just informing him the price of such an assignation. He was curious, as well, about the mention of the Revelry. He had heard rumor but, having not received an invitation, had been unable to attend. Apparently, there had been some rather large to do regarding the Dauphin and one of the Dahlia adepts. These were precisely the things that he intended on having an ear on, and he was disappointed that he had not been included. 

Jacob already knew he wanted whatever news the man could procure, so Dahlia had kept everything tightly under wraps. He resolved that he would visit the Mont the following night. He had to begin planning to make other visits as well; it just wouldn’t be right for him to reserve his patronage to only one or two of the Houses. Plus, adepts heard many things, and a reliable patron might be able to convince them to share some of the secrets they were privy to.

Two Sides of Shame

“I don’t know, Aliks,” Manuel said, sipping tea in her sitting room. “I knew it would be hard, being the first Cassiline to ward a member of the Royal House since the Rocaille incident, but it feels as if my very presence in the palace is an insult to be borne by those around me.”

“Pray tell me what has happened since you were last here, perhaps I can help,” Aliksandria urged him. It had been months since her old friend had shown up on her doorstep, and she was eager to hear how his life had gone and the gossip of the palace.

Before the expression of incredulous shock could fully form on Manuel’s face, she smiled and assured him, “I will keep Naamah’s confidence, you can speak freely.” 

He let out a long breath before sighing. “It started the day I arrived. I was to meet with the Lord Commander of the Royal Guard, and when I told the steward of my appointment, he huffed and bade me wait outside like a merchant. When the commander arrived, he was just as curt and ordered me to follow him with such swiftness that I nearly stumbled attempting to bow. Every servant we passed in the hall would not deign to look upon me. The nobles, however, could not keep from gawking at my presence.” 

It was hard for a Cassiline Brother to live through this all once, let alone relive it in telling. Manuel was brave, however, and continued. “I was thus admitted to an audience with Her Majesty Queen Anielle, who had requested my appearance in the first place. She was kind enough, though I would better describe our interaction as neutral than as pleasant. She informed me she was concerned about her son and wished for him to be accompanied by a Cassiline Brother during this transition. Though it was well above my place, I ventured to ask her why she saw fit to resume the practice of a Cassiline warding the scions of Elua. She told me that while she had many reasons, her father had always spoken so highly of the Cassiline training, and she was minded to grant an olive branch to the Brotherhood. I am not sure how exactly I feel being the meter the entire order is judged by, but I will do my duty with honor.”

He looked down into the teacup, clearly not seeing any of the details of the pattern on the cup as he continued. “The Dauphin was amenable enough, after his own fashion. He accepted my presence with no argument but on the word and request of his own mother. But only in the role of warder. He made it quite clear he did not appreciate having his mother select his companions for him. I can hardly begrudge him that. His friends find my presence quite the nuisance and are repeatedly attempting to thwart me by sneaking him off. If only they would tell me where they were going, I would be able to ascertain the situation and know if my presence is required. For example, this afternoon they snuck off here, to Mont Nuit. I know that His Highness is currently safely ensconced in Dahlia House which is how I was able to come here for a brief visit.”

Aliks laughed lightly. “I was wondering how you were able to pull this off. I can’t imagine your Prefect would look kindly upon you taking free time to visit the Night Court.”

“Not in the least. But all this is made worse in that one of his companions is a Rocaille, Aliks. And he does not like nor trust me in the least. I can handle not being everyone’s best friend, but I run the risk of being forsworn if the situation does not abate.”

“I cannot imagine it is an easy situation for either of you. You have lived long in the prefecture, but even you must remember how the Brotherhood is spoken of in the Night Court. And many a noble in the palace, nay even all of them, are counted amongst our patrons. You cannot expect D’Angeline nobles to easily abide what they perceive as judgement of their frivolities.”

“I do not judge them, I merely ask they not judge me!”

“I know, love, but they do not know you as I do. And palace memories are long.”

*

Manuel took the gift of the brown cloak Aliks offered him, wrapping it around his shoulders to hide his grays and cover his sword. However, he was naïve to think a simple brown cloak would disguise a Cassiline Brother in the Night Court. He should have left through the kitchen, but he had stayed too long enjoying tea and cookies with his friend and needed to get back to Dahlia House quickly. The fastest route was through the front door. 

“Cassiline?” A voice drifted over to Manuel as he crossed the street to Dahlia House. He turned around, looked both ways until he saw him. A cocky, self-assured man leaning against the garden wall, his auburn hair pulled in a tail over one shoulder as his eyes examined the unlikely sight of the Cassiline sneaking his way out of Cereus House. Maël.

“My Lord de Rocaille,” Manuel said, bowing reflexively in the Cassiline fashion.

“This is a surprise, I did not expect to see you of all people indulge in the Night Court. I wonder, what would Her Majesty have to say about this?” His tone was teasing, but his point was clearly made.

Manuel flushed, not with embarrassment at being caught out but in indignation at the suggestion. “I assure you, good sir, it is not at all what it looks like.”

Maël raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Because it looks like you chose to abandon your charge and break your vows at Cereus House. Tsk tsk, very naughty.”

“I did not abandon my charge, the pair of you snuck away from me and forced me to follow you on foot through the city!”

Maël shrugged innocently. “You weren’t invited.”

Manuel stood his ground as best he could in this profoundly uncomfortable movement. “Regardless, you know as well as I that His Highness is safer in Dahlia House than he is in his own bed chamber! “

“Now you insult the royal guards of the palace and the quality of their service?” Maël pushed himself up from the wall, continuing to eye Manuel with an almost innocent suspicion, like a scholar studying a new specimen. “Is that what you will tell Queen Anielle when she summons you for the next report on her son and his pastimes?”

“My ward is the Dauphin! I do not betray that confidence!”

“No? Not even to whichever fragile flower has caught your eye at Cereus House? What do you see in them, Cassiline? I wouldn’t have expected so stalwart a warrior to be drawn to such frail and delicate lovers.”

Manuel remembered suddenly the way he felt in the training ring when one of the older Brothers sparred against him, pressing him relentless step by relentless step toward a defeat he could see coming but couldn’t figure out how to avoid.  It sounded desperate even to him as he tried to defend himself. “I was merely visiting with a friend!”

Maël smirked at Manuel’s anger, a petty kind of delight playing on his face at how easily the Cassiline was thrown off his guard without weapons in his hands to help him save face. “What sort of friend does a Cassiline have in the Night Court?”

Manuel blinked rapidly, his mind scrambling for an answer that would not come. “I…well…I…”

Maël waved him off dismissively. “Was visiting a friend. I suppose that’s the way you would have to phrase it.” He paused, looking thoughtfully into the distance. “I do wonder, though, what do you do with this friend when you have spent your life devoted to the chastity of the Cassiline Brotherhood?”

Manuel looked at his feet. How would he explain without actually explaining? “We do what friends do,” he said quietly.

Maël threw his head back and laughed. “Well it would seem to me a waste of money to sit and, what, chat over tea and biscuits at Cereus House? Why, you could do that with any number of your boring Brothers!” He laughed as though this were the funniest thing he had ever heard. “You must be a rich man, Manuel!”

“It’s not like that!” Manuel burst out. “I am not a patron!”

Maël’s laughter stopped, and he locked eyes with the other man. “You meet with an adept of the Night Court? In the First and Foremost House of the Night Court? Not as a patron?” 

Manuel bit his lip, but he held Maël’e eyes. “That is correct.” Though his heart thundered in his chest, his voice held firm.

Maël narrowed his eyes, his brows knitting. “Who. Are. You?” His voice held a sharpness to it.

Manuel’s shoulders fell a fraction of an inch, it was time to tell the truth. “I was born in the Night Court. At ten, I took myself to the Brotherhood rather than pledge myself to Naamah. My oldest friend happens to be from Cereus House, and she is the one whom I have just come from seeing.”

Maël’s head reared back a fraction, hazel eyes very obviously starting at the top of Manuel’s head and scanning slowly down to the tips of his toes and back again, considering what this new information meant. A glint of something mischievous kindled in the depths of his eyes and the smirk spread across his face. “Well, no wonder you’re less of a stick in the mud than I’ve heard your brothers can be.”

Manuel blinked sharply. “What?”

The smirk spread into a full smile, bright and impish. “You heard me fine, Cassiline.”

Manuel blinked again, trying to figure out what to say. “I…I thought…don’t you hate me?”

Maël gasped theatrically. “Hate you? Don’t be absurd. I don’t care about you enough to hate you. I don’t trust you, I don’t know you, but I don’t hate you. In fact—” His eyes sparkled wickedly. “—this just made you much more interesting to me.”

Manuel got the distinct feeling that this was somehow a bad thing. 

But Maël merely jerked his head towards the Dahlia House mansion and asked lightly, “Shall we? I believe we have a princely package to pick up.”

Whistling nonchalantly, he strolled across the avenue to the gates, leaving Manuel to catch up. The Rocaille and Cassiline walking together in some strange kind of initial peace towards the House where the Dauphin was being entertained. 

Autumn’s First Kiss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Days Like This

Content Warning: Physical and Verbal Abuse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cereus Steel Draws Blood

The late morning sun streamed through the window as Aliks finished with the last scroll. The Last Scroll! Oh, there would be more tomorrow, but for today, for the first time in months, Aliks actually had nothing to do. She couldn’t even remember what free time felt like. A giggle escaped her lips when she recalled who she used to spend her free time with.

She rang for the footman and requested a decadent tea service with champagne to be set in her rooms at the second hour after midday and then instructed him that she was not to be disturbed this afternoon. Any issues could go to the Second or wait for tomorrow. 

She was nearly skipping as she went to the hall that contained the rooms belonging to those adepts who had completed their marques and chosen to remain in the House.  She knocked on the last door and then entered with the invitation that followed.

“Aliksandra?” Aimée said as she stood from her desk, stunned to see her Dowayne. “Is something wrong? Am I needed downstairs?”

Aliks reassured Aimée as she moved toward her lover. “Oh Blessed Elua, love, no. I have a free afternoon for the first time in months and wanted to spend it with you. I have ordered up a lovely tea and champagne to my rooms and—”

Aimée raised her hand, cutting Aliks off flatly. “I cannot join you this afternoon. I have duties to attend to.”

“Duties? What duties do you have that I, your Dowayne, could not free you from?” Aliks teased, leaning in enticingly. It had been far too long since they had played this game. Aimée was so dedicated. It made it all the more fun to tempt her away.

“I have an assignation, for starters. I also have classes. I do teach the novices, in case you’ve forgotten, Aliks,” Aimée said, her tone growing a bit sharp.

“Aimée, I am sorry, I did not know. This assignation, can you reschedule or pass them to another adept? As for the novices, unless they are very different from me at their age, I am sure they will enjoy a spontaneous free afternoon,” Aliks said mischievously, inviting her lover to indulge in an afternoon of companionship. Her girl always did get a bit cranky if left to her own devices, all work and no play, and all that

“Of course I cannot put off my patron. I’m astonished you would suggest such a thing. Did you think I would sit around here, biding my time? Waiting for you, my Dowayne?” Aimée delivered it coldly, the last word dripping with venom.

Visibly taken aback, Aliks dropped the teasing tone and asked earnestly, “Are you actually mad at me for doing my job? Geraunt died! I had to become Dowayne. We agreed that, with the transition, it would be too much. That we should pause our affair. It never meant I didn’t care for you, or we wouldn’t resume once the waters calmed.” 

Aliks’s words, her attempt to soothe Aimée, had sparked a rage in her lover that took Aliks completely by surprise as Aimée lashed out. “We didn’t agree. You made your decision and informed me of the Dowayne’s wishes. You came to me the day of the funeral and said we had to stop. That ‘the responsibilities of the House took priority.’ I agree with you, a Dowayne should prioritize their House above all. I wouldn’t have remained with you when you were chosen as Second if I believed otherwise. What did you think I would do? Demand that you forsake the House, your calling, for me? Do you truly think so little of me?” Aliks opened her mouth to answer, but Aimée continued her impassioned diatribe. “I am a Cereus Adept. I have completed my marque. And I have chosen to remain in Naamah’s service. If I wasn’t going to put the House first, I would have left. So don’t say ‘we decided.’ We—” Aimée gestured with her hand, encompassing the both of them. “—didn’t decide anything. The decision to end our affair was yours and yours alone. The thing that galls me is that you never considered if I could help you shoulder the burden. If I could be your partner!” Tears were streaming down Aimee’s face as she gasped to catch her breath.

“I never said ‘end.’ I never wanted us to end, I said ‘pause’,” Aliks said, trying to explain, trying to help Aimée see what she had meant.

“You can say ‘end,’ or you can say ‘pause,’ but your actions said we were over. You show up to my room, expecting nothing has changed. As though time had stopped simply because you said it should. You haven’t spoken more than two words to me in months. You choose to be nothing but Dowayne! You choose Petrea as Second without consulting anyone! You choose to be a lover now that it suits you! You didn’t even know that I had an assignation! What kind of lover doesn’t know their love’s schedule?” 

“Petrea?” Aliks gasped, taking a step back. “You are upset about Petrea?”

“I am upset with you! I am upset that after shadowing you for three years and being the de facto Second for several months after Geraunt’s death, you picked an adept who was spending more time out of the House than in it,” Aimée flared. She glared at Aliks, demanding, “Have you spoken to her? I have, and she is overwhelmed. You were trained to be Second, and Dowayne, but she wasn’t, and she doesn’t even know what she doesn’t know. You know there is a minutiae and delicacy that goes into the day to day around here and she had no clue what was being missed. And I dealt with it for months, for the House, for you!”

Aimée spat every word as she looked Aliks in the eye. “Every time there was something that needed doing, I did it. Every adept or novice that came running for an absent Second or an overworked Dowayne, I handled. Petrea finally got tired of drowning and asked for help. Your best friend, Your Second, even she came to me instead of our oblivious Dowayne.” Her hands clenched, the anger racing through her veins as she continued relentlessly. “I know I was capable of being Second. I was trained for it…by you. I did the job, and I did it well. Not that you thanked me or even noticed. Petrea will be an amazing Second. Not because you named her so, and then threw her to the wolves. But because I helped her, because she saw me and knew I was capable and asked. So I can only assume that you didn’t choose me because you thought I was ‘too young,’ or ‘not dedicated enough,’ or maybe you just didn’t want a relationship on a more equal footing.” 

Aimée finished with a fury, her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. The words had been long in her mind, her anger honing them into the weapons she now used in her own hurt to hurt Aliks in return.

With tears falling down her cheeks, Aliks said, “That isn’t why I chose her, Aimée. I chose her because she spends so much time out of the House. The Night Court is not what it once was, and our leadership must be able to represent the House outside of Mont Nuit. Petrea can get the other Houses to follow and join together without infighting. She has a skill for diplomacy and a patron list that rivals the official peerage list. I chose her to be an ambassador. I chose you for something altogether different.” Aliks’s gaze begged for Aimée to understand.

“You haven’t chosen me in some time, Aliks. Now if you don’t mind, I have an assignation to prepare for,” Aimée said as she turned her back to Aliks and walked deeper into the room. “My patrons have been sorely neglected, since I’ve been busy cleaning up your mess. Do show yourself out,” she said in a flat emotionless voice.

Aimée’s tone had less warmth than a frigid desert night. It froze Aliks to the spot and stole her breath as she watched her lover walk away. Feeling a strange emptiness, she shakily exited the room and closed the door with a soft click. Aliks hadn’t been so summarily dismissed since before she had become a novice. She quickly wiped her face and began to slowly make her way back to the Dowayne’s apartments. Aliks struggled to reconcile the woman she had just spoken to with her lover of five years. 

Dear Elua! What had she done?