Tag: night court

Storyline: A Dangerous Assignment

“I would have thought that you would be deep in preparations for the Longest Night. Is Dahlia House not missing their Second and her critical eye? Who else will ensure Dahlia triumphs at the Cereus Masque?”

“You are in a jesting mood, Your Grace,” Odilia said, her head high as her horse pranced under her. “And I am a talented woman. I can do many things at once.”

“I would expect no less.”

“I would hate to disappoint.”

Roland de Chalasse, Duc of L’Agnace, smiled at her, his seat sure in his saddle as his stallion tossed his great head. The horse was impatient to be out of the city streets and in the freedom of the countryside to run how he pleased. The Duc’s gloved hands held the reins firmly, allowing the stallion the freedom to make his opinions known without ever sacrificing his control over the animal.

Odilia nó Dahlia shot him a sly smile, her brown eyes glancing at him from under her lashes as her gelding followed the stallion’s lead down the Rue Courcel and out the western gate of the City of Elua.

He had been almost surprised to receive her card asking if she could call on him. It wasn’t an assignation, he hadn’t sought her out purposefully after she had so neatly manipulated and manoeuvred him into lifting the silver embargo those months ago. He had been quite impressed with her, actually, but it wouldn’t do for the Duc de Chalasse to be seen to be captivated by her, the King’s Courtesan.

The Dahlia Queen, some of the more daring gossips were starting to whisper. With all the business of the King finding a wife, no few of the courtiers had whispered about his mistress and what could become of her. What few options there were available for her.

And here she was, walking his borrowed horse beside him, her dark eyes trained on the gates and the rolling countryside beyond.

Just what did she want from him?

He kept his peace as they enjoyed their ride, giving the horses their heads and letting them run as they pleased through the meadows and grasses of the countryside beyond the City of Elua. The air was brisk, winter threatening to come in earnest, the nights were getting colder and the sunlight during the day was a crisp, cold kind of light. Merciless. It was one of his favorite times of year.

The horses slowed, cantering along a rocky stream. His ducal guards fell back, giving the couple some space as they rode on. At some point, the contained wildness of the forest and stream would give way to organised gardens and manicured meadows, but for now it was pleasant to canter upstream towards the copse of young birch trees.

Safely away from the tall, white walls of the city, Roland turned his horse to cut her off. Her horse danced back, her hands sure on the reins as she kept her seat. He was pleased to see her eyes betrayed nothing when she looked at him, no anger or frustration, just expectant politeness. He let his horse prance a circle around hers, saying, “I am no fool, Dahlia. You want something from me. Come now, what paltry favor would you ask?”

“Paltry?” Her brows lifted, “The last two favors I have extracted from you have hardly been paltry.”

“No,” he agreed, smoothing his gloved hand down the proud neck of his stallion. “They have been earth-shattering in their intensity.”

She watched him, the tiniest flicker of a smile toying at the corner of her mouth. “Precisely.”

“You would ask another grand gift? Careful, Dahlia, you may soon seem ungrateful.”

“Hardly,” she said. A lock of her dark hair had fallen from her golden hairnet, the curl framing her face prettily as she looked at him. And he watched, more interested than he should be, when she chose to set her haughty mask aside and speak freely and openly with him. She shifted slightly in her saddle, “You know what is happening in the palace. The latest excitement of the court.”

“The women presenting themselves to your royal lover to win his hand?” He took pleasure in the soft viciousness of the words, “Yes. I have several bets going. Do you want me to deal you in?”

His eyes glittered, “Or will you ask me to interfere?”

“I don’t give a damn about those women,” Odilia said coldly, and it was her turn to urge her horse around his, the pretty features of her face at odds with the cutting, simmering anger in her eyes. “What I care about is the gossip of the court and that they will think me replaced. Or weak. They want to see me frightened and threatened.”

“You don’t seem to scare easily.”

“I don’t,” she said, drawing her horse up beside his again so she faced him, meeting his gaze squarely. “And I want to make that unquestionably clear.”

He surveyed her, considering this new opportunity. Just what was this move on that famous chessboard of hers? It was certainly a bold one, he did like it. But he wondered what had prompted it. Was she lashing out in defense or taking an aggressive offense now? Was she truly feeling threatened and trying to mask it? How fascinating that he could not tell.

His head tilted back, regarding her contemplatively before he said, “Do you remember once, I told you that you had a soft heart.”

“I remember.”

“It does not seem so soft now.”

“It is not.” The winter sun flashed in her dark eyes, her brows lifting as she continued, “And do you remember, Your Grace, when you said I was not the threat the rest of the court and country thought I was?”

Oh, yes, he remembered. She had been seated across from him in his carriage and they had been speaking so daringly about what they could offer each other. And he remembered well what he had said then, echoing it now, “But you could be.”

She leaned toward him in her saddle, the leather creaking, her face fierce and eyes unblinking as she hissed, “That is what I want from you. And in return, I will give you what you want.”

“And what did I say I wanted?”

The smile on her lips did not thaw her eyes, “Influence. Over the King. Over the country.”

His gloved hand reached out, fingers toying with the lock of her hair. Green eyes roved over her, measuring this girl from the streets against her ambition and what she could give him in return.

Finally, he spoke, his voice little more than a whisper as he breathed to her, “Do you understand what you are asking of me? Do you understand what an arrangement like this will mean, little Dahlia?”

“I do.”

His gloved fingers ghosted across her cheek, brushing the curve of her bottom lip, “Very well.”

Storyline: Music and Mystery

When the request came from a certain patron of Cereus House for Elodie’s presence a week before Midwinter, she made no attempt to refuse. After all he was a Lord in good standing and, perhaps more importantly to her, she’d heard a rumor of a new harp acquired from abroad in need of quick fingers to play it. And so, Elodie arrived an hour before the party, taking care of the more intimate parts of her employment with rather more impatience than Cereus’s reputation expected in her haste to go see the harp. The patron in question seemed more amused than dismayed, fortunately; he knew where he ranked in her list of interests when he hired her.

“After all,” he said, “I count myself fortunate to have your services at all. Cereus’s Midwinter fetes would make the angels themselves proud in their choreographed perfection, and music is no less a part of it all than the drink or decor. To have Cereus’s most prized harpist performing for me, a week before Midwinter, on an instrument obtained at no mean price… My guests will still be talking next weekend as they dissemble to parties all across the most elegant parts of the city. That is what I have truly brought you here for. The rest is merely a lovely perk of your presence.”

“I thank you for your kind understanding. The harp, my lord?” Elodie prompted and, laughing, he led her to it.

The instrument made no secret of its high price with a pillar gilded with fresh-polished gold and held up by carved angels. It dominated the room, lithe and powerful as a swan. For all the instrument’s delicacy of sound, the tension of each tight-wound string pulled powerfully against the structure, and there was not a musician in the city who could not tell of some friend-of-a-friend whose poorly maintained harp had given weigh under that pressure and exploded into splintered wood and alarmed onlookers. But this gleaming instrument – this was freshly made and built to last.

Elodie got to work at once, checking the tuning. “A servant already took care of that,” the Lord told her.

“Yes,” she replied, “but the strings are new and must be tuned more frequently. Every hour, I will take the instrument aside to check the tuning once more – do you have a room where I might do so unobtrusively, and two servants to help me carry it there?”

“Of course,” he replied and then watched as she, at last, allowed herself to try the strings for more than just tuning.

The first note was tentative, quiet as a cheeping songbird. The second bellowed like a hurricane.

“Good dynamic range,” Elodie muttered and her fingers flew. High notes chimed like temple bells, low boomed like lion roars. Here was a fragment of song as sweet as new love; here was one as grim as death. Notes rising, surrounding, filling the ballroom with frenetic energy and joy and –

The music stopped. Elodie stepped back from the instrument, though she couldn’t resist one last soft brush over the strings. “It will do.”

—

High nobles and cultural figures from across not only Terre d’Ange but many allied nations as well came to the city to celebrate Midwinter. Tonight’s guest list was the sort that could only be managed at such a time as this: when all had already arrived in the city but none had yet been lost to the many parties and other obligations planned long in advance. They eyed each other in a canny way, each in turn doing their best to secure an alliance while promising no decisive aid. Pockets of conversation formed and dissipated across the ballroom whose open nature thwarted hope of private negotiations. People made do. Here they congregated in the closest thing to a shadowy corner they could; there they danced closer than even the local fashion with one’s mouth always be at the other’s ear. And here – close to the harp whose wide belly was formed to boom out sound loud enough to fill a ballroom, here where the songs surely concealed all voices from any but the companion closest by – they talked.

They talked, watching carefully for the approach of any other guest.

They talked, and paid no heed to the harpist.

Elodie ignored them at first, focusing entirely on the new instrument – some of the strings in the middle range were quieter than on her own harp, so she needed to remember to pluck them more deeply to compensate; the string spacing on the low notes was ever so slightly wider than she was accustomed to, so she watched her fingers until her instincts had adjusted. But this was one week before Midwinter, a performance she’d been practicing for months, and all too soon the muscle memory took over. It was meditative for a time, to simply let her hands do as they’d been taught as her consciousness drifted after them. But then, well, although she’d never admit it, the playing got a little boring. It was good to be bored while playing – it meant your tune was well learned and without surprises, after all, provided you could avoid being so bored that you became completely unfocused and made a mistake. But it was, well, boring.
The conversations meant to be unheard were so, so easy to eavesdrop on. Keep your eyes low and no one paid any heed to a musician. She was as much a part of the scenery as the paintings on the wall except that – irony of ironies – people tended to keep delicate conversations away from the paintings in case they concealed hidden passages with hidden listeners. The harp, though – people conversed around that.

It was something about trade, she could hear that much. Trade, and warnings about people who might get in the way of it. Phrases like “I’ll handle him,” with a faint and ominous emphasis on “handle.” Or “don’t worry about that. Changes are coming,” with “changes” spoken much the same way. She played a little louder, that they might raise their voices, and a little softer, that she might hear them better, but, for all she strained her ears, it was hard to make out just what they were talking about, until –

Until –

And then it happened. She heard the truth, she heard the plan, she heard what all those ominously emphasized words meant, and she got distracted. Right as the song changed keys. And her fingers kept dancing along by instinct, just as they were supposed to, but her feet – that should have hit the pedals just there, that should have changed those sharps to flats – her feet didn’t move. And suddenly the song was a cacophony of clashing pitches. Suddenly she wasn’t invisible anymore.

Their conversation stopped. Their eyes were on her. She improvised as well as she could, trying to make the wrong parts sound like they’d been a daring choice, a flirtation with dissonance always meant to resolve into sweetness. Perhaps it worked. Perhaps it was convincing. Perhaps.

By the time the clock next tolled, the pair had wandered off. Using all the poise she’d been taught at Cereus House and inwardly thanking Blessed Elua that her makeup hid her skin’s shocked pallor, Elodie calmly swept away with the harp to the side room for re-tuning.

“Thank you,” she told the servants distantly. “It should be about ten minutes until I need you again.” Alone at last, she allowed herself to let out a long breath and tried to think. It was urgent that the news of this plot be passed on, but to whom?

With all the nobles in the room, surely someone- surely-

And then the door opened.

She looked up.

—

Petrea, the Second of Cereus House, was aghast when she was awoken by a servant hours later.

“What do you mean, she vanished in the middle of an assignment?”

“I’m… afraid what I mean is that she vanished in the middle of an assignment. The city guard has been told, and our own guards have been scouring the city as well, but… Elua’s angels, I promise I would have woken you if I’d any inkling she’d still be gone! I assumed some patron at the party offered to pay her marque, or perhaps there’d been a secret lover, or…”

“A secret lover for Elodie? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, a secret musician looking for a duet partner then. I swear to you, I didn’t know! If anything has happened to her… Well, Elua willing, we’ll find out soon enough.”

“And if we don’t? We’ve already lost six hours. If she hasn’t shown up already, she’s either hiding, being hidden, or dead. We’ll have to make investigations. If anyone knows anything…”

“We’ll find out. I promise, we’ll find out.”

“A bold promise. … I know it must sound terribly cold, but… it’s a week until Midwinter. She was to play the harp.”

“Is. She is.”

“Even if she is not gone entirely, she may return in no state to perform. Or she may have just proven herself untrustworthy to do so. In any case, we must plan alternatives.”

“Fayette?”

“Contracted out for the night already.”

“Marlene?”

“Out. All of the musicians fit to perform are out, hired by patrons who paid very dearly to have them away from Cereus House on that night. Are we to save our fete at the expense of ruining theirs? Shall we become known as the House for those who fetishize unreliability?”

“Fine – fine! I have an idea. Her party – she went because the Lord had recently acquired a new harp from overseas. The harp merchant, I remember her – Chantae d’something-or-other. Sister of one of the patrons here and I’ve heard she plays. The sailors say the winds have been abnormally fair lately; if she’s newly back from traveling and arrived earlier than expected, she may not have other plans for Midwinter.”

“Will she play well enough for Cereus House?”

“What other choice do we have?”

—

Chantae stepped into the courtyard with a rather bemused expression and a cloth bag nearly as tall and twice as wide as her on her back.

“Please, come in. May we help you with your, um,” a servant said, glancing uncertainly at her burden.

“My harp. Cased. No, thank you; you look very strong and capable, but I wouldn’t ask you to carry my head for me either.”

She followed him inside, placed the instrument delicately on the ground next to her seat and accepted an offer of tea. “I hear you need a harpist?”

“Yes,” the servant answered. “The Second, Petrea, will be along in just a moment to discuss it with you.”

“Fine. Has she been warned that I’m a harper instead?”

“Um,” the young man mumbled. “May I ask the distinction?”

“The large harps with pedals and carved pillars and such are played by harpists. I deal in them, as they’re popular in Terre d’Ange, but they’re delicate; wrapping and unwrapping them on the road is a slow process and they really shouldn’t be exposed to too many different temperatures or humidity. The smaller, simpler harps of Cruithne have no such troubles; since I spend most of my time on the road, that’s what I play. I can pluck out a tune on the larger, but it’s not what I have the most practice on, and a week’s not enough time for me to be able to pretend otherwise. So, Cruithne harp, harper. Is that acceptable?”

“I’ll ask, but – given the royal family’s history with Cruithne, I suppose it could be said there’s a certain exotic romance to having a harper rather than a harpist. I’m certain it will be acceptable, my lady.” He hesitated a moment, before adding,

“Will you be alright with working for us for the evening? I’m certain your musicianship is superb, it’s just – those working the Midwinter Masque have usually trained for many years in the arts of humble servitude, and -”

“And I don’t act like a delicate flower of the Night Court? Don’t worry,” Chantae laughed. “Merchants only succeed if they know when to speak up and when to shut up. I’ll act every bit as delicately as you need me to.”

“Thank you. And… we still don’t know why Elodie vanished, so…”

“So I’ll be careful, too.”

Storyline: Gentlemen Bring Word from Afar

The evening was chilly, so Petrea and Marco sat by the fireplace in her private apartments at Cereus House. He was in the City of Elua for several days, stopping on his way to Alba from Caerdicci Unitas. The silver embargo had been lifted, so Marco had no shortage of work and found himself passing through the City of Elua much more frequently over the past months. The past year had been slim, so he was making up for lost time and profits this fall.

Petrea had been quiet over dinner, much more distracted than usual when Marco was visiting. Her attention was elsewhere and they had retired early.

He sat against the corner of the chaise with her in his lap. She curled against him, comforted by the warmth of his body and the steadiness of his heartbeat.

“You are troubled, my love. What can I do?” he asked, stroking her hair.

She sighed and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face against him. She mumbled something into his chest.

“My ears are up here, not inside my shirt,” he laughed.

She looked up at him and wrinkled her nose in mock anger.

“I said: it feels like everything is going wrong and there is nothing I can do to fix it and unless you are here for the next month and able to step in as Second of Cereus House as well as plan the Midwinter Masque, then I do not believe that you will be able to fix it, either.”

“Ah. Well, yes, I think that may be beyond my capabilities. I am here to listen to you, though, if that will help.”

“I don’t know. I am just, well, it all feels as though it is falling apart. I laid out a very clear plan for the ball and, at every turn, there is some problem or someone has made a mistake. How do the silk dyers mistake blue silk for white? Why did the servants bring out brandy glasses instead of champagne flutes? Why have pheasants been delivered and not duck breasts? Where are the gooseberries for the jam? These are not small mistakes, Marco!” Her voice raised at every sentence and her face grew redder.

Marco took her chin in his hand and silenced her with a finger to her lips, “My love, you have time. The ball is not tomorrow. People make mistakes. You are clearly frustrated, but you are speaking of fabric and glasses and foodstuffs. You have planned this ball for many years and certainly there have been mistakes before. You have a large, experienced staff to assist you. What truly troubles you?”

Petrea looked away, her face falling.

“It is not just the ball; you are right. In years past, I have been able to focus solely on that and nothing else. This year, however, my attention is forced elsewhere and, if I’m being honest, my absence from the Night Court last year contributed to this. I fear that many of these ‘mistakes’ in the ball preparations are guild leaders testing my mettle, seeing how I – how our House – responds to the constant pressure from them. They want to see me fail so that they can talk of our crumbling leadership.”

Her voice grew bitter. “And Aliks certainly is not doing me any favors. Did you know that she – ”

She was interrupted by a light knock on the door and a young adept peeked his head in. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but the Aragonian gentleman has just returned to the City and is asking for you and, er, you did give specific orders that, uh, he was to be admitted the moment he arrived no matter what, and, um, well…”

The adept rambled and looked at the floor. Everyone in the House knew that she was not to be disturbed when she was with Marco, yet she had told them to admit Ramiro as soon as he set foot in the door.

Her face brightened noticeably. “Oh! Yes, please invite him to my chambers. Immediately.”

“Ramiro back in town, eh?” Marco smiled at her mischievously and tugged on a lock of her hair. She had made no secret of her relationship with Ramiro and took no steps to keep the two apart, yet this would be the first time the two had crossed paths for more than a brief conversation.

“It would appear so. You know that lifting the silver embargo has been even more beneficial to him than it has been for you and he is gobbling up the attention of the nobles here as he swaggers around, negotiating deals.”

“And I am sure that’s not all he has been gobbling up in the City,” he teased, pinching her thigh.

She laughed aloud as Ramiro burst into the room. His eyes flew to Petrea, his gaze full of fire.

“Mi florecita, how I have missed you!” He was at her side in an instant, on his knees before her.

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles, his dark eyes never leaving hers, “It has been too long since I have been in your presence, mi amor. I have counted the hours until we could be together again.”

She turned to him and leaned forward, giving him a deep smile and a kiss on the cheek. “It is good to see you, too, Ramiro.”

She gestured towards the man in whose lap she sat. “I believe you are acquainted with Marco Meridius?”

Ramiro blinked, coming out of his reverie. His eyes slid to Marco, who grinned at him. “Ramiro, how nice to see you again.”

Ramiro dropped Petrea’s hand and jumped to his feet. “Marco!” he cried, “What a wonderful surprise to find you here, as well!”

Petrea bit her lip to cover a smile. Surprise? Yes. Wonderful? Not as much.

“Perhaps we should not be shocked to find each other here. It was bound to happen sooner or later with the trade embargo being lifted,” Marco said plainly.

Ramiro nodded. “And what better place to meet than here?”

Marco chuckled.

Petrea motioned Ramiro to sit in the chair across from them, but instead he grabbed a tufted stool and pulled it close to the chaise. Petrea waited for Marco’s reaction, but none came. Ramiro liked to engage in intimate conversation, no matter the topic, but his tendency to ignore social niceties of personal space, which often put others ill at ease.

“So, Ramiro, what news from Aragonia?” Marco asked, lazily draping an arm across Petrea’s shoulders.

“Ah, well, things are much better now that we can trade for our silver. My father was extremely impressed with the way I finagled that Lancelin fellow into pushing for the embargo to be lifted.”

“That was your doing?” Marco raised his eyebrows. “Hmm. It was an interesting turn of events. One day, an embargo. The next, no embargo. I expected proclamations and fanfare, but, instead, business just went back to usual. It was quite an odd situation.”

Ramiro shrugged.

Petrea rolled her eyes inwardly. Of course Ramiro would believe that it was he who was responsible for lifting the ban. She truly hoped that word did not reach his father about what really happened with both the dinner and the lifting of the embargo. Strange that it seemed to simply vanish as though it had never existed. Perhaps, though, not so strange. Those who worked in the shadows clearly wished to remain there. She wondered what moves her chess playing friend made for the Duc de Chalasse to relent.

“So Marco, my friend, your business has picked up, eh?” Ramiro was all business.

Marco nodded. “Truly the lifting of the embargo has been a great boon. Not just for silver, either. With the movement of the ore, other materials and goods are finding their way back onto the trade routes, as well.”

Ramiro’s head was bobbing as Marco spoke. “Yes, yes, all excellent news.”

Ramiro took one of Petrea’s feet in his hands and began massaging it, as he often did when they were alone. She closed her eyes and leaned back against Marco’s shoulder. After a moment, Ramiro paused, as though something important had occurred to him. He looked up and gave Marco a questioning look. Marco shrugged and Ramiro went back to rubbing Petrea’s foot.

“Your muscles are extremely tight, my sweetest,” he commented. “You are troubled.”

Marco huffed a laugh. “She was just beginning to tell me of her troubles when you walked in.”

Petrea sighed. “I am frustrated with everyone and everything, Ramiro. Keeping up with my duties as Second, trying to keep up with the goings on in the City, plans for the ball – you are coming, yes?”

Ramiro shrugged. “I will do my best, but I make no promises. I still do not understand these duties you have. You are a Servant of Naamah, you call it. Is it your duty not to serve her? What else is there?”

Petrea gave him a smile. “The Second is a position of leadership in one’s House. It is not all parties and patrons. We are still a business, as we fought so dearly to prove, and must operate as such. There are accounts to keep, adepts to bring in and train, hired staff to manage, and now my Dowayne is considering lighting a candle to Eisheth!”

Ramiro frowned, working his fingers into her muscles. “What does it matter why she is lighting candles? Everyone lights candles every night?”

“It means she wants to have a baby. It’s some D’Angeline thing,” Marco explained.

“Ah, that would complicate matters for you. She would retire?” Ramiro asked.

Petrea shook her head. “Oh no, not Aliks! That would be far too easy for her. Her plan is to simply continue running Cereus House – essentially managing the entire Night Court – while carrying a child, lying in after giving birth, and then raising a child.”

Marco frowned. “That does seem…complicated. I assume this is with Waldermar?” Aliks’s love affair with the Mandrake adept was the worst kept secret in all of Terre d’Ange. Nevertheless, everyone pretended it was a secret.

Petrea nodded. “I have no idea what her plans are for his involvement. Who knows where this child would live? I assume here.”

She waved her hand. “The whole thing is simply preposterous. The ripple effects of the Dowayne of Cereus House having a child with an adept of another House are too many to even begin to list. And she accuses me of scandal.”

Ramiro nodded sagely and continued his ministrations.

The trio sat in silence for a moment. Neither man knew which scandal Petrea referred to; both secretly suspected it was the one he had caused.

It was Ramiro who finally spoke first. “Marco, word about town is our lady has taken a new Tiberian patron. She has been seen with Crescens Emerentius. Perhaps you have some competition, eh?”

Marco chuckled, toying with a lock of Petrea’s hair. “Ah yes, I know the man. He’s here with his sister, to present her to King Gustav in hopes to marry her off.”

Petrea groaned. “He is one of the most arrogant men I have ever encountered!
It takes every bit of my extensive training to get through the assignations. Of course, I have dealt with men of ego, but this is beyond the pale. He cannot stop talking about himself and his accomplishments – how much he has done in such a short time. Oh how, it is tiresome! Not one that, but he seems to believe that he can impress me with the names of people he has met while visiting here in the City! I must bite my tongue not to retort that I have had half of them in my bed!” She paused and poked Ramiro with her free foot. “I am trusting you two with private information.”

In fact, she trusted that none of this would stay private, what with Ramiro gossiping worse than any new adept. She wanted this to get out. Petrea knew that information about Crescens’s sister, Aurea, was scarce and rare information is always valuable. Petrea knew from Marco that Aurea was proud; she would likely not appreciate insults to her brother and would want to confront the person starting them. If Petrea could draw Aurea to her, so much the better. If nothing else, knowing the Second of Cereus thought poorly of someone would close other doors in the Night Court to him…and keep him away from her. Perhaps deflate his overly large ego.

Marco barked out a laugh. “That would fit with what I have seen of him. His father is well liked enough, but the little I know of Crescens? I would not have picked him to accompany Aurea. Let us just say that he does nothing to bolster her chances.”

“Aurea seems rather quiet, does she not?” Ramiro asked.

Petrea frowned. “She has been seen out and about and does the appropriate amount of socializing, but nothing more. She certainly has not visited the Night Court. Yet.”

“Yet? You have plans to change this?” Marco teased, pulling her closer and placing a kiss on her brow.

Petrea shrugged and gave him her most innocent smile. “Mayhaps.”

Ramiro put her foot on his thigh and motioned for her to give him her other foot, which she did. “Ah, Ramiro, you could make your marque at Balm House.”

“I think that would be quite boring,” he responded.

“Balm House is nice for a night, but there are more preferable Houses.” Marco grinned at him.

“Ramiro, have you had a chance to make the acquaintance of Évrard de Bretel? He spends much of his time in the Gaming Room at the Palace and I understand that you have been given apartments there,” Marco mentioned.

Ramiro brightened. “Beautiful accommodations! And yes, I have met Lord Bretel. Wonderful fellow. We have traded much money over dice. I believe he is engaged in a new love affair.”

“His family invests significant funds in various trading enterprises. I have worked with them often. Évrard always has a story to tell about someone, knows everything. He is most interesting,” Marco explained.

Petrea knew Lord Bretel well; she had used him as a contact many times to keep up with the gossip of the City. She wondered if Évrard had been in contact with Aurea Emerentius. If nothing else, he would have tried. She would have to ply him for information at their next assignation.

Ramiro’s hands had moved up to knead the muscles in her calf. Petrea let out a soft sigh of contentment. Absent-mindedly, Marco trailed his fingers up and down her hip as their conversation continued. Petrea could feel her attention waning. Trade, politics…much though she tried, she could not seem to focus on these topics much longer.

She felt her eyelids begin to grow heavy and the men’s voices seemed to fall away. “I am bored of this,” she said abruptly, untangling herself from Marco and Ramiro and standing.

The two men stopped talking and looked at her.

She looked slowly, deliberately, from one to the other.

“I am going to bed. You are more than welcome to sit by the fire and continue your business conversation, but I am finished here.”

She snatched her skirts and stalked off towards her bedroom.

Marco and Ramiro looked at each other, stunned. What had just happened?

After a momentary pause, Marco gave Ramiro a broad smile and gestured towards Petrea’s departing figure.

“Shall we?”

Ramiro grinned devilishly. “Oh yes. We shall.”

Storyline: An Old Friend’s Advice

It was shortly after sun set when Dowayne Aliksandria’s carriage arrived at the Shahrizai town house. The hostler took charge of her carriage, horses, and driver while a servant with downcast eyes led her in to the dining room.

Dinner was amazing, as always.  Each course more delicious than the last. And the company – well how does one describe dinner with a dear friend? Aliks had known Count Niklos Shahrizai for many years. They met when she was still making her marque.  She had been cast as the Winter Queen in the Longest Night Masque the same year he was selected to be the Sun Prince. Later, he contracted her as a patron and their friendship had never faded.

“My lord, please send my compliments to your chef.” She said, dabbing her lips with the silk napkin.

“And your usual marriage proposal?’ he asked with a smirk, gesturing a servant to deliver the message.

“Not this time, my lord.”

“Oh?’ he said, his eyebrows raising a bit, “Was the dinner not as good as usual?’

“Oh no, if anything she appears to have out done herself yet again, but there is something I wish to discuss with you that may affect my ability to wed.”

“I am intrigued.”

“My lord,” she began, “you and I have known each other a great many years and I would like to think that, as such, we have developed a certain familiarity with each other,  In that vein, I would ask if I may speak frankly with you this evening?”

“Aliks, please, say what it is you wish to say, you know we don’t suffer on pretense betwixt us.”

She smiled, looked down, took a deep breath then began, “I have been, for some time, engaging in a clandestine affair with Waldemar nó Mandrake.”

Count Niklos nearly choked on the wine he was drinking as the laughter took hold of him, “That is the least clandestine of affairs my lady.”

“Well, that may be true, but I have to at least pretend it’s a secret.  After all, what would it look like for the Dowayne of Cereus House to be going to Mandrake to be tied up and whipped?” she said indignantly.

“I trust that’s not all you do there,” he said with a smirk.

“Well, as it happens, Waldemar has asked me to light a candle to Eisheth.”

“Hence no marriage proposal,” he noted.

“Exactly.”

“Congratulations.”

“I haven’t said yes,” she replied.

“Is it your intention to say no?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, I wanted to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

“I think it matters not what I have to say, but what you want, my dear. But since you asked, I think you will make an amazing mother. Elua knows you’ve raised enough adepts in Cereus House. But in all the time we’ve known each other, I’ve never heard you express any interest in children of your own.”

“Both of those things are true and I worry about if and how my life would change once I had a child. I have worked very hard to get where I am. I do not wish to give it up.”

“A lady can do both,” he pointed out.

“But can this lady?”

“This lady stood up to the City Judiciary. I don’t know if there is aught this lady cannot do.”

Storyline: A D’Angeline Desire

Corrian de Borlean knew she had a reputation. To be perfectly frank, she kind of enjoyed it. When she was younger and of age to play the courtship game, she had shied away from it and spent as much time at her father’s country estate as possible, only going to Court when required to by her mother. After her mother’s passing, her father had stopped pushing the issue all together, which gave Corrian plenty of time and space to bed every eligible maid and lad in the county village, plus several ineligible ones to boot.

Time, however, had continued to pass, and what was amusing for an 18-year-old lady, her father found annoying in his 27-year-old unmarried daughter. If she had her own way, she would never have married, and would have continued to find her pleasures in any bed she chose. But her father was all she had left and she would do anything for him, which is how she found herself in the Hall of Games at the palace trying to flirt and compete with girls a decade her junior. She needed a husband, her father had said, but she would not play devoted wife to just anyone.

The gossip in the Hall of Games was her favorite part. This courtier talked of that courtier’s dalliance, all while the first was eyeing a married lady across the room. It nearly shocked her when the topic turned to the King. “His Majesty needs a wife. It is said that his personal assistant is assessing possible candidates as we speak.”

“Oh? Why is it that there is a rush to wed the King?” she asked, trying to play coy, but genuinely interested.

“Wy, the business of Odilia, of course. If the King weds a noble lady, then it will put to bed the rumors he intends to wed his mistress,” said the plump lord next to her, a Monsire Valles.

“I wouldn’t wish to marry him,” said the lady next to him.  “To go into a marriage knowing one’s husband has a mistress already? No it’s too much.”

Corrian laughed to herself. A husband with a mistress would be a fine thing. He would be less likely to scoff at his wife’s own dalliances. It had just been a passing thought, truly, but as the night wore on she kept circling back to it. The King was not so much younger than her, so her age would likely be less of an issue. Oh, the idea sat well with her, and by the time she retired to her quarters in the palace she had decided, she would pursue the King.

The ladies who were openly vying for the King’s affections were obvious and dull. If she tried to get his attention that way she would be lost in the crowd. No, she needed to find a different strategy, and what better way to learn what the king likes then to go the her in the first place. So Corrian made an appointment at Dahlia House with Odilia, herself.

Jocaste encouraged Odilia to take the appointment. Lady Corrian de Borlean was not a woman known to be a vicious gossip or noble keen on advancing at any cost. The rumors of Lady de Borlean was that she was a true connoisseur of Naamah’s delights and, so, an assignation with her could be just what Odilia needed to return to herself again.

Odilia sent her acceptance, as well as a date and time, and prepared herself for that duty to which she had devoted her life – Naamah’s Service.

When she arrived, Lady de Borlean would be presented to the salon for rest and refreshment among the younger adepts and other guests of the House. Only once she was relaxed and comfortable, enjoying the music and atmosphere of the elegant Dahlia salon, would Odilia approach her personally.

And when she did make her move, it was with her head held high – upright and unbending – as she greeted her guest.

“Lady Corrian de Borlean. Welcome to Dahlia House.”

Storyline: Heliotrope Gossip Regarding the Skaldi

“Have you heard that even the Skaldi are sending a prospect?” the girl whispered, leaning close to her companion while she peeled potatoes. “The Skaldi! As though the King would pick her while he’s got access to an Adept! And a Dahlia at that!”

The other girl opened her mouth to respond, but her thoughts on it were forgotten when hands reached out, catching their ears and giving the upper shell a twist.

“I know that there is no way that novices of my House are speaking in judgement of someone? Let alone someone’s potential love? I know my ears must be deceiving me,” the Dowayne’s voice was low, pitched so only the two girls could hear her, and she was crouched down behind them.

The girl who hadn’t spoken quickly said, “No, my Lady, I’m sorry.”

However, there’s always one with more nerve.

“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard, my Lady Dowayne,” the first girl said, her voice tight. “That’s what everyone is saying.”

Philomena let go of the second girl’s ear and stroked it lightly, signaling that she was not in trouble. The girl reached up and brushed the sore spot before continuing with her kitchen chores. The first girl, Mena noted, was smart enough not to turn around. That was a good sign. The kitchen was still bustling, everyone clearly too busy to eavesdrop. So naturally, everyone was listening.

Naturally.

“Tell me, child, what else is everyone saying?”

The girl took a deep breath, “That a Lady of Camlach’s people escorted them across their land, that the savages-” she broke off with a meep of pain as her ear got twisted further.

“We do not use such language in this House. They are strangers in an unfamiliar land, to be spoken of with compassion and kindness or you will not speak of them, do I make myself clear?” She never raised her voice, but a hush fell over the bustling room, waiting for the girl to make a smart choice.

“Yes my lady.”

“Good, tell me what else ‘everyone’ is saying.”

The collective exhaled as she continued. “The delegation should be in the City within the week. The woman, her name is Gisila, she travels with two warriors, and her two pets.” The girl paused before continuing, “And everyone says it’s silly that people think the King would want anyone else, when he’s got a Dahlia.”

Mena took a deep breath and finally let go of the girl’s ear. It was bright red and had to ache, but the girl made no move to touch it.

“Lady Odilia, if you speak of her, respect her and do it properly.”

The girl nodded.

“Our King has not spoken his preference, do not claim to know his mind or his heart. He entertains whomever he chooses, whenever he chooses, without judgment from us. Our House supports his heart with no reservations. ”

Both novices nodded, and Mena caught a few other people in the kitchen nodding as well.

She stood and caught the eye of her housekeeper. “Please send my coffee and lunch to my office. I think I must offer our Houses hospitality to the incoming guests of the kingdom. Clearly we need a bit more exposure to the outside world.”

Storyline: A Ruined Chessboard

Unfortunately, it was not the Duc L’Envers’ letter that brought the news to Odilia first.

Jocaste was concerned, to put it lightly. She had heard from the novice, Silvere, that a letter had arrived for the Second bearing the seal of the Duc L’Envers. The Duc of Namarre had ever been a constant friend to King Gustav and a warm, welcoming presence for Odilia after the monarch and the Dahlia had begun their affair. Sebastien L’Envers had supported them and helped them as he could. Why should a letter from him cause such a change in her Second?

She scolded herself for not paying more attention to Odilia. The business of the House and the managing of the assignation contracts and the preparations for the Longest Night Masque had taken up enough of her time that she had trusted Odilia to do her job as Second and handle everything else.

“The Second has claimed she was too sick to appear in the salon since before the letter arrived,” the novice said as he set down the afternoon tray. It bore the herbed boar sausage that the Dowayne’s Alban lover had sent to her as a gift and token of his continued affection, paired with a sharp cheese and some fresh late summer berries for her afternoon cravings.

Jocaste frowned. That wasn’t like Odilia. Something was wrong.

“What happened before she fell sick? Did she have an assignation?”

“No,” Silvere said, standing tall with his hands clasped behind him in an easy courtier’s rest, “but she had spent a few evenings in the salon with the prospective guests.”

“Who?”

“I wasn’t in the salon those nights, my lady.  I do not know.”

Jocaste needed to find out whom Odilia had been speaking with and what they had said to so upset her. Jocaste had her own friends spread throughout the city and the country.  She knew what the gossip was; she knew what was happening and what the palace was preparing for; she knew what pressure the world was putting on Gustav’s shoulders. It was too much for one so young, but she had taken heart knowing Odilia was helping him. But there were too many ways for this to go wrong, depending on how her Second had found out that the King would be taking a bride.

No wonder Sebastien L’Envers had written to her.

“Has she been eating?”

“Not the full meals but she hasn’t been starving herself. She’s upset but not self-destructive.”

No, Odilia was many things but self-destructive was not one of them. Jocaste was more concerned that her hurt would result in a bold, dangerous move on that famous chessboard of hers that would destroy what she had worked so hard to build. People were dangerous and unpredictable when they were hurting.

Jocaste rose and said, “I will visit her and see how I can help her.”

Her Second’s behavior was clearly a cry for help, perhaps not how Odilia thought about it, but that was how Jocaste saw it. Odilia was hurting and Jocaste needed to support her, for the good of the House and for the care of her friend.

And it was clear, upon entering the Second’s private chambers, that Odilia needed care. Her bed was unmade, she was but barely dressed in a shift and a robe, her hair unbound. A bottle of wine, mostly empty, dangled from her hand and her slightly puffy eyes were fixed on her chessboard, as though it would have all the answers. She didn’t move when Jocaste entered, the only movement in her was the rise and fall of her breast as she breathed.

Jocaste knew her friend.  She knew Odilia was not a woman possessed of a great temper, but judging by the disarray of the decorative cushions strewn about the room, there was evidence that Odilia had certainly felt something very strongly.

“Odilia,” she said, trying to be both firm to get through to her and also gentle so as not to worsen the situation, “this does not become you.”

Odilia barely blinked, taking another swig from the wine bottle.

Jocaste closed the door quietly behind her, watching her Second and considering how she wanted to handle this. This wasn’t a willful novice that needed a talking to. This wasn’t an adept overwhelmed by a patron and needing grounding. This was her friend and Second, the woman closest to Jocaste and the nearest thing she had to a true equal in Dahlia House. And clearly she was hurting.

She crossed the room slowly, giving Odilia plenty of time to see her and prepare for her presence as Jocaste took the seat on the other side of the chessboard, glancing across the pieces.

“You and I have never sat down to play,” she said lightly. “I genuinely don’t know who would win.”

Odilia’s eyes flicked up to look at her.

“Tell me about this game,” Jocaste murmured, folding her hands in her lap and leaning back, quite comfortable. “Who are your pieces here?”

It took a moment for Odilia to swallow and wet her lips, but finally she spoke, “The King is the King.”

“Of course.”

“The Duc de Chalasse is the queen-side bishop. The queen-side knight is Lancelin de Perigeux. King-side rook is Petrea. One of the pawns is Rosanna.”

Jocaste nodded and asked, “And where are you?”

Odilia’s eyes cut to the side and Jocaste followed them to see the King-side bishop tossed to the floor, discarded and unneeded.

Jocaste sighed, “Oh, Odilia, you know that’s not true.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You don’t fool me, Jocaste. You know as well as I what the city is saying. You know as well as I who is coming to the palace.”

“Yes,” Jocaste nodded, “But none of that means that his heart has changed towards you. None of this means you are cast aside.”

“And why not? Isn’t it clear that I serve at His Majesty’s pleasure? Why should I have expected any better?”

“Why shouldn’t you have?” Jocaste fired back, “Why wouldn’t you have the chance for something more?”

Odilia scoffed.

“Who said these things to you?” Jocaste’s brows pinched in.  “This isn’t like you; that doesn’t sound like you. Who has fed these doubts?”

“What does it matter?” Odilia returned her attention to her chessboard, focusing on the exquisitely carved queen piece sitting so placidly next to the king.

“I want to know who has lied to you.”

“Besides the King?”

Jocaste’s head tilted, “Did you see the letter Sebastien L’Envers sent you?”

Odilia shook her head silently.

“Perhaps read that before you think that His Majesty has abandoned you.”

Jocaste handed it to her and sat back, watching, as Odilia broke the seal open and unfolded the parchment to read it. Her dark eyes scanned the lines on the parchment, reading it twice, before she refolded it.

Jocaste’s brows raised. “Well?”

“He asks me not to interfere.” Odilia’s voice was still dull and flat.

“Anything else?”

“And to trust Gustav,” her lip curled slightly, “and the love he has for me.”

Ah. Jocaste had suspected as much. She regarded Odilia carefully before venturing, “Is that the word he used? Love?”

Something flickered behind Odilia’s eyes and she avoided Jocaste’s gaze as she answered, “Yes.”

“Is that the first time that word has been used?”

Odilia hesitated. “No.”

“Have you used it?”

Odilia pressed her lips together. “No.”

“Have you thought it?”

Odilia didn’t answer.

“Oh, Odilia,” Jocaste sighed. “That makes everything so much more complicated.”

“I know.”

Jocaste sat for some time with Odilia, a silent comfort and presence. She would not advise the other woman unless she was asked to but she could be a friend. Friends were all the more valuable for people like them.

When she did rise to leave, she paused before she went too far, taking up one of the soft blankets on Odilia’s bed and coming back to her Second to wrap her in the warmth. Comfort without touch, support without presumption. It was what she would offer without being specifically asked for help. Draping the blanket across her back, Jocaste smoothed her hands down Odilia’s shoulders, imagining that strength and calm was flowing from her and into her friend. And only then did Jocaste lean down to pick up the discarded bishop piece, pressing it into Odilia’s hand.

“Where you place it and what you do with it is up to you,” she said softly, “but do not do yourself the disservice and the discredit to think you are out of this game. It has changed, but I have never known you to give up. Or to lose. Perhaps all you need to do is change your strategy.”

She leaned down to brush a feather-light kiss to Odilia’s cheek, “Think about it.”

And when the door closed behind her, Odilia was alone again, looking down at the piece in her hand. Weighing her options.

 

Storyline: The L’Envers Letter to the Dahlia

From the desk of His Grace Sebastien L’Envers, Duc of Namarre

Odilia,

I write this letter to you in fear that perhaps the news has reached you through other channels. But I pray to Elua you read this letter with an open heart. You know that I am your friend and I have been a companion of Gustav’s since we were children. I was the one that brought you together and I hope that you will trust me when I say all is not lost for you.

Many of the courtiers, powerful scions of impressive Houses, have been pressuring Gustav to take a wife, to solidify his rule with a queen that will give him an heir. Things moved too quickly for me to delay and they are coming here, to the City of Elua, women from across our country and beyond, all coming to try to catch his eye.

Odilia, I’m sorry. I know that this will hurt you to see him courted by these daughters of great and powerful kingdoms. But please, please don’t interfere. We must not give the traditionalists like the Duc de Chalasse reason to move against us. You must trust that I will do what I can for you and Gustav, but you mustn’t be here in the palace. International politics are delicate matters and I can only do what I can when I know that you aren’t working against me. I remember that night in the Dahlia Salon when I faced you on your grand chessboard, I remember how formidable you were.

Odilia, please. Please don’t do anything rash. I know you have a heart and I know it might be hurting, but you must trust me.

Or if you don’t trust me, trust him. Trust him and the love he has for you.

Signed,
S

Storyline: A Discussion in the Garden

Once again ensconced in Marco’s arms on the chaise – as she had been before being so oddly interrupted by her Dowayne – Petrea took a deep breath to steady herself.

“Marco was telling me of his travels, Ramiro,” she informed her new guest. “I believe you two just missed each other in Aragonia.”

Ramiro shook his head. “Such a shame, such a shame! What news do you bring of my homeland, mi amigo?”

Marco shrugged. “Well, your father says that you should stop spending all his money and come home with either a deal on the silver embargo or a beautiful wife.”

Ramiro slapped his knee and laughed. “I am working tirelessly on the first. The second,” He waved a dismissive hand. “No me importa.”

Marco grinned. “I thought as much, my friend. There is talk that others are more keen on marriage, though not for themselves. There is word of a gentleman bringing his niece to woo the King.”

Petrea’s ears perked up. A young woman to woo the king? She would be an interesting piece on Odilia’s chessboard.

“Who is this young woman?” Petrea asked.

“Yes, tell us of this lady. Perhaps I know her or her family.” Ramiro scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I might have valuable information for the King!”

Petrea gave him a small smile. The young man was looking for any way to improve his reputation and knowing a suitress of the King would certainly help him curry favor with the right people. Despite his initial failings, he had somehow managed to secure an apartment in the palace and was now making friends with every other young noble he could find there. Word was he spent hour upon hour in the gaming rooms.

“She comes from…Qart Hadast, I believe? What was her name…ah! Elissa Ylenia Barca de Cartagena. Yes, I remember now. Her uncle is Hasdrubal Magon Barca de Cartagena, her father the Barcid Duque de Murcia,” Marco explained. “Someone said they are an old family.”

Ramiro’s brow wrinkled. “Hmm…yes, I have heard the name. An old family indeed. They claim they have been in Aragonia since the time of Carthage. Their great ancestor gave his name to Amilcar and Barceno. No one knows for sure,” he shrugged. “It is boasting. But, we all have our family boasts.”

Marco chuckled. “For certs. But, that is all I have heard from Aragonia. There is, of course, talk from all over, but it seems Aragonia – and your father, Ramiro – is concerned with the silver embargo.”

“Sí, sí. I have done what I can. There are others at work. Sadly, I cannot stay forever.” Ramiro winked at Petrea. “Though it would be my pleasure to. It is time to return home.”

Marco kissed the top of Petrea’s head and smiled into her hair. “You must not monopolize everyone’s time.”

Ramiro stood. “And I think I have. Perhaps I shall see you before I go, Marco. And you, florecita, I shall certainly see you before I go.”

He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek, then turned and left the garden.

Marco sighed and tightened his arms around Petrea. “What an odd event. Did you not tell Aliks that I would be here?”

“No, I certainly did. And even had I not, there are few secrets in this House and someone would have told her. I know not why she brought him. Something is wrong. But, it is done now. Tell me of other things.” She toyed with a piece of lace on her bodice.

He took her hand off her dress and laced his fingers in hers. “Trade in ore and metals is difficult, as one expects. This, in turn, makes everything else more difficult. Fewer ships are sailing, so captains are moody and sailors out of work.”

Petrea frowned. “This embargo truly is affecting everyone.”

“Oh, yes. Whoever dropped this stone caused a ripple much larger than I believe he imagined it would. It will take time for things to level out once this stoppage is lifted, too. We are all pawns in someone’s game, love, but I do think the game has gotten away from him.”

It was someone’s game, Petrea knew. But everyone was not merely a pawn and Petrea doubted that the orchestrator of the silver ban was anything but in control.

She sighed. Much though she hated it, now was the time to play her part. As Aliks had said, she made her choice and had to stand by it.

Untangling herself from Marco, Petrea picked up their two glasses of wine and passed one to her companion. Turning to him, she put on her brightest smile. Her heart sank. She never wanted to play act with Marco. But she was a piece in something larger than herself, larger than Marco.

She made her voice light and jovial. “So, love, is the Aragonian Duque the only one seeking to marry his daughter off to King Gustav? I imagine there is much competition for this powerful alliance.”

He gave her a confused look. It was strange for her to ask of courtly gossip. “Well, I think a Tiberian senator is sending his son and daughter here.”

“Oh? Was this more dockside talk?” she joked.

He shook his head. “No, not at all. The senator deals in fine art, a valuable commodity right now. I spent much time with his family of late.”

“Ah, I see. Was this senator trying to marry his daughter off to you, my love?”

Marco grinned at her. “Oh no, my love, you have nothing to fear there. Leonius Emerentius has aims far higher for Aurea than a simple trader.”

“Aurea?”

Again, Marco gave her a confused look. She was looking for gossip and this was something she never did.

“Play the game, Petrea. Just play the game,” she implored herself silently.

“Er, it is just a pet name. Her full name is Leonia. Why are you asking? This is not like you to care about such things.”

Petrea shrugged. “I have been gone so long. I simply wish to know who is being spoken about town. I cannot be seen to be…behind the times.”

“You? Behind the times? Talk about town? This is so unlike you to care of such things. Have you been replaced by a lookalike? Are you truly my Petrea?” he joked, but there was a note of concern in his voice.

Petrea traced the pattern in the damask of the chaise. She could not meet his eyes.

“It’s not all games and laughter here, Marco,” she said carefully. “There is much at stake here and, perhaps oddly, part of my role is knowing the goings on in and around the palace. One never knows what that information may be worth to the right party.”

She gave him a sad smile and he saw a flash of defeat in her eyes.

“So, love, what tidbits can you tell me of this Caerdicci girl?”

Marco thought for a moment.

“Her name is Leonia Emerentius Secunda. She is the second daughter of Senator Leonius Emerentius. She is being escorted by her brother, Crescens Emerentius. She has golden hair, so they call her Aurea. I believe it is a childhood nickname?”

He shrugged, “While I did much business with her father, I only saw her once, at dinner, but she gazed at me with such intensity I thought she might bore holes in my chest.”

Petrea quirked a smile at him. “Oh, she was quite focused on you?”

Marco chuckled. “Not hardly. She had taken an interest in our dealings. Her father claims that once something draws Aurea’s attention, nothing can distract her. He is not the only one who spoke this way.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Others have speculated that her head could bear a mighty crown.”

Petrea looked at him quizzically. “Bear a mighty crown?”

Marco nodded. “Your friend Odilia may think to advise the King, but a Queen? The two do not even begin to compare in their influence over a country.”

Petrea’s heart stopped. In her mind, a powerful piece had just slid across a chessboard.

Marco’s voice drew her back to the garden. “Love? Are you alright? You look scared.”

She shook her head to clear her thoughts. She had much to ponder, but this was not the time.

“I am fine, my darling. Just done with gossip and politics for one evening. Let us not waste our time here. It has grown too warm and my dress too tight.”

Standing up, she took his hand and led him out of the garden. She was finished being Second for the night. She could go back to being just Petrea.

Storyline: A Chance Encounter Not by Chance

She was sick of him. Blessed Elua help her, she was sick and tired of him. He was too loud, too bawdy, and was drinking far too much of her wine. Worst of all, he was monopolizing her Second.

Aliksandria nó Cereus had decided that, somehow, she needed to get rid of this Don Ramiro. He was an inappropriate patron for any Cereus adept, but particularly for the Second. Regardless of what Petrea might claim, she was certainly not putting in enough work to earn this “plaything.” So, Aliks had devised a plan that she was sure would remove this…distraction…and get Petrea back to work.

Marco Meridius, Petrea’s long time lover, had returned to the City of Elua days before and was spending the evening with her. Don Ramiro was off doing Elua knows what he did with his time when he wasn’t hanging about her House. Petrea had specifically told Ramiro that she was unavailable for the evening, but Aliks had invited him to drop in. She was positive that his Aragonian pride would not be able to endure seeing Petrea and Marco together. Oh, Ramiro knew that Petrea had other patrons, but actually encountering it? That would be unbearable for him. Aliks was certain that he would cause a ruckus, maybe even become violent? And that would allow her to ban him from Cereus House, as she had sworn to do weeks before. He had managed his behavior thus far, mostly at Petrea’s behest, but Aliks was sure that this would be too much for him.

*

Petrea nó Cereus and Marco sat in the lush gardens of Cereus House, curled up on a chaise and speaking in low tones. It had been months since they had been together and Petrea was relieved to be back in his arms. No matter how many other patrons she might take and how much she might enjoy their company, her heart, at its core, belonged to Marco. She could never be his wife and could never leave the Night Court, but she could not imagine a life without him in it.

She leaned back against him and closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of the summer flowers blooming in the gardens as she listened to Marco’s voice in her ear. He had been quietly regaling her with stories of his travels from Menekhet through Caerdicca Unitas. Menekhet! She could hardly imagine just how far away that was. Marco’s trading took him all over the world; she had seen but a fraction of it on her journey with him. It amazed her how he slid so easily from one country to the next, seeming to fit into every culture as though he had been born to it. She was so caught up in his story of a parrot trader that she almost didn’t hear the voices coming from the hallway.

“…believe she’s in the gardens. Please come with me and we’ll see if she’s there.”

It was Aliks’s voice coming closer. But who was with her? Aliks knew how much Petrea and Marco wanted their privacy. Who could possibly be so important that she would interrupt them?

“Aliks,” she said, seeing her Dowayne come through the doorway, “what is it that merits this interr…” she trailed off as she realized who followed Aliks through this doorway.

It was Ramiro. But what was he doing here? She had informed him that she was unavailable this evening and he had made plans to go to Balm House. Why had he changed his plans? Why had Aliks brought Ramiro into the garden and not simply turned him away? One patron did not interrupt another and certainly not these two patrons. Something was terribly wrong with this situation.

Petrea looked from one to the other in confusion. Aliks smiled blandly at her, but Petrea caught something flash in her eyes for the briefest of moments. Was it…triumph? What was going on here?

Marco rose from the couch, disentangling himself from Petrea. She stood behind him, unsure what to do with herself.

“Ramiro,” he said casually, “it has been so long. A year? Longer, perhaps?”

Petrea again looked at Aliks as Ramiro strode towards Marco. Again, Aliks gave her a blank look.

“Marco!” Ramiro threw out his arms, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Mi amigo! It has been too long!”

Marco laughed and the two men embraced like childhood friends. “Ah Ramiro, you are right, it has been too long! I meant to visit you, but my travels have not taken me through Aragonia. I am so pleased that we happen to be here together. What a surprise!”

Marco returned Ramiro’s grin as they clapped each other on the back.

Petrea was certain she caught a look of shock and, perhaps, disappointment? cross Aliks’s face. Clearly, this was not at all what Aliks had expected – had she wanted something different? It was, however, exactly what Petrea had expected.

Ramiro and Marco had met the past year when Petrea had arranged for lodgings on Ramiro’s estate during their travels. He had agreed to house them in exchange for a night with her. Marco had been neither surprised nor perturbed at the Marqués’s request. She was, after all, a Servant of Naamah and he was well aware that she took other patrons. During their time in Aragonia, the two men had discovered they had common interests and became friends, promising to write and visit each other.

“Ramiro, I am surprised to see you. I thought you were going to Balm House tonight.” Petrea said mildly, giving him the kiss of greeting.

He shrugged. “I heard you might receive me should I stop in.” He gave her a grin. “And you know I am always pleased when you receive me.”

He winked suggestively.

Nexto to them, Marco snorted. “Eh? Been receiving you often, has she?”

“But, of course! Dolce Petrea is always eager to deepen her connections with her favorite patrons. And I’ve connected quite deeply with her.”

He licked his lips lasciviously.

Marco chuckled. “Hungry, Ramiro?”

“Starving! Always! And the dessert here is quite delicious.” Ramiro gave Marco a sly look.

The two roared with laughter.

Aliks cleared her throat loudly.

“Don Ramiro, perhaps we should leave these two to their evening?” she said tersely.

Marco glanced at Petrea, who gave him a tiny shrug.

“Nonsense! We have plenty of time to ourselves. Please join us for some wine, Ramiro. We can catch up.”

Petrea swore she caught a flash of annoyance on Aliks’s face, but couldn’t be sure. What on Earth was happening with her? Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

“Por supuesto! I would love to catch up with you. Lady Aliks, bring us more wine! You know which one I prefer!”

“Aliks, could you please ask a servant to bring us more wine,” Petrea requested. “Whatever we have fully stocked would be perfect.” She gave Aliks a placating smile, knowing that Ramiro’s declaration was not received well.

“I have to have someone check. Our inventory has not been completed recently.” She gave Petrea, whose job it was to oversee the audits, an intentional look. “And many, many bottles of that vintage have been served recently.”

Turning back towards the hallways, she gave Marco a brief nod. “Marco, a pleasure as always.”

*

Aliks clenched her fists and gritted her teeth.

Her plan had failed. Spectacularly.

They were friends?! How could that blasted Aragonian scoundrel be friends with Marco?! How could kind, caring, and intelligent Marco be friends with that foolish cad?! It was just unfathomable!

Storming down the hall, she nearly knocked over a young adept carrying bed linens.

“Oh excuse me, my lady Dowayne!” he yelped, jumping out of her way.

“Get some wine to the patrons in the garden! I don’t care what, just something!” she snapped.

“Y-y-yes, milady,” he stammered, scurrying off.

Aliks stomped into the kitchen and headed towards the back door. A shocked cook looked up from chopping vegetables as Aliks flew through the room.

“My lady! Did you need anything?” she questioned, flustered by the sudden appearance of the obviously annoyed Dowayne.

“No! I’m off to Mandrake House. If anyone needs anything, go bother the Second!”