Night Court – Page 5 – Longest Night Midwinter Masque

To The Boiling Point

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heliotrope’s Open Door

Vouloir never closed her door. As a small child, she’d not had a door on her quarters, nor did any room in her home have a door, so she’d never understood the D’Angeline need to do so. The constant heat in Jebe-Barkal made airflow the most important factor. Her family was well-off; they’d owned their piece of land for generations, and they’d been lucky enough to build their ancestral home on a hill. While they were not close enough to the sea for it to be seen, they were close enough that the wind that came off it blew through the rooms and kept the family comfortable.

Vouloir never closed her door. She found it easier when she arrived at Heliotrope. Adepts and novices alike had more questions than the stars in the sky, and an open door made her life more peaceful. Even after being in the House a decade, she could remember almost all of them.

‘Vouloir, are you D’Angeline’ Yes, my father is a merchant from Camlach.

‘Loir, how did you get to the City?’ We came with my father’s family caravan across Jebe-Barkal and Menekhet, then on a ship across the sea to Bourdes in Siovale, then we made our way to the city.

‘Vouloir nó Barkal, why are you even here?’ Namaah sings in my blood and she drew me here. Who better to understand love like the sun than one who’s only ever known the sun?

One day, she’d told Philomena about the questions. Mena had taken her under her wing from the day she arrived, and she took these questions with less patience than eleven year-old Loir had. After all, Mena was already an adept and was raised by the Dowayne and his wife. Of course she did not stand for such things. She had moved Loir into a room that was next to hers, and she stopped closing her door as well.

The questions dwindled.

Loir never closed her door. Three days before she was to officially pledge herself to Namaah’s service, her mother burst through the curtain and scooped Loir up in her arms. Loir had no knowledge they were coming, her tears flowing easily as she soaked up her mother’s warmth. Her grandmother came in just after, embracing the two of them and speaking softly in the soft and comforting tones of her native tongue. She could hear her father and grandfather in conversation with Dowayne Olivier in the hallway, and her heart was full to bursting with their love.

Loir nó Heliotrope never closed her door. She was five years an adept now, and the children came to her when their parents needed personal time, and she told them about her home. They were always spellbound by her stories: her parents meeting in the market, and her father abandoning his home to stay in sun and her mother’s love; her great-uncle with his love of the land that led him to spend his life working to make the land able to sustain the people while its own life blossomed unrestrained; the lions that lived near, and the strength of their matriarch that drove male lions to try to take control of her family from her mate; the tales her grandfather told her of the shapes the stars made, always told while sitting on the roof of the barn and eating the ripest mangos. The years had shown that she had a talent for painting, and she’d painted countless scenes from memory. The sound of her voice drifted through her open door most days, one of the sounds that made Heliotrope House a home.

Loir never closed her door. On this day, she was writing a letter home to her parents when a young adept burst in, holding out a thick missive with the d’Marr deep red wax seal visible.

“Loir, a letter arrived from the d’Marrs,” he said excitedly.

She smiled and took the letter from him. “Charles, would you like me to read it out loud?”

Charles nodded. “They always write the most beautiful love letters, Loir. I hope to one day receive letters half as wonderful.”

Loir patted the bed next to her. “Charles, you will. You are worth letters this lovely and more. Now, let us see what the d’Marrs have to say today.”

The wax released easily and Loir unfolded the paper and began to read.

Our Dearest Beloved, can you believe we have been your Patron for five years this moon? We can not believe it ourselves, but our seneschal reminded us of that anniversary when he came on business. As is our custom, this upcoming visit will be the last, and it will make your marque. Of all the Lovers we’ve had over the years, you are easily the most memorable, so your upcoming visit will be as well. The carriage will arrive to bring you to us in three days, you need only bring yourself, wear whatever you want, you shine like a pearl in everything that adorns you. Our home is dim without you to bring warmth and light to it. It is true that we sense the darkness of your loss on the horizon, but still, we feel cold and empty without you. The large bed that you helped decorate and that you grace with the lines of your body is akin to a wasteland without you here with us. With the grace of Namaah, we will somehow survive until you arrive.

Eternally Yours,

Emillië and Frances d’Marr, Lady and Lord of Temelle Estate, Namarre

Loir folded the paper again with a smile and Charles sighed happily. “When you come home, you must tell me about this visit.”

“Of course, my door is always open.”

To See Olivier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whispers at the Table – Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whispers at the Table – Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Changing Times and Different Paths

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You could stay here,” Aliks offered.

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

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

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

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

Kushiel’s Keys

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Lord Niklos,

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

Mena

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

Crowning Joy – Part 2

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

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

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

He blushed. “You are teasing me.”

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

He glanced away, joining her at the railing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did not bring my purse.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Odilia?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

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

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

“I would like that.”

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

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

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

Crowning Joy—Part 1

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not exactly.”

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

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

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

“Gustav…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled. “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Careful Handling

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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