storyline – Longest Night Midwinter Masque

Storyline: Fittings and Finishes

Petrea stood very still, not wanting to be jabbed with a pin as the clothier fitted her gown for the Longest Night. It was a beautiful frock, as befitted the Second of Cereus House. It would be the last night Masque she would attend in that position..

The conversation between the two friends had been tense when Petrea finally went to Aliksandria to break the news. In truth, Aliks could scarcely remember a time without her.They had grown up as near sisters in Cereus House, from wild children to romantic youths to powerful women, in tandem. So it was heartbreaking for Aliks to learn that Petrea did not want to continue on the same path they had begun together so long ago.

The clothier was instructing Petrea to turn around when Patroclus began to coo from his crib. It was yet another thing that had changed, another way their journey’s had diverged.

Aliks went to the child and picked him up, cradling him in her arms. His small fists were clenched and she recognised on his face that if she did not feed him his cute coos would soon become unbearable screams. Petrea looked over and smiled.

As she began to nurse, Aliks looked at her friend and said, “You are going to miss this, you know. You may not wish to be Second any more or even Dowayne, but you will miss this life.”

“I am not leaving the House, Aliks. I’m not retiring from Naamah’s service, I am just retiring from my position. I will continue to take patrons, as would any adept who has made their marque and chosen to stay. I will attend the same fêtes and balls as always, I’ll just do it in my own way.”

“And me? Will you not miss me? And what of Patroclus, you are an Aunt to him.”

“We have discussed this, I will never be far from either of your lives.” Petrea gave her a gentle smile. “It’s not as though I’m going to La Serenissima. I’m moving down the hall.”

The reassurance helped Aliks, though she was loath to admit she needed it. She knew she had been selfish, wanting Petrea to stay with her, for her. It had been a departure she had managed to forestall for years, but she could halt the inevitable no longer.

“And what, pray tell, shall we do when you start stealing tarts from the kitchen?” Petrea asked, jutting her chin at Patroclus.

Aliks looked at the boy, whose appetite was great indeed and smiled, “Why, the same thing that our Dowayne did, pretend I don’t know about it.”

The two women laughed.

“He won’t be for Cereus house, you can tell already. He is too swarthy for that, so I imagine his antics will not be my worry for over long. Though I will be embroidering him a pillow to take with him when he leaves,” she said with a wink.

“If he goes to Orchis House it would go over well, but should he find himself at Alyssum it may prove awkward.”

“Oh, no more than it was here at Cereus House.” Aliks chuckled at the memory of their childhood lark.

“Whatever happened to those cushions?” Petrea asked.

“Check the crib.”

Petrea looked at the clothier, who nodded, then carefully walked over to the boy’s bed and peered in. There it was, a 20 year old cushion with a flower in shades of medium and pale blue, with a phallus for a stamen. “I had thought the Dowayne had thrown them away.”

“When I became Second, they were returned to me. Apparently, our old Dowayne had a great ability to hide her thoughts, for though she scolded us, she secretly found them hilarious. She was originally from Orchis herself, you know. The other one is in your room. I hid it there while you were off with Marco. I have been waiting for you to notice, but it appears we did hide our design too well.”

“Truly?” Petrea said, shrugging out of the gown and taking Patroclus from Aliks. He had finished feeding and was falling into the sort of slumber that only comes from a full belly, “I will look for it this evening.” She stroked his soft cheek. While the announcement of Aliks’s pregnancy and Patroclus’s arrival had thrown her own life into upheaval, she did love the babe. How could one not?

Aliks stood and walked to the clothier and began donning her costume for its final fitting. Once her costume was on, Petrea made a slight choking noise, and Aliks turned her head slightly to look at her friend, “Yes?”

“You are wearing that?”

“Why? Is something wrong with it?”

“Well, no, not specifically. It’s lovely, but I, hmm, well, I just expected you to wear something more, well more.” Petrea gestured at the lack of fabric covering Aliks’s body.

Aliks laughed. “Oh? And why would I do that?”

“Well, you’re a mother now,” Petrea said, gesturing to Patroclus.

“So I am, and happy to be one. But I was a Servant of Naamah first, And I will be one always. And as this Longest Night marks my return to full duties, I intend to lead with the message that I am returned to work.”

Storyline: Dahlia Daydreams

The chill was ever-present in the air now, the winter falling firmly across the countryside as the last vestiges of autumn had faded into the frost and freeze of winter. The courtiers in the royal palace draped themselves in their furs and thickest gowns and garb, staying in the public salons of the palace where most of the court gathered together for cards, conversation, and warm comfort.

However, the Duc de Chalasse was not to be refused his daily horseback ride. There was nothing that heated the blood like an invigorating gallop through the countryside with the cold air stinging one’s face. Though the younger men in his retinue joked about warm wine and warm women, Roland ignored them steadily. He was no green boy to run from the winter chill and take his warmth with a woman. He was in the winter years of his life, he had spent his spring and summer years with his love – while he remembered the blinding warmth of her, he had passed easily into his autumn and winter. Let the younger lords dance around the ladies for attention, he was well established without needing to debase himself with such sport.

The only sentiment he permitted himself—having well known when he was defeated – was a slow stroll through the royal glasshouses after his morning ride. He claimed it was to keep his aging joints loose with the warmth and steam of the conservatory. Plenty of the courtiers believed him too. He was Roland de Chalasse, his heart was stone as well they all knew. But he turned his steps to the brightest, warmest room of the glasshouse, where the king had had the dahlias planted.

Riots of color burst from the heavy stems, filling the room with bright jewel tones and the fragrance of the flowers.

In comparison, her dark hair and soft silver-blue gown seemed almost nondescript.

He paused, knowing she had heard his boots, watching her continue to lightly spritz one of the dahlia pots with water.

“I wondered if I would ever come upon you here,” he said, stepping deliberately into the room and tugging the riding gloves from his hand.

The angle of her cheek lifted in her smile as she set the glass atomizer down, wrapping her deep evergreen shawl firmly around herself as she turned to look at him. “It is my own little conservatory, the odds were good.” Sweeping him a little curtsy, she greeted him properly, “Your Grace.”

He offered a small bow in return. “My lady.”

“How was your ride this morning?”

“Invigorating.” He had kept his distance from her. There was business to do, she had her new apartments and life to settle into as well as the juggling of her responsibilities. But he had been watching, all of the courtiers had been, to see how she would manage this. It was the highest any courtesan had risen, there were plenty of wagers being made in the gaming salons of the palace and across the city as to what the future would hold. Some of the most cynic suggested she would bear a son first and the country would devolve into war.

Roland knew her better. And looking on her now, he could have felt melancholy that she had not accepted his suit, that he did not have a Duchesse to keep him company through the twilight years. But all he could feel was pride. He had ever prized cleverness, cunning, and power. She had proven herself quite adept at all three. His affection was unchanged, though he did not expect any more of her attentions now. He had told his granddaughter that he would follow the lead set by the king and queen and their courtesan and he would. He was a man of his word. But looking at her now…

“I have missed you,” she said, looking up at him. Were his thoughts so transparent? Or was she too kindred to him that their minds were walking the same path?

His hand reached to brush his knuckles across her cheek, a tiny, affectionate caress.

“Are you happy?”

He saw the surprise in her eyes that he would ask it so bluntly, but she nodded. “Yes.”

A small smile twitched at the corner of her lips. “And yet, still in need of allies in court.” There is still a place for you if you wish it.

He returned her tiny smile. “Of course.” I am a man of my word.

She nodded, her shawl sliding from her shoulders. Ever a gentleman, he reached to help her remove it if she was warm. And he paused when his fingers brushed her bare skin. Her gown was a shimmering fabric woven with thread of silver, long sleeves covering her arms for warmth, the neckline high to preserve her chest heat. But her back was bare, the gown tailored to reveal her completed marque, displayed.

He looked at her, she met his gaze. A silent conversation, completely understood.

He stepped closer to her, his fingertips tracing the line of the stem down her spine and she met his gaze fearlessly, her brows contracting as she asked quietly, “How many ways could this have ended?”

“So many.”

He saw them all for a moment, the possibilities that had branched out around them, changing with each choice: a Dahlia queen crowned in gold and by her king’s side, a duchesse on Roland’s arm, a spurned lover turned twisted and angry to become an enemy like unto the Shahrizai woman, a Night Court Second raised to Dowayne in her time to lead her House, a private courtesan with her own salon as the jewel of the city. So many possibilities and potentials.

“And yet here we are,” she said softly.

“So we are.” His eyes flicked across her face as his hand withdrew from her bared marque. “You have done well for yourself, little Dahlia.”

She didn’t let him pull back, shifting her body a half step closer to his as she asked, “Did you ever think this was where we would be? When you met me for the first time in Jocaste’s office, even when Rosanna wrote to you about me for the first time, did you ever think…?”

A wry smile twisted his lips. “No. I underestimated you. I judged too quickly.” He had always been a proud man, born to power and trained from birth how to wield it. The noble title gave him status and privilege, those that were not a part of the titled elite were to remain beneath them and be governed by those directly descended and chosen by the great Companions of Blessed Elua. There would be no interlopers suffered within the hallowed sanctity of the nobility. Until she had risen from nothing and become someone that could not be ignored, someone from whom they could not look away. And that was what forced him to admit. “However, now that this is where you are, it does suit you. You have proven yourself well and I am sure you will continue to do so.”

“Roland…”

She looked up at him and heard the distance in his voice. Even with her marque bared, even with the possibility of assignations again, he was maintaining distance. She would respect his decision. So, she worked his ring off of her finger. She had been wearing it—he had seen her wearing it—on the middle finger of her left hand, right next to the swan ring that the king had given her.

Now, she held it up to him, offering it to him back.

His hand covered hers, stopping her from giving it away as he breathed in the vulnerability and therefore the power of this moment before murmuring, “Keep it. It was a gift, and will remain a token of my affection so long as you choose to wear it.”

She let him push her hand gently back, watching him before saying gently, “….thank you.”

She slid the ring back onto her finger, and he turned the conversation away from the danger of feelings as he inquired lightly, “What are your plans for the Longest Night? Surely your attendance is highly prized.”

Odilia smiled. “I am still the Second of Dahlia House. I will attend the Cereus Masque, I must. And you?”

“I am expected here in the palace.”

“Naturally.” He was made for courtly settings, it was where he thrived. The intrigue and the thrill and the chance to remind everyone of his power? She understood that well.

She understood him well. So she reached into the cuff of her tailored sleeve. “Roland, I have a gift for you.”

From the place she had tucked it within her sleeve, she withdrew a medallion on a bronze ribbon. Struck into the gold medallion was a dahlia flower. On the back was engraved the words of the House: Upright and Unbending. A token, given to treasured patrons.

She offered it to him, the sunlight glinting on the medallion as it spun lazily from the ribbon. He reached slowly to take it. It was not the first token he had received, Jocaste had given him one once and he had had a Cereus token given to him once upon a time as a young man, but this was different. There was a weight to this moment, this offering, and an intimacy to this that he hadn’t shared with the other Servants of Naamah that had given them before.

His fingers caught the medallion, his thumb brushing the stamped petals, and she said lowly, “I have given very few of these.”

He looked into her eyes and caught her other hand in his, his thumb brushing the ring on her finger. “I have given very few of these.”

She nodded, understanding. He nodded, agreeing. And he tucked her dahlia token into the neck of his doublet, keeping it safe as he looked down at her, finding one last moment of honesty to give her. “I do wish you every happiness, Odilia. You are good for him and, if you let him, he will be good for you. There is a true love between you, I respect that deeply. My Juliette and I had a love like that. It will give you many, many years of joy.”

Lifting up onto her toes, she cupped his face with her free hand and kissed him.

When they parted, he let out a little exhale, grip tightening on her hand for a moment as his other hand lifted to brush his forefinger across the curve of her bottom lip, whispering, “Oh, little Dahlia. It is a kind of love, I am man enough to know it. Just as I know the young king will give you more happiness than I ever could.”

“Perhaps,” she said, head high, “but you give me things that he cannot, too.”

“Perhaps. There is time to see.”

“There is nothing but time.”

Storyline: Valerian Preparations

They had chosen a theme for this year’s Masque nearly as soon as the previous one ended. It was just about the only failsafe against having another House choose a similar, or downright copy, of that choice. Goodness knew that nothing offended the other courtesans so much as arriving at any event, let alone the Longest Night, in the same ensemble.

The only other establishment on Mont Nuit to have any idea of Valerian’s plans were, of course, Mandrake. As they so often complimented each other in the everyday, it had become custom to do so at the Masque as well.

“If you make those wings any larger you won’t fit through the door, dear,” Rosanna said as she passed by the row of adepts trying on their costumes for a final fitting.

The young man she spoke to looked a little sullen at having his wings clipped, but the threat of embarrassing himself in such a public way that was not part of a contract won out.

Winter fairies had been chosen by vote. Each member of her House had the chance to put forth an idea towards their yearly costume theme. Rosanna was not a dictator, she wanted those in her care to have the freedom of expression when it came to the most holy night of the year. Being of dearly held faith herself, she would never lord over this holiday in such a fashion. So, they practiced a system of voting to choose their themes, and this year it seemed whimsy was a strong contender.

Not that she was complaining. Rosanna had been one of those who jumped at the chance to play adult dress-up in such a way.

“Tryphosa, what is the status of the final orders from Eglantine?”

During the time of organized chaos, she liked to walk through her adepts during an inspection of sorts. Making sure no detail was left unaccounted for. Her counterpart would no doubt be doing the same in Mandrake House. Though not so nicely, she thought with amusement.

Some of their House used the tools already available to them, if the color scheme matched whatever theme they were implementing. Alas, Rosanna had nothing in white. All of her…leather goods were in shades of black, brown or red. Not a thing that conjured images of winter, pine trees, snow, and ice. Well, maybe the red but she was not going as a holly berry bush.

“We expect a delivery no later than week’s end. But now there seems to be some hold up with their own contracts with the silk merchants. Something about bad weather in Marsilikos has affected imports. Of all times to be storming.”

Rosanna looked at Tryphosa, brows raised for the rest of her report.

“I have a backup plan, no need to stress yourself even more than usual.”

As the Dowayne and Second walked through the empty rooms, the House was not accepting patrons right now. It was still daylight, and the doors were not yet open for business. The perfect time to pull out the bolts of fabric, pin cushions, and boxes of accessories and pile all the denizens into the meeting rooms for mass fittings. Young apprentices too young to be working on their marques raced back and forth to deliver garments and other sundries. Others were bringing food and drink to those being pinned into costumes rather than formally breaking for lunch. With so much to be done, and still open for patrons in a few hours, there was simply no time for such luxuries.

The end of the year was always like this. A perfect winter storm of utter chaos that would culminate in a pleasant evening just to be repeated the following year. Such was the cycle of the seasons on Mont Nuit. At least they had ended this tumultuous year on a pleasant note, dare she say a rather fairy tale ending.

Rosanna would be attending half the night at Cereus House, walking in the processional with her fellows, but would be moving to the palace for the second half the night. Leaving Tryphosa to represent and manage their people in the meantime. Such had been their system ever since they came into their respective roles.

“I expect my family will insist I stay with them until morning at the townhouse. They are all uncommonly present in the city this season,” she told her friend as they checked items off a list and added more final orders to be placed. “I do not think I will take a patron this time, free of choice or not. After all that has happened, I simply want to rest.”

Which meant that the Second would be in command of their House at least for twenty hours, if not more. And on the most auspicious night of the year at that. It was quite the act of trust she was being shown, exciting too.

“I shall endeavor to keep our people in hand and not cause too much of a scandal. I think we’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime by now.”

Rosanna nodded and stopped to pluck a cup of warm wine from one of the passing pages.

“We will not rest very long though. Mara’s Eve is not long after the Longest Night. Have you the list of debuting apprentices?”

Just as holy to those of Valerian House as the Longest Night was the celebration of Mara’s Eve. Daughter of Naamah and first anguisette. Those who had their coming out on that most auspicious of nights was considered to be the crème de la crème of their House. Both Rosanna and Tryphosa had their debuts on that holy day and now rose to the highest rank a Night Blooming Flower might achieve. Competition was known to be quite fierce, and she had been keeping her eyes and ears peeled for excellence or mischief.

It was the duty of the Dowayne and Second to decide who would make their debut and when. And both women were exacting, yet fair, in their criteria.

Rosanna looked over the list. She trusted her Second explicitly with the appraisal of their up and coming courtesans. Whatever Tryphosa noted as an exceptional talent, or a note on what apprentice needed more instruction, she took as true and honest fact.

“And the guest list?” She asked as they made their way through the House salons and into the non-public rooms to ascertain the status of all other preparations.

“The Shahrizai have already made their intention to attend clear. We don’t even need to send them an invitation, to be honest.”

“True, but I will not have us lose our sense of decorum. Send it anyway so that we can say we upheld our end of the social contract. And make sure the de Morhban family gets their missive first, we have to stand on ceremony there or risk adding fuel to that rivalry’s fire. Who else are we expecting?”

Of course they would have the leadership of Mandrake as guests. Along with perhaps an unexpected invitation to the Royal Mistress, but Rosanna had her reasons. After all, if Dahlia had not won Odilia, Mandrake would have. As her dearest friend, that was also a perfectly good reason to include her. But attendance was not required, she simply wanted to make sure the gesture was made. Following her name, a good number of nobles who often frequented their establishment was listed, in order of which preferred to keep their patronage more of an open secret and those who cared not who knew.

“Approved. See these go out once the recovery period of the Longest Night is done. We cannot delay for that only makes the preparations for both affairs even more complicated.”

While the other Houses on Mont Nuit relaxed in a post-masquerade haze, the two sister-houses would be rushing headlong into another sacred celebration. Rosanna loved both holy days, but this time of year always drove her half mad in worry and lack of sleep

Tryphosa reached out and laid a gentle hand on the Dowayne’s, her friend’s, shoulder. “Consider it already done.”

Storyline: To The Tailors

Aimée nó Cereus allowed her gaze to wander as she made her way through the crowded marketplace. The Longest Night is fast approaching and it seems as if all of Terre d’Ange has descended upon the City of Elua in preparation. On her right, she recognizes the livery and crest of one of the more remote noble houses.

‘Surely these servants have been sent to the city for supplies for the holiday as well as to prepare for the cold mountainous winter ahead. I don’t envy them’, she thought.

Aimée continued through the streets enjoying the last of the riotous colors of the harvest season. Although in the middle of the bustling city, her stroll felt serene and it allowed her mind to wander.

As the “Third” of Cereus House, her days are busy and often require far more than other adepts in the Night Court. With her Dowayne’s pregnancy and the birth of Patroclus, and her Second’s hen-pecking of the aforementioned Dowayne, the fine details and intricacies regarding the day to day of Cereus House frequently fell on Aimée’s shoulders.

Though, there had been a marked improvement since Petrea’s extended travels several years before. Aimée’s own extended retreat at Balm House after that year’s Longest Night had been well deserved. The following months allowed her to, finally, take on enough Patrons to build a tidy nest egg. One she would be dipping into quite generously today.

Having been raised in Bryony House until the age of 10, like her Dowayne Aliksandra, she had been well taught the intricacies of monies and maths. But for her, numbers were a talent, not a pleasure; and her Marque was sold on to Cereus House. A lovely little blond child, meek, and lonely. Aimée was quieter, more bidable than Aliks and Petrea; who had been quite mischievous in their shared youth. She had gravitated toward the slightly older duo who would become like sisters to her. They had shown her that the fragility of Cereus House was only in reference to the delicate and fleeting beauty they all possessed.

“Remember, endless drought, burning heat, freezing cold, it matters not to a Cereus, we endure.”, Aliks had told her one night shortly after Aimée had joined Cereus.

“We are a desert flower. We survive.”, Petrea had echoed while holding the silently weeping child.

That night tucked between Aliks and Petrea had changed everything her life may have been. Aliks strove to become Dowayne and found Waldemar, Petrea and Aimée rallied the Adepts in her favor. Petrea had found love, devotion and a sense of adventure, Aliks and Aimée gave her the space and support she needed. Aliks was blessed by Eisheth, and Aimée kept her best friends from killing each other. This was the way of Aimée’s world. And it was about to change.

Preparations for the Longest Night had been underway at Cereus for a good while, beginning almost immediately after the conclusion of the previous year’s festivities. And this year Aimée was going to make a statement, a pledge, a message of intent in every way. While Aliks would shine as a pale jewel epitomizing the pale beauty and hidden steel of Cereus House, and Petrea would set the night a flame dressed in her most complementary palette, Aimée intended to take the first steps away from her role as the “Third” of Cereus House. Both of her sisters had experienced great loves and she wanted that for herself. After all, a child should be born of love, and Aimée fully intended to name a future daughter Jehanne, in Waldemar’s memory.

Having made her way through the crush of the City, Aimée had finally arrived at her destination the premier tailor to the elite of the Night Court and the Nobility of the City of Elua. Stepping inside the modiste’s shop Aimée’s eyes caught on a luxurious bolt of fabric. “How may I be of service to Cereus House today?”, the Master Tailor asked as she noticed Aimée entering.

“It is just my business today, Evette, though it shall be for the Longest Night.” Aimée replied, turning to face her long time business associate.

Evette’s eyebrow arched in query, while a sly smile teased at the corners of her lips, as she said, “So Mon Aimée you are about to take a page out of Odilia nó Dahlia’s book?”

Aimée waved away the teasing with a quick, “A Dahlia, Never.” Their eyes met which immediately led to a quick burst of laughter from the two Servants of Naahma.

Though Evette had retired from Eglantine nearly a decade before, she and Aimée had once shared a dormitory at Bryony, and reconnected as fully fledged Adepts. It was Aimée’s recommendations that lead to Evette becoming the de facto Tailor for Cereus House, and where Cereus goes the Court follows, both of them.

“Evette, I need something…Exceptional.”, Aimée whispers, almost conspiratorially. Evette quickly walks to the door and locks it, drawing the curtains, giving them true privacy. Aimée pulls out a piece of parchment and hands it to her friend. “I’ve had a necklace commissioned nearly a year ago, and I need a dress to match.”, Aimée continues, as Evette unfolds the parchment revealing a sketch of an intricate necklace harkening to the ancient days of Menekhet.

“What material did the jeweler use?” Evette asks while studying the sketch, suddenly all business.

“Lazuli.” Aimée replies with an air of nonchalance.

Evette’s head snaps up with a speed and force that makes Aimée question the health and longevity of her friend’s neck. “How much of it?”

“Very nearly, all of it,” Aimée smirks as Evette’s eyes go wide, “with some other accompanying pieces, also Lazuli.”

Evette’s eyes zero in on Aimée’s looking for a hint of jest or jape. Aimée meets the stare with a genial disposition and casual air. “You’re serious.” Evette utters, seemingly unconsciously.

Aimée’s lips curve into a smile totally inappropriate for such a vaunted member of Cereus House; it suits her. Evette takes in the sight of her friend, her quiet, hardworking, sweetly stoic, often lost in the background friend.

“I was thinking gold thread embroidery would be a good place to start.” Aimée says breaking the fragile silence that had engulfed the shop. Evette sees that Aimée is gesturing to the bolt of blue and gold brocade that she had been admiring as she entered the shop.

Evette quick as a snake grabs hold of Aimée’s hand and practically drags her into the back of the shop while saying, “I think this calls for the special stash, there is no way that jeweler is showing up my work.”

Aimée goes along giggling slightly. This Longest Night, Cereus will bloom.

Storyline: Ripples in the pond

Petrea nó Cereus, Second of Cereus House, entered the salon at Heliotrope and took a seat at the small table that was laid out with tea and small snacks. As Petrea sat, she realized that she had never been to Heliotrope House and wondered how, in her many years as a Servant of the Night Court, that was possible. She ran through the catalog of Houses and considered how many others she had not visited and frowned. While there were many she did not visit as a patron or guest, certainly she should have been to each on occasion in her role as Second, but that was not true. Had she been so consumed with her own life at Cereus, first as an adept and then as Second that she had neglected to meet with other leaders of the Night Court. Well, that would need to be resolved, and quickly. Or was it a waste of time?

Vouloir came around the corner taking in the appearance of the Cereus Second. Pale, beautiful, the standard for her House: exhausted, frayed at the ends, the stress she was living with unraveling that beauty before its time. Loir cleared her throat and nodded, “Petrea nó Cereus, the adepts indicated you’d arrived. I am Vouloir, one of the Seconds here at Heliotrope, you may call me Loir. Our Dowayne will see you in her private Salon.”

She led Petrea through the halls towards the back stairs, “We’ve not seen you since the Wedding. How have you been faring?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. What with the new babe, the business of the House…” Petrea trailed off, her mind clearly elsewhere.

Loir pushed open a half-open door and gestured for Petrea to go in ahead of her. She smiled at the other woman and said, “It was wonderful to meet you in person and not at an event. We should become friends if you’re not busy. Our Dowayne will be right in.”

Petrea sat for a moment before she heard Mena in the hallway say, “Make it very clear that he is no longer welcome here.” There was an inaudible response, and Mena made a sound of annoyance. “Yes, I know he won’t take it well, but he’ll have to. I’ve already filed it with the City Guards. Now shoo, I have company.”

Mena came in with a smile, “Petrea, it’s wonderful to see you.” She leaned over and gave Petrea a kiss of greeting. While they did not know each other well, the two had socialized a few times. Petrea held a fondness for Mena and made a mental note to invite Mena to her own home.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Petrea replied. “I was just thinking that I have taken the time to get to know the other Dowaynes and Seconds as well as I should, so this is a wonderful opportunity for me to do that.” She chuckled. “I suppose that I have been overly busy these past months. What with the babe and all.”

Mena nodded with a light chuckle and gestured for Petrea to sit down. “I am sure. Between the surprise child and the other, also unexpected situations, I’ve barely known my head from a melon these last days.”

“As do I. I will admit, I was surprised by your invitation. Pleased, but somewhat surprised.” Petrea sighed, her eyes trailing about the room, her smile rueful. “I confess it is a relief to leave Cereus House, if for only an afternoon. Ever since Patroclus arrived, it has been beyond chaos there.”

Mena laughed. “Babes bring so much chaos for beings so small! Even if we think that we and the House are prepared, we never are. You’re welcome here anytime you need some peace.”

Petrea brushed an errant lock of hair out of her face. She took a small sip of tea before setting the cup down and reaching for a pastry. Her fingers hovered over one, then moved to another, and another, before dropping her hand back into her lap. It appeared almost as though the simple act of choosing a bit of food was too much.

“Our cook makes many of these here so I know which ones are the best,” Mena said as she placed some pieces on Petrea’s plate. “Well, best to me anyway.”

She took a bite of her own favorite, filled with a sweetened and smoothed paste of an imported nut. As she chewed, she watched Petrea. She looked pale and utterly exhausted, which was to be expected since she was a Cereus. What was intriguing to Mena was underlying tension and panic at the corners of her eyes and in her movements.

“How are you finding him, Patroclus was it? I remember you were very concerned about your Dowayne and the child,” she asked very mildly.

“Oh yes, now that Patroclus has arrived, I realize how…ridiculous perhaps…I was. Those last weeks of Aliks’s laying in were more overwhelming than anything I have ever felt. Especially with her mother present.” Petrea huffed a laugh. “I think between the two of us hovering like haunting ghosts, had Aliks not been ordered to stay abed, she would have fled the House. But, in the end, all was well with the birth.” Petrea shrugged and looked again at the pastries.

Mena laughed quietly. “I think you’ll be readily forgiven. After all, it was a lot to have thrust on you, particularly given the other high-stakes things happening at the same time. And it was the first for either of you.”

She sat quietly for a moment. “Forgive me if I overstep, but you don’t seem happy. Normally births bring so much happiness to the House, along with their chaos, of course. And yet you seem—” She looked Petrea over “—downtrodden is the word that comes to mind. There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Petrea hesitated. She wondered how much she should confide in Mena. She knew that Mena had been thrust into the position of Dowayne unexpectedly. Perhaps she would understand? Petrea cleared her throat and began slowly. “Aliks has taken back some of her work, but the day to day operations still fall to Aimee and me. I think that Aliks believes she is handling many things, but truly she is not. She is signing contracts, yes, but she is merely a signatory. We are asking her to make decisions about household business, but we are carefully phrasing things in such a way that she does not understand that the decision has already been made and that her opinion is meaningless. She is consumed by Patroclus. And, I suppose, as well she should be, as a new mother.” Petrea cleared her throat and met Mena’s gaze. “Mena, I have seen the amount of time and attention he requires. I do not begrudge a child his mother, by any means. But she is exhausted. He keeps her up all hours of the day and night. He needs every moment of her attention. Aimee and I are worried. We are concerned about the number of weeks, nay, months, or even—dare I say, years—that it could take before Aliks is able to return to her full duties.”

Mena thought for a long minute before speaking. “You are right, it is customary for a new babe to take up all of their parents’ time. Ideally, the parents divide it, though one of their mothers, a sibling, a friend, or even a fellow member of the House, helps them. Normally, I’d say to find her a wet nurse or at least a Novice to help her, but I get the feeling that’s not what’s really bothering you.

Petrea folded her hands in her lap and looked down. “I…if I may confide in you, privately between us.” She hesitated for a long moment. Mena gave her a gentle look, encouraging her to continue. “Mena, I never sought a position in the Night Court. I was content to be an adept, to take patrons, be one of many. But, Aliks has dreamed of being Dowayne for as long as I have known her—since we were but children. And I would do anything for her. And that includes being dragged along to be her Second. And while being Aliks’s Second does not make me terribly unhappy, I do not share her joy of leadership and responsibility. I am fine to stand in her shadow, to handle business behind the scenes while she attends to all of the public functions and handles the public—” Petrea waved her hand in a helpless gesture “—everything else, but that is where it ends for me. When she retires, I have no intention—none—of stepping into her shoes. I will not become Dowayne of Cereus House. I cannot do it. I don’t have the stomach for it.”

Her face fell then, an air of sadness in her composure. “But I thought we had years. Years to train someone else, years to get the House used to the idea, years before I had to confess this to Aliks…But with the pregnancy and the arrival of Patroculs, I have been thrust into the de facto role I never desired, that was not my choice. I had to tell her. And I think it broke her heart. Elua knows, it broke my heart to tell her. But I had to. Aliks never spoke to me about her desire to have a child with Waldemar. We never discussed what might happen if she did this. What would happen to me. And perhaps it is selfish to ask Aliks to make such decisions based on my, but…is it really so much to ask that she take into consideration the thoughts and feelings of her Second? Of her best friend? Of someone she loves? Of someone whose very position in life could hang in the balance? And…I…I fear that I will be forced to become someone I am not. Something that I am not.” She shook her head. “Aliks is a Dowayne, Mena. I am not.”

Mena felt her heart sink with Petrea’s words. When the other woman had finished, Mena set her cup down and reached across the table for Petrea’s hands.

“Oh, my darling. I am so sorry. The things we do in the name of Love.”

“I do love Aliks so. I always have, and I always will. But for that love, I fear I have sacrificed a piece of myself. For her. For her ambitions. And I am lost now.”

Mena squeezed Petrea’s hands, “We know more than most about that sacrifice here. Why don’t you stay a while, talk with my adepts, find comfort and peace with us? Stay and rest your heart with us. I’ll send one of the children over to Cereus to let them know where you are.”

Petrea nodded. “I would appreciate that. You are kind to offer me such.”

“We’re glad to have you. And if you’d like, I can introduce you to our adepts, perhaps—”

Petrea interrupted her in a rush. “Mena, if I tell you something, may I trust that it stays between us? Only us? Please? I find myself feeling I can trust you. That you might understand.”

There was something desperate in Petrea’s eyes, and Mena found herself agreeing immediately.

“Of course, nothing said here leaves here. “

Petrea could not meet Mena’s gaze as she spoke, her voice no more than a whisper. “I have decided that I will be stepping down after the Longest Night. I will plan the Midwinter Masque and assist Aimee with transition, but come spring, I will no longer be the Second of Cereus House.”

Mena’s eyes widened for a moment before her face softened. “Oh Petrea. You must have been unhappy for so very much longer than this babe and his turmoil.”

“I have thought long about this over many sleepless months.” Tears sprung to Petrea’s eyes, and her voice quivered. “I know that I am throwing a boulder into a pond, and the waves may flood the shores. But, Mena, I must do this, or I fear I will drown.”

Storyline: A Face of Mena’s Past

When the news of the birth of Aliks’s baby arrived, Mena was glad for the distraction. She’d been up to her eyes in paperwork since the wedding festivities had wound down. So busy that she hadn’t been able to sit and talk to Loir, so she took the opportunity to make an event out of their little celebration.

Loir arrived at the same time the food and drinks did, a smile on her pretty face. “Mena! Did you send our congratulations over to Cereus already, or is there time for me to add a note?”

Mena took the cart from the novice with a nod, wheeling it out to her tiny balcony that looked out over the kitchen garden. “It’s on my desk, in the upper right corner. I figured you would want to send your blessing as well. But leave it until tomorrow, I am sick to death of work.”

Loir held up her hands with a laugh. “Understood. Only gossip tonight.”

Mena sunk into a chair with a sigh. “Well, let’s still complain about work if needed, but yes, gossip only.”

Loir poured wine for them both before she sat. “That sounds perfect to me. But first, what are we eating tonight?”

“Chef made hearty stew and fresh bread, plus bought some of our favorite cheese at the market. You know the one; hard, sharp, nutty, no one likes it but me and you.”

Loir nodded. “Sounds like Chef is remarking on how hard we’ve been working.”

“That is my assumption as well. She’s right, we’ve both been nonstop. Did you get a sense of how the palace is adjusting like you’d hoped?”

“Yes, actually. It’s as I thought,” Loir said as she handed a bowl of stew to Mena. “The staff thinks this is the best thing they’ve ever heard of while the Court is divided. The ones that are responsible for the new queen feel out-maneuvered by Odilia.”

“Mmm, that’s expected though, people with power they didn’t earn are vile losers. I’ll make sure the adepts know not to bring up the topic with patrons and to do their best to dodge it when it comes up. Particularly with new patrons.”

“That is probably the wisest. I can’t imagine an anti-Odilia courtier visiting us, but caution is never a bad idea.”

The two ate quietly for a few minutes, savoring the quiet and the delicious meal. Loir broke the silence with a laugh. “Now, tell me about Kyrie. Yacinia says he had to be escorted out?”

Mena groaned, then laughed. “Ugh, Kyrie. That’s a long story though, Loir!”

The younger woman laughed loudly. “I’d hope it was! You don’t take patrons. and I’d always heard there was a man involved. Tell, tell!!”

Mena sighed. “Alright, alright, keep your dress on. Kyrie was one of my last serious patron before I took over as Dowayne.”

She looked out over the garden for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “He’s a noble, albeit a lower tier one. His family still works as shipping agents. They have a small fleet of vessels that they use to import things from around the world. Just over five years ago, he asked me to leave the House and marry him.”

Loir gasped quietly but didn’t speak.

“It wasn’t the first time he’d asked, and like every time before, I laughed and told him that his father would never allow it. This time was different, he said, his father had been killed.”

Mena paused to dip her bread into her stew, chewing thoughtfully before continuing with a loud exhale. “I was stunned, of course. His father was a relatively young man still, Kyrie was the third son, but the children are only a year apart, with the first being born when the late Comte was but nineteen.” She remembered the pang she felt for the Comtesse, pregnant almost every year for twenty-five long years, losing a dozen children to sickness in the nursery, losing five more to accidents, her body so fragile from childbirth that at not even forty she was confined almost entirely to her bed or a chair, while the Comte set about making his mistress step into the role as wife.

With a sharp shake of her head she brought herself back to the present. “Kyrie pressed me to marry him, coming every day to speak to me about it. At this time, the late Dowayne was moving to the countryside to be with his partner as his illness rapidly progressed. so I was not always here. On those days, he worked very hard to get the rest of the House on his side, to convince me to marry him and run away from all of this.”

Mena drained her wineglass before she went on. “One afternoon , we were here in my old room, me getting ready for the night, him pacing like a caged animal and deep in his cups. He was frantically trying to make me agree or at least forgo the evening so we could ‘talk.’ I was so frustrated, he wouldn’t listen to me. Then he said that we’d go to Eisheth, then I’d have to marry him.”

Loir was aghast. “This is Terre d’Ange, not some Aragonian backwater!”

Mena laughed, “That is very close to what I said actually. I told him I had no interest in marrying him and even less interest in having a child with him. He flew into a rage, throwing the decanter of wine across the room. I think his words were ‘I paid for you, your marque came from my purse, you will do as I say or I’ll force you.”

Loir gasped so hard she choked for a moment. “What? A man from the land of Blessed Elua has that kind of attitude?”

Mena shrugged, “In the moment, I assumed he was just in one of his angry fits. I’d been seeing him as a patron since I was two years out of novicehood, I’d seen childish spoiled anger out of him before. I told him that the small amount of money he’d given me, as well as every other small thing about him, were never going to be enough for me to want to marry him, let alone leave my home.”

“Good, good for you. That is the only acceptable response to that. Well, that and a permanent ban from the House.”

“Mmm, absolutely true. He grabbed his coat, threw open the door, screamed that I’d see when he came back that I would do as I was told. He cursed me and my whole bloodline as he left. I collected myself and went to the salon as I’d planned. He was only one of my patrons. so I was upset and rattled, but I wasn’t crushed.”

Loir shook her head. “I forget that people are people, even when they’re blessed by Elua. I suppose it is true what the palace servants say; the ‘smaller’ the noble, the more trouble they bring.”

Mena laughed and ran a hand through her hair, using her fingers to comb out the knots she found. “I will say that I have found that to be completely true, particularly of the men. The women,” she shook her head from side to side, “They’re a dice roll honestly. So, I assumed Kyrie would be back in the morning, but he never came. News of the Dowayne’s death came and I took over. For months, maybe even a year, I would receive unmarked packages full of dirt, dead things, fish heads, dead roses, that kind of thing, but still no sign of him. Eventually those stopped and the next thing I know, months and years passed with no word. Then he shows up like you saw, wanting to reconcile.”

She snorted. “I will never understand where he keeps his audacity. I spoke kindly but firmly to him, reminding him of what I said when he was last here. He took it worse if possible. He threw money at me, called me common trash with delusions of importance, said that he was the best I’d get, particularly now at ‘my age,’ and that he couldn’t believe I was still ‘ungrateful’ after what he did for me.”

With a heavy sigh, she poured more wine into both of their glasses. “So I had him removed and turned over to the guards. Nathaniel and Jacovy made sure to tell the guard that he implied he’d murdered his father, the late Comte.”

Loir shook her head. “Do you think he did it?”

Mena shrugged, “I wouldn’t put it past him, particularly since he came back after all these years like no time passed. No matter though, I am sure he’ll be banned from the Night Court grounds. I passed the report of his behavior on to the other Houses yesterday.”

She leaned back and stared at the now risen moon for a long moment. “So that is the story of why your Dowayne stopped taking patrons. And that’s just the highlights, it is a long story. And one I’m glad is through. The future can begin when the Sun King arrives.”

The two sat in silence, Mena thinking about how much of her life Kyrie had stolen, Loir trying to think what to say. The silence stretched, but never became uncomfortable.

After a long while, Loir finally spoke. “Is that why you chose Love for our theme?”

Mena looked over at her and smiled. “Of course! We are Love, we bask in it, we are devoted to it alone, we should show that to the world.”

Loir reached over the table and took Mena’s hand in hers, “We will. And may Naamah’s hand bless you very soon, Mena.”

Storyline: A New Bloom

The laying in had been the longest eight weeks Aliks had ever had to endure. Her mother had come to Cereus house to stay and “assist” and, between her and Petrea’s hovering, Aliks was at her wits’ end. The truth was, she had not lived with her mother since she was ten years of age and though she loved her dearly, they simply were not suited for sharing close quarters.

But alas, the long period of laying in bed and having her work done for her was over and she found it splendid to be back on her feet. Petrea and AImee were still doing the lion’s share of the day to day running of the house, and would continue to do so for several months. The larger duties, such as contracts and legal matters, however had been returned to her.

As was customary, the babe slept in her quarters and would stay there for the first several months of his life. After, he would be moved into the nursery to be raised with the rest of the house children.

Aliksandria nó Cereus walked into the Temple of Naamah on a cool winter morning holding her son wrapped in blankets of Cereus blue. The whole of Cereus House was in attendance, to welcome a babe into their fold. Mandrake House had also chosen to come in its entirety, in honor of the boy’s father. In addition the Dowaynes of Eglintine, Dahlia, Heliotrope, Valerian, and Orchis Houses were present as well.

Aliks looked down at her son, with his hazel eyes and dark curls and knew that he would never belong to her house. Just as her mother had, she would have to see her son leave for another house at ten. This was the way of the Night Court and she would not gainsay it.

When she reached the altar, the priestess of Naamah smiled and picked up a pot of honey.

“Naamah is always honored when her service and worship brings forth new life.” the priest said loudly to the gathered crowd. She then dipped her index finger into the pot of honey and wiped it gently on the babe’s lips. “Know that you are a child of Naamah, and that your life and person bring her joy. Know that you shall always find solace in her arms.” She dipped her finger into the pot again. Aliks opened her mouth and allowed the priestess to place the honeyed finger on her tongue. “And so, Naamah’s Servant, what shall you name your child?”

Aliks had thought long and hard about this. Her first instinct was to name the boy after his father, but she could not do that. When she thought the name Waldemar, she wanted only to think of her lover and no one else. Next she considered naming him after her father, but still that did not seem to fit him. Her father was serious and composed, and even though he was but an infant, she could see the mischievousness in him. But finally, she had chosen a name that did seem to fit. She, like so many children, had grown up reading Hellene works, and she was ever fond of the old tales. So with a smile she looked at the priestess and said, “If it please Naamah, I present my son, Patroclus.”

The priestess nodded with a smile as the crowd cheered.

That afternoon, after Patroclus had been laid down for a much needed nap, Aliks sat in the great hall with the friends who had attended the dedication.

“Such an interesting choice of a name,” Amara said. “Did Waldemar choose it?”

Laughing, Aliks said, “No, in fact we only ever discussed names for girls. He was so certain that if he ever had a child it would be a girl that we never considered boy names.”

“Then why a Hellene name?” Mena asked.

“Did you ever read the Hellene poem of the great war with Troy? The one that ended with them building a large wooden horse?” Mena nodded. “It was Waldemar’s favorite story, he used to read it to me some time when I went to Mandrake House. The hero of the story is Achilles, and Patroclus was his lover. The loss of Patroclus is what spurs Achilles to fight. It changes him forever, just as my loss has forever changed me.”

Xixilya put an arm around Aliks, hugging her, “What if the child was a girl, what did Waldemar want to name her?”

“If he had been a girl, Waldemar wanted to name her Jehanne, he thought it was a beautiful name..”

“Oh, I like that,” Aimme responded. “ I think when I have a child I will use that name, in his memory.”

Petrea smiled. “Oh Aimee, that may be years from now.”

Aimee responded, “Even so.”

Aliks’ son may not bear his father’s name, but clearly Waldemar would be long remembered by those who knew him.

Storyline: The Harvest Scythe Festival

The quiet excitement of the anticipation had filled the entire day in the Night’s Doorstep. Gourds had been carved and were now hung from the eaves of buildings, candles alight inside them, to light the way through the streets. Children had pressed their faces to the windows of the homes and businesses that had spent hours cooking, but they had resisted the urges to sneak tastes. They wanted to be ready for the communal feast that evening!

The harvest festival of Steward’s Eve was in celebration of the Good Steward, the angel Anael. Taking place at the final harvest of the season, it was a time to ensure everyone had enough food to last the cold months and a time to remember the gifts that Anael had given to the people of Terre D’Ange. It marked the end of the autumn and the beginning of the final stretch of days before the Longest Night. Initially a folk festival out in the countryside, it had been adapted for the City of Elua by the commonfolk that still found meaning in the celebration of community and caretaking. Neighborhoods across the City of Elua were gathering together for the communal banquet and revelries, but none of the neighborhoods did it better than Night’s Doorstep.

It was a chance for the lower classes of Terre D’Ange to have their fun. The nobles and royals all had their grand celebrations and balls and events. Steward’s Eve was for the everyday people, the people that worked with their hands and toiled in the field and cared for the animals. This was their day.

Once the work of the day was over, families worked to finish their preparations. The gourd lanterns were lit, the red and orange ribbons were tied off to represent the changing leaves, the roads and alleys were freshly swept. Night’s Doorstep was transformed. However seedy some people said it looked in the daylight, it was aglow now as the sun lowered. Bathed in golden light and dressed in autumn colors, it was a mystical place. Out in the countryside, the entire village would be decorated and there would be gourd lanterns lining the way to the fields and pastures. In the City, they did the best they could.

The people who lived in Night’s Doorstep all gathered outside the Cockerel. A young Tsigani boy scrambled up the side of the building to perch on the roof to measure the sun. Mothers held tightly to their younger children, they weren’t old enough yet to participate in the Reaping, much as they may want to. The older children and the youths all took bets, baiting each other and bragging about how long they would last.

“I’m going to make it all the way through the whole sunset!”

“You will not! I am faster than you, they’ll catch you before they ever catch me!”

“Look! Look, they’re coming!”

The crowd quieted as they heard the pan pipes and bells coming down the street. A small procession came toward them, five figures dressed in patches like scarecrows. A few of them tumbled along, rolling and cartwheeling while the others shook their staves wrapped in bells.

They gathered underneath the eaves of the Cockerel, their faces covered in blank wooden masks. A few of the braver children reached to try and touch them and the Harvest Men contorted themselves and shook their bells to scare the children away. A few of the smaller children hid in their mothers’ skirts, hiding their faces so the Harvest Men wouldn’t see them.

But the five Harvest Men turned their masked faces up to where the Tsigani boy was watching the sun sink toward the horizon. The crowd quieted, an anticipatory hush falling over them as they too waited. If he felt any nerves at the attention of the entire neighborhood on him, he didn’t show it. He had an important job to do and he would do it. Their own kind of horologist.

When the sun disk touched the horizon, he pulled the horn from his belt and blew it before bellowing, “Run!”

Shrieking in delight, the children and youths scattered. Pelting into the alleys and side streets, they ran as fast as they could away from the tavern. And, a bare minute later, the Harvest Men followed, racing after them.

In the countryside, this chase would happen through the fields that had just been harvested, the Harvest Men chasing the children and young adults through the winnowed chaff and empty vines and through the empty boughs of the orchards. In the City, they adapted to the alleys and streets instead.

They had the entirety of the sunset, the entire time it took for the sun disk to sink and for the light to fade, to evade the Harvest Men. Several of the Adepts and novices of the Night Court crowded on the balconies of their Houses to try to watch the Reaping, some of them fondly remembering the Steward’s Eve celebrations of their childhood.

Rosanna leaned on the windowsill of her Dowayne’s office, looking down at the lanterns and laughter in the streets of Night’s Doorstep and remembering the celebrations from her childhood. Autumn in Eisande was usually more temperate than in other, more northern, reaches of the country. The leaves changed color later than in other provinces. Nights turned cooler deeper into the season. Yet the harvest still came on time. It had to, or else the food stores would not be ready in time for winter.

Rosanna had not experienced a harvest festival in her home province for several years. Being so ensconced in the city for her House duties, this was just a fact of life now. However, as she watched the chase of children and Harvest Men from her window, she remembered what it was like.

Her father’s seat was the manor and estate of Oraisson. Comte Baphinol was expected to oversee the feast and reaping of those who tended his lands. When each of his eight children were old enough, he brought them along too. Rosanna could still see the festival tent erected by their tenants. The homemade decorations, the whole village pitching in to fill the community table. Costumed farmers pranced about like living scarecrows and young people danced with red and gold garland. Papa had made the rounds, speaking to the community leaders and showing his children how the farmers made their living. How their efforts ensured the grapes and lavender the Baphinol family were so proud of grew strong enough to process into wine and perfume.

In their lands, it was tradition for the head of the family to present the villagers with a gift. When Rosanna attended for the first time, the gift was a barrel of sweet red wine. Papa made a speech and then had her eldest sister, heir to Oraisson, hand the wooden tap over to the village elder so that the party might commence. One day would be her duty to oversee the festival and this was good practice.Rosanna remembered her childish mind thinking that she’d much rather be sneaking into the sweets than making speeches.

In the present, she had ordered a cask of her father’s wine for the occasion, specifically for those who tended and cooked and cleaned, ensuring Valerian House was always at its best. Her own way of continuing that tradition.

As Corrian watched the sun descend from her balcony in the palace she could not help but remember the Steward’s Eve festivals back in Borlean. The palace was too far from the Night’s Doorstep for her to see or hear the children run in the Reaping, but she could imagine it was much like the Reapings back home.

As the only daughter of the Comte de Borlean, she had not been allowed to participate in the children’s game, but she had loved to watch it nonetheless. After the Reaping, her parents would open the hall to the crofters and farmers and a feast was laid that did not end until dawn. It was at one such feast as a young woman that she had met Raul.

Raul was a crofter’s son and, at 16 years of age, was working the fields alongside his father which gave him a build that the young lanky lords in the city could only dream of. On Steward’s Eve, the village did not stand on ceremony with regard to rank, and it was just this lapse in rules that gave him courage to approach Corrian.

Corrian found his rough manners and dry language enchanting. He was different from the lordlings her mother had tried to convince her to court. He boasted joyfully about how he had made it through the Reaping untouched and she giggled at his antics. The horologist was calling midnight when she led him by his hand into her room, and his father asked no questions when he returned to his cottage well past dawn the next day with a smile and a secret on his lips.

It had been a fun little affair, the sort young people are wont to find themselves in, but autumn turned to winter and winter to spring. With the seasonal changes came the end of their tryst. By the next Steward’s Eve, Corrian’s mother was in the True Terre d’Ange That Lies Beyond and Raul was courting the daughter of the village baker. They would be married within the year and currently had no fewer than four children of their own.

Corrian took a sip of wine as she remembered the rush of first love and first loss.

The shrieking laughter of the Reaping echoed through the streets and alleys of Night’s Doorstep, fending off the chill of the night with the warmth of laughter and fun. And food. For after the Reaping was finished, the horn sounding again to signal the end of the sunset, the people of the Doorstep gathered in the open space by the Cockerel where the tables had been lain with the feast. Every household had contributed a little something and the table was heavy with the fruits of the season.

Fruits, roasted vegetables, stews, roasts, breads, meat pies, fruit pies, vegetable pies, sausages, cakes, baked apples, bowls of punch, barrels of beer and wine.

Night’s Doorstep celebrated long into the night, until Steward’s Eve gave way to the morning, in the cyclical nature of all things. Night gives way to day, Autumn gives way to Winter, and the days grow shorter and shorter as the City turns its eye towards the Longest Night.

Storyline: The Queen Diaries

“It can’t have been all that bad, now can it?” Odillia said as she ran the brush through Corrian’s hair. The new queen purred and leaned back against Odilia.

“It feels like it sometimes. I wasn’t raised to be a queen, I was barely raised to be a noble lady. The pressure is considerably more than I expected.”

“Then tell me, what happened today that caused you to come running into my chambers in tears?”

Corrian had overslept, which wouldn’t be a problem normally, but the delegation from La Serenissima was arriving that day, and she had a full schedule of events to attend to. When her maid attempted to rouse her for the third time that morning, she grumbled many curses about ancestors doing foul things with donkeys before she leverred herself somewhat upright.

After Corrian washed face a bit too hard, her maid (who by now knew everything was behind schedule and was unfairly being held responsible for the delay) selected a green gown and began to dress the queen. Corrian was trying to sit still while being laced into her stays, but her late morning meant she had missed breakfast and was now hungry, so when the youngest maid entered with a tray of food, she nearly lunged at it. That is when she heard the rip.

It was entirely her fault, to be sure, but the dressing maid was now in tears, holding the lacing that had ripped through the eyelets. The stays were ruined. Corrian tried to comfort the maid but she was already being shooed out of the room by the senior ladies maid. A new set of stays were quickly found, but this only increased the delay already present.

Once she was fully dressed, her very impatient butler began to hurry her out of her rooms. As she passed the food tray, she snagged one more turnover.

She was shoving the last bite of turnover into her mouth when she found herself at the door to the audience chamber. Walking in, she saw that Gustav was already inside and talking to whom she could only assume were the dignitaries from La Serenissima. She walked up to her husband with a smile only to be met by odd looks from the three Cardicci men next to him.

“Hello, dear,” Gustav said, bending to give her a peck on the cheek. As he did so he whispered, “You have crumbs on your skirt.”

Corrian’s eyes grew wide with shock, and she looked down to find that, yes, her husband was correct, she was wearing her breakfast. She quickly tried to brush them off as best as she could, all the while noticing Gustav’s cheek twitching in suppressed laughter.

To their credit, the other men pretended not to notice any of it.

The talks today were just preliminary, no actual politics or trade would be discussed until later in the week, but this was Corrian’s first time meeting foreign dignitaries as queen, so she was a bit on edge. To his credit, Gustav seemed to sense this and stood by her side the whole day.

It was also customary for royals and ambassadors of all nations to go on a hunt during political visits. Unfortunately, no one told this to Corrian.

“I am looking forward to the boar hunt tomorrow,” Giuseppe Petrei said to another Sarrenisiman in Caerdicci.

“A hunt?!?” Corrian blurted out in D’Angeline, looking with pleading eyes at her husband. That was when Gustav realized no one had told Corrian. He knew his wife hated hunts, she despised the idea of any killing to be honest. She hadn’t even eaten meat since she was a child and saw the crofter’s at her father’s estate butcher a pig. “You cannot be serious!”

“Of course we are serious,” said Dario d’Angelo. “Everyone knows that Terre d’Ange hosts the best boar hunts.”

Corrian turned to look at her husband, her face white as a sheet. “It is customary,” he said gently.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty, I feel unwell,” she said, then hurried back to her room.

Corrian did not join the group for dinner, instead requesting a tray to be sent to her room. After she had finished her meal, her ladies maid (who by now she had thoroughly apologized to for the events of the morning) helped her draft a note to the king.

I am in need of Odillia’s service this evening. I apologize that you will not find either of our beds available to you.

-C

Odilia hummed quietly, continuing to stroke Corrian’s auburn hair soothingly after the queen had finished divulging the events of the day.

“I see,” she said finally, rising only to refresh the incense before she returned to the chaise where the queen had draped herself in her agony. Odilia settled herself on the end of the chaise and Corrian squirmed herself around to rest her head in her Royal Companion’s lap. Odilia rested her hand on the other woman’s shoulder as she considered this – what she knew about Corrian, what she knew of Gustav, and what she knew of responsibility.

“You know,” she said softly, “when Gustav first came to Dahlia’s salon and spent his first night with me, we did not fall to bed as so many would expect. We sat up the whole night, just talking. He told me so many things about the weight of the responsibility that his brother bore, how he never begrudged his elder brother being the Dauphin because he saw how heavy the title weighed upon him and how much he needed to do to prepare. We just talked about duty and responsibility and court. And when the sickness took the Dauphin, when Gustav was lifted overnight to become the next king of Terre D’Ange, he came to me again. And we spoke again.”

“I did not know that,” Corrian said, her eyes half closed as Odilia’s voice washed over her.

“Few do. But I have already advised one ruler, and in this the teachings of Dahlia House serve well. Naamah bestowed herself like a queen, and adepts of Dahlia House spend their entire lives searching for that same regal presence and royal air. It will not come overnight, Corrian, and it lives in each of us differently.”

“Easy for you to say,” Corrian said, a little petulantly. “You are a Dahlia. You are the Dahlia. It looks so easy when everything you do is regal.”

“Comparison will do you no good,” Odilia chided gently. “I was raised in Dahlia House as a child. You are learning now what I have spent a lifetime studying. But at the end of the day, you are the Queen of Terre D’Ange. Outside of these rooms, no one need know how overwhelmed you are. No one will know unless you show them. And they will be testing you, everyone will be.”

Corrian pressed her cheek against the soft fabric of Odilia’s skirt, squeezing her eyes shut as though that would make the troubles go away.

“A queen does not hide,” Odilia’s voice said above her, her fingers finding Corrian’s chin and turning her face back up. “The best way a queen can serve her people is to be honest and true. About herself, about who she is. You are the queen, not anyone else. Be true to yourself first and foremost and, at the end of the day, they will respect you for it.”

Looking up into the courtesan’s dark eyes, Corrian found herself nodding.

“Will you…” she sat up so she could look into Odilia’s face, woman to woman, equal to equal, “Will you help me?”

“Your Majesty,” Odilia said, a tiny glint in her eye, “you have named an adept of Dahlia House as your Royal Companion. I would say it is quite clearly my job to do so.”

Corrian couldn’t stop the little giggle from bubbling free, and she thought to herself that if she was able to laugh about it, perhaps the road ahead wouldn’t be so difficult. Especially since she wasn’t walking alone.

Storyline: Negotiations

The footmen were no longer surprised to see the Second of Dahlia House approaching the King’s private study, not now that all the city knew how dear she was to the King’s heart. Certainly not now that she had the ring on her finger. They merely bowed her through the door with a brief introduction. “Lady Dahlia.”

Gustav looked up from behind his impressive mahogany desk—a desk that had seen so many generations of kings and queens—and brightened with a delighted smile. “My heart!”

She could not stop the smile from flickering across her face—he was ever so endearing, especially now he was able to be more open about his affection. But she had come here for business, so she refocused and commanded the footman, “Send a page for the queen.”

“At once.” The footman bowed and withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.

And Odilia watched Gustav wilt slightly, his brows pinching together as he said, “Sending for Corrian? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter,” she said, circling the desk to let him clasp her hand and kiss it. “But there is business to tend to.”

“This is a business visit?” He continued to wilt, and she loved that he trusted her so deeply that he was willing to show her his more emotional side. Even if the King of Terre D’Ange was pouting slightly. “Not a visit because you love me so dearly you cannot be without me?”

“Two things can be true,” she said, kissing his temple and letting her perfume surround him for a moment, “but I have come for business, Your Majesty.”

He pulled a face, hearing his royal title from her lips and glared half-heartedly at her as she pulled away to settle herself in one of the chairs set before the great desk.

“You are sure you are not here to save me from my paperwork?”

“The bane of royals everywhere,” she said drily.

Corrian was seated with some prospective ladies-in-waiting when the page found her, and she was so grateful for the interruption of what had to be the most pointless gossip and needlepoint session that she could have kissed the page. She excused herself from the noblewoman, who curtsied extra low to try to win some approval, and let the page escort her to the king’s private study.

Odilia did not rise as the queen entered, merely smiled as Corrian exclaimed, “Odilia, you don’t know what horrible tedium you have rescued me from. Gustav, excuse me as I kiss your mistress.”

Odilai accepted the kiss, smiling into it easily as the queen cupped her face with both hands. When they parted, she looked up at the auburn-haired woman and said, “Careful what you thank me for, I came for business, not pleasure.”

Unknowingly following in the footsteps of her husband, the Queen of Terre D’Ange pouted. “Well, that’s hardly fun.”

“Nevertheless, it is necessary.”

Corrian flounced down into the other chair and blinked balefully at Odilia before looking at her husband. He took a deep breath and said, “Very well, Odilia, we are both here. What is your business?”

“We must negotiate the terms of your long-term contract for my services,” Odilia said evenly, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. “You have named me Royal Companion and Official Mistress, you have declared for all the world that there is an understanding in your marriage that allows for me in your lives, but now we must clarify those terms in accordance with the governance of the Court of Night Blooming Flowers. You will have to file a contract at Dahlia House officially. Dowayne Jocaste has allowed some grace for the celebration of your wedding and the first weeks of marriage, but we cannot put this off any longer.”

Corrian pressed her lips together and nodded. “Yes, it’s true. It was only a matter of time. Very well, let us discuss.”

Gustav was slightly more petulant. “Odilia, I have waited for years to have you officially in my life, I do not care what the contract says, I will give you the world if you like. What does the paper matter?”

“It must be done properly so that no one can use it against us,” she said firmly.

“I agree with Odilia,” Corrian said, smoothing the skirts of her gown. “We must do it properly, in all accordance with tradition and regulation. This is the manner of things. I do not want someone to call into question my place in our marriage or on the throne because you are keeping your mistress in clear favoritism. What terms have you already prepared, Odilia?”

“I want official chambers in the palace,” Odilia said easily. “It is my right as Mistress and Companion both.”

“Easily done,” Corrian said with a nod. “I will even ensure you have a say in the decor as the household prepares them.”

“I want a clause protecting my right not to light a candle to Eisheth,” Odilia continued, watching Gustav. “The choice is mine, as it is my body, however I do not want to have a child and begin a succession crisis, or take any power from whatever children the two of you have.”

“A matter we have already spoken about,” Corrian said, also glancing at her husband. “I think that is agreeable to us.”

“Finally,” Odilia said, “I want to discuss with you both the expectations regarding my service as an adept of the Night Court. I am Second of Dahlia House, I cannot leave that behind me. I have responsibilities to my House and to Mont Nuit to help lead. There are also the expected duties of the Servant of Naamah to serve in the art of pleasure. I want to be clear about expectations now that I have been named to your households as Royal Companion and official Royal Mistress.”

“Exclusivity,” Corrian put it together. “You want to know if you are expected to serve just us or if you are to continue taking other patrons.”

Odilia nodded. “Just so.”

Corrian knew better than to answer this. This was an answer only Gustav could give. Her teeth closed thoughtfully on her bottom lip as she turned to give her husband her full attention.

Gustav looked torn, the furrow deepening in his brow as he finally whispered, “I have always known I would share you. With Dahlia, with the Night Court. I…I never felt like I had the right to ask you to be anything but who you are.”

“But now you do,” Odilia said quietly. “Our agreement now has changed that. If you wanted to, you had the right to ask me to share my bed with only you. Or you and your wife. This is what I truly came here to discuss. The other clauses are important and there are other arrangements that will need to be made with the treasury and with the documentation of the contract with Dahlia, but this is where the paths ahead split. Am I yours and only yours? Do I remain an adept of the Night Court, with all that entails? What is it that you want?”

“I want you,” he said, his fingers tracing the texture of the embroidery on his doublet. “That’s all I have ever wanted, was you.”

“If I may,” Corrian spoke up, “I have a thought as to how we could use this to our benefit.”

Tucking a lock of auburn hair behind her ear, she leaned forward slightly in her chair and said, “All of the country knows Odilia is a Servant of Naamah and a member of the Night Court. Now they know how close she is with us. I am sure even before the marriage question rose, there were those who came to Dahlia House just to sample what had caught the prince’s eye.”

“I seem to remember you being one such,” Odilia said wryly.

“So I know what I am talking about,” Corrian said with a smile. “But think of it, now all of the royal court will see her and know her as ours. They will scheme, nobles always do, and how better to help us keep an eye on the temperature of the court, than our very own spy? Our very own Phèdre.”

Odilia’s brows lifted.

“If she is still free to take patrons, if we do not limit her with exclusivity, think about how they will fall over themselves to try it, to try to prove our bond is tenuous, to try to sow discord.” Corrian’s eyes were bright with the thrill of it. “We challenged them when we named her Companion and Mistress, there will be plenty who will rise to the challenge of it. If she is kept to us and us alone, we lose that chance.”

Odilia glanced at Gustav. He seemed contemplative, considering this.

Finally, his eyes lifted to look at her, and she watched the walls crumble slightly as he admitted, “I have wanted you as mine for years, Odilia. I had selfishly thought that with the new arrangement, you would be. Yet, I am torn. The king in me sees the merit of what Corrian says. But…the remnants of my younger self in my heart wants you for mine. What should I choose? The romance that would place Elua’s precept first? To love you and love you as mine? Or the king that must make the decisions that will serve the crown and country? It is hardly fair.”

“It is not,” Odilia agreed quietly. “But it is the choice ahead of us.”

He got up from his desk and paced to his window, hands clasped behind his back as his head bowed to think. Odilia watched him. He had aged so much even in these last few years. He was still young yet, not even in the fourth decade of his life, and she could see the start of silver at his temples.

“Very well,” he said at last, sounding weary. “I will not ask for exclusivity. I will, however, ask for transparency. When you are approached by potential patrons, I want to know who they are before you take them to bed.”

Odilia nodded. That was easy to give.

There was something slightly bitter in Gustav’s voice when he said, “I am sure the Duc de Chalasse will be pleased that he has not lost you either.”

Corriana glanced at the courtesan. It was only because she was looking that she saw the flicker of pain in the corners of her eyes before her face returned to the serene mask of all adepts of the Night Court. It was easy for the young king to feel threatened by someone like Roland de Chalasse, established and powerful as he was. To have the same man also enjoying the favor of the woman Gustav loved? It could very well breed some dangerous resentment.

“Will you tell him yourself?” Gustav asked quietly, clearly ready to hear the worst.

“No,” Odilia said calmly, rising to her feet. “He will find out with all of the rest of them. After the contract is signed.”

She gave a small curtsy to the king that also included the still seated queen and said, “I will return in a few days with a representative of the Night Court to discuss final details and draw up the details of the contract. Excuse me, Your Majesties.”

Only once Odilia was gone did Corrian rise and cross to her husband, laying a hand on his arm and looking up into his sad face. “Gustav, you could have asked her to be yours. You had that right.”

“No, I didn’t,” he said softly. “I couldn’t limit her.”

“She would have done it. For you, she would have done it.”

“I know,” he said, blinking away the tears glittering in the corner of his Courcel blue eyes. “I hoped that when we made our arrangement, that it would have changed something. But I know who she is, I can’t make her change that. It was the dream of a romantic, lovesick boy. I need to be the king I am now. That means making the choices that will break my heart, for the good of the crown. She told me that, years ago, as we talked through the night. All I can hope for now is balance.”

“You’re not alone,” Corrian reminded her husband softly, resting her head on his shoulder. “I know the love you have for me is different than what you have for her, but I am still here.”

“I know,” he said, sliding his arm around her waist and resting his cheek on the top of her head. “Thank you, Corrian.”

“You’re welcome, Gustav.”