Lambert watched the last of them file out of the parlour, gave himself to the count of ten, then crossed to the drinks cabinet.
The paper sat exactly where his cousin had left it, tucked behind a decanter of brandy. Alexisoix had checked his pocket three times during the final minutes of the meeting, patting the fabric, bewildered, certain he’d misplaced something vital.
He still hadn’t noticed.
Lambert palmed the paper and unfolded it by the window, where the light was adequate and his back was to the room.
Dock routes. The Bassin-de-Marne in careful strokes, warehouses marked precisely, by someone who understood that cargo moved on schedules and schedules moved on considerations best left unspecified. Tidal notations. Berth assignments.
And there, in the corner, faded but unmistakable: the ship-and-anchor of Freight Expectations.
His fingers stilled on the paper’s edge.
A date fragment survived in the margin, smudged but legible. -778.
Presumably 1778. Lambert cast his thoughts back.
Fire in the sky. The great shadow descending on Notre Reine, wings blotting out the Pendulum’s light. Fire on the roofs. People in the street screaming. A child crying for her mother.
Lambert shook himself out of reverie, returning the memory of the dragon attack to his mental archives. He’d been fresh from his seminary orders and greener than he’d ever admit. The Inquisition’s curriculum had covered heresy, apostasy, and the proper filing of ecclesiastical complaints in triplicate. It had not, notably, covered dragons.
He’d been sixteen when the dragon came. He had been seventeen when he signed the arrest warrant.
He remembered the arrest of the youngest Beaumont boy. What had been his name? Julian? Julius? The name resolved in his mind’s eye: Julius Beaumont, inscribed in careful ecclesiastical script on the arresting warrant. Signed, at the bottom, by his own hand.
He folded the paper into his coat.
He remembered bringing the boy in himself, because he could bring him in gently, and most others would not have. Julius had been nineteen and bewildered, insisting he had nothing to do with any egg, again and again, to faces that weren’t changing.
The evidence that had seen Julius convicted in ecclesiastical court had been so clear at the time. Documentation. Witnesses. The comfortable certainty of a case that fit together with suspicious neatness.
Lambert stared at the company logo.
Why would this make Alexisoix nervous? Why would it make him guilty?
He had never seen a subdued Alexisoix before.
Laila had drafted seventeen versions of the letter before admitting that the eighteenth would not be substantially better.
The challenge was not composition. Laila could compose correspondence in her sleep and had, on several occasions during particularly tedious diplomatic seasons, done precisely that. The challenge was calibration: how much to reveal, how little to concede, how to signal we know about your secrets without adding but we don’t know very much, please don’t flee the city.
Alexisoix had been making helpful suggestions for the past hour. His current offering involved a metaphor comparing Madame d’Amboise to a ‘star whose light had been too long absent from their firmament.’
“No,” Laila said.
“It’s evocative.”
“It’s purple. And it suggests we’ve been staring at her from a distance, which given the circumstances might not be the impression we wish to convey.”
Alexisoix subsided, though his fingers continued to tap out silent melodies on his lute strings. He had been uncharacteristically subdued since last night. Laila was not yet certain whether this was an improvement.
“You understand,” he said, rallying for another attempt, “that correspondence between noble houses operates on multiple levels simultaneously. The literal meaning. The implied meaning. The meaning conveyed by what is conspicuously not said. And,” he added with a flourish, “the meaning suggested by the quality of the paper itself.”
Laila set down her pen. “Alexisoix. I have been navigating Pharellian society since before you were born. I am aware of how letters work.”
“I was merely—”
“Being decoratively helpful. Yes. I had noticed.”
She reviewed the draft once more: polite, warm. Entirely devoid of useful information. It would not be enough to prompt a woman like Genevieve d’Amboise to venture out on a drizzly afternoon.
“We need to signal that we know,” Laila said. “Without saying what we know.”
Alexisoix leaned forward, suddenly interested. “A code?”
“Something she’ll recognise. Something that will tell her this isn’t merely a social call.”
“The Eclipse Society,” Alexisoix mused. “You could reference an eclipse. ‘The shadow that passed over our houses,’ that sort of thing.”
“Too obvious. And too ominous. I want her intrigued, not alarmed.”
“Then don’t reference the eclipse directly.” His fingers stilled on the strings. “Use the word itself. Bury it somewhere innocuous. If she was part of the Society, she’ll notice. If she wasn’t, it’s simply... an unusual choice of vocabulary.”
Laila considered this. “It has been far too long since your association with our family was pertinent,” she said slowly, testing the words, “and I would hate for time and distance to...”
“Eclipse,” Alexisoix supplied. “Eclipse the amity between our Houses.”
“With the capital E.”
“A minor error. The sort a careless scribe might make.” He smiled, the first genuine expression she’d seen from him all morning. “Or the sort a careful correspondent might leave uncorrected.”
Laila wrote the sentence, letting the E stand taller than it should. If Genevieve had truly been part of her husband’s secret society, she would see it. If she hadn’t, she would assume Laila employed scribes of questionable literacy.
Laila folded the paper and reached for the sealing wax. As she pressed the de Vaillant crest into the cooling wax, she looked up.
“Phaedra,” she called. “I need you.”
The shadows near the far window shifted. What had been an arrangement of drapes and furniture resolved itself into a figure, stone-grey skin catching the lamplight as she stepped forward. Phaedra was a statue briefly permitted to walk: deliberate, fine golden veins tracing patterns across her face and hands.
Alexisoix’ lute produced a sound that no instrument should make.
? Phaedra’s wardrobe operated on a theory of camouflage. She had once spent an entire state banquet as a pillar, which was professionally satisfying and personally lonely.
“What are you doing there?”
“Household gossip travels quickly, madame. Something of significance occurred in the late Duke’s library last night. An attempt was made to poison—apologies, inebriate—both Legate Calderon and Countess d’Aubigne.” Phaedra’s tone remained utterly neutral. “I found it remarkable that no one saw fit to gently intervene with Monsieur Beaumont’s attempted conquest of someone so clearly adversarial to household interests.”
Alexisoix opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again.
“So naturally,” Phaedra continued, “I concluded that someone has been leaking family secrets. I chose to position myself here, discreetly, in case others came looking for more secrets in the place they would most likely find them.”
The silence lingered.
“You suspected a traitor,” Laila said slowly. “And your response was to lurk in my study without informing me.”
“I suspected a leak, madame. A leak and a traitor are not always the same thing. Carelessness can accomplish what malice intends.” Phaedra inclined her head. “And I could hardly inform you if you were the leak.”
Alexisoix made a strangled noise.
Laila regarded her spymaster. “And? What have you concluded?”
“That you have a traitor among you.”
Alexisoix’ brow furrowed. “But you just said—”
“What I suspect and what I conclude are two different things, Monsieur Beaumont.” Phaedra’s pale eyes settled on him. “Just as I observe that you seem rather tense as we discuss this conspiracy.”
“Wouldn’t you be,” Alexisoix managed, rallying with admirable if somewhat desperate speed, “if one of the city’s most beautiful women was telling society how dismal you are at making love?”
Phaedra’s expression didn’t change. “Surely you’re old enough to have outgrown the presumption that last night had anything to do with love.”
Laila let the smile settle. “You said there is a traitor among us. Then who?”
“Process of elimination, madame.” Phaedra’s tone shifted to something almost pedagogical. “It would have to be someone able to get close to members of the family. Someone trusted enough to be present during sensitive discussions. Someone positioned to observe comings and goings without attracting suspicion.”
“That describes half the household.”
“It describes precisely five people.” Phaedra began counting on stone-grey fingers. “Cedric. Divina. Percival. Ursula. Elariana.”
She had vetted the staff herself. This was not her first experience with intrigue. But given recent events... When did I stop trusting my own judgement?
“Cedric has been with this household since before I arrived,” she said slowly. “He served Alexios for years before that.”
“Which means either he is loyal beyond question, or the conspiracy embedded him long before you were in a position to detect it.” Phaedra’s pale eyes were unreadable. “He has his fingers in everything. If there is anyone positioned to have their business in everyone else’s business, it is the head of staff. That is either a point in his favour or a damning indictment. I cannot yet determine which.”
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“Divina?”
“Beloved by the household. Warm. Maternal. Trusted implicitly by everyone from the scullery maids to Lord Maximilian himself.” Phaedra paused. “Which is precisely what a skilled infiltrator would cultivate. Affection is the most effective camouflage.”
Alexisoix shifted uncomfortably. “That’s rather cynical.”
“I am paid to be cynical, Monsieur Beaumont. Optimism is a luxury afforded to those who do not professionally anticipate betrayal.”
“Percival?” Laila pressed.
“Took a knife for Lord Maximilian three years ago. The household considers him unimpeachable on that basis.” Phaedra tilted her head. “Though I would note that a willingness to suffer injury proves commitment, not necessarily to which cause. A truly dedicated agent might accept a wound to secure position.”
“You cannot possibly suspect everyone of everything.”
“I suspect everyone of everything, madame. It is the only reliable methodology.” Phaedra continued without pause. “Ursula has opinions about everything and everyone, voices them freely, and could not keep a secret if the Pontifex himself commanded it. These are not the qualities of a successful informant. If Ursula were the traitor, we would know, because she would have told us exactly what she thought of the conspiracy’s management whilst betraying us.”
Alexisoix snorted despite himself.
“That leaves Elariana.” Phaedra’s voice remained neutral. Her eyes did not. “She has always been difficult to read. Standoffish. Professional to a fault. She maintains precisely the kind of careful distance that could indicate either admirable discretion or something to hide.”
“You’ve just described yourself,” Laila observed.
“Yes.” Phaedra met her gaze without flinching. “Which is why I understand how effective such positioning can be.”
The silence stretched.
“The difficulty, madame, is this: whoever the traitor is, they would have to be exceptionally skilled at deception. They are operating in a household that has you in it, with all your capabilities for reading intention and motive. They have evaded your notice for years. That suggests either supernatural assistance or a level of tradecraft that exceeds anything I would expect from common agents.”
“Someone trained specifically for this.”
“Someone who understood exactly what they would be facing and prepared accordingly.” Phaedra inclined her head. “I will continue my inquiries. Discreetly.”
Laila held up the sealed letter. “Madame d’Amboise’s estate. Personally. Only she reads it.”
Phaedra took the letter. “I will begin looking into the traitor as well, madame.”
“You have my trust.”
Phaedra nodded once and disappeared through the door.
“That woman,” Alexisoix said, “could give lessons in unsettling entrances.”
“And exits.” Laila stared at the closed door. Someone close. Someone trusted.
She pushed the thought aside. For now, she had a Marquess to summon.
Madame Genevieve d’Amboise’s response arrived with suspicious swiftness. She would be imposing herself upon them that very afternoon.
The news would have struck the household like a thunderbolt, had thunderbolts been this loud.
Down in the kitchen, Ursula the chef received the news with all the grace of a kettle about to boil over. “Afternoon tea? At this hour?!” she roared, brandishing a ladle like an instrument of judgement. “Do they think the roast prepares itself? Scones and sandwiches when I’ve got a crown roast in the oven? It’s unnatural, that’s what it is!” Pots clanged, pans clattered, and the distinct scent of something singed wafted through the air as her kitchen erupted into organised chaos. Despite being blind and occupying a fair portion of the kitchen’s space, Ursula had an uncanny ability to detect anyone who did not belong in her domain. She could direct a ladle, or any nearby implement, at unwelcome visitors with unerring accuracy.
? Her approach to unexpected guests followed a philosophy she’d developed over decades: if you can’t solve a problem by shouting at it, you haven’t been shouting loudly enough. The kitchen staff were immune to this treatment. Ursula had long since catalogued them as part of the furnishings.
From the balcony overlooking the entry hall, Laila watched Cedric command the household commotion. He had, in all likelihood, survived worse. She was still. Either we’ve overplayed our hand, or we’ve poked something better left undisturbed.
Alexisoix leaned against the railing nearby, watching the chaos with an amused smirk.
“This is not a courtesy visit,” Laila remarked.
“Or...” Alexisoix added, “she’s testing us. Seeing how well we handle being caught off guard. It’s exactly what I would do if someone started tossing dangerous secrets into my correspondence.”
Laila turned to him, one eyebrow raised, her lips pressed thin. “What you would do,” she said icily, “is recline dramatically while drinking all my best whisky and then forget to send a reply altogether.”
They descended to the drawing room. It had the layout of an ambush and the refreshments of a social call.
From Laila’s vantage point, Madame Genevieve d’Amboise’s entrance was a salon portrait: political intrigue rendered fashionable. Her crimson silk gown was cut in the latest Pharellian style, with intricate gold brocade at the bodice and skirts; a dainty lace fichu softened the neckline, and a small crimson hat adorned with feathers and a delicate gold pin perched atop her jet-black hair, not one strand out of place.
Her arrival carried the faintest scent of rosewater and sandalwood.
Cedric greeted her with a bow, sheltering her under a black umbrella against the persistent drizzle, a gesture rarely offered to guests and a marker of her elevated status, in Cedric’s reckoning.
She was led to the drawing room, where the table groaned under a feast of intricacy: roast capon, quince tarts, candied fruits arranged in symmetrical rows that brooked no argument. Ursula had outdone herself; the shouting suggested the accolades would be posthumous.
Laila had taken precautions. Heavy curtains drawn, Cedric guarding the door, and Alexisoix’ lute playing aimlessly, enough to frustrate any servant with an ear pressed to wood.
Madame d’Amboise noticed. Madame d’Amboise said nothing. This was, in its way, the first exchange of the afternoon.
They observed the rituals of polite conversation: weather, fashions, the kingdom’s financial strains. Both women catalogued every detail with precision, each waiting for the other to show her hand.
Laila’s fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup, a gesture casual to anyone unfamiliar with her tells. “I’ve recently discovered aspects of Alexios’ work that were unknown to me,” she began, her tone measured. “Efforts aimed at containing a darkness threatening to consume the city from within.”
Genevieve’s expression tightened, though only fractionally. “Alexios was always diligent,” she replied smoothly. Laila gave her no room to continue.
“I’ve come to realise, Marquise,” Laila said, “that your relationship with my late husband was far more involved than I had previously suspected.”
Genevieve didn’t flinch, sipping her coffee with poise. “I hope, Madame,” she said with a smile, “that you are not suggesting any kind of infidelity on Alexios’ part. Our connection was purely professional, I assure you.” Her tone was silk over steel.
Laila arched an eyebrow. She reached into her bag and retrieved the same leather-bound journal found in Alexios’ chamber, borrowed with interest from Isabella. She placed it on the table. “This,” she said, “is—was—Alexios’ diary.”
Genevieve’s smile faltered for the briefest moment.
“He wrote about operations,” Laila continued. “Names. Dates. A chronicle spanning over twenty-five years, most of it in cipher. What we’ve decoded suggests he was tracking dragon cultists long before anyone knew there were dragon cultists to track.”
Genevieve set down her cup. “Alexios was not merely tracking them, Madame. He was fighting them. We all were.”
“The Eclipse Society.”
Genevieve’s composure flickered. “You know the name.”
“We found a painting. Six figures. Alexios among them.” Laila let that settle. “What we lack is context. The diary tells us what Alexios did. It does not tell us why, or what he was truly fighting against.”
“Then let me be plain.” Genevieve’s voice lowered. “Long before Aeloria attacked Pharelle a decade ago, we had confirmed that this city had been compromised by her influence. Even before Aurora’s or even Maximilian’s Emberlight. In fact, we had inklings before the Merovian Accords. The dragon cult had threaded itself through every institution in Pharelle. We know they have people in the Church, the nobility, and the merchant guilds. By the time Alexios and I found each other, we had each independently concluded that official channels were worse than useless. We did not know who was compromised.”
“As I understand it, they refer to themselves as the Vestal Covenant,” Genevieve added. “Though that is not a name you should use in public. Only insiders know it, and using it would give you away.”
Laila considered this. “You know of Aeloria’s attempts to style herself the immortal sun queen. I cannot help but draw comparisons to the fae queen Glorianna of Albion.”
“That is no accident.” Genevieve’s smile turned sharp. “Aeloria bears some jealousy of her and would have remained the Gallian Queen if she could. Her assault on Pharelle some years back was merely the most blatant of her moves, a result of losing her temper. She is long-lived, patient, cunning, and resourceful. For decades she has been securing the support of well-placed individuals.”
Laila’s fingers tapped once against her cup. “I’ve never understood why others follow her. What could possibly motivate them to forsake their own kind?”
“Fear doesn’t bind them. They’re driven by something far more seductive: the promise of immortality.” She let her statement sink in. “Aeloria’s followers are not merely loyal but vying for a chance at ascension. Each dreams of being chosen, of being reborn as an immortal dragonborn.”
“I do not understand,” Alexisoix said. “She could simply make more of them—couldn’t she?”
“Dragons do not obey ordinary laws of nature,” Genevieve said. “She can produce only one egg at a time. And egg misdirects—they are crucibles. Designed to transform the mortal into something draconic.” She paused. “Each one requires her to invest a portion of herself into it. Until the rebirth returns that portion to her, she cannot make another.” She smiled thinly. “As you might imagine, the competition among her followers is fierce. The odds are roughly equivalent to a particularly fatal lottery.”
The room sat with the mathematics for a moment.
“The idea of stealing the dragon egg was indeed floated within the Society,” Genevieve admitted, her tone now as measured as a gambler counting chips. “Prelate Esteban practically shouted it from the rooftops. But several of us, including myself, Alexios, and Gawain, vetoed the plan. The five of us alone weren’t enough to make a direct confrontation against her viable.”
“And then the egg went missing. The Queen’s wrath was immediate and... dramatic.”
Alexisoix’ lute produced a sound that no instrument should make. He covered it with a cough.
Genevieve continued, her tone acquiring a conspiratorial edge. “I, for one, have long suspected that Esteban might have strategically dropped a few well-placed hints to certain members of the Church. Not out of carelessness, of course, but to provoke them into action when we ourselves hesitated.”
She sat back, satisfied at a very long and expensive punchline finally delivered. “This isn’t merely about power or influence, Madame,” she said, setting down her cup. “This is about something far grander, and far more dangerous. Aeloria’s agents are not merely loyal. They are ambitious and sometimes fanatical. Fanatical people,” she concluded with a pointed smile, “are rarely rational.”
“And now, the egg is gone again,” Alexisoix observed.
Genevieve nodded, her expression guarded. “Indeed. Someone, somewhere, discovered its new location and seized the opportunity to act whilst its defences were compromised. The motivations and identity of this thief remain a mystery, but since you have managed to uncover my long-hidden involvement, I hoped sharing this with you might yield insights I could not find myself.”
“Marquise, what can you tell us about the cult members currently in the city? I believe I have encountered one recently.”
Genevieve arched a meticulously shaped eyebrow. “Now that is an intriguing revelation; one I will demand a full account of later. The conspiracy numbers perhaps thirty individuals, most unaware of their ultimate allegiance. The grand prize—immortality—is promised to only five, each heading a cell. As for who leads them,” she added, her voice dropping, “two remain obscured even to me.”
“That, however, is not the gravest secret.” She leaned forward. “We believe one of these immortals—a dragonborn—is already in the city. They may have been here for over a century. Imagine what someone could accomplish with that much time.” She let that settle. “She is a dragon, after all. Over the centuries she has collected things: followers, titles. The ‘Sun Queen’ is merely one of them.”
“Marquise,” Laila began, “there is another matter. Alexios’ secret chamber.”
Genevieve’s cup paused halfway to her lips.
“We found a Dungeon portal,” Laila continued. “In our home. Three doors from the breakfast room.”
“Ah.” Genevieve placed her cup on the saucer. “So you know about the family tradition.”
“What I know is that my husband kept a gateway to the Umbra in our house without informing me. What I do not know is why, or what he was doing with it.” Laila’s voice carried an edge. “I am hoping you might enlighten me.”
Genevieve was quiet for a moment. “The Dungeon has been in your family for generations. A testing ground for de Vaillant heirs, or so Alexios told me. But he found another use for it.” She paused. “He discovered a weapon. Something that could be used against the Sun Queen. But whatever it was, he considered the cost too high. So he buried it at the bottom of the Dungeon, where he hoped no one would ever need to retrieve it.”
Laila set down her cup. The fire in the hearth made a small sound.
“And you thought it unnecessary to inform me of any of this?”
“Madame, there was one night where Alexios was furious and would not tell me why. He said something about ‘that bloody woman.’ Shortly after, Lambert appeared at your doorstep. And not long after that, Prelate Ramirez and Seraphina disappeared.” Genevieve’s gaze was steady. “I decided it was a prudent time to create some distance from your family and attend to my own affairs.”
Another silence followed, filled with Alexisoix’ lute.
“I wish I could tell you more,” Genevieve continued, “but I am not a Hero, and I have never set foot in the Umbra. My role was to ensure the city’s political class did not fall under the Sun Queen’s influence. The Dungeon was Alexios’ domain, not mine.”
“And what of the other members of the Society?” Laila pressed. “Where can I find them?”
“You have already found me, Madame. Connected strings to my name. I will not make it easier for you to find the others.”
“We are on the same side, Marquise.”
“Are we?” Genevieve’s smile was polite and unyielding. “Each of us has secrets. Those secrets must be kept safe from the Queen’s agents. If you are trustworthy, they will find you in their own time. If you are not...” She let the implication hang. “I will not be the one who led you to them.”
She rose, smoothing her crimson skirts, and gathered her reticule. The afternoon light had shifted, casting longer shadows across the drawing room.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Madame la Duchesse. Tread carefully, for every move you make is being observed by unseen eyes.” She paused at the door. “And some of those eyes belong to people you consider friends.”
The door closed behind her. Laila remained seated, the Marquise’s parting words settling like dust after a carriage departure.
Friends.
Alexisoix’ lute had gone quiet.