It was the sixth anniversary of her husband’s death.
Laila sat in her study, attempting to hold back both winter and the past through the work of her estate.
The frost kept winning. It clung to the tall windows in delicate patterns, fracturing the view of the grounds beyond into a jeweller’s display, every surface faceted with ice. The forecourt lay empty. It would not remain so for long.
Winter in Pharelle was beautiful enough to make cynics pause and cold enough to make optimists reconsider.
She looked to the horizon. The Pendulum was reaching the end of its western arc. “It’s getting late,” she tutted. Soon it would no longer catch the light of Agony, and would begin its return swing across the night, reflecting only the pale glow of Ecstasy.
She returned to the letter, managed three lines, and stopped. She wasn’t getting any work done.
She sighed at the voluminous desk around her, built for someone twice her height and none of her fur. A de Vaillant heirloom, human-scaled in every dimension. She had never so much as reached its centre. The chair, at least, was hers: custom ordered, designed to raise a spriggan matriarch to exactly the right height.
Tap, pause, tap-tap. Her fingernail marked a rhythm against the desktop, a habit she’d never managed to break.
Her eyes returned to her work but rested on the small portrait at the desk’s corner. Alexios, young and bright-eyed, golden as only humans could be golden, cradling a swaddled Maximilian in his arms. The painter had captured truth in his expression: pride, certainly, but beneath it a startled wonder. He couldn’t believe what he was holding.
Six years. The thought arrived uninvited, as it always did on these evenings. Six years of condolences curdling into curiosity. Of watching the children grow into spaces he left behind. Her thumb found the edge of the desk, traced a familiar groove. Some memories are safe to visit. Others have teeth.
Her gaze drifted back to the portrait, to Maximilian’s infant face. He had grown into those features well. At twenty-two, six years into his dukedom, he wore the title like one of his tailored coats: perfectly fitted, effortlessly displayed.
And while he performed, Laila handled the estate. The ledgers, the correspondence, the endless negotiations with creditors and suppliers and minor nobles who wanted favours. Maximilian was the face of House de Vaillant. Laila was the matriarch. She had built the role from nothing, brick by patient brick, in a household that had not been designed for her.
As she thought of her firstborn, she began to catalogue her children, gathered over the years. Lambert, who resembled his father the way a shadow resembles the thing that cast it, and who still refused to call her Mother. Isabella, the siren foster whom she cherished as her own and only daughter. And then there was Wylan.
Wylan had been up late last night on some ill-advised experiment. She stared at the fading light and made a mental note to make sure he was woken up on time.
She signed off another requisition order and set it aside.
Her hand found the brass handle of the second drawer. She unlocked it and pulled it open, as she did every year on this night. Inside sat a velvet case with a glass lid, exactly the right size and shape for the de Vaillant ducal signet ring. The depression where the ring once sat was empty, as it had been since the day he died.
She ran her thumb across the indent in the velvet. The case remembered the ring’s weight even if the world had forgotten where it went. She closed the lid carefully.
She hadn’t had the heart to tell Maximilian that the ring on his hand was a replica. One of several, in fact, which she had commissioned quietly through Laurent’s networks. Contingency planning is always tragic in retrospect. It means you were right to worry.
It was good enough to fool the court, though. She dreaded the day it needed to fool the King.
There was a knock at the door. Two sharp raps, then silence.
Phaedra!
She slammed the drawer shut and swore a curse before sucking her thumb.
“En-er,” she mumbled.
Phaedra entered the study. Stone-grey skin traced with fine golden veins, pale eyes that settled on Laila with the patience of centuries: a museum piece consulting with its diminutive curator.
She set a cup of tea on the desk without being asked. She always knew.
“Anything to report?” Laila wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.
“The Beaumont shipping dispute has escalated. Guillaume is threatening to pull his freight contracts unless the harbour master rescinds the new tariff.” Phaedra paused. “He won’t.”
“He never does.” Laila sipped the tea. “And the other matter?”
“Dragon cultists?” Phaedra’s tone was carefully neutral. “Nothing of substance. Not since Aeloria’s attack on Notre Reine. Ten years of silence.”
“Silence isn’t the same as absence.”
“No, Madame. But it is quieter.”
“And Aurora?”
“She seems remarkably healthy and happy for a two-year-old.” Phaedra let the silence do its work. “There has been no manifestation.”
“I swear, Phaedra, you’re deliberately trying my patience tonight.” She pushed back from the desk. “Have you found anything new about the nature of the curse?”
“Nothing beyond what we already know,” Phaedra conceded. “Aeloria’s gifts are not well documented, for obvious reasons.”
Laila stopped by the window. The light shall burn brighter than ever. And fire shall consume all you hold dear. Two years, and the words still sat in her chest like swallowed glass.
“Could it be just a prank?”
“A prank. From Aeloria, Madame?”
“Not a prank. I don’t know. A bluff? A hoax?” She was pacing now, three strides to the bookcase, three strides back. “For something so potent, we’ve found scarce test or information. I have to question whether it’s fiction.”
“The red streaks in your granddaughter’s hair suggest something happened.”
“That could be anything.”
“Indeed, Madame. After all, House de Vaillant is a house where every child is a Hero.” A beat. “Including some of the Beaumonts. Could be anything.”
“You’re being unhelpful.”
“I’m afraid I am unhelpful when dragons are involved.”
Laila stopped pacing. “What about the Church? They held her egg underneath Notre Reine for a year.”
“That was only a rumour, Madame, and the Church officially denies having any connection to her or her eggs.”
“A bit rich when the largest cathedral in the city bears her name.”
“Madame, Notre Reine is a bastion of Pharellian culture. You can hardly blame the Pharellians for taking pride in their cultural institutions.”
? Institutional denial, properly maintained, eventually becomes institutional fact. The Church of Invictus had elevated this process to a sacrament.
“What intelligence do we have on Aeloria herself?”
“The same as last year, Madame. She remains in the mountains of Auvergne, as she has since the attack. We occasionally hear rumours of her loyalists in some other parish or county, but that’s just it. It’s always somewhere else. We cannot determine their numbers.”
Phaedra turned a page in her report. “All I can tell you is what’s publicly known: the plot to place a changeling on the Sun Throne, and the Dauphin behind an Iron Mask. She covets the throne like few other things. She spent decades positioning that puppet before Valère exposed her.” She closed the folder. “She does not improvise, Madame. She cultivates. She is immortal and patient.”
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“She went from a peasant girl on a battlefield to the Sun Queen in a year, Phaedra. Gilded armour and a crown inside twelve months.” Laila stopped by the window again. “I think she’s capable of anything.”
“In other words, we know nothing useful.”
“We know she remembers your name, Madame. That is not nothing.”
Six years of pulling threads that led nowhere. The ring. The cult. The curse. None of it connected, and all of it felt like it should.
The frost had crept further across the window. The anniversary loosened old knots.
“You do get nostalgic on this night,” Phaedra observed.
Laila shot her a look. “I can’t tell if that’s an attempt at humour or an admonishment.”
“Madame, I would never attempt to be funny.”
And yet. Her ears lifted, just slightly. Pharelle’s most effective intelligence partnership, if I do say so myself.
Laila returned to her chair. “And who are the guests tonight?”
“We have Professor Thaddeus Eldermoore, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The Church is sending one Legate Calderon.”
“I don’t know that name.”
“Some minor official, it seems. But he was rather vocal in his criticism of your appointment of Lambert as the de Vaillant chaplain.”
“His Grace, Maximilian, appointed him. I merely provided counsel.”
“Of course, Madame.”
Minor officials now, is it? Does Alexios’s legacy fade so quickly?
“Wait. Is that all? Is the King sending Count d’Aubigne again?”
Phaedra shuffled through a set of letters. “He appears to be busy.”
“Then who?”
“It appears the Countess will attend in his place.”
“That bitch!”
“You know her, it seems?” Phaedra’s tone was carefully innocent.
“More by reputation than company.” She straightened in her chair. “And what about Monsieur Chevalier?”
“Laurent Chevalier’s carriage has been spotted on the northern road. He will arrive within the hour.”
“Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“You seemed to have other things on your mind.” Phaedra’s pale eyes flicked to the second drawer. “And my job is to draw out secrets, not rush them.”
Laila’s fingernail stopped its rhythm against the desk.
The ring. It had to be. She had retained Laurent specifically to trace Alexios’s missing signet through his networks, discreet enquiries that required a merchant’s connections rather than a noblewoman’s. Three months of searching, and now he was arriving early, unannounced, wanting time alone before other guests arrived.
Her ears flattened. Which means the news isn’t good.
She closed her eyes. One breath. Then the matriarch returned.
“The household isn’t ready,” she said.
“No,” Phaedra agreed. “Shall I delay him?”
Phaedra could arrange a thrown horseshoe, a confused gatekeeper, a dozen small obstacles that would buy time without ever appearing deliberate. She had done so before. She rather enjoyed it.
“No. Let him come.” Laila rose from her chair, smoothing her skirts. “Tell Cedric to begin preparations immediately. And once that’s done, gather the children.”
“Including Wylan?”
“Especially Wylan.”
Phaedra’s lips curved, the faintest suggestion of a smile. Wylan left to his own devices on an evening like this would either miss the dinner entirely or arrive trailing fumes and apologies. Usually both.
? The household maintained an informal ledger. Current odds favoured ‘singed but punctual’ at three to one.
“And I want to know what Laurent’s been doing for the past three months,” Laila added. “Everything your sources have.”
“The summary is on your desk, madame. Third folder from the left.”
Laila glanced down. So it was.
Phaedra inclined her head, and the door clicked shut behind her.
She had barely opened Laurent’s folder when the second knock came. A single rap, then nothing: a patient knock.
“Come in, Lambert.”
He closed the door behind him. His cassock was pressed, his hands clasped at his waist.
“Madame. I apologise for the hour.”
“You’re not sorry. What is it?”
“I need to speak with you before the dinner. Without Phaedra.”
Laila set down the folder. “She’s my spymaster. There’s nothing I know that she doesn’t.”
“I would have this compartmentalised regardless. It concerns the family directly, and it requires our attention, not hers.” He paused. “Besides. I don’t like her.”
Laila’s eyebrow rose. “You’ve never said so before.”
“She’s cold, aloof, and knows altogether too much about this family’s secrets.”
“You’ve just described yourself.”
“Yes. That’s why I don’t like her.”
“Go on.”
“The Inquisition arrested a dragon cult loyalist in Pharelle three days ago.”
“I just had confirmation from my own intelligence that the dragon cult remains inactive. You’re certain.”
“I conducted the interrogation myself. Under truth-telling, he confirmed operatives in both the Church and the Gallian aristocracy.”
“Did he give you names?”
“No. The cells are compartmented.” Lambert’s hand moved to his holy symbol, then stopped. “I have little beyond that, and ordinarily I would not bring you speculation.”
“But?”
“The guest list concerns me. Calderon is not a friend of this family. He is actively hostile. The question is who in the Church chose to send him to us for a deeply personal occasion.”
“And the rest of the list?”
“Having learned of Calderon’s appointment, I investigated. Imagine my concern when I discovered a substitution there as well. The Count replaced by his wife, at the last moment. The Countess is no friend of ours either. That is a pattern, Madame.”
“You think they’re connected?”
“Not three days after an arrest.”
Laila’s ears flattened. “That’s still circumstantial, Lambert.”
“Yes, Madame. That is precisely why I am approaching you and not the household. I would have us handle these guests with care and delicacy.” Lambert straightened. “We need not alarm the rest of the family today. This is our burden to bear.”
Laila rose from her chair and moved to the window. The frost had thickened since Phaedra left. “Why tonight? Of all nights.”
“If I were attempting a subtle infiltration of my enemy’s household, I might choose a night when grief colours judgement.”
Her thumb found the edge of the windowsill. A different groove than the desk’s, but the habit was the same.
“I wonder,” Laila said, “if that’s connected with Laurent arriving early.”
“Calderon is yours,” she said.
“And d’Aubigne is yours,” he said, at the same time.
Lambert inclined his head. It was a concession to a superior, not a mother.
“The others run interference,” Laila said. “They don’t need to know why.”
“That would be prudent.”
He turned towards the door.
“Lambert.”
He stopped, hand on the door.
“All these years,” she said. “And still ‘Madame.’“
“Always, Madame.”
Maximilian de Vaillant, seventh Duke of Pharelle, was making his daughter laugh.
Mirembe watched from the settee as her husband dangled a silk ribbon above Aurora’s reaching hands, his voice pitched to theatrical wonder. He always played harder on this night. “And what’s this? Could it be? A dragon? A terrifying ribbon-dragon come to devour tiny princesses?”
Aurora gurgled, delighted, grabbing for the ribbon with the fierce determination of the very young. She recently discovered that the world contained things worth seizing. A candle on the mantelpiece guttered as her small fist closed around the silk. Draughty room. Max let her catch it, gasping in mock defeat.
For a moment, before the performance, Mirembe caught it. The real expression. Max’s face, unguarded, watching his daughter’s fingers close around the ribbon. He looked like a man who had been given something he did not know how to put down.
Then the duke returned.
“She’s vanquished me, Cedric. Write it in the household records. The duke, felled by his own heir.”
“I shall note it immediately, Your Grace.” Cedric’s voice was dry as old paper, but Mirembe caught the fondness beneath it. The butler had known Max since boyhood; he’d probably witnessed a hundred such performances. “Shall I record the ribbon’s name for posterity?”
“Sir Ribbons the Brave. Obviously.”
Mirembe permitted herself a smile. Two years of marriage, and she was learning to watch for those moments before the performance began. In public, he was polished charm. In private, he was simply a young father drunk on his own daughter. She had married the charm. She was learning to love the man underneath it.
At least Laila gave me some pointers on that.
Greta, Aurora’s nursemaid, hovered nearby, waiting to reclaim her charge. She was a sturdy woman with kind eyes and a professional talent for being in the room without technically being in the room. Mirembe had chosen her carefully.
The door opened without a knock.
Mirembe registered Phaedra’s entrance before she fully saw it. The air shifted, a change in pressure, the vigilance that followed the gorgon wherever she moved. Cedric straightened almost imperceptibly. Max’s ribbon-play paused mid-flourish.
Phaedra filled the doorway without moving to enter it. Her pale eyes swept the room, taking inventory, before settling on Cedric.
“Laurent Chevalier’s carriage has been sighted. He arrives within the hour. Madame requires the household ready to receive him.”
Cedric was already moving, mental lists forming behind his eyes. “The dining room is set for eight. The candelabras—”
“Are being lit as we speak.” Phaedra’s gaze flicked to Max. “Madame requests the family gather. All of them.”
“Including Wylan?” Max asked, a note of weary amusement in his voice.
“Especially Wylan.”
Max handed Aurora to Greta in a smooth motion, the doting father vanishing beneath the duke’s composure. “Right. Percival!” He was already striding towards the door. “Percival, I need my evening wear. The charcoal, not the navy, and tell him to press the—” His voice faded down the corridor.
? Nobility is the art of moving at speed whilst appearing to do nothing of the kind. It shares this quality with swans.
Cedric followed in his wake, though his trajectory veered towards the servants’ stairs, already calling for the housekeeper.
Aurora fussed briefly at the loss of her ribbon-dragon, but Greta produced a wooden rattle from somewhere and the crisis was averted. The nursemaid bobbed a curtsey to no one and retreated to the corner, murmuring soft nonsense to her charge.
Which left Mirembe on the settee and Phaedra in the doorway, regarding each other across the sudden stillness.
Mirembe had never quite known what to make of Phaedra. Back home, a woman like this would have a title and a department. Here, the gorgon answered to Laila, not to Cedric. She came and went at odd hours. Staff spoke of her with a carefulness that suggested deep respect or deep wariness, possibly both.
Phaedra’s important. I’ll figure out how.
“They move quickly when prompted,” Mirembe observed.
The corner of Phaedra’s mouth lifted, barely. “Men often do. It’s the prompting they require.”
“And then they scatter, leaving us to manage the aftermath.”
“The natural order of things, Madame la Duchesse.”
Was that a joke? The gorgon’s marble face gave nothing away. It never did. But a flicker passed in those pale eyes. One woman who managed the aftermath, weighing another.
Mirembe rose from the settee. She was tall for a woman, but Phaedra still towered over her. The gorgon waited, neither approaching nor retreating.
“I imagine you’ve managed a great many aftermaths in this household,” Mirembe said.
“Madame keeps a busy calendar.”
Deflection. But a warm one.
“I should dress for dinner,” Mirembe said. “If we’re to have guests early.”
“Of course, Madame la Duchesse.”
She paused at the door, looking back. Phaedra hadn’t moved. Greta was absorbed in Aurora. The frost on the window was the loudest thing in the room.
“Phaedra.”
“Madame?”
Mirembe considered her words. Gallia had its own doors, and they opened sideways.
“Thank you,” she said finally. “For the warning.”
Something shifted in Phaedra’s expression. Not warmth, exactly. But perhaps the absence of cold.
“Madame values preparedness,” Phaedra said. “As do I.”