Divina’s hand was still tight on Isabella’s arm. The sequins had stopped catching the light. Even they understood this was not the moment for theatrical flourish.
“A stable Dungeon portal,” Divina repeated, and her voice had none of its usual music. She was staring at the obsidian mirror, working through a problem that kept giving her answers she didn’t like. “I’ve seen the schematics. Theoretical proposals in journals, mostly from artificers who wanted funding and had more ambition than sense.” Her free hand gestured at the mirror’s frame, at the symbols that writhed at the edges of vision. “The anchoring alone would take years. The stabilisation matrix, the bleed-through containment... this isn’t amateur work. This is meticulous.”
The mirror’s surface didn’t reflect them. It should have. Polished to that impossible perfection, it should have thrown back their images like any glass. Instead, the darkness behind it moved, sluggish and wrong, something vast shifting in its sleep.
“And someone built it here.” Divina released Isabella’s arm and circled the chamber’s edge, her steps careful, reading the room the way Isabella had seen her read broken machinery. “Not in a secure facility with wards and failsafes. Not somewhere remote with a minimum safe distance from anything that breathes. In a house. In the middle of Pharelle.” She stopped, staring at the mirror with professional dismay. “The containment work alone... whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. Which makes the location even more inexcusable.”
“Is it dangerous?” Isabella asked. “Standing here, right now?”
Divina tilted her head, considering. “If it were unstable, darling, we’d have known years ago. The house would have been overrun with whatever’s on the other side. Monsters pouring out at odd hours, reality getting... fuzzy around the edges.” She gestured at the chamber, the dust, the undisturbed stillness. “This has been sitting here, behaving itself. Which means it’s controlled.”
“So it’s dormant?”
“No. Merely closed.” Divina moved to the wall beside the mirror, studying the indentation carved into the stone. “There’s a difference. Dormant would mean it’s degrading, losing coherence. This is waiting.” She traced the air above the indentation, careful not to touch. “A key, or something like it. You’d need to activate it deliberately.”
Isabella looked at the shape carved into the stone. “That’s our family crest.”
“I noticed.” Divina’s expression shifted, that unperformed alarm again. “Your father didn’t just build this, darling. He built it so only a de Vaillant could open it. And then he told no one.”
The words settled into the cold air.
“Thaddeus was talking about this at dinner,” Isabella said slowly. “Father’s research into Dungeons. His interest in understanding them.” She stared at the mirror, at the darkness that moved wrong behind its surface. “I thought he meant books. Scholarship. Not this.”
Isabella’s skin prickled. Her ranger senses were insisting something was wrong, something beyond the obvious wrongness of the portal itself. “It still feels dangerous,” she said. “Like something monstrous is just on the other side of the room.”
Divina glanced around the chamber, then back at the mirror. “The portal’s closed. Whatever’s through there can’t reach us.” But she didn’t sound entirely certain. “Still. I don’t think we should linger here alone.”
“We need Mother,” Isabella said. It was, she reflected, the universal response to discovering something truly beyond one’s expertise.
“And the dinner?” Divina asked. “We can’t exactly burst in and announce we’ve found a portal to somewhere dreadful in the basement.”
“No.” Guests in the dining room. Staff circulating. A suspected dragon cultist making polite conversation with her family while a Church legate hunted for exactly what they’d just found. “We have potential hostiles in the house. We can’t draw attention to this.”
“Hostiles.” Divina’s eyebrows rose. “You might have mentioned that before we went spelunking in your father’s secret lair, darling.”
“I’m mentioning it now.”
Divina accepted this with a tilt of her head, already pivoting. “So we need to get your mother away from the guests without anyone noticing something’s wrong.”
“Yes.”
“And we need a reason for her to leave that doesn’t invite questions.”
“Yes.”
Divina’s grin returned, sharper now, with purpose behind it. “You need a distraction.”
“I need to signal Mother first. Get her attention, communicate the urgency. Then yes, we’ll need cover for her to slip away.”
“Darling, you’re talking to someone who has been begging Madame de Vaillant for a performance slot all evening.” Divina straightened, her theatrical persona reassembling itself, but focused now. Weaponised. Her eyes took on the gleam of an artist who has been told their moment has arrived and intends to make it count. “I have been preparing for this. The costume is ready. The contraption is primed. The setlist has been curated for maximum impact.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I believe the universe has finally seen fit to reward my patience.”
Isabella nodded. It wasn’t a bad plan. Divina’s performances were legendary for their ability to command attention, even if ‘entertainment’ remained a generous description.
? Divina had once performed for the Merchant Princes of Havralis. Three of them had converted to asceticism shortly afterward, though this may have been coincidental.
“I’ll go back to dinner. Signal Mother. When the time comes—”
“I’ll be ready.” Divina was already moving towards the hidden door, then stopped. She crouched, studying the mechanism where the bookshelf met the frame. Her fingers traced the hinges, the counterweight system, the catch that held it closed. “Give me a moment.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure we can get back in.” She produced something from her pocket, a slender tool that clicked as she manipulated it. “Hidden doors are wonderful until they decide to stay hidden. I’d rather not explain to your mother that we found her husband’s terrible secret but then lost it again.”
Isabella waited while Divina satisfied herself with the mechanism. Finally, the artificer nodded and drew the bookshelf closed. It settled into place with a soft click, the seam between shelf and wall disappearing into shadow.
The library looked ordinary again. Dusty. Memorial. Nothing to suggest what lay behind the collected works of Gallian poetry.
“Right then.” Divina brushed dust from her sequins. “Let’s go save your dinner party.”
Isabella’s chair had been empty for too long.
Most of the guests hadn’t noticed. Thaddeus and Wylan had been absorbed in increasingly animated discussion about alchemical theory. Calderon had reached the stage of inebriation where his wine glass seemed to refill itself through sheer optimism. Though he’s drunk far less than that state should require. Something to examine later. D'Aubigne had been occupied with Alexisoix's enthusiastic attentions, and whatever calculations were running behind those sharp eyes, she hadn't acted on them yet.
But Maximilian had noticed. He’d covered smoothly, steering conversation away from the empty seat as he always did. Mirembe’s eyes had flickered to it twice. That the rest of the table had not enquired about the absent siren daughter said something Laila preferred not to examine too closely.
Then Isabella slipped back in.
She moved with studied casualness, finding her seat as if she’d merely stepped away to attend to personal matters. But Laila saw the tension in her shoulders. The set of her jaw. The way her eyes found Laila’s immediately across the table.
Something’s wrong.
Isabella’s hand moved against the tablecloth. The old signals, the ones they’d developed together over years of navigating difficult dinners.
Danger. Imminent. Urgent.
Laila’s expression didn’t change. Her hands remained still, her posture relaxed, her attention apparently fixed on the wine in her glass.
What did she find? What could be worse than what we already knew?
I can’t ask. Not here, not with d’Aubigne watching. Can’t leave, either. That would invite exactly the wrong kind of attention.
Her fingers moved in response, hidden by the fold of the tablecloth.
Distraction. Cover needed.
Dwarf. Ready.
Laila had just enough time to process what that meant before the dining room doors burst open.
Divina Glitterbeard stood in the doorway, but the word ‘stood’ was doing considerable work. She was arriving, in the theatrical sense, complete with orchestra swells and dramatic lighting. Sequins caught every candle flame in the room and threw them back as a glittering assault. The beard had been braided with what appeared to be small bells. The overall effect was somewhere between a chandelier achieving sentience and a firework display that had developed opinions about fashion.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Divina’s voice carried with the projection of someone who had trained for exactly this moment. “If Madame la Duchesse will permit, I have prepared a grand entertainment for your pleasure.” She swept a bow that somehow managed to be both deeply respectful and entirely theatrical. “A musical interlude, to accompany dessert in the parlour.”
Every eye in the room turned to Laila.
She’s forcing my hand. The audacious little—
But. Isabella needed her away from the table. Divina was providing the cover. And refusing now, publicly, would create exactly the scene they were trying to avoid.
She’s been campaigning for a performance slot since the day she arrived. Laila had refused every time. That I’m considering it now...
She sighed the sigh of reluctant surrender, when the least palatable choice is also the most effective.
“How... thoughtful, Divina.” The words cost her something. “I believe dessert in the parlour would be lovely. With brandy and schnapps. If you would follow Maximilian and Divina, I will check in on dessert.”
Maximilian looked utterly distressed at being volunteered to take over hosting duties for Divina’s display.
Divina’s grin could have illuminated the room without the candles. “Darling, you won’t regret this.”
Laila regretted it already.
The de Vaillant household moved guests as it moved everything else. Staff appeared, refreshments materialised, and the whole procession moved with the gentle inevitability of water finding its level.
Laila watched the guests sort themselves. Thaddeus went where he was steered, still mid-sentence to Wylan about something involving probability and metallic compounds. Calderon required more active assistance. Lambert appeared at his elbow with the solicitous concern of a junior cleric tending to an ailing superior, steering him toward a quiet corner where he could be comfortably ignored.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
D’Aubigne had acquired Alexisoix somewhere in the transition, or perhaps he had acquired her. Either way, they were drifting toward a side corridor, apparently agreed that the evening’s real entertainment lay elsewhere.
There he goes. Laila watched her nephew disappear around the corner, bright and oblivious, with a dragon at his elbow. I hope he gets exactly what he wants.
Bitter. But d’Aubigne is occupied now, and that’s what matters. And for all his tomfoolery, Alexisoix was a Bard. He’d faced worse monsters before, probably.
Probably.
The parlour doors closed behind the last of the guests, and Divina wheeled in her contraption.
Divina approached music the way she approached most problems: as an engineering challenge that could not be solved by a siege engine. Unfortunately, this time the siege engine was an instrument. Pipes, tubes, bellows, and lights had been assembled into something that bore the same relationship to a harpsichord as a trebuchet bore to a slingshot. Something inside it hissed. A gauge was creeping toward red.
Divina took her position behind it with a conductor’s gravity. She cracked her knuckles. She adjusted a valve. She caught Laila’s eye and winked.
Then she began to play.
The first song was merely scandalous.
The second was comprehensively inappropriate.
By the third, several of the more conservative guests had developed sudden fascinations with the ceiling’s architectural details, whilst others leaned in with the bright-eyed attention of people already composing the version they’d tell at dinner parties for months.
The garden doors closed behind them, muffling Divina’s performance to a distant wheeze.
“Fresh air,” Lambert murmured, guiding Calderon towards the courtyard. “It will help clear your head.”
The Legate nodded vaguely, still blinking. Whatever had rendered him so thoroughly inebriated earlier, Divina’s music had shocked him back to a rough awareness. Enough to walk. Enough to talk.
Enough to confess.
The fountain burbled in the darkness, masking their voices from any curious ears at the windows. The de Vaillants map every acoustic shadow in their home. He was learning.
He positioned Calderon on the stone bench, then stood over him. His robes caught the faint light from the windows. The effect, he knew, made him look larger, a second shadow falling across the Legate’s hunched form.
Good.
“You seem troubled, Legate.” Lambert let pastoral concern warm his voice. “The burdens of spiritual leadership weigh heavily, do they not?”
Calderon’s head bobbed. “The Church asks much of us.”
“It does.”
Lambert settled into the familiar rhythm. Gentle questions. The temptations even the most devout faced. How isolation bred weakness, and weakness bred sin. Every word a chisel, every pause an invitation.
Come now. Tell me what you’re hiding.
He’d heard rumours about Calderon. Whispers that had reached even the lower ranks of the Inquisition. Practices that strayed beyond mere human frailty into something darker. The Dragon Queen’s cult had been driven underground after Aeloria’s attack, but not destroyed. Lambert had learned to listen for the serpent’s hiss beneath the piety.
Tonight, I mean to find it.
“The rituals we perform,” he continued, leaning closer. “The secrets we keep in service of the faith... they can become their own kind of prison, can they not? Sometimes we seek release in ways the Church would not condone.”
Calderon’s eyes widened. His breath came faster.
There. Lambert pressed. “I sense you carry such a burden, Legate. Something that weighs on your conscience. Something you’ve hidden, even from yourself.”
The fountain burbled. Somewhere inside, Divina’s contraption wheezed through another verse.
“Delilah,” Calderon whispered.
Lambert went still.
“Her name is Delilah.” The words spilled out now, a dam cracking. “She writes to me. I know it’s forbidden, I know I’ve taken vows, but she makes me feel... she makes me feel like a man again, not just a symbol, not just a vessel for doctrine...”
Lambert listened. Not heresy. Not conspiracy. Not shadowy meetings in candlelit cellars, not oaths sworn to the Dragon Queen.
An affair. A petty, human affair.
All that work. For this.
He did not close the file. A truth-interrogated prisoner had placed operatives in the Church, and one drunken courtyard confession did not undo that arithmetic. The affair might be everything. It might be what Calderon had chosen to offer: something real enough to satisfy, something survivable enough to volunteer. Lambert filed it and left the question open.
? The Church had strong opinions about actual knife-twisting, most of them negative. Metaphorical knife-twisting, however, was the foundation of advanced seminary courses.
Still. Weakness was weakness. And this, he could shape to his advantage.
“Legate.” He let his voice sharpen. “This isn’t merely about your... indiscretions. It’s about accountability. What you owe to the Church, to yourself, to the faith you represent.”
Calderon sagged. “I know. I know. But what can I do? If this comes to light—”
“Then perhaps you need someone to help you navigate these waters.” Lambert softened again, the shift calculated. “Someone not ensnared in the Church’s internal politics. Someone who understands that the path to redemption sometimes requires... discretion.”
The offer hung between them, luminous and inviting as an anglerfish’s lure.
Everything is leverage. His stepmother’s counsel echoed.
Calderon looked up with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man offered a rope. He didn’t seem to notice that the rope was also a leash.
“You would do that? Help me?”
Lambert smiled. The smile they taught in the advanced courses: warm enough to encourage confession, sharp enough to remind penitents that absolution came with conditions.
“Of course, Legate. That’s what brothers in faith are for.”
Alexisoix had chosen a strategy both daring and ridiculous.
“Perhaps, Madame d’Aubigne,” he purred, deploying a grin he’d polished in countless mirrors, “you would care to see my private wine cellar? An exquisite collection for the discerning palate, only for those with the most refined taste.”
The countess arched an eyebrow. “Your private wine cellar? How mysterious. Are you sure you’re not leading me to the dungeons instead?”
She’s intrigued. Excellent.
“Ah, madame, I assure you, if there are dungeons involved, they are dungeons of the most delicate affection.”
He guided her down a spiralling staircase with a sweeping gesture. Most noble seductions favoured ascending grand staircases or retiring to opulent salons, but Alexisoix had a plan. Unconventional venues suggest an unconventional lover. The servants they passed barely suppressed knowing glances. Let them look. Tonight, Alexisoix de Vaillant conquers the unconquerable.
At last, they reached the wine cellar he had claimed for his romantic endeavours: what he had optimistically renamed his ‘private salon.’
The room was disappointingly ordinary: beige walls, cosy lighting, a single worn chaise longue that suggested more naps than scandal. A pair of silk cuffs lay neatly folded on the nightstand, an afterthought rather than an invitation. In Alexisoix’s imagination, the room had considerably more velvet and considerably fewer storage casks.
D’Aubigne’s discerning eyes assessed the sconces, the velvet-draped furnishings, the curated arrangement of cushions. Her expression revised its expectations downward.
She’s merely adjusting to the intimacy of the space. Yes. That’s it.
“And now, my dear,” Alexisoix declared, broadening his grin, “we are going to play a game.”
It had sounded more sophisticated in his head, where it was accompanied by dramatic lighting and a string quartet rather than the faint smell of damp cellar and his own nervous breathing.
D’Aubigne stifled a laugh, her gloved hand brushing her mouth. “How bold. Very well, Alexisoix. Let’s see what you have planned.”
She’s charmed. Definitely charmed.
Encouraged, Alexisoix launched into an impressive display of charm and dominance. He reached to guide d’Aubigne’s hand and nearly toppled a decanter of wine. He leaned in to whisper something provocative, and his words tangled into a nonsensical stream of compliments comparing her to orchids, roses, and possibly a particularly attractive fern.
That came out wrong. Recover. Recover with flourish.
He attempted a dramatic spin meant to demonstrate control and tripped over the chaise longue.
The countess remained indulgent through all of this. But when he picked himself up from the floor, her patience had reached its limit.
“Alexisoix,” she said, her voice calm but sharp with authority, “if you’re quite finished, perhaps we should try things my way.”
From that moment, d’Aubigne owned the performance. She turned every fumble into a chance to demonstrate her own expertise. Alexisoix could only follow her lead.
This is... not how I imagined it. But perhaps surrender has its own pleasures.
It did. Though they were briefer than he’d hoped.
Afterwards, d’Aubigne rose, a cat who’d finished with her food. She adjusted her gown, collected herself, and walked out.
At the threshold, Elizabeth waited. Beside her stood one of the household maids, her expression of studied neutrality failing to hide the gleam of professional interest in her eyes.
Odd. How long have they been there?
D’Aubigne paused at the door, one hand on the frame. Then she turned back to regard Alexisoix over her shoulder.
“You know,” she said, her voice carrying perfectly to the doorway, “I think you’ve earned something special tonight. An epithet.” She tapped one gloved finger against her chin, considering. “The Hare. Yes, I think that suits you perfectly.”
The Hare. Alexisoix turned this over in his mind. Quick. Energetic. Finishes strong. He smiled, accepting the compliment graciously.
The calculated look that passed between Elizabeth and the maid said everything.
By tomorrow evening, every salon in Pharelle would know.
Alexisoix remained in the wine cellar, surrounded by storage casks. The smile faded as understanding dawned.
The Hare finishes quickly... oh.
Oh no.
He resolved to one day turn the tables. Or, at the very least, to invest in a manual on seduction that didn’t rely so heavily on theatrical ambition and improvised venues.
The parlour had descended into a state best described with generous adjectives and a strong drink.
Divina was still performing, her contraption wheezing through what might have been an encore or possibly a medical emergency. Laurent Chevalier remained her sole captive. He had made several poor life choices and was paying for them in increments. He couldn’t leave without causing offence. He couldn’t stay without suffering.
Maximilian had stationed himself near the fireplace, engaged in an absorbing conversation about trade routes with the remaining guests. He caught Laila’s eye briefly.
Handled.
She crossed to Divina. “I believe our guests have been thoroughly entertained. Perhaps we might allow them some respite?”
Divina stopped mid-flourish, her glittering instrument held aloft. “Ah, Madame la Duchesse, you wound me! But fear not, my artistry knows no time constraints. I shall merely consider this a... dress rehearsal.” She executed a dramatic bow, her beard shimmering.
“Now, Divina.”
Divina sighed with theatrical disappointment but began the complex process of disassembling her creation. Pipes wheezed a final protest.
A commotion from the entry hall: raised voices, the sharp clip of footsteps.
Laila moved towards the sound.
D’Aubigne swept through the entry hall unhurried, a woman who had just won a particularly satisfying game. Her cheeks were flushed, her gown immaculate despite circumstances that would have dishevelled a lesser woman, her expression a viper’s after an excellent meal.
Elizabeth materialised at her elbow with a cloak; behind them, the household maid from the cellar doorway followed, eyes gleaming.
D’Aubigne paused at the front door, one hand on the frame. She turned, her gaze finding Laila across the hall.
“Madame de Vaillant.” Her voice carried effortlessly. “A most... educational evening. Do give my regards to your nephew.” A smile, sharp as cut glass. “The Hare.”
The servants within earshot froze. The name landed like a stone in still water.
D’Aubigne’s retinue fell into formation behind her, and the entire procession swept toward the waiting carriage. She paused at the carriage door, glanced back once with a smile that could have curdled milk, and stepped inside.
The carriage rolled away into the night.
Laila stood very still, watching that satisfied departure.
The Hare. The carriage wasn’t out of sight yet and it was already spreading.
I could quash it. A word to the right people, pressure applied to the right servants. The gossip could be contained, redirected, smothered before it spread.
Or I could let it burn. Let every tongue in Pharelle wag about ‘The Hare’ and his unfortunate evening. Let them gossip about scandal and seduction and a foolish young bard who’d bitten off more than he could chew.
While they talked about that, they wouldn’t be talking about anything else. Not about why the de Vaillants had been acting strangely tonight. Not about absent daughters and drunk legates and performances that felt more like diversions than entertainment.
She hoped Guillaume would understand. She doubted he would.
She turned back to the house. The house had not, she suspected, been waiting patiently.
The courtyard was quiet when she found them. Lambert stood over Calderon on the stone bench, the fountain burbling softly; the Legate looked diminished, smaller than he had at dinner.
“The evening is concluding,” Laila said. “Our guests require their carriages.”
Lambert nodded, his face professionally blank. “The Legate was just getting some air. I’ll see him to the door.”
I’m sure you will.
She didn’t ask what he’d learned.
What followed was as inevitable as it was absurd.
Servants ushered Thaddeus towards his carriage with polite murmurs and the occasional nervous laugh. The professor looked glazed. He had survived an evening of alchemical theory, inappropriate music, and scandal, and was now questioning whether academia had been the safer field all along.
Calderon required more active assistance. Ursula, the ogrish cook, was summoned. She deposited the insensate Legate into his carriage with efficient exasperation, tucking a note and a bottle of water beside him.
? The note read: “You were unwell. The de Vaillants send their regards and hopes for your swift recovery.” It was phrased as concern. It functioned as plausible deniability.
As Calderon’s carriage lurched into motion, Laila turned to find Laurent at her elbow.
“A word before you go?”
He nodded, and they stepped aside, out of earshot of the remaining servants.
“I need you to do something for me,” Laila said quietly. “Guillaume should hear about tonight’s... events... from a friend rather than from the gossip mill. And he deserves an apology.”
Laurent’s expression flickered. Understanding, perhaps. Or judgement. “You’re letting the scandal stand.”
“I’m letting people talk about what I want them to talk about.”
A pause. Then Laurent inclined his head. “I’ll speak with him tonight.”
“Thank you.”
His carriage was the last to leave. Laila watched it disappear into the darkness, then turned back to the house.
Now. Finally.
She found Lambert waiting in the entrance hall, Isabella beside him. Her daughter held a letter, its paper creased, its ink the overwrought purple of passionate correspondence.
“You should see this,” Isabella said, handing it to Lambert. “Found it in Calderon’s effects earlier. A love letter. From someone named Delilah.”
Lambert stared at the letter. Then at Isabella. Then back at the letter.
Delilah.
The same name Calderon had whispered in the courtyard. The same confession Lambert had spent twenty minutes carefully extracting, working the Legate as the seminary had taught him.
Isabella had found it in five.
“You knew,” he said flatly. “The whole time.”
“I found evidence of an affair, yes.” Isabella’s expression was carefully neutral. “I didn’t know it was relevant to your investigation.”
Because I didn’t read Isabella in. His stepmother would have something to say about that. Probably delivered with that smile that made him feel twelve years old again.
He handed the letter back.
Laila turned to Isabella. “Right. Show me this urgency.”