Nik struggled through his petitioners on Friday and Saturday – both days made more troublesome by his abandonment of duty on Thursday, of course – without contemplation of escape again. Where would I escape to? He couldn’t run off to Miss Vasilver every day. After his last appointment on Saturday night, he went to the manor’s library to read for a few hours. Their library held an eclectic selection of books, from a leather-bound illuminated replica of Code of the Savior, with Commentary by His Blessed of the Second Century (purchased after his father was forced to sell an original hand-scribed edition) to natural histories so old they pre-dated greatcats, to the histories and biographies his father favored and the melodramas and tragedies his mother enjoyed. Nikola chose a battered adventure novel he’d read many times as a boy – The Knights of Cambre – and sprawled undignified on a sofa as he read it again. A quarter of the way through, the author introduced Sir Conrad, one of the protagonists, and Nik remembered he’d always pictured Sir Conrad as Justin.

Nikola had known of Justin for some years before they’d properly met (‘improperly met’ might be a better way to put it, given the peculiar circumstances of their first encounter). Lord Justin, as he’d been before he inherited at twenty-three, had been a famed competitor in a number of school sports – fencing, archery, unarmed combat, backball – and an adolescent Nikola had idolized him from a distance. He’d followed Justin’s exploits via coverage in the Post, and sometimes traveled to attend local matches with Lord Striker. He’d thought Justin the perfect lord: fearless, determined, handsome, quick-witted, at ease in every setting. It had taken a while for young Nik to realize that his adulation sprang from infatuation rather than a desire to emulate Justin. Nikola had never expected that attraction to be reciprocated. He’d been stunned when he learned it was. Stunned and thrilled.

If only the admiration had been reciprocal as well.

He felt a certain weariness at the thought. Is it truly Justin’s failing? If he does not admire or respect me, is it not because there is little admirable or respectable about me? Penniless, undignified, petulant, spoilt, self-centered – it’s no wonder he thinks so little of me. And whatever chance I had of ever making him see me as a grown and independent man vanished when I agreed to put myself in his debt forever.

Nik sighed. He might as well try to avoid air as to escape thoughts of Justin. He’s been a fixture of my life, one way or another, for more than half of it. Small wonder I cannot set that aside. He turned back to the book anyway. As he read, he reflected that Sir Conrad was not much like the real Justin: the fictional knight was a kind-hearted, selfless man, indifferent to his own welfare and comfort, ready to lend assistance to any who asked without thought to the cost. Nik found he preferred Justin anyway. Sir Conrad has no sense of humor.

The clock had chimed past one in the morning and Nik was still reading when the noise of a commotion in the foyer caught his attention. He opened the library door, grimaced at the too-familiar high-pitched shriek of a young girl, and quickened his stride to reach the source.

The foyer was in shambles, as if a small tornado had torn through it and knocked over tables, toppled the grandfather clock, upended vases, ripped down tapestries, and cast paintings upon the floor. The probable source of the chaos cowered in a corner behind a makeshift barricade of tables, wielding the broken side of a heavy gilt frame like a club. “STAYBA’STAYBA’STAYBA,” Sharone Whittaker shrieked at Robert, a footman standing just out of reach of her ersatz club. The stout man was uttering a stream of curses, the sleeve of his jacket torn, his look suggesting he was considering drawing his ceremonial short sword on her.

In the most commanding tones he could muster, Nikola said, “Miss Whittaker, what is going on here?” He yanked on the bell rope by the front door to summon a greatcat from the felishome as he crossed the room to join the footman.

Robert bit back on his latest string of curses to give Nikola an ashamed look. “M’lord, we just found her wandering loose like this—” he shouted to be heard over Sharone’s screams “—Elisa went to get her parents—”

Nik nodded, motioning the man to silence. He took up station on the opposite side from Robert, surrounding Sharone’s barricaded corner of the foyer in the hope that she would not be able to get past both of them. As the child paused to refill her lungs with air, Nik demanded sternly, “Miss Whittaker, what is the meaning of this outburst?” On instinct, he added, “Is Mrs. Square involved?”

The child fell silent, breathing hard as she stared at him, fluffy black curls in a wild tangle about her face. After a moment, she gave a slow nod.

“Tell me how.” Nik tried to sound firm but not angry.

While the child’s attention was on him, Robert darted in and seized the section of frame she held. Sharone wailed “Le’goLE’GONOMISTERBROWN!” but the footman’s much greater leverage and strength overcame the reckless power that madness lent her and he wrested it from her grip. Screaming, she let it go and darted between the legs of a sideways table. Nikola caught her as she emerged and immediately regretted it as she flailed at him with feet and fists, frantic to escape. “LE’GOMISSUSSQUAREDON’HUR’EM!” Reflexively, he called on the Savior to cast out the demon that riddled her mind with thorn-covered vines, strangling her mindshapes. It was fruitless, of course; his mind filled with the Savior’s sorrow at the girl’s resistance.

As he was still trying to get her under control, the adult Whittakers arrived at a run. Mrs. Whittaker stammered apologies and Mr. Whittaker relieved Nik of his squirming, weeping burden. By the time Anthser arrived, the Whittakers had their daughter effectively restrained again. Mrs. Whittaker blamed herself – she’d fallen asleep on her watch, and Sharone had somehow managed to get a locked door off its hinges and escaped without waking either of them.

Nikola could not imagine how much trouble the child would be full-grown if she were not cured first, given the amount of havoc she could wreak at six. She’s not even four feet tall. How could she get a door off its hinges? The mind boggled. He resisted the impulse to rub his thigh where she’d kicked him. Elisa, a very young woman and daughter of the cook, had a ripening bruise around one eye and would not come within fifteen feet of the child even after she’d been bound. He nodded wearily at the Whittakers’ apologies and waved them back to their suite. Mr. Whittaker promised to watch the girl while Mrs. Whittaker would return to help clean the mess. As they left, Elisa started putting things to rights while Robert went to wake some of the other staff.

“Want one of us to stay in their suite?” Anthser had shown up a few minutes after the humans had gotten the situation under control. The greatcat had kept a quiet vigil by the door while Nik was busy.    

Yes. No. I don’t know. The uncanny energy of her madness could not, surely, make the child a match for a greatcat, and a greatcat’s superior hearing, strength, and speed should keep her better under control. On the other hand – this was not their job. They should not have to deal with this kind of thing. Nikola watched the chambermaid lift paintings and lean them against the walls to survey the damage, then gather up the fallen tapestries. None of them should.

Anthser yawned, tongue curling in his huge fang-rimmed mouth. “Y’know, I’m tired and I don’t feel like going all the way back to the felishome tonight.” Nik raised one eyebrow at him; the felishome was a hundred yards away, if that. “So I’m gonna go sleep in, oh, one of the north wing suites. The one you gave the Whittakers has a fire set in it already, right? I’m sure they won’t mind sharing. G’night, Lord Nik.” Anthser nuzzled Nik’s cheek and turned to depart.

Nik managed a half-smile. “Good night, Anthser.” He watched a half-dozen grumbling, sleepy servants file into the foyer. Mrs. Goslin, Anverlee’s head of staff, shook her head at the chaos and directed the others on various tasks. His presence checked their complaints, but he could feel their resentment of the hour, the work, the extent of damage done – at least three of the paintings he could see were torn and irreparable. A wave of weariness washed over him. With an effort, he strode to Mrs. Goslin’s side. “Thank you for your efforts tonight,” he told her. “When you have a reckoning on the extent of the damages, please let me know. I’ll cover it. Also, I’d appreciate a list of the names and hours worked this evening on it – I’ll provide a bonus for it.” I don’t even have it yet and I’m already spending Justin’s money, he thought, nauseated and hopeless.

The tall, silver-haired housekeeper answered with a grave curtsey. “Yes, m’lord. Thank you.”

For what? There was a great deal more work to be done, none of which was his to do. Nikola gave up and retired.

---

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Justin made his way to the Vasilvers’ section before they left, while their assistants were still gathering their things. As he drew near, he overheard Miss Vasilver say in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, “If you ever put me in a position to be humiliated like this again, Byron, I will not speak to you for a year.”

Her brother winced, hunching his long-limbed frame. “I didn’t know it’d go like that, Teeri. Besides…some woman has to be first.”    

“She needn’t be me,” Miss Vasilver said.

Before she could add more, Justin was close enough that her father greeted him with, “Good day, Lord Comfrey,” and his two adult offspring looked up from their private conversation.

“Mr. Vasilver, Vasilver.” Justin shook each man’s hand in turn and looked to Miss Vasilver, waiting pointedly for an introduction. The young woman met his gaze with disinterested light brown eyes before glancing away.

“I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter,” her father said. “Lord Comfrey, this is Miss Wisteria Vasilver, executive analyst for Vasilver Trading Company. Wisteria, this is Lord Justin Comfrey, Viscount of Comfrey.”

“A pleasure.” Justin extended his hand. “Thank you for your time today, Miss Vasilver. Your illustration of financial concepts was captivating.” Miss Vasilver looked at his hand for a few moments before offering her own with a certain hesitance; Justin realized belatedly he was holding his hand sideways, as if to shake hands with a man. He corrected himself and bowed over her hand.

“You’re welcome, my lord.” Miss Vasilver gave him another brief look and added coolly, “it is an honor to make your acquaintance, Lord Comfrey.”

Justin was well aware that he was a handsome man and that his powerful build was a rarity that attracted notice and admiration. He dressed in impeccable attire that suited his station and set his features to advantage; he had rank, wealth, and title and was the kind of highly eligible match into whose path society matrons threw their daughters. He was used to young women who would not meet his eyes, who blushed and looked away coyly, who flirted and giggled. He found such behavior entertaining if not particularly attractive, and had a practiced ease in handling it. Miss Vasilver’s indifference – neither attracted nor intimidated nor impressed – was something else entirely. Almost unsettling. Almost a challenge.

Justin offered his warmest smile, the kind that had inadvertently conquered the heart of Miss Dalsterly. “Do you work exclusively for Vasilver Trading, Miss Vasilver, or would you be willing to act as consultant?”

Unmoved, Miss Vasilver glanced to her father. “Er,” the older man said. “I don’t believe the question’s ever come up before. My daughter has always worked for me.”

“I imagine it would depend on the nature of the engagement: whether it poses any conflict of interest, either with Vasilver Trading’s business or with my existing time commitments to the company. Did you have something in mind, my lord?” Miss Vasilver tilted her head, regarding Justin.

“I have a few businesses I may sell in the next several months, and I’d like an independent evaluation of them,” Justin answered. That wasn’t what he’d planned to say when he came over, although now that he thought about it, it was a good idea. “No great hurry on it.”

Miss Vasilver nodded. “The Ascension season is usually quiet for me…”

Her brother glowered at her, and her father said, “Wisteria. Social obligations are also obligations.”

“Yes, Father,” Miss Vasilver said, without conviction.

“As I said, there’s no hurry,” Justin said. “If you’re interested, I’d be happy to call later this week and go over the details.”

“I am sure that would be fine,” Mr. Vasilver said.

After a short pause, Miss Vasilver nodded as well. “Thank you, Lord Comfrey.”

§

Mr. Vasilver sent the assistants home by gig, while he and his offspring took the carriage, a comfortably-appointed vehicle whose velvet-padded bench seats included clever fold-out footrests. The elder Mr. Vasilver took the forward-facing side while Wisteria and Byron sat together on the opposite side. With the smooth ride given by the cab’s impeccable suspension, there was little to distract Wisteria from her inner seething. She was still angry about all of the events at the Association: the infuriating complaints about nothing, that humiliating vote to close the session. And almost as upset at Byron for asking her to do it, when he must have known how the members would react. Her father usually stopped her before she made this kind of social blunder – why hadn’t he done so this time? It was maddening.

And that Lord Comfrey! She supposed from later context that he’d meant to help, but being lured into apologizing for her delivery when he was only being sarcastic – ah! Infuriating. She wondered if everyone else had thought her a fool for taking Comfrey literally, or if they assumed that she too was sarcastic. I don’t imagine it matters; neither way is flattering. She hadn’t meant to insult Mr. Edgewick and hated to think she’d added fuel to his irrational resentment. That Lord Comfrey was such a handsome man did nothing to lessen her agitation. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to like him or hate him. On the one hand, at least he had defended her right to be there, and while she had taken a while to realize that was his intention, if she was to be reasonable then she had to admit that was at least as much her fault as his. On the other, she was already rather pining after one attractive gentleman she couldn’t have. If she hated Lord Comfrey, maybe she wouldn’t add a second unattainable lord to the list. Maybe I should find a nice footman or delivery boy to obsess over. If I aim low enough, perhaps I’ll find one I can have, she thought glumly. After brooding for some minutes, Wisteria finally mustered the energy to ask Bryon, “Was he serious, do you think?”

“Lord Comfrey? About consulting work? Yes, certainly.” Byron put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her to his side. “His compliment on your presentation wasn’t sarcastic, either.”

Wisteria nodded. She rested her cheek against her brother’s shoulder and closed her eyes, not angry enough with Byron to reject comforting. From context it hadn’t made sense for Lord Comfrey to be sarcastic, but it was always best to check.

“It’s a good opportunity for you, Wisteria,” their father said. “Lord Comfrey’s an influential man. Seat in Assembly, you know. And…well, he’d be a good man for Vasilver Trading to cultivate a connection with.”

“Then why are you suggesting I do it?” Wisteria asked. “Wouldn’t anyone else be better?”

Mr. Vasilver coughed. “Well. He didn’t ask for anyone else. He asked for you.”

“It’ll be fine, Teeri.” Byron squeezed her opposite shoulder. “Lord Comfrey already saw what you’re like. If he found anything objectionable, he’d not have suggested it.”

“Thank you, Byron.”

He glanced down at her. “Not being sarcastic now, are you?”

“No.” Wisteria considered this. “Do you truly think that listening to me lecture for an hour covers all the ways I might offend someone?”   

Into the ensuing silence, her father conceded, “Perhaps not all the ways.”

Byron grimaced. “Still something, though. And you’re a good speaker, Teeri. You’ve a keen intellect and a shrewd mind for finance. Ought to show it as an advantage, right?”

“Is that why you wanted me to be the one to speak?”

Her brother shifted against the velvet-cushioned bench. “Might’ve factored in. You were the best person for it, though. And the one who argued we should share the information instead of keeping it for our own advantage.”

“A well-informed marketplace benefits everyone save liars and criminals,” Wisteria said.

Byron raised a hand between them, palm-out. “Not arguing! But that’s my point – you see things differently than most. More clearly. Half those insights were ones you’d come up with. Ought to be you explaining them.”

Wisteria did not feel insightful; she felt like everything she’d said was so obvious it hardly bore repeating. But that made sense, in its way: so many other things were so obvious to everyone but her that no one considered that she might not grasp them. It might as well work in the converse occasionally. “Very well. But the next time you want me to do something for multiple reasons, I would appreciate it if you would share them all.”

“Sorry. Guess it would help you evaluate it better.” Byron rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yes. And to hate you less when it turned out to be a disaster for reasons you foresaw.”

Byron turned away, mumbling, “Didn’t think they’d be outright rude like that.”

“Next time, Byron.” Wisteria patted his shoulder and spoke no more of it.

---

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The meeting proper began with the standard tedious recitation of the previous meeting’s minutes. A glance at the agenda revealed the usual suspects: confirm the next year’s elected officers in their roles, approve an extension to the charter, discuss the AIC’s position on legislation pending in the next session, and a presentation on the valuation of companies. The last might be interesting, dependent on how much it was directed at the lowest common denominator. Justin would not fault the presenter if he did aim low: for an association of business people, there was a shocking degree of ignorance among them.

Justin let his mind drift as the meeting ran its course, remembering a summer two years ago when he’d induced Nikola to spend two weeks at a house party in Comfrey Viscountcy. Then the house party had wrapped but he’d persuaded Nikola to stay another week ‘for the hunting’. Then one week became two, and then four, and finally six and a half before Nikola refused to extend his stay again and returned to Fireholt. The whole viscountcy had buzzed with speculation that Lord Nikola had been drawn to stay so long by the charms of one or another of the pretty young local misses. Everyone was disappointed when he left, Justin not the least. Presumably it was possible to be exposed too much to Nikola – that was certainly the case with every other individual Justin had ever known – but he’d never reached that point. He rather wanted to try again.

At various junctures, the agenda touched on matters of particular interest to him and Justin would focus on the subject at hand. Some were pending regulations – one on stock market manipulation, another on the standards for imports, and a third on confidentiality in banking – all of which Justin opposed on the principle that government knew even less about what it was doing than industry did. And I should know, I’ve a seat in Assembly. Nothing he heard today persuaded him to change his opinion, and he made a few remarks into the record to argue for the association’s opposition.

When the time came for the presentation, Mr. Byron Vasilver took the floor accompanied by two assistants. Byron was a lanky but attractive man of about Justin’s age, which sad to say was the reason Justin recognized him at once. One assistant, a woman, opened a leather binder on the podium while the male assistant erected a flip chart behind her. Vasilver conferred quietly with the woman for a few moments, then he addressed the association: “Good afternoon, gentlemen, ladies, greatcats. Allow me to introduce my sister, Miss Vasilver. She will conduct this presentation.” With that, Vasilver returned to his seat beside his father. A low murmur ran through the assembly: puzzled, speculative, irritated. The Association had no rules regarding who might address them, but this was the first time Justin could recall when anyone but a human man had done so.

Miss Vasilver waited a moment for the muttering to subside; when it did not, she squared her binder noisily against the podium. “Members of the AIC.” Her voice was surprisingly loud, particularly for a woman: not a shout, but projected like a herald or a ship’s officer, to reach the highest tiers of the chamber. “Several of you have made inquiries as to the methods behind Vasilver Trading Company’s extraordinary successes in the realm of acquisitions and partnerships. I will explain as much of those methods as is feasible in the time allotted.”

Without additional preamble or waiting for the audience to hush, she launched into her topic, her voice cutting over the whispers. Justin attended, not least out of curiosity for this woman with whom Nikola had arranged an unbetrothal. She gave a high-level overview of bookkeeping – not the mechanics of ledgers, but more an ‘everything a chief executive needs to understand in order to judge the financial health of a company’. She covered the basics with concise accuracy, defining jargon as used – “accounts receivable: funds due but not yet paid to the company for goods sold or services rendered” – and did not linger on it. Instead, Miss Vasilver moved to the heart of her subject: interpreting the figures in a meaningful fashion. The importance of not just the total amount in an accounts receivable, but how long the amounts had been uncollected, and likewise whether the business was slow or prompt in paying their own creditors. The significance of inventory turnover: a product one can sell once every six months for twice its cost generates less net revenue than one of the same value sold every day for five percent over cost. Comparison within that industry: account payment times in the ship-building industry were nothing like those among greengrocers. All of it was covered in strong, crisp, detached tones, her assistant turning the prepared illustrations on the flipchart to reinforce her points.

Justin was impressed, not only by the content but by Miss Vasilver herself. She was surprisingly attractive for a woman: tall, straight-backed, with a boyish figure and dark hair worn up to lend additional strength to her severe features. Many of those in the chamber were hostile to being lectured on high finance by a woman, but Miss Vasilver spared no thought for the whispering, staring, or inattentive behavior. She ploughed through her material with cool professionalism, indifferent to the rudeness. It annoyed Justin more than it appeared to aggravate her, but then again, she wasn’t trying to listen.

About halfway through her presentation, the restlessness reached a pitch and one man, Mr. Edgewick, rose to his feet and glowered at the section where the two Vasilver men sat. “All right, this is all very amusing, Mr. Vasilver, but don’t you think you’ve carried the joke far enough?” Mr. Edgewick demanded, not waiting for the chairman to recognize him. Miss Vasilver stopped rather than speaking over Edgewick. She gave him a cool, unperturbed look, as if waiting for him to make a point.

The elder Mr. Vasilver squared his shoulders and placed a hand on his son’s arm to forestall him. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“This farce. What do you mean, having your little girl lecture us?”   

“Is there a problem, sir?” Miss Vasilver asked from the podium. Edgewick ignored her, still looking to her father for a response.

“I think,” Justin drawled in tones that carried the length of the chamber, not bothering to stand much less wait for recognition, since the chairman had already abandoned his duty to keep order, “you’re going too fast for him, miss. Or perhaps your language is too sophisticated.” Edgewick turned, red with anger. For a moment, Justin thought the man might demand satisfaction, but Edgewick checked his response on identifying the viscount.

“Oh. I apologize for the complexity of my topic, gentlemen,” Miss Vasilver said. “I am sorry I have done an inadequate job of explaining it.”

“Not at all, miss. Some of us would have a difficult time parsing words of one syllable.” Justin locked gazes with Edgewick, daring him to issue a challenge.

Edgewick sputtered. “I’ll not stand for this kind of insult!”

“Then kindly sit down, Mr. Edgewick, and let the gentlewoman continue,” Justin told him.

“This is an outrage,” Edgewick said instead, turning to the assembly. “Does the chairman mean to let the dignity of this body be offended by some slip of a woman speaking to us as if we were a gaggle of schoolchildren?”

The chairman looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. “We were, er, unaware of whom Vasilver Trading would choose as presenter when we issued the invitation. Perhaps they could…” He trailed off with a hopeful glance to the Vasilvers.

The elder Mr. Vasilver glanced down at his hands, then to his son. “I suppose we—”

Byron Vasilver stood before he could finish, hands fisted against the table before them, and overrode his father with, “Vasilver Trading offered our best analyst for this occasion. If that’s insufficient to the association’s needs, can’t imagine any substitute would improve matters.”

“Oh, honestly,” Mr. Lavert said, a tier away from Justin. “Let the girl finish already. Of all the ridiculous things to fuss over.” Beside him, Lavert’s wife fumed but didn’t speak.

“Seconded,” Justin added, although Lavert hadn’t made an actual motion and the entire interruption was out of order. Justin hoped the incoming chairman would have more spine than the current one.

“You may think the dignity of this association is ‘ridiculous’—” Edgewick started.

“Finally, you’ve got something right,” Justin muttered under his breath.

“—but I, sir, do not. Motion to adjourn before this travesty carries on any further.”

“Seconded,” came from the elderly Mr. Ponglot, a bald and stooped man of over a hundred, who’d been one of the mutterers earlier.

The AIC chairman gave Edgewick’s motion the respect it didn’t deserve, putting it to immediate vote and evoking a disgusted noise from Lavert. Justin was no less irked: regardless of how one felt about a speaker or a topic, common courtesy dictated that one bear it stoically, not pitch a childish public fit. Vasilver Trading’s selection may have been unorthodox but Edgewick’s behavior was beyond boorish. Justin’s “Nay” vote rang across the chamber. Under his glower, the motion to adjourn failed, narrowly.

Infuriated, Edgewick all but stamped his foot at this. “You may wish to tolerate this insult, but I will not,” he pronounced, and stomped from the chamber. A number of others of the ‘yea’ voters followed suit, with varying degrees of dignity and petulance. Justin leaned back in his seat and rolled his eyes skywards. Saints save us all.

When the chairman finally asked Miss Vasilver to resume – not even apologizing for the interruption, the coward – she did so with astonishing composure. She continued where she’d been cut off, in the same untroubled and precise manner as she’d begun. Justin tried to imagine being in her position and could only see himself unleashing a tide of well-earned verbal abuse on the assembly – granted, perhaps not earned by the remaining members, but nonetheless – and storming out himself. Thank the Savior I am not a woman. When she finished, the ensuing applause was more heartfelt than usual.

After the customary thanks to Miss Vasilver for her time, the chairman made the routine request for any further motions before they adjourned for the season. Justin thought, Saints, what a sordid display. We ought to apologize to Miss Vasilver, if not to her entire company. He imagined how Nikola would react if he’d borne witness to this sorry occasion, and smiled briefly. There was a limit to how much he wanted to antagonize the business community, however, and everyone already knew how he felt based on his earlier outburst. Calling for a motion to have the AIC issue a formal apology would only alienate a number of influential men over a trivial point of honor. He let the moment pass and the meeting adjourned to the relief of all.

---

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By tradition, the last meeting of the Association for Investment and Commerce each year was held the Saturday before the Ascension Ball: another marker for the end of the business year and the start of the social season. Not that the one ever stopped for the other, but there was a distinct shift in emphasis after the Ascension Ball that carried through winter recess, until government reconvened in the spring.   

Justin had almost skipped the meeting, as he’d been engrossed in the process of assembling the reward for Nikola. The constraints involved made it a challenge. For the sake of Nikola’s pride, Justin wanted the gift to go unnoticed by anyone else. It also had to be cash or the equivalent – Justin didn’t want to burden his friend with investments or property that needed to be managed. The wealth needed to be transferred all at once; there was no possible way Nikola would agree to more than a single transaction. Last, he wanted the transaction complete before the Ascension Ball, because the kind of work required to convert a sizable fraction of Justin’s wealth into currency would be all but impossible during the season itself. The chief trouble was that – even setting aside the untouchable entailed property – Justin kept relatively little of his wealth in cash or the equivalent. There was no giant vault in Comfrey Manor filled with gold bricks or stacks of currency. He did have a wall safe for documents and ordinary expenses, which held fifty thousand marks or so because Justin had a generous definition of what might comprise an ‘ordinary expense’. Accounts at various different banking institutions totalled close to a million. The rest was scattered among investments of lesser degrees of liquidity: stock holdings in a number of businesses, promissory notes pledged by others, unentailed real estate, profit-shares in shipping ventures, patents, lease assignments, not to mention his personal property or the inventory and equipment of his wholly-owned businesses. All of which added up to staggering sums in the Comfrey ledger book, but converting a significant part of it to spendable funds on little more than a week’s notice was impractical.

After considerable time going over the figures and underlying assets, Justin concluded the best way to get this done in a timely fashion was to establish a line of credit at one of his banks and draw funds from it. He could then repay the line through an unhurried sale of assets, which would both lead to a better price and excite less comment. But that made it even more important that the transactions be kept in strictest confidence. Nikola had a horror of debt – understandable given Lord Striker’s foolish use of it, but still unfortunate. Justin didn’t want to think about Nik’s reaction if he found out Justin had funded the reward via such. It wouldn’t be half or even a quarter of Comfrey’s net worth – that much was out of the question without six months or more in lead time. But with minimally adequate management, it would be more than adequate not only for Nikola’s needs but to put Anverlee back on solid footing.

By Saturday morning, Justin had set in motion every wheel that he could, and was assured that the deal would close and fund by Thursday at the latest. It was all carried out with the utmost discretion. The bank extending the loan did not know his intended purpose for the funds – Justin had stated it was for a delicate negotiation that required great secrecy lest his competitors get wind of it, and since the line was secured by existing assets the bank did not need details. Once funded, the proceeds would go to a second bank, and from there to a separate account in Nikola’s name. No one at the second bank knew of the line at the first, and only two people knew that the money for the deposit would come from Justin. In any event, there was little to be done on Justin’s end now apart from wait, so he attended the AIC’s meeting as usual.

The Association for Investment and Commerce held its meetings in the Gracehaven Exchange building, a sixth-century edifice of limestone. Its grand Exchange Hall had an arched roof sixty feet high and glass windows set in narrow steel-framed slits. The Exchange itself was closed on Saturdays and Sundays, but the building was busy with workers catching up on accounting and paperwork generated during the week, and drafting clear copies from crabbed shorthand notes. The AIC met in a vaulted chamber on the far side of the building, where expensive uncomfortable chairs and tables were arrayed in a semicircle of tiers around the central speaker’s platform at the base. The last meeting of the year was usually a full one, as men jockeyed to seal deals and finalize terms. This one was no exception, packed full of wrinkled old men, many grey-haired or balding, most portly if not fat, with complexions that ranged from the predominant Newlanture golden browns to Haventure pale pinks. Justin was one of the youngest in the room, and he was the youngest not attending in tow of some elder relation or superior. Unlike the Markavian, the AIC was not exclusively human men: a handful of woman dotted the crowd – wives and daughters of male attendees. Greatcats were rarer still: Lord Walther, orange with black spots, and Fela Jonaston, a grey tiger, were the only members of their species in attendance.

Justin made the rounds of the chamber before the meeting began. He spoke with Mrs. Lavert and confirmed that the Lavert convoy had sailed on Wednesday. She thanked him effusively for his help with customs, one hand on his arm in her earnestness; he waved it off as a trifle, which it was. Thoughts of that supper party made him think of the night with Nikola afterwards and triggered an ache of desire. I need to send him another invitation. Maybe a shooting party. I wonder if I can get away with a party of two?

He fended off a couple of pitches from gentlemen hungry for venture capital, and listened to a third by an enthusiastic Mr. Lonsen, not entirely because Lonsen was a trim, attractive young man. Privately, he had to admit it didn’t hurt. When Mr. Colridge, a vigorish man who looked decades younger than his fifty-odd years, paused to chat, Justin exchanged civil but cool and unencouraging courtesies with him. Justin had made the mistake of screwing Colridge once and the man had tried to make a pet of him afterwards. Presumptuous git.   

Justin had always been drawn to men, from his first schoolboy crush on a handsome curly-haired geography teacher. His earliest sexual experiments had been furtive gropings with other teenage boys at his all-boys school. He suspected most of his partners from that time had been driven more by sexual frustration and a lack of available females than reciprocal attraction. It hardly mattered: at that age he’d been driven by pure need and was often revolted by the personalities attached to the bodies he used to slake his lust. Avoiding the other participant in all public situations was the most desirable outcome. As an adult, he’d had more liaisons with tolerable men, but for the most part he preferred limited or no social contact with his sexual partners. It was safer to confine relations to secretive and even anonymous assignations, to avoid any attachment that might arouse suspicion. Besides, getting lovesick looks from grown men who ought to know better was repugnant. Apart from Nikola.

Nikola. Who broke all the unwritten, unspoken rules Justin held about sexual intercourse. Nikola, who could be his closest friend and yet still be so discreet that no one would think to accuse them, with never an untoward glance, a private smile, or a guilty look. A true friend, not merely an amiable companion but a man with standards and a willingness to stand up for them. Justin doubted he knew even one other individual who would have called him to account over his treatment of Southing. Everyone else would have been too intimidated by Justin’s rank and wealth to risk offense, or considered a viscount above reproach, or that Southing had deserved it, or that one could expect nothing else from a lord. Only Nikola would be unafraid, would believe not only that Justin should but would live up to his ideals. It was maddening and humiliating and somehow touching, that Nikola had so much faith that he could deliver such a reprimand yet never for a moment stop loving Justin.

Justin had never figured out why Nikola put up with him, never mind cared for him as much as he clearly did. Nor why Nikola, who plainly found women desirable, would choose any man for a lover. For Justin, women were a shabby second choice at best. If he was horny enough, a woman would suffice and he’d slept with the occasional prostitute or courtesan in preference to a lonely bed and his hand. But even if the example of his parents’ marriage had not been enough to alienate him from the institution, the idea of committing to a woman for the rest of his life was laughable.

Justin had no illusions that the same applied to Nikola, or that the state of affairs between them could continue indefinitely. One day Nikola would wed, and Justin doubted he would prove the sort of man to betray his marriage vows. Those curst standards of his, again. Though they were flexible enough to admit me as bedmate in the first place, so perhaps…No. Accept the Paradise the Savior gave you, Justin told himself. You’ve had his love for six years, and with fortune you may keep it a little longer. But you will not have a lifetime. Do not pine for what cannot be.

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Nik grinned, charmed by her plainspoken self-analysis. “Does this mean your preference for honesty does not extend to expecting answers to direct questions, Miss Vasilver?”

“Not when the question is nothing of my concern.” Miss Vasilver paused, then added, “Although I don’t have at all the right notion of what ought to concern me, I’m afraid. In truth, I would prefer a social order where one might ask whatever one liked, but where a response of ‘I prefer not to answer that’ was in no way remarkable. I am perplexed by why that response is seldom offered and poorly received when it is…I don’t suppose you know, my lord?”

Nik gave the question due consideration. “It interrupts the flow of conversation, forcing a new topic to be chosen and suggesting that the questioner is prying into something he should not.”

“But is this such a hardship as to justify animosity? I understand that sometimes one might not want to talk about a given topic, regardless of what that topic is or what one’s reasons are – it hardly matters, does it? But to be offended that it is brought up at all? Or to flee the room because it goes unanswered? Wouldn’t it be simpler to pick a new topic and not fret over it?”

“It would.” Nik smiled. “I’m afraid it would not be very like a human to do so, however. I daresay being affronted is one of our primary pastimes.”

“Why? It’s not an enjoyable one so far as I can tell.”

“Isn’t it?”

“My lord?” She tilted her head, inviting him to elaborate.

“It’s natural, would you not agree, to take a certain satisfaction in being correct? In doing what is right, or for that matter in simply knowing the proper answer or solution to a conundrum?” Nik waited for her nod before continuing, “Affrontery is a variant on that feeling. When I take offense at another’s actions, I stimulate the part of my mind that believes I am right, superior to whomever has offended me. It’s a different route to a similar sort of pleasure to what one might derive from a more concrete form of mastery. It has the disadvantage of being connected to other unpleasant emotions too, but it’s nonetheless much easier to find something to be offended by than to go to the trouble of, say, actual learning.”

“Oh!” Miss Vasilver leaned towards him, the fingers of one hand fluttering. “So there is a reason! I have always wondered. It’s…a rather awful reason, though. Are people truly supposed to be that way? Have you observed this from your study of minds, my lord?”

Her calm curiosity – not awed, intimidated, or impressed by his Blessing, but merely inquiring as a matter of fact – impressed Nik. “In a sense,” he answered, after reflection. “It’s…speculation on my part, based on observation. The parts of the mind do not come with tidy labels or unambiguous connections. My great-grandmother taught me to interpret what I experience, and my practice since then has suggested that my interpretations are mostly-but-not-always right. So – yes, my observation of the human mind is that, in most but not all humans, the mindshapes that produce outrage feed into those for satisfaction just as the mindshapes for conscience, curiosity, intellect and other skills do…much of what the mind does, whether we deem it positive or not, is capable of leading to satisfaction. Offense and outrage are part of how humans bond with their own class: one shares the sense of repulsion with others of one’s class to prove that one belongs. That one has to make an example of another for not belonging is, perhaps, incidental. Or…I don’t know, perhaps that’s essential, that there can be no ‘us’ without a ‘them’? Or as a way of establishing one’s place in the hierarchy.” Nik shook his head. “I apologize, Miss Vasilver. I fear I sound as if I possess more information or certainty than I do. Being able to perceive certain qualities doesn’t mean I truly understand how they work, much less why. As for how people are supposed to work – allow me to say that what I describe are attributes of personality, not pathology. A man whose mindshapes connect outrage and pleasure is not ill – and neither is one whose mind does not interrelate the two.”

“How very fascinating. Is the same effect observable among greatcats as well?” Miss Vasilver had shifted to the edge of her seat, head turned to put her ear towards him, light brown eyes fixed on some distant point.

“Yes…perhaps to a lesser degree than among humans. At least Newlant humans. Greatcats value hierarchy less than we do. Less than most humans do,” he amended, out of loyalty to accuracy.

“Most, my lord?”

“There’s a great deal of variance among individuals of all nations and species, but nationality, gender and culture all play a part, such that a Newlant gentlewoman will tend towards different traits than those of a Kinder laborer. And there are always exceptions.” Nikola looked down, started to fold his gloved hands together and stopped, wincing at the twinge of pain from his injured hand. “In truth, Miss Vasilver, I am not much for hierarchy myself.”

“How do you mean, Lord Nikola?” Her attitude, with her face in profile and head tilted, made her look as if she were not attending, but Nik had the clear sense that she was listening intently. It was almost easier to continue than if her eyes had been upon him.

“That. ‘Lord’ Nikola. I’ve had that title my whole life and I still don’t manage to live up to it. I hate being responsible for the livelihoods of other people. I don’t want to tell them what to do, nor do I wish for others to command me. As for the dignity of my rank – I’m more or less an embarrassment to the whole peerage. I’d sooner curl up on a greatcat couchbed than sit in one of these chairs, or race across town on catback and have fur shed all over my clothes than travel with propriety in a carriage. I am the despair of both my parents and even my friends mock me for it. Half the reason I don’t want to marry is because that will give me one more thing I am supposed to be in command of and I am doing a miserable job mastering my existing responsibilities.” The words spilled out of him in a low, urgent rush, unstoppable once he’d begun.

“I cannot agree,” Miss Vasilver said as he paused for breath. Nik blinked at her. She still didn’t look at him, as if too intent on the meaning of the words to spare any concentration for the flesh producing them. “That is – of course I do not dispute your feelings on the subject, upon which you must necessarily be sole expert. But that you do a ‘miserable job’ is factually inaccurate. You still employ all the servants you inherited with Fireholt, save those you’ve pensioned who were no longer capable of work. You guarantee them one day off each week, more than most employers do. You live within your means, adjust your expenditures downwards as necessary, and do not indulge in expensive hobbies. Your tenants’ homes are properly maintained, as is Fireholt itself. I do not say that you have taken all possible measures to maximize the wealth of your holding, but certainly your execution of your duties has been unexceptionable.”

“Oh,” he said, faintly.

Miss Vasilver turned to him at last. “…due diligence.”

“Yes, I…you know, I had planned a digression on how greatcats are different from humans in this respect, but now it strikes me that you know everything about me and I know so little about you, Miss Vasilver. Do you perhaps have a dossier on yourself I might peruse?”

“I fear I do not, my lord. I could have one prepared if you like,” Miss Vasilver offered in her usual grave manner. “I am sure Byron could be persuaded to write a character reference for me.”

“My word, did you accumulate character references on me? I am surprised your father didn’t have to haul you to that first meeting in chains.”

“My lord is much too hard on himself.”

“And still woefully uninformed about you, Miss Vasilver. Since you do not have a dossier at hand, will you do me the kindness of telling me more about yourself now? Or shall I be forced to interrogate my sister for information – ah, I nearly forgot: Lysandra sends her love.”

“Miss Striker? Oh, but she is married now – Mrs…Warren?”

“Warwick.”

“Of course. How kind of her to remember me after all these years. Is she visiting your parents as well?”

“Yes, with her husband and all five of their children. She recalls you with great fondness, I must say.”

“She does? Please give her my best compliments, my lord. I should very much like to see her again…do you think – no, I don’t suppose I ought call on her at Anverlee Manor.”

“If you wish to write out a message or an invitation for her, miss, I should be happy to convey it.”

“Oh, thank you, my lord, I will do that before you go.” Miss Vasilver rang for a servant for writing materials. She glanced to the clock. “Did you wish to stay for dinner, my lord?”

“Is it so late already?” Nik frowned at the clock as if it offended him. “No, I shouldn’t impose—”

“—it’s no imposition, my lord.”

But he was steadfast. Accepting a dinner invitation obliged him to offer one in return and he could not invite her to dine at Anverlee, or afford private dining elsewhere. Except you will be able to, with Justin’s money. Whatever appetite he possessed evaporated. “No, thank you,” he repeated, watching as she wrote out a note for Lysandra. He was acutely aware that his effort to learn more about Miss Vasilver had been entirely deflected, and was unsure if that was intentional on her part or accidental on his own. But I still don’t know anything about her. Except that she’s brilliant and inquisitive and honest and easier to talk to about anything than anyone I have ever known, and I want to see her again and know more. He rose to take the folded note from her hand when she offered it, and took her hand in his gloved ones at the same time. On impulse, Nikola asked, “Miss Vasilver, would you be so kind as to accompany me to the Ascension Ball Saturday next?”

She did not answer at once; her eyes glanced from his hands around hers to his face and away again. Ah, someone has already asked her, he thought, disappointed. But then she answered, cool and decisive, “You honor me, my lord. I would be very happy to join you.”   

“Thank you, my lady.” He gave her a dazzling smile, forgetting her proper honorific in the startling rush of elation that followed her answer. “Good day to you.”

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“I thought that was just in the mornings?”

Nik grimaced. “The petitioner’s hall hours are in the morning. For the more complex cases, I take appointments in the afternoon. And evening.” And night. “With Gracehaven so much more populous and well-travelled than Fireholt, I always see more petitioners when I’m in town. This season has been especially busy.”

“Why does it take so long to help them?” Mrs. Vasilver asked. “I thought the Blessed need but touch the afflicted to cure them.”

“Some are that easy, but with most the Savior needs time to affect treatment. For example, a child whose mental development has been badly stunted may require a half-hour to restore her mindshapes to their proper structure.”

Miss Vasilver tilted her head, listening. “Is that typical of the Blessed?”

Nik started to nod, then paused to give the question real consideration. “In truth, I don’t know. It seems to vary by individual and by Blessing. Blessings for stone and plants strike me as very different from those for minds or bodies; I don’t know how to compare it, since they do not hear petitions or work cures on men. Those for bodies are more akin to minds, although the recovery process for bodies is…not necessarily slower, but more obvious. People overestimate the ‘instantaneous’ effect of treatment, because they go from feeling sick to feeling healthy and don’t realize that there’s still an adjustment process involved. Er…” Nik chased the thread of his point. “At any rate, my great-grandmother, who had the same Blessing I do, spent a fair amount of time with a number of her petitioners when curing their ailments, but I cannot say I know the proportions involved – it’s been too many years. And I suppose it depends on whether one classifies those I cannot cure as ‘more complex’ or leaves them out of the calculation.”

“And how would you classify those?” Miss Vasilver asked.

“Oh, as more complex,” Nik said at once. “A few of them may be untreatable for various reasons. But there’s such a wealth of detail in every mind, and each one so different, that when I cannot make a diagnosis I usually feel as if I just don’t know enough yet.”

Mrs. Vasilver furrowed her brow. “But how can it be a learned skill? Even infants who carry a Blessing will cure the ill.”

“Yes: casting out demons is so obvious it’s not a diagnosis, it’s a reflex. But most ailments aren’t caused by demons. Or if they are, it’s a demon so subtle that it cannot be sensed as such. That manifests as a malformation in one of the hundreds of facets of the mind which have thousands of distinct but healthy shapes. It’s…complex. I learned a great deal from my great-grandmother and the notes from her and her grandfather, and, well, I try to learn more by studying the minds of the sick and the healthy.”

Mrs. Vasilver gave a delicate shudder. “It must be harrowing, seeing the thoughts of strangers all the time. What secrets you must be forced to keep, Lord Nikola.”

“Mother, he doesn’t read thoughts,” her daughter said before Nik could respond. “The Savior’s Blessing lets him see something of the ways in which minds work, not what the person is thinking now. It would be as if – oh – you showed me a blueprint of a house and then asked me to tell you what the inhabitants are doing at the current moment. The one does not give much information at all about the other.”

Nik flashed her a surprised, grateful smile. “That is an excellent analogy, Miss Vasilver. Do you mind if I steal it?”

“I do,” she said gravely. “You must accept it as a gift freely given instead, to do with as you please.”

“If I must.” He rose to give her a bow as solemn as her expression. “Thank you, miss.”

Miss Vasilver inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Is that why this season is busier for you, then?”

Resuming his seat, Nik tried to see the connection and couldn’t. “Beg pardon?”

“If you’ve learned to diagnosis new conditions, that means that people you would have once turned away now take more time, doesn’t it? And your average time per person must increase, because the number of simple treatments would not change but the number of complex ones will rise.”

Nik blinked at her. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I always thought I was putting myself out of work, because once I’d cured someone they would not need to petition again. But for those who don’t have demons, it is technically faster to turn them away than to treat them. Still.” He shrugged, self-conscious. “It’s so little of my time, relative to their benefit. It would be a shattering waste of the Blessing, not to do all I may.”

“Very much to your credit, my lord,” Mrs. Vasilver said, with an awed look that made him sorry he’d said anything. Nik took some comfort from Miss Vasilver’s bland, unimpressed expression.

“It’s no sacrifice,” Nik said quickly. “And I’m not that diligent about it. I cancelled all my appointments today, for example.”

“Did you in truth, my lord? Just to call on my daughter?” The older woman’s dark eyes took on a speculative cast.

Nik wondered how he’d gotten himself into this subject and, more importantly, how to get out again. “Er…”

“Are you supposed to ask questions like that, Mother?”

Mrs. Vasilver blinked at her daughter, diverted. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s fishing for a compliment, isn’t it? I suppose it’s fishing for one for me and not you, but it puts Lord Nikola in an awkward position if that’s not what he intended, doesn’t it? Or if he didn’t wish to give his reasons for cancelling the appointments. I thought that was the sort of thing I wasn’t supposed to do,” Miss Vasilver observed in uninflected, analytical tones. “Is this one of those areas where there are different rules for you?”

“Wisteria – I – you—” The older woman’s tan face flushed, highlighting the soft wrinkles in her skin, and she directed flustered looks between her daughter and her guest. Nik offered no rescue to her. “It’s—” Miss Vasilver watched her mother, awaiting enlightenment. Mrs. Vasilver coughed. “I have just recollected that I have some papers to attend to upstairs. Do excuse me, Lord Nikola, Wisteria.” Nikola rose with her and offered her a bow, then reseated himself after she completed her retreat.

“That was peculiar,” Miss Vasilver said, eyes on the open door her mother had left through. “Usually she answers my questions first.”

Nik laughed. “I believe that was an answer.”

“It was?” She turned her attention to him.

“Oh yes. Roughly translating to ‘You are correct and only by abandoning the entire engagement can I save face now’.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean to embarrass her. Should I go apologize, do you think?”

“Not at all. She embarrassed herself, Miss Vasilver. It was an awkward question and you rescued me from it, which I appreciate.”   

Miss Vasilver digested this. “I am glad to have been of assistance, my lord, though I admit this is a novel position for me. Usually my parents are the ones who tell me I have done something unacceptable. I didn’t even mean to tell my mother she had; I assumed there was some nuance I had not perceived. There normally is.”

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It was half-past noon when Nikola arrived at Vasilver House, in his third-best morning jacket and the sole one that he hadn’t already worn for a call to Miss Vasilver: a dark grey ivytweed with blue piping. Shelby had put his Fireholt monogrammed lapel pin on it, and Nik had taken it off again. He was not courting Miss Vasilver and had no need to impress her with pretensions to wealth, and moreover the pin had been a gift from Justin. It was one of the very few pieces of jewelry Nik had received and kept – wealthy petitioners often donated jewels – rather than sell for the maintenance of his household.

Mrs. Vasilver received him in their overly-formal parlor, its too-cluttered look restored by the return of the Ascension tapestry rug, no worse for his father’s spilled tea. The room reminded Nikola of what Justin called his ‘stiff parlor’, full of pretentious ornaments and uncomfortable furniture, trotted out to impress visitors who might care about such things. Five minutes, Nik told his brain. Can you not go five minutes without thinking of him?

Miss Vasilver’s mother was a softer, shorter, darker-complected version of her daughter, but plump and rounded instead of slim and straight, dark hair streaked by silver a little like Justin’s (enough already!) piled on her head and secured by a fashionable net of silver chain and green stones. Fine lines marked a long face with a high forehead, but unlike her daughter, Mrs. Vasilver had a kind, welcoming smile. Nik had a sudden strong urge to see that smile on her daughter’s lips. What would it be like, if she looked at me just once that way?

They exchanged the standard meaningless courtesies for some minutes. Mrs. Vasilver was a bit worn and melancholy under her gentle kindness: not insincere, but as if her life had held one too many recent disappointments and cheerfulness could not be mustered. Nik sympathized.

When Miss Vasilver arrived, Nikola felt his own mood lighten as he rose to greet her with a smile. She had her hair down and swept to one side again, and wore a vivid blue daydress trimmed in pale blue lace, with a striking jacket entirely of matched lace. She dropped a curtsey to him and offered her hand when he extended his. He kissed the air over her fingers and enjoyed her unaffected air: no simpering or blushing. “Lord Nikola, it’s delightful to see you again. How do you do?”

“The better for seeing you, Miss Vasilver.” Nikola said, because it was true. Her words warmed him even if her cool voice did not sound delighted; in light of their last conversation, he considered she was not the type to utter false pleasantries. Maybe she’s just not the sort of person who smiles. He realized he still held her hand and released it, taking the chair opposite her as she sat.

“Am I to sit quietly and be admired then, my lord? One of my brothers says that nothing spoils a woman’s looks like her open mouth,” Miss Vasilver said, deadpan.

“Oh my goodness, who said that?” Mrs. Vasilver asked. “Mitchell? I’ll have his father beat some manners into that boy yet.”

“Stephen, actually, and I am afraid it is many years too late to beat anything into him, Mother. Perhaps if you could convince Father to withhold his share, but I do not think I could countenance such a move myself.” To Nikola, she added, “Stephen is one of my older brothers, my lord, and captain of Bright Angel, one of our trading vessels.”

“I trust he is a better seamen than wit.” Nik smiled. “Nothing against your looks, Miss Vasilver—” indeed, she looked better today than she had at either of their previous meetings; perhaps the lace had a softening effect on her features “—but I came more to admire your conversation than your person. I would be disappointed indeed if you were to remain silent.”

“I would not disappoint you for anything, my lord.” Her uninflected delivery gave the words a sincerity that the coy flirtatious smile of another woman would have stripped away; Nik found himself touched. “Did my lord have a topic in mind?”

“Not as such. I thought we’d flounder through the usual pleasantries until we stumbled upon something of mutual interest. How do you do, Miss Vasilver?”

“The better for seeing you, Lord Nikola. Am I allowed to steal your lines? I never have been good at the usual pleasantries.”

“Not a bit! I absolutely forbid you to steal my lines. I have given them to you freely, so any use you find for them thereafter is entirely legitimate.”

“In that case – wait, I already asked how you did. How is your family, then? Is that my next courtesy?”

“I believe it is, and they are all well, as well as jammed into every nook and cranny of Anverlee Manor. The place was a great deal larger a week ago before they all descended in force upon it. Alas, I have already asked your mother after the health of your family, so it would be redundant to ask you now.” Nik inclined his head to Mrs. Vasilver. The older woman offered her kindly smile, her expression otherwise bemused.

“Oh dear. We are not yet reduced to the weather, are we? You will be sadly disappointed in my conversation after all, if it comes to that.”

“Now, why would you think that?” Nik smiled at Miss Vasilver, but her long face remained grave. She had lovely skin, clear and flawless, color halfway between the pale-peach from her Haventure heritage on her father’s side, and the warm Newlanture brown of her mother’s.

“Well, for one, I have not set foot outside these last two days, so I do not know what the weather is. I assume we still have some?”

“I daresay we do.” The day was cold, rainy, and dreary; if it had been at all tolerable Nikola would have suggested another walk to Miss Vasilver to get out from under the eye of her mother. “So what has kept you cooped up for two days?”

“I would not say ‘cooped up’. I’ve not had anything I wanted to leave to do, and plenty of work at home. Checking accounts for Vasilver Trading to ensure all is in order for when we close the books at year-end.”

“My daughter works far too much, Lord Nikola.” Mrs. Vasilver gave her daughter a fond smile but there was a hint of steel beneath the words. “I imagine you have been more in the spirit of the Season? Dinner engagements every day and supper engagements every evening?”

“Only if one counts dinner with my family. In fact, I’ve been busy with work myself. Seeing petitioners, I mean.”

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Halfway through the petitioning assembly, Nikola already felt flayed to the bone. He’d lost track of numbers cured and those sorted, but several of those he had not been able to cure were wailing, crying, or screaming, despite the best efforts of their family or friends to calm them. Desperate petitioners clutched at him instead of following instructions, as if holding onto him hard enough would force the Savior to fix them at once.

At one end of the hall, his footman Bill and Anthser wrested apart a pair of belligerent petitioners; at the other Mrs. Linden spoke in a low voice with one of the Anverlee staff about cleaning the mess created by one agitated woman. Shelby was straightening out someone who insisted he had an appointment, even though it was 10:30 and Shelby never scheduled appointments before noon. It took an effort of will for Nik to keep moving down the endless line alone. A traitorous voice in his head whispered, Think how much easier this will be with more people, enough to handle the mob, enough to work in proper shifts, perhaps with expertise at handling those with impaired faculties. With Justin’s money you can do all that… Nik hated himself even more for that thought. Has all my resolve been nothing but coy, missish objections that I wanted him to overpower? Is it his money I’ve been after all this time in truth, like some gold-digging mistress? He forced his attention to the mind before him instead: no demon, and he struggled to focus enough to diagnose any other problem. After half a minute, he discerned that the mindshape for anxiety was grossly overinflated (that should have been obvious) and directed her to go to the section for the treatable. He turned to give Shelby a time estimate for her appointment, and realized the valet wasn’t back yet.

Sighing, Nik continued on to the next petitioner, a big twentyish man who knelt with eyes downcast. He touched the man’s cheek and saw the demon in his mind at the same time the petitioner turned his head and sunk his teeth into Nik’s hand. Nik screamed, as much from surprise as pain. Savior! He invoked the god by reflex to cast out the demon. A large shape flashed in his peripheral vision, accompanied by a deep roar, then a greatcat – tawny, not Anthser – knocked him aside and pushed the petitioner to the floor. Nikola staggered and winced as his hand ripped free of his assailant’s mouth. He clutched at his wrist as the hall around him erupted in noise. Anthser was upon them before the strange greatcat had time to finish asking, “Are you all right, m’lord?”

“What happened?” Anthser snarled at the unfamiliar greatcat as he curled his body around Nikola protectively. A half-dozen other greatcats – relations of petitioning kittens – had crossed the hall to gather around him, though they stayed back to give him and Anthser space.

“Man attacked Lord Nikola,” the golden greatcat answered, one paw pinning the unresisting assailant to the floor.

“I’m so sorry, my lord!” the youthful petitioner said, wide-eyed. He looked stunned but not hurt. “I don’t know why I did that!”

“I’m fine,” Nikola said automatically, although he did not feel fine at all. The physical injury was minor, however. Blood welled from torn skin on the back of his hand; deep tooth marks marred the palm, back of the hand, and the first joint of the index finger. Nik pushed on Anthser, and the great dark form shifted aside enough for Nik to move forward and crouch to touch the petitioner’s bare hand. “Let him up.”

“My lord?” the strange greatcat said.

“Demon’s gone. Let him go.” The rest of Nikola’s staff materialized around him as he stood; the barricade of greatcats had stepped aside for them. Nik felt suddenly claustrophobic, smothered by the expectations and even the goodwill of all the people crowding him. “He’s not a criminal.” If the man had been a prisoner brought for treatment, his guards would have warned Nik first. Mrs. Linden tried to take Nik’s hand, but he shook her off. “It’s nothing. I…” Nik pictured continuing the petitioning hours, trying to restore order, spending hours with his appointments for the day, and shuddered. He tried to move, just to see who was next, and his legs would not respond. I can’t do this. “Clear the hall,” he told Mrs. Linden. He wanted to sag against Anthser but forced himself upright. Curse you, you’re a man and a noble, act like it for five minutes, he told himself.

“My lord?” Mrs. Linden looked surprised.

“Clear the hall,” he repeated. He looked at the faces around him. “Shelby, cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day. Anthser, with me.” Nikola started towards his office at the back of the hall; Anthser paced alongside, long black tail lashing a warning. Five minutes, Nik told himself. The office door seemed impossibly distant.

“But…what do we tell them?” Bill Coxsleigh asked, trailing behind.   

Find another miracle worker. There’s three others in the country. “They may come back tomorrow.” Nik closed on the office with slow, deliberate strides, not looking to either side, afraid if he moved any faster he would start to shake. Or perhaps run. Anthser put a paw on the door handle and pulled it open for him. “Thank you. Please wait outside and see that I am not disturbed.” Nikola stepped inside and Anthser closed the door behind him. He made it halfway across the room before the shaking started. Useless, pointless tears that had nothing to do with pain trickled down his cheeks as he washed the injury in the room’s basin and wrapped a clean handkerchief around it with trembling fingers. Nik sprawled over the couchbed, eyes directed sightlessly at the gift mural for some time, until his body started behaving properly under his conscious control again. At that point, he took a long close look at his mind in an effort to figure out what his problem was now.

No demons, of course – those were so obvious he would not have had to make a special check to find them. His mindscape looked much the same as it had for the last few months. There were minor developmental changes: nothing as dramatic as watching his mind alter while growing up, where it was as obvious as his physical growth, but the process was still ongoing. His great-grandmother had told him that in some people, their mindshapes became rigid in their teens or twenties, but in many the mindshapes continued to shift, change and sometimes grow. It wasn’t unhealthy either way. Nik’s hadn’t settled down, but his great-grandmother’s never had either. Even in the last year of her life, when she was a hundred twenty-seven, he could still notice the little alterations from month to month.

Nik wished she was here now, to tell him he wasn’t crazy.

He found the most probable source of trouble: little burrs of recent trauma, positioned so it was easy for them to scrape other parts of his psyche. What caused that? Don’t tell me I was traumatized by watching Justin nearly die. Or by being bought. Am I so fragile? Nik sighed and washed his blotched face in the basin. Apparently so.

He didn’t ask the Savior to fix them: he could tell they were too recent for a miraculous cure. Trauma was a part of life: the mind needed time to learn from events, including difficult ones, and could recover naturally in good time from most. If his mind could not cope long-term and they were still a problem – or had grown more severe – in a week or two, the Savior would intervene then. Until that time, he had to manage on his own. And manage better than pitching a fit and throwing out my petitioners after a minor incident. Not to mention alarming my staff.

After drying his face and hands, Nik straightened his attire and hair. Hoping he looked presentable or at least not disgraceful, he left his makeshift sanctuary. Anthser, sitting on his haunches on the marble floor by the door, turned to look at him. Shelby stood from a chair next to the warcat, a basic treatment case at hand. “Your lady mother and the count asked after you,” Anthser said.

Nik almost returned to the office. The thought of facing his family, the eager questions about why he’d dismissed his petitioners early, concern for his health, his father’s now-justified objections to petitioners being in the house at all – it was nearly enough to destroy his fragile façade of normalcy. “Thank you, Anthser.”

Shelby cleared his throat. “Does m’lord wish to see a healer?”

“No. It’s nothing.” No one can fix what’s truly wrong with me, anyway.

“May I, m’lord?” The thin, white-haired valet gestured to the treatment case.

“Very well.” Nik sat and allowed Shelby to clean and dress the bite marks.

Anthser loomed nearby, watching, tail lashing again. “Maybe we should have ’em all tied up before letting ’em in,” he growled.

Nikola sighed. “I have to touch them to treat them, Anthser. And bound hands wouldn’t stop a man from biting me.”

“Gagged too, then.”

“No, Anthser. It’s nothing.”

“Then why—” Anthser cut off as Nik looked at him, and dropped his massive dark head, ears drooping. “Sorry, Lord Nik.”

Proper bandages were almost invisible beneath Nik’s habitual gloves. Nik tried to imagine facing whatever his parents had to say to him without screaming, weeping, collapsing, or otherwise humiliating himself. Justin would never be this shamefully weak.

Curse you, Justin.

He wanted to escape, to go somewhere safe, where he wouldn’t have to deal with family or Justin or even be reminded that Justin existed. To talk to someone sensible, someone who would not try to manipulate or control him. “Shelby, please give my parents my best compliments and inform them that I have gone out. My regrets but I will not be available for dinner today. Anthser, kindly bring the gig around to the front. I will call on Miss Vasilver.”

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On Thursday morning, Nik awoke disoriented, too early, depressed and nauseated and unable at first to remember what was wrong. Then it came to him in a sickening rush of anger, fear, betrayal. Justin, grinning like it was a joke, as if he would actually consent to alter his personality just to force Nik into his debt. Demons take you, Justin. How dare you. I should have called your bluff. I should have trusted that the Savior would not allow you to be greatly changed, perhaps not allow a change at all.

But what if Justin hadn’t been bluffing? What if changing the way he reacted to fear did make him more cautious? Made him reconsider the foolish risks we take when we…

Then that would be the Savior’s will. And who could fault it? Is this not the definition of madness, in violation of law, custom, nature? Shouldn’t I trust the Savior to do what is right? Nik had never had any trouble trusting the Savior before, not even when he’d prayed for alteration to his own mind. Yes, and that didn’t go as you planned, either. What do you truly fear? That you will be able to cure Justin when you have never, ever been able to cure yourself? Selfish coward.    

Curse it all. What possessed me to tell him about it anyway? A misplaced sense of obligation; the fool notion that he owed it to Justin to tell him. Because his conscience had been pricked by Justin’s jibe: ‘A true friend would’ve told me I was crazy and cured me’. He punched the pillow in remembered anger. So what kind of friend am I, Justin? Right. The kind you have to buy.

The tangled web of emotions knotted into a sudden hard ball of hatred: for Justin for putting him in this position, for making everything be about money, about Justin having it and Nik not and never letting him forget that. For the Savior for giving him this curse of a Blessing – I never asked for this! For himself, for his own cowardice, for letting Justin do this to him, for not trusting the Savior.

When Shelby arrived with breakfast, Nik was still hunched in his four-poster bed, maroon and white linens in a disarrayed heap around him. The valet inquired after his health, but probed no further in response to Nik’s monosyllabic reply. Nik went through his usual morning routine sluggishly, and approached the reception hall with a sense of dread. It was by no means the first time he’d felt ashamed to invoke the Savior, and he knew the Savior would do his part whatever Nik’s mood or personal feelings. Even so, he took a moment outside the reception hall to bow his head and ask the Savior to forgive him.    

The Savior’s presence when Nik prayed was different from his presence when Nik invoked his Blessing. Instead of an overwhelming rush of golden warmth and power, Nik sensed an expectancy inside his mind, a hushed listening. His prayer was silent but heartfelt: I am sorry, my Lord. For not trusting you. For being selfish and mean and petty. For selling myself. For resenting it. For being broken. For not wanting to enter this room and help people with problems a hundred times worse than my own. I am unworthy of the gift you have given me. Please forgive me.

His answer came in a touch of the Savior’s love, a warm wind enfolding him: invisible, untouchable, but nonetheless vaster and more powerful than the human mind could encompass. Behind that love was a hint of sorrow reminiscent of the Savior’s response to a petitioner Nikola could not diagnose, as if the Savior were shielding Nik from the god’s own disappointment. The certain knowledge of the Savior’s love took some of the edge off of Nikola’s misery, but it didn’t take away any of his current problems or make them feel more solvable. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and nodded to Bill to open the reception hall doors and announce him.

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A chambermaid entered with a box of candles, dropping a polite curtsy and a “m’lords” before she set about filling and lighting the room’s candelabra and wall sconces; apparently, the room had never been refitted for gaslight. Nikola fetched down cue sticks and Justin racked the balls – things a footman would do at Comfrey Manor, but that was more of an inconvenience than a convenience in this case – while the girl drew the curtains.

“Thank you, Mary,” Nikola told her as she finished. “That will be all.” The Haventure man leaned over to take the first shot as the maid withdrew again.

For form’s sake, Justin took a shot too, and was amused as the warping of the table turned a straight rebound into a curve after the ball lost most of its momentum. “Perhaps you should patent uneven surfaces for billiards, Striker. It adds a whole different feel to the game, gives an incentive to know the terrain well. Like trail-optional bowracing.” When Nikola didn’t respond, Justin looked up to see the man standing at his elbow, round blue eyes intent upon him.

“I don’t know how you can joke about it,” Nikola said, voice low. “I still have nightmares.”

“So do I, but only that I have to apologize to Southing again,” Justin took the cue stick from Nikola’s unresisting hand and set both on the table to hug him again. “I am fine. See?” he murmured into his lover’s ear. “Thanks to you. I am deeply in your debt, you know.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Nikola stiffened and pulled back, turning away. “No, you are not,” he said shortly. Justin grimaced at his back. I am not just letting this subject drop again, curse it. You will let me repay you. Before he could decide on the best approach, Nikola said, “You never asked me if you were crazy.”

Justin blinked at the non sequitur. “What?”

The tall blond man strode to one of the faded chairs before the curtained windows and fell into it. “You told everyone you’d asked me if you were insane. Which you had not.”

“Come now, Striker, you can’t be upset about that. I was being facetious. Everyone knew I wasn’t speaking literally! Besides, you’ve seen my mind a thousand times. It’s not like I’d have to ask,” Justin said. Nikola’s face was turned away; he didn’t answer. “…would I?” The heavily-muscled lord crossed the floor to stand before Striker, leaning down and planting his hands on the arms of the chair when Nikola still wouldn’t look at him. “Curse it, Striker, am I crazy?”

Nikola met his eyes at last. “Have I ever told you how my Blessing works?”

“I know how it works, you cast out demons, blood and death, Nikola, have I got one or not? Is this such a hard question?” Justin snarled, feeling as though if he were not mad already he was on the verge of becoming so.

“Yes, it is!” Nikola snapped in return. “It’s not – no, you don’t have a demon, yes, of course I’d say something if you did, curse it, Justin, sit down and let me explain.” Taking a deep breath to compose himself, Justin dropped into the armchair opposite. Nikola stripped off his gloves. “Give me your hand.”

Justin quirked an eyebrow. “You had my cheek against yours not five minutes ago, Striker.”

“Yes, and five minutes ago you hadn’t petitioned me. Now you have. Do you want an answer or not?”

Justin leaned forward, putting his strong, thick-wristed hand between Nikola’s long-fingered pale ones.

The other man exhaled. “There’s two causes for disorders. One is demons. Those are easy to spot and expel, and afflict, I don’t know, perhaps a quarter or a third of my petitioners. The other is…oddities in mindshapes. It’s hard to explain in words and I usually don’t, so just listen, Comfrey. All right? Just listen.” Nikola took a deep breath, his hands clasped tightly around Justin’s. “There is a great deal of variation in the way minds look, and most of it is what I consider normal. No,” he corrected himself, “I mean ‘healthy’. Because ‘normal’ implies ‘like everyone else’ and it’s not like that, it’s just…it feels right. Not obviously defective. If someone comes to me with their sense of joy the size of a grain of sand, I can tell that’s a problem. If it’s shaped like a flower on one person and like a corncob on another, though, I’d say they’re both healthy, even though those shapes are unique to them so it’s not ‘normal’. The Savior won’t let me change the shape of one to another if it’s like that – it’s come up, I’ve tried on depressed people whose shapes were particularly odd – because that’s not unhealthy. Just different.” Nikola spoke quickly, agitated, blue eyes unfocused. “Sometimes – much of the time – I can’t tell what’s wrong, And – I don’t tell people they’re crazy, Comfrey. You need to understand that. When people don’t petition me, I don’t look for things that might be unhealthy. Unless a demon or a pattern I know is unhealthy jumps out at me, I’m not going to assume that any of the odd things I see are anything but odd. Part of the natural variation.”

Ahh. “So I am crazy.” Justin felt oddly sanguine about this. It explains so much.

“No!” Nikola cut himself off, swallowed, continued, “I wouldn’t say that. But if you want to know if there’s anything unusual about your mind that would explain why you snapped after the – the fall – yes, all right? There is. Your mind is structured so you’ll become angry instead of frightened. Or find scary things funny.”

“And you were wondering how I could make jokes about it,” Justin said, dryly.

Nikola laughed. “I suppose I should have seen the connection.” His expression sobered again. “I do not—”

A knock at the door cut him off. Stifling a growl, Nikola released Justin’s hand and sat back. “Yes?” he called.

Nikola’s valet opened the door. “Beg pardon, sir, but your five-thirty is here.”

Nikola gritted his teeth. “I’ll be with them shortly, Shelby, thank you.” After the servant bowed and left, the young lord leaned forward again, resuming where he’d been cut off. “My professional opinion is that you are sane, Justin. You said that situation had never arisen before, and if it – if anything like it – I don’t even know if being terrified is more useful than being angry anyway. For that matter, I don’t know if the Savior would change it if we wanted, and if it were up to me I would not ask. Changing something about a mind often has unintended consequences. It could, for example, make you more cautious, not just about physical danger but perhaps in…other areas of your life. It would not make you irrational but it would make you less you. Less who you are now. Usually my petitioners are people whose everyday lives have been made so difficult that the risks of such changes are comparatively inconsequential to them. But you…” He trailed off for a moment. “You’re not like that. Do you understand?”

“I believe I do.” Justin gave him a puzzled look. “But if you do not think it should be changed, why are you telling me about it?”

Nikola swallowed. “Because it is not up to me to choose. It is your mind. It is your choice.”

“Ah.” Justin paused, wanting to give the subject the consideration Nikola felt it deserved. Then his mind lit on a tangential realization. “If you did treat me, you would have to accept a gift from me.”

His friend jerked his head up to stare at him. “What?”

“You could not possibly balk at it: a gift for a Gift, amount at the discretion of the giver, Blessing involved, exactly conformed to the letter of the Code.” Justin grinned, dark eyes dancing at the thought. Yes!

“No!” Nikola rose, knocking back his chair.

“‘No’?” Justin tried to fight down his humor and failed. I have you now, boy. “Did I misunderstand something here? Would you refuse my request? It is my right and obligation to give in return, is it not?”   

His stubborn friend set his jaw. “You wouldn’t – you couldn’t – not to—” He turned and stalked away, hands clenched to fists at his sides. “Fine,” he snarled.

Justin stood to follow him. “Beg pardon?” he inquired at his friend’s back, all light and innocence.

“I said fine.” Nikola turned his head sideways, angular face in profile over his shoulder as he spoke in clipped words. “Whatever ‘reward’ you want to give me, just do it. Say it’s for catching you after the fall or for a private consultation or, or, a curst naming-day gift. Whatever you like. Only, curse it Justin do not make me do this just so you can fucking buy me.”

Justin hesitated, struck by Nikola’s vehemence, and his curious turn of phrase. Buy him? But Savior knew when he’d have this opportunity again. “Agreed.” He offered his hand before Nikola could change his mind.

Nikola turned to face him, eyeing his hand as if it were a venomous serpent. “To what?”

“You will allow me to present you with a suitable monetary gift—” Justin chose his words with legalistic care “—in recompense for saving my life, and I will make the decision regarding my mind independent of any consideration regarding you.”

His friend bowed his blond head. After a moment, he lost his rigid, tense posture, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Agreed,” he whispered. His hand in Justin’s felt cold. Justin’s elation – Yes! Finally! – was marred by a twinge of concern over Nik’s attitude. It’s just a ding to his pride, embarrassed that he needs the money at all. He’ll get over it, and things will be much better between us without this foolish gulf in relative wealth. Justin released the hand to draw Nikola into his arms and kiss him, fingers curling around the nape of his neck. Nik was stiff in his embrace, but yielded enough to answer the kiss. He held Justin in return for a moment, then pulled away. “I should go.”   

“Right. Your five-thirty.” Justin stroked his cheek tenderly. “I’ll arrange for the gift soon…it won’t be ostentatious, Nikola. Nothing untoward. I promise.” He gave his lover a last hungry kiss, earnest against their next time alone together, before releasing him.

“And…as far as your mind goes…?”

“If you don’t think intervention is advised—”

“I do not.”

“I trust your judgement.” Justin smiled at him. “I shall keep this quirk in mind and control my temper better the next time my life is endangered, in view of the likelihood that I will misjudge intentions in such conditions.”

Nikola exhaled, nodding. He looked wrung out, even paler than usual. The blond lord escorted him to the front door as was their habit, with Justin maintaining a flow of everyday conversation and receiving mechanical replies in return. Justin was used to upholding the occasional conversation with a partner who could not maintain their end, due to shyness, lack of skill, intimidation, or whathaveyou. But it was strange to be doing so with Nikola, who usually made everything easy. As Justin stepped into his carriage to depart the premises, he suffered from the same strange mix of pleasure and concern. It’s only pique at being outmaneuvered in this silly game we’ve been playing far too long. He’ll get over it.

Justin leaned back in the coach seat and smiled, imagining a future where Nikola no longer fretted about the amount of a wager, where he no longer needed to decline invitations because he could not reciprocate them, or feared hosting guests at Fireholt for lack of appropriate entertainment. Oh, yes. He’ll get over it.

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