Justin remained pleasant and agreeable through the remainder of dinner, smiling and listening after having taken up so much time earlier relating his anecdote. Inwardly, he was irritated and frustrated. Not at having related the whole sorry episode – that didn’t trouble him. Anyone who thought less of him for it deserved to, and besides the only listener in the room whose opinion he valued already knew the truth.

No, Nikola was the problem.

It had struck Justin on Sunday evening that, finally, he had a certain way to force his proud, impoverished friend to take some curst money from him. Money, which always lay between them like a needless thorn. It was an unspeakable injustice that Nikola, whose gifts restored men’s minds, gave them back sanity, dignity, memory, intelligence – everything that made life bearable – should be forced to scrape along in a household hobbled by debt and understaffed to serve the needs of his Blessing, never mind those of his personal life. The world ought to shower the man with riches, not leave pennies in an offering bowl while walking away with the true fortune of an intact mind. Whereas society lavished rewards upon Justin for his far less significant talents in making connections, persuading influential people, and choosing investments. Justin had long ago passed the point where he wanted money for the sake of what he could purchase: it was just a way to keep score, to show that he was winning at yet another game. Justin liked winning, and liked having something to show for having won, but beyond that he didn’t have much use for most of his fortune other than investing it for the next round of the never-ending game. Which was a certain amount of fun, but he’d rather have spent it on something important. Someone important.

Nikola.

Who did need what money could acquire, but didn’t want it from Justin.

Every effort Justin had ever made to alleviate Nikola’s relative poverty had failed, sometimes disastrously. Granted, the disasters were mostly Justin’s fault – one time in particular pained him to recollect, several years after the fact. Somehow, knowing he was to blame did not make his failures any easier to bear.

Why can’t I do this one thing?

Half the reason he’d chosen to tell the entire story of the race at the dinner table was to make Nikola’s rescue public knowledge, and to assert Justin’s right to repay the debt before witnesses, where it would be harder for Nikola to fend off the claim. It should have worked, curse it. Nik was accustomed to being paid to save lives. Not in anything like proportion to the value of the life saved, granted, but nonetheless. Perhaps Justin had started negotiations too high – he’d expected Nik or the Strikers would object to what would be, admittedly, an outrageous sum. That he would have gladly paid. But he figured he’d let them talk him down to something more reasonable, such as ten or five percent. He had not reckoned on Nikola’s obstinate end run around the entire issue. There’s nothing wrong with ideals, boy, but there’s no shame in seeing to your own needs, either. Perhaps making it a public issue had been a tactical error and he’d do better at private negotiations. You know, most people have this sort of problem acquiring wealth, not convincing someone else to take it, Justin reflected dryly. I have to be different about everything.

The back of his mind was still turning over the issue when dinner concluded. Most of the party withdrew to the drawing room, though Mrs. Adonse took her sister and her female friends, Miss Quinen and Miss Rubane, upstairs to the nursery to show off their offspring. Nikola asked Justin, “Would my lord care for billiards?”

“By all means.”

“Anyone else, gentlemen?” Nikola asked politely. None of the others were interested – Lord Striker’s brow was furrowed in outright disapproval, for no reason Justin could discern. After exchanging bows with the others, Nikola led Justin alone to the billiards room in the north wing. “I didn’t know you had a billiards room, Striker,” Justin commented.

Nikola gave him a lopsided smile. “We do. After a fashion.” He opened the door on a forlorn-looking chamber ill-lit by what late afternoon sunlight came through the east-facing windows. The room held a few shabby chairs and an ancient pocketless billiards table in need of recovering. “My father likes to pretend it doesn’t exist because he’s ashamed of it. Captain Adonse detests playing on it because the surface is so warped.”

Justin stepped onto the threadbare rug of Anverlee blue, strolling to the table as Nikola closed the door. “Ah, you know I do love a challenge, Striker.” He stroked a hand over the worn red velvet on the uneven top, then turned to fetch down a cue stick from the wall – only to find Nikola standing a few inches before him, tall and slim in his formal blue dinner jacket and neckcloth with its fraying ends concealed in careful folds. Without a word, the blond lord enfolded Justin in his arms, pressing his cheek against dark hair, holding so hard that he forced Justin back a half-step to bump against the billiards table. Justin laughed, startled but pleased, sliding his own arms around Nikola’s waist. “Or perhaps you don’t want to play billiards, either?”

“Perhaps not,” Nikola admitted. Justin could feel the tension in his lover’s body, a strain that did not feel like passion, though Justin’s own body was responding predictably to the pressure of Nikola’s leg between his thighs. The fantasy of bending Nik over that billiards table and taking him, here, now, in his father’s house, flashed through Justin’s mind. Down, boy, he told himself, and just held his friend instead, stroking a hand over his back.

Nikola had begun to melt against him when they were interrupted by a knock at the door. Neither man started, though Nikola growled in Justin’s ear, tensing again. Calm, they dropped their arms and Nikola took two steps back before calling, “Enter.”

---

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Justin resumed his story. “As I was saying, myself and my landbound mount did our best to follow in their wake, getting smacked in the face by branches that they soared over, picking our way along the narrow ledges of cliffs that they flew up, and falling further and further behind. At length, Lord Nikola and Fel Fireholt reached a cliff – a gigantic, sheer cliff – so high that Fel Fireholt said to Lord Nikola, ‘I don’t think my wings can carry us up this one. We’ll have to run the path like mere mortals.’ And Lord Nikola said, ‘That’s fine, they must be a mile behind us by now, take your time.’ So they moseyed up to the top, had a little nap by the target, stuck some arrows in it, and glided down to the bottom.”

Flushing, Nik covered his face with his hands. “Lord Comfrey. Please.”

Justin ignored him. “While they flew down, Feli Southing and I at last reached the cliff base. Evidence the second: I tell Feli Southing, ‘Don’t take the path on this cliff! This is our chance to finally gain some ground on them.’

“She replies: ‘…how?’

“‘Go straight up! The way Fel Fireholt does! Only, you know, without the wings. You can jump from rock to bush and to trail,’ I tell her, and I gesture to a series of points along the cliff face that a madman might conclude could be used as footholds.

“Feli Southing, demonstrating her comparative sanity, says, ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

“Why not? What’s the worst that can happen?’

“‘We could fall off and die.’

“‘Don’t be ridiculous! Neither of us has ever died before, no reason to think we’d start now.’” Justin waited for the ensuing laughter to quiet before continuing, “Convinced by this illogic or perhaps by my threats regarding her continued employment, Feli Southing made the attempt, leaping vertically from one toehold to the next, sinking her claws into solid rock to scale the cliff.

“At the foot, Lord Nikola told his mount, ‘That looks exceptionally brave and/or stupid. We’d better wait here for when they fall off.’ So they waited and watched as we neared the top, until only an overhang stood between us and the summit. Feli Southing lunged for it, grabbed the underside, fell, caught herself on a tree which started to crack under her weight—” By now, the rest of the table had fallen silent to listen to Justin’s yarn. Nik closed his eyes against the memory of the next few moments, amazed that Justin could speak so easily of it. “—Feli Southing shoved off again, tree tumbling down the cliff with the force of the launch, seized the outcrop with all eighteen claws, and clambered upside down until she’s over it and safe at the top!”

“Oh, thank goodness,” the Lady Striker said from the other side of the table, holding one hand to her ample bosom.

“She actually made it?” Daphne asked.

“She did indeed!” Justin punctuated this statement with a triumphant upraised fist. “Unfortunately, I did not. Not being even a tenth part sphynx, I fell from the seat and plummeted towards the ground hundreds of feet below.” A collective gasp rose from the assembly. “Fortunately, Fel Fireholt and my good friend Lord Nikola, anticipating this contingency, were already flying to my rescue. They intercepted me halfway down, where Lord Nikola plucked me from the air like an eagle saving an exceptionally clumsy chick. An exceptionally heavy, unwieldy chick, who would have pulled a mortal man from the seat and sent both of us to our deaths, whereas Lord Nikola remained part of the chimerical beast he and Fel Fireholt comprised. All three of us touched down at the cliff base again, quite unharmed.”

“Nik! You never told us any of this,” Daphne said.

Nik had a hand over his eyes, so he couldn’t see her expression or anyone else’s. “Lord Comfrey exaggerates. Wildly,” he said in strangled tones.

“Bah! I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet. Feli Southing caught up to us at the base, and as evidence the third that I am not in my right mind, I had concluded that – since falling from an upside-down greatcat, after commanding her to the action, cannot possibly be my fault – it must be an attempted assassination! I launched into a scathing tirade against my hapless employee, demanding to know the identity of my enemy, threatening her livelihood, and generally posturing like an insufferable pompous buffoon.”

Miss Rubane laughed. “Oh, you never did,” she said, disbelieving.

“He was nothing like that bad,” Nik objected, with more loyalty than accuracy.

“No, not at all, I was much worse.” Justin’s expression sobered for a moment, before lightening again as he continued, “As I frothed at the mouth through this baseless diatribe, Feli Southing gave Lord Nikola and Fel Fireholt this look as if to say ‘So, did he hit his head on the way down after all?’ And Fel Fireholt said to Lord Nikola, ‘I’ve changed my mind about this rescuing thing, I’ll just carry him back up there and drop him off again shall I?’ For reasons unclear to me, Lord Nikola did not support this plan. Feli Southing sensibly quit my service and departed, and Fel Fireholt followed to console her while Lord Nikola patiently attempted to explain to me that my reaction may have been something less than completely reasonable.

“‘Am I crazy?’ I asked him, when at last I was persuaded of my folly. ‘Is that my problem?’” As Justin spoke, Nik had to bite his tongue to keep himself from making another angry outburst. You did no such thing! “And on reflection, had he been a true friend, he would have said ‘Absolutely! You were possessed of a demon, which I will now remove thus and nothing that just happened is your fault.’ But no, he maintained that I am sane and, accordingly, to blame for being an utter cretin.” Justin is joking, Nik told himself, feeling his face flush, furious and mortified, knowing he was taking this too seriously. Everyone else knows he’s joking. No one is taking him at his word. But his memory flashed back to that argument, to noticing the intertwined shapes of fear and anger in Justin’s mind. Was there something wrong in that? Should I have said something?

Justin was continuing the tale, oblivious to Nik’s internal reaction. “I had no recourse but to throw myself off the cliff again. Or apologize. After considerable internal debate, I was forced to conclude that getting back up the cliff under my own power would be too hard and I humbled myself before Feli Southing in apology instead. So, in answer to your original question, Mrs. Adonse: I lost the race, my dignity, my temper, and my pride – nothing of any great value, I promise – but do you know the worst of it?”

Daphne shook her head, eyes bright with mirth.

“I never did offer either Fel Fireholt or Lord Nikola proper thanks for saving my life. I believe I must repay them – how does that part of the Code go? ‘A gift for a gift’? ‘Half my kingdom’ is the usual rate for princesses, isn’t it? I cannot split an entailed viscountcy, but for a mere viscount perhaps half my unimpaired wealth might suffice?”

Nik found his voice before anyone else in the ensuing silence, the listeners uncertain whether to laugh at a jest or be shocked by Justin’s earnestness. It was a struggle to keep his voice level, to sound reasonable and not irrational, angry, offended, embarrassed. “First, nine-tenths of that was pure embroidery and the danger was by no means as great as you make it sound. Second, that part of the Code applies to Blessings, Lord Comfrey, which were not involved here. You owe me nothing.” And even if he had, the amount he’d suggested was beyond absurd – some grateful and wealthy petitioners might present an outsized gift, but no one outside of a children’s story had ever given up half their wealth in trade.

“I must disagree, my lord.” Justin smiled, his tone still light, but there was a hardness in his eyes as he met Nik’s. “Perhaps I value my life more highly than you.”

Given the evidence of your actions, I very much doubt that, Justin. “Your continued friendship is worth more to me than any sum you could name,” Nik said, with a quiet but honest conviction. “It is all the thanks I desire or require. To your health, Lord Comfrey.” He raised his glass and the rest of the table joined him in the toast, putting an end to the topic.

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With the calm composure that teachers and tutors had drilled into him throughout his youth, Nik waited while Shelby finished arranging Nik’s neckcloth for dinner on Wednesday afternoon. He did not dance with impatience or tell the dignified old servant to ‘hurry it up already’ because a footman had announced Justin’s arrival and Nik wanted to meet him in the parlor before they were seated for dinner. Their friendship was in no way a secret, but rushing down like a schoolboy with a crush was undignified and ill-advised.

Instead, the parlor was full when Nik arrived. In addition to the manor’s current seven gentleborn adult occupants, the Lady Striker had invited two women to balance the genders: Miss Andrea Rubane and her cousin Miss Eliza Quinten. Nik wondered if either of them had wealth enough to have become his mother’s next target for a betrothal. Miss Quinten had a remarkable figure and bright, pretty green eyes in a face framed by gold curls. She was also a giggly creature who hid behind her fan, a ridiculous affectation in wintertime, perhaps in a vain effort to conceal her discolored teeth. Miss Rubane had a less attractive figure – scrawny and of average height, with nondescript Newlanture features and dark hair – but she had a quick smile and an intelligent expression. Nik exchanged amiable greetings with them when Daphne introduced them as her friends. He did not have time for more than some meaningless chitchat and a friendly handshake with Justin before the party was seated for dinner.

Lady Striker had shown some mercy in the seating arrangements for dinner, however. She did place Miss Rubane on Nik’s right, but Daphne was on his left and Justin just to the other side of Daphne. Justin, as usual, was magnificent: long black hair loose except for a narrow queue down the back, broad shoulders encased in a jacket of wine-colored velvet, patterned waistcoat of gold and white just visible beneath it, neckcloth immaculately tied, strong well-turned calves outlined by white stockings, buckled shoes gleaming.

Dinner went off in a fine flow of food, drink, and conversation. Miss Rubane was an attentive but not simpering companion, politely dividing her attention between Nik on her left and Edmund on her right. Daphne was perhaps Nik’s favorite relative, and he had no objections to catching up with her.

Partway through the second course, Daphne asked Justin, “So how did your bowrace with Nikola go, Lord Comfrey? You know I so seldom see him for two minutes together that I’ve not even had the chance to ask him who won.”

Nik suppressed a wince and turned to distract Daphne, only to find Justin laughing at the question. “Oh, that’s just as well, Mrs. Adonse. I promise you Lord Nikola’s version of the story would be much less entertaining than mine.”

“It would?” Nik raised his eyebrows, wondering what tale Justin could plan to spin out of the debacle.

“Without a doubt.” Justin grinned, intention unreadable in his dark eyes.

Daphne all but bounced in her seat. “Don’t keep me in suspense!”    

Justin steepled long tan fingers, considering his subject matter. “A bit of background first. Some weeks ago, I hired a racing greatcat for the express purpose of bowracing: Feli Southing, a superb racer, albeit with little bowracing experience. Still, fair enough, I am not an experienced rider either, so we planned to learn together. Second, as I suspect you are already aware, I am excessively competitive in every sport in which I partake. As one might imagine, Feli Southing, a professional racer, is as well! Surely this is a partnership destined for great things.”

“Oh, so you won?” Miss Quinten piped in from Justin’s other side.    

The dark-haired lord shook his head at her. “Ah, don’t let me get ahead of my narrative, my dear. Lord Nikola and his greatcat, Fel Fireholt, are an excellent bowracing team, with a considerable advantage in both experience and teamwork, if not in competitive drive.”

Nik smiled despite himself. “Or in general physical condition.”

Justin acknowledged this truth with an inclination of his head. “Feli Southing and I are obsessives, you see, while Lord Nikola and his associates are famously sane. Why haven’t you ever cured me, anyway, Striker?”

“Because you’re not crazy.”

“A blatant falsehood, which I am about to disprove!” Justin dismissed Nikola’s answering glower and grinned as he continued, “That should be enough prologue: let us advance to the main event. The four of us had run through the first three of four legs in the bowrace. Feli Southing and I, through a combination of speed and accuracy, had established a comfortable lead over Lord Nikola and Fel Fireholt. To the point where the two greatcats spoke of Lord Nikola’s team forfeiting to us and calling it a day. As evidence the first of my insanity, I objected: ‘No! We must finish thrashing them in the grand finale!’ This despite the final leg being a cross-country romp where the greatcats are expected to blaze their own trails through impenetrable woods and up and down cliff faces. Now, I mentioned Feli Southing was a racing cat, did I not? Trailblazing is not her specialty. Fel Fireholt, on the other hand, is in truth part sphynx (the wings are invisible) and so he flies over the brush, down the cliff faces, and up the trees, occasionally putting a paw down against a tree or a boulder or whathaveyou for the sake of appearances.”

Miss Quintin giggled and Daphne smiled; on the far side of Nik, Miss Rubane was leaning around to listen. “Now I want to see this greatcat in action,” she murmured.

Nik shook his head. “Trust me, it’s not as impressive as he makes it sound.”

“It is far more impressive, Miss Rubane. I highly recommend it. As an observer. Not as a participant,” Justin said. “Understand that Lord Nikola becomes the man-portion of this sphynx-like creature, and therefore cannot be unseated. This will be important later. Feli Southing and I, being but greatcat and man and wholly mortal, struggled to follow this mythical arrow-spouting beast across the impossible and more relevantly impassible terrain—”

“It’s not like that at all, Lord Comfrey. Ladies, there are perfectly good trails—”

“Hush, Lord Nikola – didn’t I tell you this would be a better story told my way, Mrs. Adonse? Would you have a trifle like accuracy get in the way of a good tale?” Justin appealed to Daphne.

Daphne, trying not to laugh, shook her head. “Never, my lord.”

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When the new week began, Nikola had as many new petitioners as ever, plus a backlog of appointments from the prior week. In response to Daphne’s complaint of Sunday, however, he had Shelby defend two and a half hours in his schedule each afternoon for the family dinners. “Family” was an expansive term at this season, and encompassed not only his parents, sisters, and brothers-in-law, but also a selection of aunts, uncles, distant cousins, and friends of all kinds.

One of the latter was to be Justin: Nik invited him to dinner Wednesday to reciprocate Friday’s supper invitation. At Anverlee Manor in the afternoon during the Season, they’d be lucky to have even a moment alone, much less any true privacy, but Justin’s note of acceptance pleased him nonetheless.

Monday and Tuesday passed in a blur of unfamiliar faces and misformed minds gently reshaped by the Savior’s power. When he finished the last Tuesday appointment after eleven in the evening, Anthser padded with him back to his room. “I don’t think I’ll go out tonight. I’ll just change out of this jacket and see if Nathaniel and Edmund are at cards in the drawing room.” Nik loosened his neckcloth as he spoke.

Anthser yawned. “Don’t you ever get tired, m’lord?”

Nik chuckled. “I sleep. Eventually. You needn’t stay on duty, Anthser.”

“I am off-duty. Harassing you is what I do for fun.” Anthser bumped his nose against Nik’s head, then licked his cheek with a broad raspy pink tongue while Nik laughed and pushed him away, making a face.

“Ugh, you brute, get off me.” Nik sidestepped the black greatcat to enter his suite, and washed his face in the adjoining bathing chamber’s basin.

“Hey, I just did that,” Anthser protested, craning his dark massive head around the door.

Nik dried his face and hands and hung his jacket and neckcloth on a peg for Shelby to deal with in the morning. “Humans wash with soap and water, not tongues. And I am not a greatcat.”

“Nobody’s perfect.” Anthser sat in the hall while Nik shrugged into the after-supper jacket Shelby had laid out for him earlier. It was a long, loose coat suitable only in the late evening at home among family. Nik stuck his tongue out at the cat, who tilted his head. “Wait, did you want to groom me now?”

Hurriedly pulling his tongue back in, Nik grimaced. “You are impossible.”

“Same to you. Seriously, Lord Nik, you work hours that you’d be ashamed to subject any of us to – you told Mr. Shelby and Mr. Coxleigh to knock off, what, five hours ago? And when you finally do finish up you’re up all night talking and playing cards or whatever.”

“I am fifty years younger than Shelby, and he has to rise earlier than I do for his duties. Besides, my part’s easier than yours. I just lounge about while the Savior takes care of everything. I’m not the one fending off unsatisfied petitioners and outraged parents and whatnot.” Nik straightened the wide cuffs of his after-supper jacket and strolled down the hall to take one of the side stairwells down to the drawing room.

“Mmf.” Anthser followed to rub the side of his head against Nik’s shoulder. “If you say so, I guess. M’lord.” He sounded so dubious that Nik had to smile. “We worry about you. It’s a lot more work than you’re used to. Are you sure the Savior’s not going to get mad at you for overdoing it?”

“Anthser. To the best of my knowledge, the Savior has never been angry with anyone, man or greatcat, for any reason. Including wilful retention of demons. I am fine. So is he. Trust me.”

The greatcat ducked his head, looking so pathetic that Nik turned to embrace him, stroking the wide furred neck and rubbing the side of his head against Anthser’s whiskered cheek. His liegecat sat, wrapping a paw around Nik’s back to hug him in return, rumbling with a sound half purr and half sigh. “All right then. Good evening, m’lord.”

§

The children were, of course, already abed, but the rest of his family was gathered in the drawing room. It was a large chamber furnished in seventh-century style, using the house colors of blue and silver. A long narrow couch was set against the wall opposite the picture window, beneath a stormy seascape painting. Two wingback armchairs bracketed the fireplace, alongside shelves full of antique leather-bound books his mother deemed too pretty for the library. To one side was a carved wooden parlor-game table, surrounded by four matching chairs.

Lysandra was at work on a portrait, sketchbook on a lapdesk while the Lady Striker sat for her in one of the armchairs, wearing her countess’s circlet and looking pleased with herself. A fire crackled in the hearth beside her: the manor had been remodeled with a furnace when Nik was a boy, but the quickgas heat had never been well-distributed and they often set fires in the most-used rooms rather than keeping the entire house warm. Daphne had a handkerchief in an embroidery hoop, which she occasionally tormented with a needle. Mostly she watched Lord Striker play cards with her husband, Captain Nathaniel Adonse, and Lysandra’s, Mr. Edmund Warwick. Both of his brothers-in-law were several years older than Nik and he knew neither well, although he found Edmund grating: the man had known Nik since he was twelve and had never stopped treating him like a child. Nathaniel, at least, always called him Nikola.

Nik offered a cordial greeting to all, giving a dutiful kiss to his mother’s cheek despite Lysandra’s admonition not to stir her model. He received welcomes in varying degrees of warmth, Lord Striker’s being the coolest. His father was still irritated with him: about the constant influx of petitioners in general and the Whittakers particular. No one had asked Nik about the Whittakers since Thursday; Nik suspected his mother of deflecting enquiries. Mr. Whittaker had sent for him to see Sharone on Monday evening, and she’d been calm and as coherent as a normal six year-old for a quarter of an hour. Sharone had acknowledged that she needed help, even said she wanted it, but when Nik went to take her hand she’d become unhinged again, as resistant as ever.

Nik had not told anyone about that yet. He wasn’t sure how long he ought to keep trying; he’d already far surpassed the requirements of the Code. But she seemed so close to consenting. Surely a little girl’s life and sanity was worth more than a few days or weeks of inconvenience?

“We’re just starting a new round, Nikola, would you care to join us?” Nathaniel asked from the game table. The captain was a broad-shouldered, heavyset man of about thirty, with a complexion dark even for Newlanture, and black hair that he wore clubbed, folded back on itself and secured with a ribbon.

“Certainly.” Nik took the empty seat opposite his father, who barely acknowledged him. They were keeping score with chocolates, Nik noticed with some amusement.

“So where were you off to on Sunday, Nik?” Daphne asked from the couch, while Nathaniel dealt. “I never did ask.”

“Bowracing with Comfrey,” Nik said.

“What, in lace cuffs and neckcloth?”

“Ah…” Nik reviewed the cards in his hands to hide the pause while he tried to work out an answer that didn’t involve with Miss Vasilver. He covered Edmund’s ten with a queen. “Right, I called on a gentlewoman before I went on to Comfrey’s.”

“Oh?” Daphne’s interest was wholly captured now. “Whom?”

His mind produced no practical diversions. “Miss Vasilver.”

His father gave him a sharp look from across the table, while Lysandra said, “Wisteria Vasilver? How lovely! Is she in town now then? How is she?” She missed her mother’s sputtering as she turned her attention to Nik.

“Very well,” Nik answered, surprised. “I didn’t know you were acquainted.”

His mother, red-faced and aghast, got out. “Nikki, you didn’t. Not that dreadful creature! Whyever would you call on her?”

Because I like her. Nik was saved from answering by Lysandra: “Mother! Whyever would you speak so about Miss Vasilver? She’s an excellent woman, generous and frightfully clever. We went to school together, Nik.”

“Then she’s changed since you met, because I have never encountered a woman so crass and uncouth.” Lady Striker shuddered in recollection.

“I can never believe that, mother, whatever did she do?” Lysandra asked.

Lady Striker raised one hand and shook her head. “It’s not fit for a lady to repeat or to hear.”

“Mother! You can’t tell me my old schoolfriend has done something dreadful and then not tell me what,” Lysandra cried in protest. Her mother was unmoved. “But you can’t have thought her unbearable, Nik.”

“Not at all.” Nik claimed the current trick and led with a deuce. Lord Striker snorted and muttered something under his breath that made Edmund smirk.

“Nikki, I can’t believe you’d call on that woman again,” Lady Striker admonished him. “Think of the ideas you’ll encourage.”

“What ideas?” Lysandra demanded.

“I have no notion what you’re talking about, Mother.” He trumped the next trick with a low spade and led with an ace.

“You know very well,” Lady Striker said.

“I certainly don’t,” Lysandra complained.

Their mother gave an exasperated sigh. “May we please speak of something else?”

“By all means,” Nik said, and asked Nathaniel how he was enjoying his holiday from the regiment. The man gamely stepped up to the diversion. Sulking, Lysandra returned to her sketching.

After a decent interval, Lysandra chose to retire. As soon as she was out of the room, Nathaniel grinned across the table at Edmund. “Shall we move to a more dignified stake than chocolates, gentlemen?” he asked.

Edmund chuckled. “One mark a point?”

“Suits me,” Lord Striker said, dumping his stash of chocolates into the candy bowl.

“You know, I’m for bed as well. Petitioners in the morning, you understand. Good night.” Besides, the sooner I go to bed, the sooner it will be tomorrow and Justin will call. After rising and offering a short bow to the room, Nik took his leave.

He met Lysandra again just outside her suite, two doors down from his; she’d stopped in the kitchen for a mug of warm milk with a shot of brandy. She was tall and as brown-haired as their father had been in his youth, with a narrow face; only her clear fair complexion was shared with her shorter and rounder sister and mother. Lysandra stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Oh, Nik – whatever did Mother mean about Wisteria? You’ll tell me, won’t you?”

Nik hesitated, but relented at Lysandra’s pleading look and gave a concise explanation.

His older sister covered her mouth with one hand, the mug in her other quivering as she tried to mask an expression of mixed horror and mirth. “Oh no, no, how…oh goodness, Nik. She was always a little too forthright, I suppose, but…you did forgive her?”

Nik tried not to smile and failed. “I honestly was not offended. Father and Mother haven’t, as you saw.”

“I think she’d make a splendid wife, Nik—”

Nik lifted his hands to forestall her. “None of that, Lys! ‘I wasn’t offended’ doesn’t change my disinclination for marriage. I wasn’t in favor of this whole business at the start. I just…did not want her to feel slighted.”

Lysandra made a face at him. “It would be a good match, though. And I would love Wisteria for a sister – you know I never should have learnt the first thing about accounts were it not for her. Anyhow, you’re not interested I know la la la.” She wiggled the fingers of one hand in dismissal of the concept. “Good night, Nik.”

He continued on to his suite, half of him irritated that everyone – Justin, his parents, Lysandra – seemed to think there was no possible reason he could call on Miss Vasilver other than to evaluate her potential as a bride.

The other half wondered if being outnumbered by everyone else was a sign that he was in the wrong. But I don’t want to marry her. And I’d have to be the first to know if I did. Besides, I am not alone in this view; I told Miss Vasilver and she thought it perfectly reasonable. With this thought in mind, he retired to his bed.

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Vasilver House gathered for breakfast at ten-thirty, which was a compromise between Wisteria’s father, who prefered to rise with the sun, and her mother and Byron, who felt that noon was more than early enough to awaken. Wisteria’s compromise was to filch food from the kitchen whenever she was hungry, but to sit with her family during meals and, if she didn’t feel like eating then, push small quantities of food about her plate while everyone else ate. After all, the ‘meal’ portion of the occasion was merely the excuse for gathering: the real point was to be with one’s family and guests. Wisteria wasn’t sure if food served an actual purpose in crafting bonds between people, or if other humans just needed excuses to group together and talk. But the experimental evidence of some years of timing her meals to coincide with others had shown that it didn’t have an impact on the way she bonded with people, so Wisteria had given up on the inconvenience of that aspect.

Several years ago, Mrs. Vasilver had forbidden business as a topic of conversation at the breakfast and supper table, a move Wisteria had supported even though Wisteria herself was one of the most likely to talk shop. The purpose of family meals was to communicate with the family, and neither her mother nor her youngest brothers had any real interest in business. Her father had held the line against barring talk of commerce at dinner, however: they had too many dinner guests who were businessmen, and the middle of the day was a convenient time to discuss issues that had arisen in the morning or early afternoon.    

Father and Mother were, as usual, at opposite ends of the breakfast table, with their children between them. Today, Mitchell and David bracketed father as they chattered away about a two-week hunting party in the spring they’d been invited to by one of Mitchell’s friends. They were still trying to persuade Father to let them accept. Byron devoted himself to coffee and silence. Mother contemplated her offspring as she picked at an omelet.

In an effort to connect with her mother, Wisteria had been reading some of the same novels she did. Her mother’s taste ran to tragic love stories, which Wisteria found by turns bewildering, absurdly implausible, and fascinating. The amount of information that normal people could purportedly transfer by looking into one another’s eyes was astonishing. Wisteria never saw anything but whites, irises, and pupils when she met a person’s gaze. The current story they were reading was set in the Abandoned World not long before Ascension. The characters tended to the insipid and Wisteria found the demon-possessed male protagonist rather horrifying even when he wasn’t outright assaulting the female protagonist. The story’s most intriguing facet was the author’s interpretation that the Abandoned World had once been a harsh but habitable place that, over generations, became almost completely inhospitable. The inhabitants of the story lived in the sunless, near-lifeless land of legend, but amidst the ruins of a dying civilization. They survived by breaking up old wooden houses for fuel, growing fungi for food in cellars and caves, and scavenging the remaining canned goods and preserved meat from an earlier and less-destitute age. Wisteria wasn’t sure that it made sense, but it gave the book a verisimilitude many Abandoned World stories lacked, and a grim urgency. Without the Savior, these people were sliding into a certain oblivion all the more convincing for the details behind it.

Wisteria had just decided to ask her mother what she thought about that aspect of the novel when Mother turned to her and asked, “Since Lord Nikola is…uninterested, dear, have you given any consideration to other matches?”

Wisteria blinked at her. “No?” She did have notes on at least a half-dozen other men of appropriate social status, age, and fortune. But those were all from before she’d asked her father about introducing her to Lord Nikola, and Lord Nikola had been far and away her first choice from among them. And…well, she didn’t have her heart set on Lord Nikola, but she’d thought to give other parts of her a chance to recover before she made another attempt.

“You ought to, Wisteria,” Mother said. “You’re not getting any younger.”

“Leave her be, Mother.” Byron glanced up from his coffee at last. “Last I checked – which would be about three hours ago – Vasilver Trading’s not so poor that you need to hawk offspring. Rest assured.”   

“Byron, this has nothing to do with business,” Mother told him.   

“Of course it has to do with business. Marriage is a business,” Wisteria said. “It’s an alliance between families for mutual benefit and sealed by flesh and blood. It is the most basic form of commerce, which is odd when you consider how stunningly complex it is in terms of the entanglement of lives and commitments involved. Byron is merely concerned that I do not possess all the requisite skills for it—”   

“I did not say that!” Byron jumped to his feet and planted his fists on the table. “I never said that!”

“—which is a reasonable concern, I am sure we all agree. Please sit down, Byron.” Nearly everyone gets married. Which is not the same as ‘everyone’. And I am as far from ‘everyone’ as one gets.

“Look, Teeri, you want to get married, that’s one thing.” Byron straightened his jacket and resumed his seat. “But there’s no excuse for Mother – or Father—” he directed a look at their father, who was engrossed by his breakfast “—to badger you about it at the breakfast table.”

“So when’re you gonna propose to someone, By?” David piped from his end of the table.

“No one needs to badger me, either. Shut up, Davey.”

“Mother isn’t badgering me,” Wisteria said. “Did you have anyone in particular in mind, Mother?”

“Well. That nice Mr. Worth is still single.”

“Do you have anyone new in mind, Mother?”

“What’s wrong with Mr. Worth?”

“Nothing is wrong with him,” Wisteria said. “But introductions between us did not prove fruitful a year ago and I don’t imagine a renewed acquaintance will have better luck now.”

“But time may change a man, dear, and perhaps, since he hasn’t found anyone else…you never know,” Mother said.

The last time we spoke, Mr. Worth called me an unfeeling cold-blooded lizard and said that he’d sooner wed a greatcat, Wisteria didn’t say. There were some truths even she’d learned not to repeat to her family. “Trust me, Mother. This time, I know.”

“She badgering you now, Teeri?” Byron asked. “Sounds like badgering to me.”

“What about Lord Comfrey?” Mr. Vasilver said.

Her younger brothers perked up. “Saints, marry Lord Comfrey!” Mitchell said. “Comfrey Viscountcy’s got the best hunting grounds in all of Newlant.”

Across the table from Wisteria, Byron grimaced into his coffee. Wisteria shook her head at her father. “That’s not a practical match.”    

“What? Why not? He’s a good mind for business, solid fortune, title, about your age,” her father said. “What’s the objection?”

“He’s much too far above me? He’d never consent to the match.”

“But Lord Nikola was a count—”

“A count’s heir. And Anverlee County may be much larger but it has not an eighth part of the wealth of Comfrey Viscountcy,” Wisteria pointed out.

“And he’s a bit…” Byron trailed off.

“A bit what?”

Byron rubbed the back of his neck. “Sarcastic. Don’t think you’d get on.”

“Oh, yes.” Wisteria nodded concurrence.

Her father harrumphed. “You might at least meet him first.”

“I should be perfectly happy to be introduced,” Wisteria said. “If the opportunity arises. But I think arranging an opportunity with the goal of betrothal in mind is unadvised.” Even her mother nodded to that. Wisteria nibbled at a crepe, contemplating the intractable difficulties of the marriage question. “This would be much easier if one wasn’t obliged to unite so many roles in a single person.”

“Beg pardon?” Mother said.

Wisteria fluttered the fingers of her left hand. “I am seeking one man who is well-bred, well-educated, of some consequence in society, whose own person and also his relations and connections will be a good fit for Vasilver Trading, whose personal holdings will be of value to us, who will be my companion and lover for a lifetime, who will be father to my children and guide them as they grow – this is an impractical amount to expect of a single individual.”

Byron snorted a laugh. “So ought to marry two or three men, one for each of the different parts?”

“Exactly,” Wisteria agreed, pleased that someone understood. “At least. Of course, they’d need two or three wives each – I cannot be all women for all things myself—”

“Numbers might get unwieldy,” Byron said. “What with each wife needing her own set of husbands. And so forth.”

“True. Perhaps we could arrange some overlap?”

“Wisteria…” Her mother covered her eyes with one hand, a familiar gesture of exasperation.

“Please don’t be facetious, Wisteria, Byron,” Father said. “Your younger brothers are at an impressionable age.” David stuck his tongue out at his father at this.

“But—” I am not being facetious. Wisteria realized before speaking that this would be ill-received. Instead, she tried, “Of course I don’t mean literally having multiple spouses.” Though now that Byron had mentioned it, it sounded like a good idea to her. “But you have to see how unrealistic it is to hope for one person to fulfill so many needs.”    

“No marriage is perfect, dear,” her mother said, not taking her hand from her eyes. “One must learn to compromise.”

“Of course, there will always be compromises. That’s what people do. But would it not be more rational to have a system that put less pressure on two people to be everything to one another?”

“That’s the way it’s done, Wisteria,” Father said.

“Not in all countries. In Myantia—”

Her mother cut her off with a little shriek. “I knew we should never have let her travel, Ethan.”

“It’s the way it’s done in Newlant, Wisteria, and we are Newlanters and will abide by tradition. Am I understood?”

“But—”

Father stood. “Just accept it, will you? Don’t question everything! Do you honestly think you, one woman a mere twenty-six years of age, can devise a better system than one that has stood the test of eight centuries?”

But it’s changed several times since the year zero; even in Newlant, current marriage contractual language is still being altered by participants. Wisteria held back the words. This must be another one of those topics she wasn’t supposed to talk about, or not talk about the way she was, or some equally maddening and pointless distinction. “Very well, Father.” She picked a few more bites off her crepe, then excused herself from the table.

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Nikola returned to Anverlee Manor in good time that evening, with enough to spare for a quick wash and to change for Temple. It was harder to school his thoughts into an appropriate frame of mind. More than anything else, he wanted to be able to hold Justin now, just hold him for an hour or two, long enough to convince himself that Justin was well and whole, to erase the memory of that terrible heart-stopping fall. To lie beside him and feel his warmth and hear his heartbeat and know that he was alive and safe. Why is this too much to ask?

But it was, of course. It was absurd and unmanly, particularly to crave that he be comforted because Justin had been in danger. As Shelby arranged a fresh jabot for Temple about his neck, Nik studied his own mind, hunting for the thousandth time for the fault or faults in it that made acting like a normal man so difficult. As ever, he couldn’t find it. Does this mean everyone else has the same problem, and we are all pretending? Horrid thought.

The Anverlee Manor property had its own temple, a large round building separated from the manor by a few dozen yards of lawn, with a wide covered pathway between the two. A sizable number of Striker relations had gathered at the manor for the evening: Nik, his parents, his two sisters, their husbands, their children (six between them), Lord Striker’s younger brother and his wife and their two youngest children. All of them were dressed in their Sunday finest: tailored suits of conservative cuts and jabots for the men, modest wide-skirted dresses in solid pastel colors for the women. Temple was one of the few occasions where everyone, not just the Blessed, wore gloves: lace for women and solid fabric for men. Both genders wore traditional jewelry: brooches or lapel pins, rings, bracelets, gold circlets on the brow of the Count and his Countess. Temple attire was less flamboyant in color and shine and more conservative in cut and fabric than the fanciful creations the nobility sported at formal balls, but it was no less cultured for that. Lord and Lady Striker were at the head of the procession from manor to temple, magnificent in ancestral jewels and embroidered clothing. The rest of the party followed in strict order of precedence; as usual, Nik looked sober and unadorned in contrast with his parents, suit with self-covered buttons instead of gold, fabric a common ivywool blend instead of one of the more recent and expensive creations of those Blessed for plants, his only jewelry a plain gold lapel pin of a monogrammed ‘F’. Daphne and her husband, a marine captain, brought up the rear of the gentleborn with their son in his mother’s arms. Behind them followed a small army of servants, both Anverlee’s own and those of their guests, in some cases with their own spouses and children. They were also in order of precedence, which meant that Anthser as the sole warcat led the section. Then came Mr. Bronson, the Anverlee head butler, and Mrs. Goslin, the Anverlee chief of staff, followed by Mrs. Linden as Fireholt’s chief of staff, then the Anverlee greatcats, and so on down to the scullery maids.

The temple facade was white stone polished smooth. Inside, the floor was likewise stone, but the rest of the interior was all sculptured wood, intertwined in shades from light blond to mahogany, carved in fanciful relief designs and elaborate cutouts layered over the windows. The Lord and Lady Striker had massive wooden chairs with velvet-cushioned seats and armrests. These were placed directly before the Speaking Circle, a ring of open floor some thirty feet across, with an ornate chest of iron-bound wood at the center today. Arranged to either side of these throne-like edifices were comfortable padded benches for the rest of the family members, surrounding the Speaking Circle but leaving wide gaps for aisles at each of the compass points. Behind those were plain wooden benches for the servants, apart from one section of raised platform at the back, where the greatcats sat. Nik took his place at the right hand of his father and waited patiently as the servants filed in and took their places behind the gentility.

When the last servant had taken her place at the back, there were few seats left in the temple. More guests still would be arriving next week; on the following Sunday, most of the plain benches would have to be removed so there’d be enough space for all the servants, though they’d have to stand.

Lady Striker rose from her seat to enter the Speaker’s Circle and begin the service. Traditionally, temple services were led by a titled noble, although most denominations now permitted any member of the gentry to do so. At Anverlee, family members had always taken turns. Lady Striker took more than her share, having more aptitude for it than any of her relations, and Nik took far less than his because he hated leading services. Because of his Blessing, people often looked upon him as some kind of theological expert, and he was uncomfortable with that role. He loved the Savior – he didn’t see how it was possible not to – but did not feel as though he had any profound insights on the divine. Nik wasn’t sure his mother had any either, but no one expected her to be a better temple leader than any other noble.

Now Lady Striker raised her arms, clad in pale yellow overlaid with white lace and made resplendent with jeweled bracelets and rings. “My family, my friends, my guests and my people of Anverlee and of Paradise, Savior give you welcome to his temple in this, the Paradise he has given to us his people.”

At the invocation, the Savior’s presence filled Nik’s senses with a golden warmth and light similar to when he healed minds, but different without that necessity: merely present, loving. Welcoming. “Thank you, O Savior,” he said in chorus with seventy-odd other voices, young and old, just as he’d said at hundreds of services before. It was rote, automatic, and no less heartfelt for that.

The Lady Striker lowered her arms and spoke in a clear, carrying voice as she turned in the circle to address the whole of her audience. “Let us reflect today on the Saints, the first-Blessed that the Savior gave unto his people.

“Nine centuries ago, our forefathers lived in the Abandoned World. The deadlands: a world without sun or stars, a world of eternal winter, harsher and colder than any winter Newlant has ever known. A world buried in snow, where plants did not grow and animals perished.” This story was familiar enough that Nik could have recited it himself, and had in years past. As a child, he’d questioned it. If there weren’t any plants or animals, what did people eat? If there was no sun, how could the Abandoned World have any warmth at all? Did they light a lot of fires? What did they burn if there weren’t any plants or trees? As an adult, he’d decided the story wasn’t meant to be taken literally. “It was a world ridden by demons.”

If you took it literally, it didn’t need demons to be terrifying. The Lady Striker beckoned to the boys in the audience – both noble and servant, of ages from eight or so to thirteen or fourteen, and including the nine year-old greatkitten son of their draycat Gunther. They swarmed from their seats to pile into the Speaking Circle. There was an inevitable amount of shoving and some squealing and shushing as they opened the chest in the center and seized demon masks and handfuls of black ribbons from inside. Meanwhile, the Lady Striker continued to narrate, loud enough to override their hushed scrabbling: “Humans – for in the Abandoned World, there were no greatcats – had no defense against the monsters that walked among them, striking down whomever they chose, maiming and slaying.” Now clad in demon-masks, the boys spread out from the circle, ‘assaulting’ the audience with black ribbons. No boy had ever dared beribbon Lord Striker, but today Lysandra’s grinning son Adamos headed straight for Nik. “I’m striking you blind!” the boy said in a loud whisper, while Nik cringed down in mock fear. Adamos tied a black ribbon around Nik’s eyes. While Nik held his hands out before him and turned his head this way and that in confusion, Adamos chose his mother for his next victim. His sisters were off-limits, which Nik knew from experience was a hardship. All around the assembly, adults pretended to be stricken as giggling boys tied black ribbons onto them.

“Even after the Savior led our people through Ascension and brought us to this Paradise where light, warmth, and beauty are so abundant, the demons and their afflictions remained among us. They hid in the hearts and minds of unwitting men who carried them here.” Some denominations quarrelled with that last, contending instead that demons had been smuggled intentionally by the traitorous humans Enson and Viar, or that demons had disguised themselves as men and followers of the Savior and tricked the Savior into Ascending them. “Seeing the suffering of his people, the Savior was moved to aid us further. He chose thirty-one of the Ascended to be Blessed as Saints. He gifted them with the power to cast out demons from mind or body, or to shape stone that they might create shelters against wind and rain for the people, or to shape plants that they might grow food for the hungry.”

A furry paw landed on Nik’s knee while another touched his face, and he dropped his arms to wait as an adolescent greatkitten perhaps half Anthser’s size worked the ribbon out of his eyes. “I’ll heal you, my lord,” she promised. After she’d pushed it up and out of his eyes, he could see his ersatz saint was Meredith, Gunther’s calico daughter. A wide circle of shimmering iridescent white satin was tied by a ribbon beneath her chin to form a crooked halo. She spread her whiskers in a smile and dropped to all fours.

“Thank you, Blessed,” he told her solemnly, and fished in his pocket: he had a couple of chocolates laid aside for the possibility, but those would not suit a greatkitten. He produced a silver half-mark instead and presented it to her: “A gift for a Gift.” With a nod just as solemn, she accepted the gift and tucked it into a pouch on her harness, before padding away to help another ‘victim’.

The Lady Striker was continuing, still pacing in slow circles to address each segment of her audience. “The Savior had work yet to do outside of Paradise: he Passed back to the Abandoned World, that he might help those who had been unable to Ascend with our ancestors. But a part of him remained with the Ascended, inside the persons of the Thirty-One Saints. Through them, he helped our ancestors still. And later, through their children, and the children of their children, and so on for all the centuries to follow.

“But as great as his Blessings are, and as magnificent as the Paradise he shared with us is, the Savior did not give us perfection. It is up to us – each of us, from the lowest servant to the highest lord, from the most unskilled child to the most potent Blessed—” the Lady Striker paused on that word, eyes on her son, and Nik wished she hadn’t “—to make of this world a more perfect Paradise. To honor the gifts of the Blessed with gifts of our own. To never forget all that we have been given, and all the ways that we may repay it.”

“Thank you, O Savior,” the assembly responded in chorus.

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The Markavian had a felishome near the clubhouse: an oversized building with extra-large doors and windows, its amenities tailored for use by paws or mouths rather than hands. The interior was plain, as the space was designed to be used by employees and not members – the membership was exclusively male humans. The front room had hardwood floors and whitewashed walls, and was furnished with several wide low couch-beds. When Justin opened the door, he found the front room empty save for Fel Fireholt and Feli Southing. The two greatcats were sprawled together over one of the couch-beds. Their heads raised at his entrance, ears flattening as they identified him. Fel Fireholt’s lip curled back in a half-snarl that surprised Justin: Nik’s liegecat had always been an amiable individual. Feli Southing’s flat-eared, flat-whiskered look was merely cold. Fel Fireholt gave the bare minimum of courtesy in a growled, “My lord?”

Justin decided his impulse to withdraw was more cowardice than prudence and stood his ground. In as deferential and inoffensive a tone as he could manage, he said, “Feli Southing, might I have a word with you, please?”

“No,” she said flatly.

That was final. He bowed. “I apologize. You may collect your severance pay from Mr. Black at your leisure.” Justin withdrew, resigned to writing out his apology instead. Ethan could give it to her with the severance.

He was halfway to the clubhouse when Southing’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Wait.”

Justin bridled at the imperious command from a commoner, but at this point he owed it to her to oblige. He turned around on the marble path. “Yes, feli?”

The gray-and-white striped greatcat stood between evergreen hedges that lined either side of the path. Her tailtip twitched and her ears remained canted backwards. Justin braced himself against getting angry again because she was. But all she said was, “I quit.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t get severance for quitting.”

“I think, under the circumstances, you’re entitled. Don’t you?”

Southing lashed her tail, making branches of the adjacent bush sway. “I think I’m entitled to a lot more than that.” Justin inclined his head to acknowledge the truth in this. The tension in her whiskers eased. “…did you really come to apologize?”

“I did, feli. I intended considerably more humiliating detail than the mere two words, but as you were understandably not in the mood to listen I thought I’d just write it.”

“Huh.” The greatcat’s tail stilled, the muscles beneath her fur rippling as she paced closer. “Well. If that’s what you wanted to say, I’ll listen.”

Justin tried not to smile and did not quite succeed. “Thank you, Feli Southing.” She kept moving, slowing to a human’s pace, so he fell in step beside her as he continued, “I wish to apologize for my actions today, to wit: instructing you to take a risky route, falling off when you complied, faulting you for my own error, insulting your person, threatening your career, and in general acting the complete twit.” Beside him, Southing’s whiskers twitched up in a slight greatcat smile. She turned down one of the side paths, past dormant flower beds bordered by ankle-height picket fences intended to discourage walkers from trodding on the plants. The viscount continued, “My behavior was inexcusable. I regret my tone and inflammatory words in particular extremely. I bear you no animosity and, obviously, do not intend to carry through on my ill-conceived and idiotic threats. I will be happy to provide you with a favorable letter of recommendation when you seek your next patron.”

Southing and Justin took several steps in silence. Finally, she asked, “Do you lose your temper like that a lot?”

He gave a dry laugh. “Thankfully, no.”

“So…why?”

Justin didn’t want to answer this question for Southing any more than he had for Nikola, and knew he’d put himself in a position where he had no right to refuse. “At one juncture in my youth, I trained myself to redirect fear into anger. As a reflex, the same way one uses a certain stance in fencing or a particular approach for climbing. There have been occasions where this reflex was useful. Today was not one of them.”

Southing dipped her head in a nod. The two of them came to an open space in the dormant garden, where the stone path wound in a circle about a patch of grass. The striped greatcat strode in front and turned to drop to the grass before Justin, laying her head against her forelegs in a startlingly submissive gesture. “I didn’t mean to throw you.”

“I know. Now.” A self-deprecating smile. “I regret that I am not at my most perceptive when angry, either.”

The massive feline head turned to one side, gaze on the silhouette of a stand of barren cherry trees in the near distance. “Anthser told me there’s a…kind of trick, to how you can move in that position so you don’t shake off a rider by accident. He said there’s basically no way a man can stay on if you do it normally.”

“I should not have told you to attempt the climb,” Justin said. “My error regardless.”

Southing nodded more emphatically than Justin thought necessary, but then added, “Still. I did…I mean, I had meant to say I was sorry. I was going to when you started yelling at me.” She glowered at him, and he schooled himself to limit his response to an acknowledging nod. The greatcat sighed, looking away again. “And I think I still should. Even though it was an accident and sort of your idea. So. I’m sorry.” She paused. “That was a pretty terrible apology, wasn’t it?” Justin stifled a laugh. She continued, “I really am sorry. And I’m glad Anthser and Lord Nik caught you and you’re all right. Um, you are all right, aren’t you, m’lord?” The feline peered up at him anxiously.

“My pride may be crippled for life, but the rest of me is fine,” Justin assured her.

“Bet Lord Nik can fix that for you.”

He chuckled, then sobered to say, “I’m not sure I’d want him to. It deserves the abuse. And I accept your apology, Feli Southing.”

“Thanks.” Southing climbed to her feet and shook out her fur. She’d traded her narrow racing cloak for a wider one in plain red; it flared before settling against her flanks again. She swiped a paw over her face, then raised her head high, until her eyes were level with his. “Um. I accept yours, too, Lord Comfrey.”

Justin raised an eyebrow. “Good manners and my failing require me to apologize,” he said, in mild, neutral tones. “Neither requires you to accept it.”

“No, I do. I mean, I want to. I know I don’t have to.” She turned to sit on her haunches beside him, massive form in profile. “Sorry, I’m not good at gracious.”

“It’s fine. Thank you.” He offered a short bow, which she returned awkwardly. They remained in silence for a few moments, the breeze ruffling through the end of Justin’s ponytail and stirring the edge of Southing’s cloak. “I should be on my way. Take care, Feli Southing.”   

“You too, m’lord.”

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For a few minutes, the cliff base was still save for the rustle of leaves and the quiet babble of water flowing down the creek. Justin spoke at last. “She tried to kill me.” His voice was tight and controlled.   

“She attempted a highly dangerous maneuver at your request, in contravention of her own judgement. As a result, you fell.” Nik didn’t open his eyes.

“Curse it, Striker! Are you saying I can’t tell the difference between a throw and a tumble? When it’s happening to me?”

Nik looked to Justin, the image of his strong handsome angry friend superimposed in his mind with the sight of that terrible fall. I almost lost you. He swallowed, nauseated by lingering fear. “I was watching,” he said, softly. “Feli Southing did just what every other greatcat does when clambering over an outcrop with a bad grip. Kicked off with her hindlegs to get lift and momentum.”

“Are you telling me Anthser would have done that?”

“Anthser and I used the trail on this cliff.” Nik paused a moment to let that sink in. “He would not today, not with a rider. But he has before. Five or six summers ago. Jumping from the ground to a second-floor balcony. I fell, too.” Voice low, he went on, “You do not know how grateful I am to be able to argue this point with you, here and now.”    

Justin exhaled. After a moment, he sank down to sit beside Nik on the log and put an arm around the blond man’s shoulders. “Thank you for catching me,” he said, just as quietly.

Nik twisted sideways to hug Justin fiercely, hiding his face against the man’s tan neck. “You’re welcome.” Nik swallowed, closing his eyes as Justin held him in return, caressing his back and smoothing his hair. After a long silent moment, he added, “I would take it as a great kindness if you could manage not to get yourself killed, my lord.”

“Hah. I’ll do my best.” Justin bent to kiss Nik’s pale forehead. Another silence, then: “So. An ass.”

A strangled half-laugh. “Inexcusably. Saints, Justin, even if she had tried to kill you, your behavior was out of line.”

“Oh, come now,” Justin protested. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were abominable. ‘I’ll see you never race again’? I’ve never seen you so petty or so crude.” Even in retrospect it shocked Nik, so unlike Justin’s usual easy-going demeanor. With their heads still touching, he scanned the familiar contours of his friend’s mind for a clue to the reason. He’d always been fascinated by Justin’s mind, quite unlike those of other men and yet so sane, orderly, efficient. Long-healed traumas nestled like pearls among the different mindshapes. Most of his anger channeled into humor, where it soon dissipated, rather than into violence or outbursts. The capacity for the latter existed, but by a seldom-used connection chained alongside fear. Like Anthser’s, Justin’s sense of fear was modest; unlike Anthser’s, it had an odd shape to it, and was twined with anger. Links between fear and anger were not uncommon, but this level of intertwining not something he’d seen in anyone else. Still, much of the variance in minds was unusual or unique to Nik’s experience, without causing any apparent difficulty for the individual.

Justin had winced at Nik’s remark. “She kept provoking me.” Nik sat up to look him in the eye. “She did. If she’d shown a little humility instead of backtalking – stop looking at me like that! It’s not a servant’s place to question a lord. Even if I was a little unreasonable.”

“‘A little’? I’m not even willing to repeat the things you called that poor greatcat. And she wasn’t your servant, for pity’s sake. You can’t expect a greatcat to show the deference of a scullery maid.”

“Why not? She works for me. Worked.”

“Well you can, but you’ll be disappointed. Saints, I hope you don’t treat your human servants that way.” Nik drew away, leaning against the cliff instead.

“Only when they try to kill me.” At Nik’s sharp look, Justin added, “It’s never come up before, all right? Believe it or not this is the first time in thirty years that one of my servants has tried to kill me. Employee. Accidentally almost killed me. You get the idea. It’s a new experience for me.”

“…have people who don’t work for you tried to kill you before?” Nik asked, frowning, wondering again about the Justin’s intertwined mindshapes for fear and anger.

“I have fought duels,” Justin pointed out, then sighed. “I suppose I did handle this badly.” Nik looked at him without comment. “Very badly.” Nik kept looking. Justin put his face in one hand. “I should apologize, shouldn’t I.” It wasn’t a question.

“Oh saints yes.”

“Curse it. I hate apologizing to an inferior.”

One corner of Nik’s mouth twitched up in a smile. “It’s turned out well for you in the past.” At Justin’s sour look, he added, “Remember when we met?”

Justin shuddered. “Show some mercy, boy. I’ve made enough mistakes today that you needn’t dredge up the ones from six years ago to throw at me.”

Nik pulled Justin into his embrace again. “Sorry.”

Justin closed his eyes, resting his head against Nik’s chest. “Forgiven.” A distant querulous ‘hallo’ caught their attention, and the two men straightened into more dignified positions. “Curst attendants.” Justin climbed to his feet.

“It’s not their fault either,” Nik said. “At least this way you won’t have to walk back to the clubhouse.”

“I think I’d rather walk back.” Justin called out a hallo in response anyway.

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Two-thirds of the way through the final course, Anthser and Nik enjoyed a solid lead over their competitors: intimate knowledge of the course and their own abilities let them exploit every shortcut. As Anthser jumped twenty feet down to splash into the shallow water of a creek, Nik glanced over his shoulder to look for their competitors. The cliff Nik and Anthser had just descended was too steep for even them to attempt any shortcuts on the trail up, the few scrubby trees adorning its surface too short and angled to be climbed. So Nik was startled to see Southing writhing vertically upwards, perhaps a half-dozen yards from the top. The base of one of the trees growing straight outwards from the cliff served her as a foothold to push off from and surge towards the next. Justin lifted from the seat to hang in the air for an instant before pulling himself back into it. Nik’s heart stopped, watching them. “Saints and angels…”

Anthser splashed out of the creek to the dry beach alongside and glanced up at Nik’s words. Then he stopped to watch. “Oh blood and death. There’s no way they can make—” Southing shoved upwards from another narrow tree trunk; forepaws scrabbled at an outcrop of rock above her but found no purchase and she fell backwards. As Nik and Anthser stared, she caught herself on the same tree she’d pushed off from; its roots strained and trunk bent under her weight. She launched herself again: the wood cracked under the maneuver, tree trunk tumbling down the cliff face even as greatcat and rider went up. Southing caught the outcrop above with her forepaws, hindlegs curled below. With a violent thrust from her lower body she pushed herself all the way up—

—and threw her rider clear off.

“JUSTIN!” Even as the cry left Nik’s throat, Anthser was already in motion, leaping from the beach to a ledge near the base of the cliff and surging up from there as powerfully as he could, his launch almost vertical in an effort to intercept. Justin twisted catlike in the air, curling to get his feet under him as if that might help on an eighty foot drop, and extended his arms out to Nik. Nik dropped his bow and grabbed Justin as he fell. The heavier man’s momentum nearly jerked Nik from the seat himself. By then, Anthser had reached the apogee and was falling as well, and Nik had enough leverage to pull Justin sideways onto Anthser’s back. They landed in the creek with a massive splash, the transmitted shock almost enough to knock both humans off. Nik’s thighs were locked into the seat as his arms clutched Justin to his chest, heart hammering in delayed terror. “Justin, Savior, Justin, are you hurt?”

Justin managed a shake of his head, looking more angry than frightened. Anthser waded out of the creek with flanks heaving, the two humans on his back. Nik clung to the other man, shaking from the spike of adrenaline, stroking Justin’s hair and pressing lips to the top of his head, oblivious and uncaring of how it looked, aware only of one thing: I almost lost you.

I almost lost you.

Anthser more collapsed than lay down on the shore, gasping for breath. Justin broke from Nik’s embrace to slide off and stand on unsteady legs. Southing dropped with a splash into the creek beside them, breathing almost as labored as Anthser’s after half-running and half-falling after them. “Crap, Lord Comfrey, I’m sor—”

“Wildcat bitch! Were you trying to kill me?” Justin roared, cutting her off. Southing rocked back on her haunches in the creek, ears flat back. Nik and Anthser stared at Justin. The viscount didn’t wait for her response, advancing on her with one hand raised. “Because as assassination attempts go, that was pretty fucking convincing! I thought you were a fucking professional, not some Abandoned World demoncat. Just what was bucking me off at a hundred feet supposed to accomplish?”

Southing’s lips peeled back in a snarl. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t backtalk me you disease-ridden furball!” Justin stopped just inches from her, his head looming over the greatcat’s, though she was more than ten times his mass. His raised palm made it look as though he were about to slap her, which would perhaps rank as only the second-most suicidal thing he’d done that day. “Is this what I’m paying you for? Because I can throw myself off an abandoned cliff for free if I want!”

Nik slid off Anthser. The black greatcat rose to all fours, tense, and Nik placed a steadying hand on Anthser’s shoulder. Southing’s wet fur bristled as she rose from her seated position to a posture as menacing as Justin’s. “You told me to do it!”

“Justin…” Nik could not quite fathom that this argument was happening, much less how to derail it.

The Newlanture lord ignored him, still focused on Southing. “Is your mind made of fur? Because my friend here can fix that for you!” Justin waved a hand at Nik, who winced. “So you know, ‘give it a shot’ does not in fact mean ‘throw me off at the highest possible point’!”

“I warned you that we—”

“Hold your tongue, you insolent wildcat-brained ill-bred monstrosity! I’m not paying you for your worthless mouth, I’m paying you for your equally worthless racing—”

Southing roared, back arched and gums bared to reveal a mouth larger than Justin’s head, lined by jagged pointy teeth. “Blood and death you are! I am through!” She pivoted and stalked away.

“You can’t turn your back on me! I own you!”

She twisted her head to look over her shoulder, snarling, “No, you don’t. I quit, Lord Comfrey.” The greatcat drew out his title like an insult.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me! I’ll see you never race again, you little beast!”

“Just watch me, little man.” Southing leapt to the far side of the creek and paced away down the trail, tail lashing.

Justin sputtered, turning back to the others. “That halfwitted homicidal demonspawn – can you believe—”

“Comfrey—” Nik found his voice at last “—shut up.” Anthser’s fur bristled and his glare at Justin was full of loathing. Nik smoothed the fur beneath his hand. “Anthser, feel free to accompany her if you please.” The greatcat acknowledged with a nod and bounded after Southing.

Justin glowered at Nik in disbelief. “Demons, Striker, you’re not taking her part?” Nik turned away, walking stiffly to a damp fallen log at the base of the cliff. Justin followed him, shaking with rage. “You bastard! She almost killed me!”

“Comfrey, you are being an ass,” Nik said. Justin seized his shoulder and jerked the slighter man around to face him. Nik regarded Justin’s livid visage with icy blue eyes before he dropped his gaze pointedly to the tan fingers digging into his shoulder. “Did you want to insult and threaten me as well, or will you skip directly to the beating?”

Jaw clenched, Justin dropped his hand as if burned. He crossed his arms over his muscular chest and turned away. Nik dropped to sit on the log and leaned back against the cliff, long legs stretched before him and eyes closed. The water of the creek lapped around the heels of his riding boots. Nik could not bring himself to care.

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In the event, Anthser and Nikola did much better in the next section. It was one of the two they’d chosen, and while Southing and Justin started in the lead again, Anthser passed the other greatcat on one of the climbs and they maintained that lead for the rest of the section. Justin and Nik shot comparably in that leg. The final score was not enough to offset Justin and Southing’s edge in the first leg, but it left the two teams close again. “See?” Justin said after the scoring. “Plenty we can learn from you.”

“Assuming you didn’t let us win,” Nik replied, with a mock-suspicious glare.

Southing flattened her ears, offended, but Justin laughed. “Never in life, Striker.”

The third leg was Justin’s pick, and predictably, Comfrey’s team extended their overall lead further during it. “Ready to admit defeat now, m’lord?” Anthser asked, as he and Southing panted while awaiting the formal section three scores.

Nik and Justin had dismounted to stretch. Only Comfrey was as energetic and alert as when the afternoon began. Southing stretched her forepaws before her and clawed at the ground with back arched downwards. Their final trail began at the top of a steep slope and soon disappeared into a twisting path through dense undergrowth and sturdy trees. Their vantage was high enough to see past the trees and into the ravine below. A creek ran far beneath; reflections from the water flashed through the trees at irregular intervals. The opposite slope was just as steep as the switchback trail climbed it, then ran along a ridge and vanished into another valley. The various targets were set back in the dense wood, not visible from this distance. Southing eyed the final trail with a certain trepidation. “I’m ready to collect my wager if you’re ready to pay, Blackie.”

“What? And miss the most exciting part of the course?” Justin protested.

She rolled dubious eyes towards him. “If this is the best part, why did Lord Nikola pick it instead of you?”

“I didn’t say it was the part I was best at. Besides, Striker always picks this section.”

Nik bent over to touch his booted toes, grunting. “I may have become too predictable, Anthser.”

“Naw, Lord Comfrey’s just trying to manipulate you out of good strategy.” The black greatcat arched his spine and shook himself out, fur ruffling across his body.

An attendant brought them the score: Justin had out-shot Nik again, to cement Comfrey’s lead even further. “My offer to collect now stands,” Southing said.

“No it doesn’t.” Justin vaulted into his warcat’s seat without waiting for her to lie down first. “Come now, Feli Southing, it’ll be fun. Didn’t you say you love a challenge?”

“Let’s not cry mercy just yet, Anthser. Especially if you’re defending my strategy.” Nik waited for Anthser to stretch out, then mounted in the usual prosaic fashion.

The black greatcat nodded his acquiescence and asked Southing instead, “Have you run this course before?”

“Lord Comfrey and I have run it a couple of times,” she said. “I wouldn’t say that we’ve perfected an approach for it.” This particular section of course was distinguished from the others not only by the difficult terrain, but because running the trail was optional. Competitors could take any approach they liked, as long as they hit each of the six targets in correct sequence and at least once, and didn’t cross into a target’s hazard zone – the area about a target that was proscribed to prevent accidental shootings during the race.

“Only one way to improve,” Justin said cheerfully. Southing rolled her shoulders before his knees, and padded to the starting position. Anthser followed suit; the two greatcats crouched together at the top of the steep trail. A Markavian-uniformed man stood on the stump of a starting post, flag raised.

“He’s right, you know,” Anthser murmured to Southing as the servant began the countdown. “You don’t want to miss this.”

The flag dropped. Southing surged down the switchback trail.

Anthser followed for a half dozen yards, then twisted to the side, leapt through a gap in the trees, and flew. Nik clung close to Anthser, face hidden against the greatcat’s neck so that the slender branches scraped against the top of his riding helmet instead of skin. Together, they soared past trees down the slope to land a dozen yards ahead of Southing on the path below. Anthser roared, a deep triumphant note. They lost half a second as he recovered from the turn onto the trail and regained momentum running along it. There wasn’t another gap in the trees large enough for them until they were past the next turning. Then they were airborne again, Anthser’s paws fending off smaller branches and grabbing a thick one to bounce off of it and leap over a stubby tree, falling again onto the clear path below. Behind them, Southing cursed as she crashed through the woods in their wake. Anthser laughed, already racing away down the track. When they reached the bottom of the ravine, he jumped the creek and climbed one of the thickest trees instead of taking the switchback trail up. Claws sank into wood while Nik clung to the racing seat with the boneless ease of a leech. Below them on the switchback trail, Southing raced with her tail tip lashing. Justin grinned like a madman from his perch, form as good as Nik had ever seen it. Though she had much more ground to cover, Southing was remarkably fast on the trail, jumping sideways to rebound off the trees in taking the hairpin turns at nearly top speed. Heart in his mouth, Nik followed Justin with his eyes through one rebound, the viscount all but floating parallel to the ground for a moment before his warcat’s body twisted to land with a bone-jarring thump that nonetheless did not loosen her rider.

The tree Anthser was climbing swayed under their weight. The greatcat shifted his weight to bend it down toward the slope, his progress slowed by the vertical climb and the uncertain footing. It redounded away as Anthser jumped from it to the trail, Southing and Justin only a few turns below them. “They deserve to win, you know,” Anthser said between deep breaths. “Better’n we are.”

“I know.” Nik readied his bow as they crested the final rise, and loosed an arrow for the first target. “Let’s beat them anyway.”

“Gotcha.” Anthser pelted across the top of the rise; Nik had just enough time to sink three arrows into the target before they left it behind.

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