Up close, she was even worse than at a distance, Nikola reflected. It was not so much her face or figure, which had little enough to recommend them: too tall, too thin, long chin and nose, high forehead only partly concealed by careful arrangement of thick black curls — she did have lovely hair, and a clear light golden-brown complexion. No, it was her flat, severe expression that made her repugnant. The way her gaze flicked over her visitors and then away, the thin set line of her mouth that never altered, as if her face might crack if she smiled. The rigid formality of her posture. Everything about Miss Vasilver, from the way she held her teacup and saucer to the way she listened to the conversation, was exact, correct, unnatural. He’d seen marble statues with more life.

His mother commented on the appointments of the parlor, as formal and pristine as Miss Vasilver. “These sculptures are remarkable work, Mr. Vasilver,” she said, indicating the marble carvings on display in a glass case.

“Thank you, my lady. They were a find of my mother’s, in southern Savorift.”

“How lucky for her. Did she have a Blessing for stone?”

“Ah, no.” He paused before adding, “I am afraid Blessings do not run in my family line. Or my wife’s.” Mr. Vasilver spared a glance to his daughter. “It is one area in which we hope our grandchildren will be more gifted.”

Then why don’t you pay me a stud fee and call it done? Nikola thought with a flash of irrational anger. Although the idea of sleeping with that icicle of a woman even once was profoundly unappealing. At least this interminable conversation was inching to the purpose.

Lord Striker gave a fatuous nod. “My family has been most fortunate in that arena. Particularly my son.”

So today it’s fortunate, Father? Good to know.

“Indeed,” Mr. Vasilver folded broad-fingered hands together. “My house’s fortunes have been of a more … monetary nature.”

“Business interests such as yours must afford you many opportunities for travel,” Lady Striker said.

“Oh, yes. Vasilver Trading does business across the globe. My children often accompany me — Wisteria loves to travel.”

“Do you, dear?” Nik’s mother turned her attention to the icicle-woman.

“Certain parts of it.” Miss Vasilver’s voice was as formal and cool as her bearing. “Long sea voyages are tedious, but the variation of cultural norms across different societies is amazing, something I did not appreciate until I experienced it firsthand. And of course, I enjoy the opportunity to assist with my father’s business.”

Of course. “What sort of assistance do you provide, Miss Vasilver?” Nikola found himself asking.

Her father shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but Miss Vasilver looked to neither him nor Nik: her gaze was aimless, directed on the wall beyond him. “Accounting, you might call it. I evaluate business opportunities, assess the profitability and ensure that the mutual benefits of a proposed plan outweigh its costs, not only in resources but opportunity.”

Nik raised a blond eyebrow. “Mutual benefits?”

“For all involved parties. Good business cannot be zero-sum, my lord. My grandfather founded Vasilver Trading seventy years ago; it would not have lasted five without providing a service of value to others as well as our family. To do well in the long-term, we must ensure that everyone — our customers, our suppliers, our partners, ourselves — profits from the relationship.”

One corner of his mouth twitched up. “Are you sure that’s not a Blessing, Miss Vasilver? It sounds like magic.”

She did not answer his smile. “It isn’t magic,” she said. “It’s a business skill. Anyone can learn it.”

Oh, I doubt that. But he wondered if this little meeting had been a plan hatched in the minds of their parents after all. “And is that how you feel about marriage as well, miss?”

“Yes,” she answered with equanimity. “At its heart, marriage is a business proposition: a relationship formed for the mutual benefit of not merely the marriage partners but their relatives and their heirs.” She tilted her head to one side. “How do you see it, my lord?”

Nik blinked at her. He had expected to fluster her, to crack that impassive face with embarrassment at likening marriage to either a business or a skill. Not to receive this frank admission. How do I see marriage? A graveyard in which to bury individuals, for the protection of the society that buries them. He was aware of his mother’s appalled expression from her seat on the other side of the couch, his father’s nonplussed look, the nervous clasp of Mr. Vasilver’s hands against the arms of his chair. But most of all he was conscious of Miss Vasilver’s emotionless gaze, waiting for an answer. He struggled to formulate a polite one that was not wholly insincere. “I am … less optimistic than you. That is a great many people to please at once.”

Miss Vasilver nodded. “One cannot please everyone. Then again, one may be benefited even by things that are not perhaps as pleasant as one might hope.”

He didn’t know how to disagree with that, and desperately did not want to agree. At his side, his father murmured, “Very true.”  Nik shot him a glare.

Miss Vasilver took a folder from the small table beside her. “The mutual advantages of a match between our houses are obvious: the County of Anverlee has vast land holdings, many of which are not fully or optimally exploited. Vasilver Trading has extensive resources to invest in development. Fireholt’s mineral rights are of particular interest to our business, as recent discoveries in smelting make utilizing them attractive. And there’s the matter of heirs and bloodlines: in this area, the benefit is all on Vasilver’s side: even in this age titled relations are of great value to a business empire, while a Blessing by convention has no price. But beyond my dowry, you’ll find that the advantages Vasilver can offer as a partner — marriage being a natural form of partnership — are considerable.

“But as you say, there are a great many people to please, and it’s important to be aware of all the possibilities, the expectations inherent in marriage. I’ve prepared this document for your perusal.”  She removed a sheaf of papers from the folder and, swallowing, offered them to him. Nik reacted before his father could, taking the thick sheaf in his gloved hand. “I used contractual language, but it’s intended more as a launching point. For negotiation.”

Wisteria Vasilver waited in the front parlor for her callers. In the good parlor, with her grandmother’s antemarkavian marbles arranged in the glass-fronted cabinet, with the granite-topped occasional tables and beveled bronze-framed mirror over the mantelpiece, with the couch and wingback chairs with their dust covers removed for once, green-and-gold velvet brocade on display. In the parlor they almost never used because it was too good even for company. Her father paced over the tapestry carpet of the Ascension that ran between the chairs and the couch, his hands clasped behind his back in the way that meant he was nervous and worried, not nervous and excited. Wisteria felt much the same, but she simply sat in the wingback chair nearest the door with her hands clasped in her lap. All her documents were in the leather folder on the end table beside her.

Mr. Brigsley rapped unnecessarily at the door before opening it at her father’s command. “Lord Striker, Count of Anverlee. Lady Striker, Countess of Anverlee. Nikola Striker, Lord of Fireholt,” the butler announced, with a calculated degree of formality. Wisteria rose as the door opened; her father abandoned his pacing to stand a little ahead of her and greet their guests. She had seen them before, but never in close proximity. The parents were what she had expected: Anverlee County was in the Havenset province of Newlant, and they had the round light-colored eyes, Haventure-pale skin, and narrow prominent noses common to that region. Lord Striker was a tall man, trim despite his years, with a full head of white hair streaked by a few strands of remaining light brown. His wife was short and plump, round face lined and grey hair wrapped in a coil around the crown of her head.

Lord Nikola was … not what she expected. Wisteria had known he was tall, slender, and handsome, with a long ponytail of wavy dark blond hair. But she was not prepared for the feline grace of his stride and bearing, or the way his presence seemed to fill the room, or the way her attention was drawn to him involuntarily, as if there were no one else in the parlor. Or for the intensity of his round blue eyes, gazing at her face as her father presented her. She curtseyed automatically, her mind churning in a useless attempt to interpret his expression. For a moment, she was struck by the fantasy that his focused gaze was for her — not for a prospective fiancee, or a potential mother, or a new acquaintance, or a wealthy heiress, but for herself, Wisteria Vasilver. As if his Blessing could reach out through his gaze alone and touch her soul. She couldn’t breathe.

He bowed in answer to her curtsey, and she forced the preposterous fantasy away. “Please, have a seat,” her father told their guests.

Wisteria lowered herself gratefully back to her chair, forcing her gaze to Lord Striker to avoid staring at his son. Him? Marry him? The whole idea was absurd. Of course it’s absurd, she told herself. Everyone does it anyway. So can I. So can he. We each must marry someone, there is no reason it cannot be one another. She stole another glance at Lord Nikola. He was seated on the couch to the right of his father, opposite Wisteria, with his mother on the other end of the couch. She could tell nothing from his expression, a slight smile that could signify anything — amused, bored, polite, sarcastic, who knew? Everyone in the room but me. His parents were equally undecipherable, naturally. Her father exchanged inconsequential pleasantries with his, while his mother scrutinized Wisteria. Wisteria didn’t bother to study her in return — she’d offend with her stare long before she learned anything useful. Instead, she considered what made Lord Nikola seem so … so present. It wasn’t his clothing, which was elegant but understated and not-quite-current. Eggshell-white cuffs peeked from the edges of a deep blue jacket cut long in back and short in front, spray of lace at the front from a jabot, tan breeches, pale stockings, dark shoes, and ivory gloves: in consideration of his Blessing, no skin was exposed apart from his face. All well-tailored, but the suit was of ivysilk and lacked the subtle gloss of the more expensive angoraflax suits their fathers wore, and it had no fashionable trim or ornate buttons. That would be a signal of some kind, perhaps that Lord Nikola didn’t think she merited dressing up. Or that he disliked ornamentation. Or didn’t want to pay for expensive extras. Or found current styles unappealing. Another signal like the smile, so fraught with possible meanings it might as well be meaningless. Wisteria abandoned the task of solving impossible enigmas on so little information, and waited for tea to be served and conversation to come to a point that might give her some data.

The Lord of Fireholt had no intention of marrying, and certainly not of marrying Miss Wisteria Vasilver. They’d not yet been introduced, but he had seen her at social events: a tall dark-haired woman whose fashionable attire could not disguise her boyish figure. Nor did it mask the severe expression that added ten years to a long face that had already lost the bloom of youth, assuming she ever had it. It was hard to imagine a less appealing companion for a lifetime. “I’d sooner marry Lady Dalsterly,” he remarked, gaze fixed out the carriage window.

His mother, Lady Striker, Countess of Anverlee, gasped from the seat opposite his. “Nikola Striker! Lady Dalsterly is ninety-six!”

“What does that matter? She’s rich, isn’t she? If old men can marry a destitute girl for her beauty, youth and title, I don’t see why old women can’t do the same. At least I wouldn’t be married to her for long,” he added, purely to spite his mother: Lady Dalsterly would live another twenty years at least.

His mother gave a second horrified gasp.

“That’s enough, Nikola,” his father said. “We are not destitute. This is about finding you a suitable match and a mother for your future heirs. Which Lady Dalsterly most certainly would not be.”

“A suitably rich match, you mean, and let’s kill two birds with one stone as long as you’re going to the trouble of dragging me to the wedding circle,” Nik said, expression sour.

“Don’t be melodramatic. Everyone marries, boy. What else do you intend to do? Install one of your whores as Lady of Fireholt?” Lord Striker said, earning himself a glare and a ‘Rukert!’ from his wife.

Nikola clamped his jaw closed, biting off a reply. It was hard to pick out the worst part from so many bad parts of the situation, but the way his parents made him not only feel but act like a child was high on the list. I am a grown man. My parents cannot compel me to wed. All I’ve agreed to do is be polite to a few strangers for an hour. Then I can tell Mother, ‘There, I’ve met the girl, I’m still not marrying her, I’m going home to Fireholt now’. The opportunity to see Justin is not worth all this. Last week, agreeing to the meeting to end his mother’s nagging had seemed reasonable. Today, he wasn’t so sure. His occasional compliance in meeting his mother’s idea of eligible women had only made Lady Striker more strident in her demands. Well, there was no graceful way to escape it now. The pair of big greatcats padded onwards, pulling the carriage inevitably closer to Vasilver Manor. The carriage wheels moved quietly over the broad paved streets; a clever arrangement of levers, pistons and valves where axle met cab ensured a smooth ride. The sky over Gracehaven was leaden, three- and four-story buildings of brick, steelwood, and stone turned to shades of gray by the colorless light. I might as well be going to my funeral. Savior, get me out of here.

Divine intervention was not forthcoming: too soon the carriage stopped before a modern five-story edifice of stone and glass, its fixtures, floors and corners trimmed by darker stone carved in elegant abstract patterns. One of Vasilver’s footmen opened the carriage door before the lead greatcat could extricate herself from her harness to do it. She padded to loom over the footman from a yard behind him, ears pricked as she watched her three human passengers disembark. Like the other greatcat, she wore a livery cloak in Anverlee’s blue-and-silver. “There’s a carriage house and felishome behind the manor, my lord,” the footman said to Lord Striker.

Nik’s father nodded. “Stow the carriage and wait for us in the felishome, Jill,” he told the waiting greatcat.

She dropped her head, blue-gray fur grizzled with white along her muzzle and ears, one leg bent and the other outstretched in a feline bow. “Yes, m’lord.” Lord and Lady Striker ascended the steps to the front door while Nik lingered by the carriage to put off the inevitable a moment longer. He felt a nudge against his back, and turned to see Jill’s lowered head. She gave him a broad wink. “Knock ’em dead, Lord Nik,” she murmured.

He gave her a lopsided grin and made a shooing motion. “Mother will kill you if you’ve shed on my jacket,” he whispered back.

Jill nosed his hand, unrepentant, and padded back into her harness to help her companion greatcat pull the vehicle from the street. Nik inhaled one last deep breath of freedom, then followed his parents into Vasilver Manor.