By half-past four, Wisteria was certain Lord Nikola would not be back at the party, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. On the negative side of the ledger, it meant no opportunity to steal back to that study and continue their earlier…activity? Conversation? Either. Both. On the positive side, it meant no opportunity to disgrace herself further.

Or rather, no opportunity to disgrace herself with Lord Nikola.   

She found Lord Comfrey’s company dangerously enjoyable. She rather suspected she’d been flirting with him. And he seemed to understand, to believe her when she’d explained why she didn’t smile. Which was on her list of Things Not to Talk About, not only because her parents had cautioned her against it but also because in the past such explanation had made communication more awkward yet. But Lord Comfrey had adapted by asking her direct questions about what she wanted instead of trying to guess. Which was exactly how she wished to be treated. It was marvelous. The whole evening had been filled with marvels. Wisteria usually retired by midnight and as such was flagging at this hour, but for all its imperfections she did not want this night to end.

She was seated at one of the chairs beside the ballroom floor; Lord Comfrey had left her there while he hunted down refreshments for them. Wisteria had her eyes closed, indulging in a confused daydream wherein she was alternately embracing either Lord Nikola or Lord Comfrey. Part of her felt irritated by herself over this: she had just been engaging in highly inappropriate behavior with Lord Nikola, and she felt that she owed, or at least ought to owe, some fidelity to him over that. Even a mistress was faithful to the man who kept her, if Wisteria understood correctly. Only a prostitute would go from one lover to the next as if the act was no more meaningful than a game of cards. Is that what I am, a whore? A number of conversations on the subject had given her to understand that decent, virtuous women not only did not engage in carnal activities, but indeed did not even have the desire for such. Wisteria had always been a failure at the latter, but until tonight she’d done tolerably well at avoiding the former. For all the good it’s done me. Whether I’m virtuous or not, no man’s going to marry me anyway. I might as well satisfy my lust. With – whomever.

Experimentally, she tried substituting other men into her daydreams. Invoking Lord Dunsang spoilt the fantasy entirely. Her affable clerk was less absurd – she’d always been fond of him – but not appealing. Byron’s valet was a handsome man with a strong jawline, trim build, and a pleasing professionalism, but imagining kissing him was nonetheless dull. I guess any man won’t do.

She was just imagining how Lord Comfrey’s shoulders would feel under her hands when a voice broke into her reverie. “Should I have brought back tea instead of wine, Miss Vasilver?” She opened her eyes to find Lord Comfrey standing by her chair, holding two wineglasses. He offered her one, continuing, “The champagne is undrinkable by this hour, I’m afraid. But you do not look in need of a soporific, my dear. Should I have called for your carriage instead?”

Wisteria thought about riding home alone in that glittering glass coach, and the prospect of the spectacle was far less attractive than when she thought she’d be with Lord Nikola. Will it look odd, me being all alone? If I wait longer to leave, will it be more likely to go unnoticed? She took the glass and shook her head. “No, thank you, my lord. I am—” she rose as she spoke, forgetting the weight of her beaded gown, and tripped over the train. Lord Comfrey caught her about the shoulders with one arm, cradled her to his chest, and steadied her glass with his free hand so she did not spill it. “—fine?”

“You’re quite sure of that, my dear?” He smiled down at her. She could feel the curve of his glass against her opposite shoulder. He had not spilled a drop.

Mmmm. For the first time, Wisteria understood why women did ridiculous things like ask for help on problems they knew the answer to, or drop items so men would retrieve them, or behave as if they could not cross a street unassisted. It would never have occurred to her to stumble just so Lord Comfrey could catch her, but she was aware she was in no great hurry to regain her feet. “Oh. Well.” She was more tired than she’d realized, to be tripping over her own feet. Not to mention to be taking advantage of the chance to rest in Lord Comfrey’s arms. Usually she had more self-control than this. Not as much more as her family might wish, but nonetheless. If he minded either her delay or her clumsiness, it didn’t show: he felt strong, capable, and alert, which was comforting when she felt none of those things. But I hardly know him: ought I be trusting him? Mustering all her available willpower, she withdrew from his arms. “Perhaps I am a trifle weary.”

“A trifle?”

“I may understate.” Dancing was not a good idea if she was falling over just standing. She tried to think what else she might do that would be fun without requiring her to be fully conscious. Other than falling back into Lord Comfrey’s arms. That sounded like a lovely idea. “…perhaps you are right about the carriage after all.”

Lord Comfrey offered his arm. “Seldom do I so regret being correct.”

§

Justin sent for his coach at the same time as Wisteria’s. Had Nikola been there he’d have stayed for hours longer, but tonight no one remaining could command his attention. Miss Vasilver had made an impression on more than just him, Justin had noticed. Not only the married Lord Dunsang, but a handful of bachelors who’d been observing her or dancing with her over the course of the evening. She had not noticed their regard, and Justin suspected his own looming presence had kept anyone from daring to be forward. The poor girl was struggling even to make small talk at this stage, so he waited in companionable silence with her in one of the studies. When a servant let them know her coach was without, he accompanied her down the broad palace steps. She seemed in actual need of the support, leaning into him and almost resting her cheek against his shoulder. False dawn lightened the eastern sky to a paler blue. One of the coaches before the steps was the gaudiest Justin had ever laid eyes upon, an absurd assembly of gilt wire and clear crystal plates. He chuckled at the spectacle. “I wonder what lord brought that contraption?” he said in an aside to Miss Vasilver.

One of the coach’s pure white greatcats stood by the door and opened it when he saw Miss Vasilver coming as the two of them descended the steps. Justin halted, realizing his tactical error. “Lord Nikola?”

“It’s a gift from a petitioner. Well, a gift in the form of lending it for the night,” the beautiful woman replied.

“Ah. Of…course. No wonder you didn’t wish to go home, alone in that thing.” With the eyes of every gossipy bystander wondering why Lord Nikola wasn’t with her, no doubt. “You know, my offer to take you in my carriage stands.”

She shook her head. “There’s no need to put you out of your way.”    

“My dear.” He turned to her on the palace steps and took her chin gently to tilt her face to his. “It would be an honor and a privilege.”    

“Oh.” She blinked at him a few times. “…then I accept. Thank you, my lord.”

Justin patted her hand and told the greatcats they could leave – Nikola was surely not returning, and there was no sense making them stay all night for nothing. The greatcats looked disappointed as they departed. Justin had to admit it wasn’t how he wanted the night to end himself, although escorting Miss Vasilver home was no small consolation.

After handing her into his own far more traditional carriage, he noted that she had chosen the far side of the forward-facing seat, leaving plenty of room for him to sit beside her. He accepted the tacit invitation, although he did not crowd her. They could not sit in silence for the entire length of the drive, so he selected an unchallenging topic. “Now that you have seen Newlant’s most famous ball, my dear, what do you make of it?”

“It’s very large,” she said, her eyes looking at the Ascension lights lining the drive as the greatcats trotted down it.

Justin chuckled. “Were you expecting a modest gathering? I am afraid the Crown always disappoints on that count.”

“Not modest, exactly. But intimate. Everyone speaks of the royal Ascension Ball as terribly exclusive, so I did not expect so many attendees.”

“Ah, of course. The other royal events of the season are far more exclusive, in that regard. But none of them are as grand.”

“It certainly is that. It made me wonder at the logistics involved. Do they normally have furniture in those vast halls?” she asked, and he nodded in answer. “Where do they put it?”

He blinked at her. “Do you know, I’ve never thought about that? In the attics, perhaps.”

“The palace has an attic?”

“Several. One of them is stuffed full of old family portraits. They keep past kings and queens on display but there’s not room on the walls for all the princes and princesses and their children and third wives and what not.”

“Oh, I thought that was why they needed such a large palace. Enough wall space for forty generations of grandchildren portraits.”

“And thus the current fashion in miniatures, inspired by Dawnfell Palace running short on blank walls?”

“I knew there had to be some excuse for those tiny pictures.”

They spoke for some time about the ball. Justin found her perspective both refreshing and intriguing. Everyone noticed the costumes, the elaborate displays, the exquisite food, the awe of the Blessing. Miss Vasilver, by contrast, was curious how they managed to park all the carriages and what system they used to retrieve them. Or how they managed staffing – “they cannot have all those servants on retainer; some must be on loan, but what do they do the rest of the year?” Whether there was a discreet second-hand market for Ascension garb, catering to all those courtesy-titled lords and ladies with Blessings but no fortune.

As Miss Vasilver discussed the potential in the latter – “I know the average peer would be horrified to see her castoffs make an appearance at the ball, but they could be modified—” she interrupted herself. “I am dreadfully sorry, my lord. I know I oughtn’t speak of business on such an occasion.”

He grinned at her. “I cannot say I mind at all, Miss Vasilver.” Justin leaned closer and murmured, as if fearing to be overheard even though they were alone in a moving carriage, “I am far more accustomed to having to check my own impulses in this regard. Lord Nikola would flay me alive if he heard me criticise another over it.”

“Would he? I thought him a very even-tempered man.”

“Did I say he was not? I promise that he would be quite cool and calm as he set about removing my hide one strip at a time.”

“With the razor-sharp edge of his tongue, my lord?” By now, they were more than halfway to Miss Vasilver’s home. The gaslit streets outside the carriage no longer commanded her attention: she was leaning into him, eyes on his face.

“Indeed. I trust you have not experienced it.” Justin touched his fingertips to the smooth skin of her cheek, which was of course Entirely Inappropriate and he fully expected her to respond by blushing or retreating. His caress was featherlight, experimental. “I cannot imagine he would risk damaging a work of art such as yourself.”

Instead of withdrawing, she mirrored his gesture, her fingertips against his own cheek. “Then why would he risk damaging one such as you?”

Justin smiled. “I am a big strong man, my dear. I can take it.” Slowly, so she’d have ample time to draw back, he dipped his head to kiss her.

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The ranks of dancers had thinned from earlier in the evening, and the four of them naturally stood up in the same set. Now that Justin knew Miss Vasilver’s neutral expression was the product of neither deliberate concealment nor actual indifference, dancing with her took on a different cast. It was peculiar to rely on words alone in an effort to gauge her mood, but her light-hearted banter indicated contentment. He did notice one giveaway in her body language, however: she often glanced to the entrances, doubtless to see if Nikola had returned.

By three in the morning, Meg’s unbounded enthusiasm for dance was losing the battle with her need for sleep: she and her husband did not keep Gracehaven hours. Lord Dunsang was reclaimed by his wife. Meg suggested she go home and Justin stay. “I can send the carriage back for you, and I know you don’t want to leave this early. Stand up with Miss Vasilver, Justin, I’m sure Nik would want you to keep her company.”Justin acquiesced, amused by the coincidence of social duties with what he wished to do anyway. He might have suspected Meg of matchmaking had they not had a history free of such machinations.

Miss Vasilver also agreed, lightfooted and grave as the music began. “It is curiously difficult, not reading feeling into your expression. Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Vasilver?” he asked as they took the first turn together.

“Oh yes, my lord. Far more than I expected to, in fact. The whole event has been most delightful and entertaining.”

“Were you not anticipating delight and entertainment, my dear, at the social event of the year?”

“I do not have very high expectations of social events, my lord. We cannot all have your problem.”

“My problem?”

“Of being too well-liked.”

“It is not the most onerous of curses,” Justin conceded. “But I do not see why you should not share it.”

Miss Vasilver tilted her head at him as they circled in the dance. “Do you not, my lord?”

On the point of a glib reply, he hesitated, contemplating her composed unsmiling face, her cool tones and peculiar expectations, her exquisite long-limbed elegant form wrapped in glittering cream and crimson. Justin discarded his half-formed whimsical untruth and said instead, “It is a fool’s Paradise we live in, where one such as you is not valued as she should be.” The dance took them apart before Miss Vasilver had to compose a response.

When the orchestra took a break, Justin led Wisteria to one of the palace’s drawing rooms to sit for a bit. Guests still filled the palace, even at close on four in the morning, but he found them a quiet corner in a chamber with walls covered in cream-colored damask velvet. “How long does this event continue, m’lord?” Miss Vasilver asked, taking the offered seat on an antique sofa.

“Oh, most guests leave by dawn. Their Majesties don’t throw us out until noon, as I recall.” Justin sat beside her and stretched his legs before him. He flexed his toes inside his gold-inlaid dress leather boots, wishing he could take the curst things off.

“Noon? Noon tomorrow? People stay that long for an evening party?” Her voice was uninflected as always, but Justin fancied he read disbelief in her tone just the same.

“Well, I did. Twice. When I was a young man and it seemed a good idea. Their Majesties retired before dawn but Prince Edgar was awake to show the last guests to the door. Or to their chambers. Some of them are staying at the Palace – the Queen invites a hundred or so houseguests for Ascension, many the poorer Blessed who would not be able to make the trip for the Blessing of Newlant elsewise. If one stays until seven or eight in the morning one may even speak with the prince for more than three consecutive minutes.”

“But…don’t they have services on Sunday afternoon?”

“Sunday evening. It’s not until six. His Highness told me one year that he takes a nap after the ball, goes to service, and then goes straight back to bed.” Justin did not think Miss Vasilver would last until dawn, much less noon. Her face was relaxed and unlined, eyes alert enough, but her movements were slower and clumsier than earlier in the evening.

“Oh. Do you think Lord Nikola might yet return?”

The question spurred a sudden irrational surge of anger at Nikola, for bringing this poor lovely girl and then abandoning her. She did not sound wistful or heartbroken, merely factual, but then she would, wouldn’t she? Justin wondered if Nikola’s certainty that the girl was not attached was correct, or if Nikola had been misled by the indifference in her expression. Fool of a boy. How could she not love you? He hesitated, considering his reply. “It’s not outside the realm of possibility…but I believe in most prior years he’s left by this time of the night.”

“Oh.” Her face was turned to the drawing room door, calm, untroubled.

“Are you stranded, Miss Vasilver? I would be happy to take you home if you choose.”

She shook her head. “No, not at all. Lord Nikola left his carriage; the greatcats will take me back to Vasilver Manor whenever I ask. I…I am a little surprised he’s sent no message.”

Justin suspected the Strikers didn’t have the staff to send a message in the wee hours of Ascension night, but he did not like to say so. “He goes into a sort of trance when he’s working. I doubt he’s even aware of how much time has passed.”

“I suppose not.” Miss Vasilver considered this. “You don’t think something might have happened to him, do you?”

“Happened to him?” Justin tried to imagine mischance befalling his friend. Nikola had no enemies, no known wealth, and would have his warcat to protect him; no common footpad would risk an altercation with a greatcat. “What could possibly happen to him?”

“I don’t know. An accident?”

Justin smiled. “I promise you, Lord Nikola is the finest rider in Newlant. No one is less likely to have taken a fall. I am sure the emergency took longer than he’d expected, or attending to it was more tiring.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He put his hand over hers, where it lay on the cushion between them. Did she fear Nikola had abandoned her deliberately? Was it advisable to reassure her on that count? While Nikola would not be so rude as to desert the girl on mere whim, Justin knew how little hope she had of attaching the man. Is it kind to assure her of his courtesy and friendship, when I know that’s the sum of it? “However unfortunate it may be for him or you, I cannot say I regret Lord Nikola’s absence.”

Miss Vasilver tilted her head. “Whyever would you not? I thought you and he were friends, Lord Comfrey?”

“Certainly we are. But we see one another often, whereas I have never before had a chance to speak with you outside of business. My motives are selfish: I could not have kept you all to myself for so long had Lord Nikola been in attendance.”

Her light brown eyes looked to his face for a long moment, and then away as if she feared staring. “My lord is very kind.”

Justin laughed. “I am many things, my dear, but ‘kind’ is not one of them. Never that. As I said: entirely selfish.” He rose and offered his hand. “I believe I hear the orchestra resuming, if you would care to dance again, Miss Vasilver?”

She placed her hand in his, pale brown fingers caressing his palm. “I would be delighted to join you, my lord.”

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Dawnfell Palace had a series of rooms devoted to every kind of indoor game, plus a few not usually played indoors. Justin brought Miss Vasilver to a chamber that was cosy by comparison with the vaulted ceilings and grand vistas of the ballroom or petitioner’s hall. This room was built on a more human scale, ceiling a mere nine feet high. It had ample space for a parquet-topped table with knotwork legs and matched chairs – chosen by Prince Edgar, a man with a passion for parlor games, and so they were comfortably padded with cushioned arms. Servants in royal livery patrolled the tapestry-carpeted floor, bearing trays of refreshments. Four men and three women were at the table when they arrived. Justin introduced Miss Vasilver after the current round – he knew each player already – and they took seats to join in. Justin covered Miss Vasilver’s stake as a matter of course, without comment, and it was gratifying to have her accept it likewise with a simple “thank you, my lord”: no profusion of gratitude or demur of need. I’ve had a lifetime’s worth of those fights with Nikola already. I don’t need any more, he thought, and smiled to himself at the recollection that the question with Nikola had been permanently settled.

Justin prefered more active games than cards; he spent plenty of time sitting still for business purposes and liked to be moving when at leisure. Even so, competition invigorated him as he rose to the challenge. Luck wasn’t with him but his play was good for what he had to work with, and he had a magnificent time observing his fellow players. Especially Miss Vasilver.

Miss Vasilver was as impenetrable at the poker table as Justin had suspected, and no fool either: not a woman who would chase a busted flush or draw to an inside straight, Justin concluded after an hour or so of play. Her success relied on a combination of skillful management of the odds and that no one could discern when she bluffed; she had limited skill in detecting a bluff by others.

Having spent some time with her now, Justin could appreciate why Nikola liked the girl. She was neither a gay nor lively companion to be sure, but her quiet composure in the face of all things made for a beguiling picture in contrast to, say, Lady Olivia’s pouting at her losses or unseemly triumph in her successes. Neither Mr. Burgess’s posturing nor the Duke of Junmont’s title could intimidate Miss Vasilver, and her dry wit charmed Justin. Justin suspected her apparent coolness was what had made Nikola remark her unsuitable for wife or lover, and indeed it was hard to imagine Miss Vasilver in the throes of passion. But the contrast between her cool expression and her bold touch when they’d been alone in her office made sense now. Does it matter if one cannot read desire in her face, as long as she feels it? Assuming she does feel it. Would it make any difference in the dark? Would she moan and tremble with pleasure, or would her impassivity extend to unresponsiveness in that as well?

This distracting if delightful train of thought contributed nothing to Justin’s play. That it was ungentlemanly did not trouble him; part of his mind was often occupied with such fancies regardless of his primary activity. That the current object was female still surprised him, however. He was unsure if or how to act upon it. Most of his experiences with women had been of the paid variety, with a couple of flings when he was still in school with forthright married women who would not take ‘no’ for answer. An affair with a single gentlewoman involved various potential complications that he’d never had to worry about before. Do I want that? Does she? There was one particular study in Dawnfell Palace whose interior door was locked during the ball, but the door from it to the balcony was left unlatched because certain of the staff used it to sneak in and out. Justin had discovered it some years ago and at one memorable ball he and Nikola had stolen away to make use of it. He was strongly tempted to show Miss Vasilver to the room and…see what resulted. You’d think by my age I’d’ve learnt more caution than that. He had no intention of acting on the impulse – if nothing else, it seemed rude to hide away with Nikola’s guest when Nikola was expected back soon.

And where is Nikola, in any case? The servants at the cloakroom had been instructed to tell Nikola when he arrived that Miss Vasilver was in the game room, so he oughtn’t have had any difficulty finding them. Surely he ought to be back by now, if he’s going to be back at all. What sort of emergency could it be, that he’d need to leave the Ascension Ball for it, much less take this long to resolve? And he wouldn’t avoid the game room just because he doesn’t wish to wager. He’s usually willing enough to kibbitz, if nothing else.

Meg tracked them down around half-past one. She was kinder to Miss Vasilver now, after learning that Nikola had been called away for an emergency. “You can’t expect anything else of him, dear. His blessing is the only thing he takes seriously,” Meg told the girl with a pat on her hand and a meaningful look which Justin suspected was wasted. Meg even surprised him by sitting to play instead of imploring him to return to dancing.

They spent another amiable half-hour at cards, until Lord Dunsang lost the remainder of his stake to a gloating Lady Olivia and implored Miss Vasilver to rescue him from buying in again by agreeing to dance. Miss Vasilver hesitated at first, but Lord Dunsang pressed her on it and she agreed in her usual calm manner.

There was no reason whatsoever to think Miss Vasilver might need rescuing herself or that Lord Dunsang, a stout round-faced married man of middle years, posed a threat of any sort. But Justin took advantage of the pause in play to invite Meg to dance anyway, and they returned with the other couple to the ballroom.

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If I were a terrible human being, I would raise the price on A Rational Arrangement after today’s cliffhanger ending. But, to prove that I’m not a monster, I’m putting it on sale instead. It’s now just $4.99!

The good news: this sale will last until the present predicament resolves, in five-six weeks.

The bad news: that’s how long it takes to resolve in the serial. You may want to buy it if you hate suspense. Just sayin’.

When Nik returned to himself, Sharone was asleep, curled sideways on the chair with her head on his shoulder. For his own part, he was resting against the chair with one arm on the seat cushion, legs folded half underneath him, the buckles of one dress shoe digging into his thigh and both legs numb. I really need to stop doing this when I’m not in a comfortable position. Or clothing. The Whittakers were standing nearby, watching him anxiously. Meredith was sprawled and asleep in a boneless heap on the floor.

“Ess she…will she be well, my lord?” Mrs. Whittaker asked, voice hushed.

He nodded, shifting Sharone’s head gently from his shoulder to the seat. “She’ll be a while recovering and it may be some time before her behavior is fully normal for a girl of her age. Being so long possessed took a toll on her. But the demon is gone now. She’ll no longer have spells of violence or wild uncontrollability or hallucinations.” Bracing against the chair, Nik heaved himself to his feet. Mr. Whittaker stepped forward to steady him as Nik winced at the prickle of life returning to half-asleep limbs.

Mrs. Whittaker gave a little gasp and covered her mouth with both hands, eyes watering with grateful tears. Mr. Whittaker pumped Nikola’s right hand in both of his, indifferent to the lack of glove. “Thank you, my lord, thank you, I don’ know how to tell you how grateful we are, for all tha’ y’ve done.” His mind was sturdy and well-balanced, especially for one whose life had been unsettled for so long.

Nikola waved off their thanks and their eagerness to press a gift on him now – “there will be plenty of time to deal with that in the morning. I need to return to the Palace – what time is it?”

It proved to be half-past midnight, which did not delight him. Still, the Ascension Ball lasted until after dawn, and even his parents rarely left before two in the morning. There would be time yet to enjoy Miss Vasilver’s company – not to mention the carriage ride home.

Nikola took his leave of the Whittakers, who were still thanking him, and made his way in long strides to the front door. Anthser had the night off, of course – even if the greatcat had not been independently wealthy, Nik would scarcely have asked any employee to work on Ascension when he himself expected to be out all night at a party. If it were up to him, there wouldn’t even be a footman made to wait by the door to let in returning houseguests and hosts. Gunther and Jill had taken the carriage and his parents to the party. After Meredith – who was not even an employee, for all love – had run all the way to the Palace and back again with a rider, Nik was not about to wake her from her well-earned sleep and ask her to repeat the trip yet another time. No, he’d find a cab, or one of the street runners – greatcats with riding seats who took fares. He paused by the hall mirror and used the lint brush from the bureau by the door to clean stray fur and dust from his coat and breeches, with help from the footman. “Do you need anything else, m’lord?”

Nik waved him off. “No, thank you, Robert, I’ll be fine.” His mother would have sent the man find a cab for her and bring it back, but Nik was too impatient to wait. He stepped out into the night and strode briskly down the drive, through the gates, and out to the quiet street beyond. Most of the cabs will be near houses that are hosting a celebration, Nik thought. I’ll head for the Palace and hope to catch one on the way. Or walk the whole way, if I must – it’s not that far.

The icy night could not chill his spirits, which were warmed by the lingering joy of healing Sharone Whittaker. He felt vindicated in his determination to help her, and beyond that elated by her recovery. On a considerably less altruistic note, the prospect of seeing Miss Vasilver again warmed him further still.

Distracted by the memory of her lips against his, Nikola paid little attention to his surroundings. He did not notice the three men trailing behind him until after he’d turned onto one of the darker streets.

Sensing someone behind him, Nik glanced over his shoulder, and was startled to see a burly figure lunging for him. Nik ducked by reflex and dodged to one side, only to collide with a second man. The first grabbed one of Nik’s arms while the second seized the other. “What—?” Nik started to say, kicking at the legs of the man behind him and trying to twist his arms free, when he felt a knifepoint at his back.

“’s enough of you,” one of the assailants hissed in his ear, pressing the blade hard enough to prick through the layers of frockcoat and jacket. Nik stopped struggling as a third man dropped a sack over his head. “Handsomely now, and there’s no one as gets hurt. Step along.”

Nik stumbled forward blind and unwilling, men herding him. “Where are—”

One arm wrapped over his chest and he felt cold metal slide beneath his jabot as the attacker pressed the blade against his bare throat. “Happens as I don’t need your tongue, yer majesty, so’s you can hold it or I’s can cut it out and hold it me own self,” the man at his back growled in a low voice. Nik closed his mouth and tried not to swallow. The knife felt razor-sharp against his skin. “Good choice. Which there’s less mess this way.”

They walked him several yards deeper into the alley. “Get the cart,” the knife-man said to one of his fellows. “Gag ’im. Don’t want his majesty gettin’ any ideas.” Someone pulled the sack up enough to force a gag into his mouth and tie it behind his head, then pulled it down again. They tied his hands behind his back as well, but left his feet free. So they want me to walk somewhere. Like this? Someone must notice. Nik did not struggle; the knife was too close to his throat. They must plan to hold me for ransom. Hah. At least I can afford to pay a ransom now. I just need to make sure they don’t have a reason to hurt or kill me before they make the exchange. He could imagine his father’s rebuke already: “What were you thinking, boy, walking about after midnight unescorted, in all your Ascension finery? You might as well have hung a sign about your neck reading ‘ABDUCT ME’.” Part of him was outraged by the whole situation: what kind of person assaults a Blessed on Ascension? Affrontery, anger, irritation (curse it I wanted to get back to the ball!) all vied with fear for dominance.

So far, fear was winning. He tried to think past the varied emotions: what can I do that might be useful but won’t get me killed? Leave a sign? He twisted his bound hands until his fingers reached the shirt cuffs, and worked off one of the links. He held onto it for the moment, afraid the men would notice the noise it would make falling.

A few minutes passed before the slow rattle of wheels against cobblestone approached. Nik considered the wisdom of causing a commotion in the hopes of attracting some attention versus the possibility of having his throat slit now. But the wheels stopped nearby anyway, and he realized this was the assailants’ own cart. As the men shoved him into it – it was small, some kind of pushcart rather than greatcat-driven – Nik dropped the cufflink, grunting and stumbling to cover the sound. One of the men cuffed him. “Shut up, you.”

Knife-man leaned down to whisper, “We’re gonna be right here pushin’ this cart, yer majesty, an’ they’ll hang a man for abduction sure as for murder.” He drew a shallow line in Nik’s cheek with the knife; Nik whimpered involuntarily as blood trickled from the cut. “So’s don’t be thinkin’ as anyone might save you afore we can kill you. Which you jus’ keep still and quiet and there’s no one as gets hurt.” They threw a tarp that reeked of seaweed and mildew over him, and the cart jolted into motion.

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“Certainly.” She rested her hand lightly against his forearm: even through the layers of dress jacket and cloth, the hard underlying muscle was evident, thick but with no trace of fat. “Elsewise you might see fit to end your ceasefire with yourself, and I would not wish to be responsible for that.”

“So you are defending me. Cleverly done. You ought to teach my sister that trick: she’s been trying to get me to stop for years. On second thought, don’t. I cannot allow it known that I am so easily thwarted – I shall have to master some way around your gambit.” Lord Comfrey steered her to the nearest door leading to the third-floor hallway, scarlet and gold coattails flaring behind him.

“I hope you do not; I have no better ploy in my mind if you defeat this one. Where are we walking to, my lord?” Wisteria resisted the temptation to caress his arm. It took a surprising amount of effort.    

“I don’t know. If you were me, which way would you expect me to go?”

“Oh.” Wisteria was not very good at guessing what other people would do. “Right, towards the grand staircase and the petitioner’s hall? For refreshments.”

“Well enough.” He turned left, strides brisk but not so quick that she could not readily keep pace.

She tilted her head at him as they walked. “Would you have done the opposite of whatever I suggested?”

“Of course.” Lord Comfrey nodded to the liveried greatcat at the end of the hall. The servant pawed open the door with a bow, and they walked through.

“Oh. Are you thwarting my prediction in retaliation for my successful defense of your character?”

“Hmm? No, not at all. I am defending myself from a few overeager acquaintances.” He glanced about the exhibit hall, then drew her to a spot to one side of the doors, half behind the display of mannequins in Abandoned World dress. He leaned against the same wall that had the doors.

Wisteria blinked at him. “Are you hiding, my lord?”

“Me? Hide? No. Not at all. Never. What reason could I possibly have to hide? Inconceivable.” He gave a sidelong glance to the closed doors. “…all right, perhaps a little.”

“I thought I was the only one who did that at balls.” She fell silent as he touched a finger to his lips. The doors swung open inwards, several feet to their right. A group of two men and a woman spilled through. They chattered merrily as they gave a quick look about the room, but the door and the exhibit combined to screen Comfrey from their glance. “We’ll catch up to him,” one of the men said, and the three continued to the next hall.

As the newcomers left, Lord Comfrey took Wisteria’s hand and led her quietly back out the doors through which they had just entered. As the liveried greatcat closed the doors behind them, the lord set her hand back in the crook of his arm and they moved at a casual stroll. “Now, what possible reason would a beautiful gentlewoman such as yourself have for hiding during an evening of such splendid entertainments?”

“I am not good with people. What reason does a handsome lord such as yourself have?”

“Possibly I am too good with people. My dear, why would you say such a thing about yourself?”

“Because it is true? How can one be too good with people?”

He smiled, watching her sidelong as he said, “What sort of reason is that? Where would we be if everyone said things only because they happened to be true?”

“In a more perfect Paradise? I daresay I might even be better with people. Is there a disadvantage to being too good?” Wisteria remembered moments too late that she ought not repeat a question if it went unanswered.

“That depends on whether or not one minds hiding from them occasionally.”

She tilted her head at him as they paced down the long, wide hall, this one adorned with enormous portraits of past rulers encased in heavy gilt frames. Most of the guests were in one of the main rooms; only a few couples were promenading along it as they were.

He must have seen something in her expression – Wisteria had no idea what – because Lord Comfrey tossed back his long black hair and laughed. Sobering, he patted her hand and said, quietly, “Lord Micheldon – the particular individual whose notice we just escaped – is a perfectly harmless, amiable man with a great fondness for fencing, an interest I happen to share. He is also a voluble man who can speak at the sort of length that makes it nigh-impossible for almost anyone else to get a word in edgewise. Now, I am not the sort of man to be silenced easily – or at all, as you may have already learnt to your dismay – so if I wish to discuss fencing or sport or indeed anything else with Lord Micheldon, he is a fine companion. However, if I wish to talk with anyone else about any other topic, I have found it simplest to avoid his attention entirely.”

“Oh. So the downside is that people will seek you out whether you wish to be sought or not?”

“Precisely. I would apologize for bragging, but I gather you have an inexplicable fondness for honesty and I am not in fact remorseful.”

“I am afraid you have the wrong of me, my lord. My fondness for honesty is entirely explicable.”

“Is it?” Lord Comfrey tapped one tan finger against his slightly crooked nose. “It does not seem a passion that brings you any pleasure. Have you considered cultivating a taste for a more conventional interest?”

“What makes you think it brings me no pleasure?”

“Why, because it does not make you smile.” A crease formed between his narrow eyebrows as he drew them together. “…or perhaps it is I who do not make you smile.”

Wisteria shook her head. “I am afraid that nothing makes me smile, Lord Comfrey.”

“Nothing?” he asked. “Not jesters? Roses? Fluffy bunnies? Chocolate?” She shook her head in turn to each item. “I truly have no hope of seeing you smile, Miss Vasilver?”

“You truly do not want to see me smile, Lord Comfrey.”

“But I do, I assure you. I have been curious to see your smile since the first time I saw you, and having it cruelly withheld from me thus has made my interest keener still.”

“You only say that because you have never seen my attempt at a smile.”

“Undeniably I would not yearn to see for the first time your smile had I already done so.” He was smiling at her now. She liked the way he looked smiling, the lively animation it gave his features. “You have the most remarkable control over your expression, Miss Vasilver. I shall not see you smile even a little?”

“You mistake me entirely. I exercise very little control over my expression at all. That is the problem,” Wisteria said. Lord Comfrey did not respond to that, and she knew that he did not understand. “Oh, very well.” After glancing about to make sure no one was paying attention to them, she drew him to one side of the hall, near the far end from where they had begun, stood to face him, and turned the corners of her mouth up.

He burst into laughter, and covered his mouth with one hand, trying to turn the laugh to a cough. “That’s – er – that’s the most impressively fake smile I have ever seen. You may stop now.”

“Do I not have it right? Let me try again.” She let her mouth relax, then tried harder, turning the corners up and exposing her teeth. Lord Comfrey choked on laughter. “No? How is this?”

He shielded his face with one hand from the others in the hall, still struggling to control his laughter. “All right, now you’re not even trying. Enough, I beg you.”

Wisteria let her expression return to its usual default. “I did warn you.”

“So you did. Consider me schooled.” Lord Comfrey offered his arm again, and she took it. He smoothed his features into composure and they resumed their stroll. “I am impressed you can pull such faces and not be the least diverted by it.”

He doesn’t understand. He is not going to understand. It took your parents years to grasp it at all and they live with you. Let it go, Wisteria thought. “But I am diverted by it. I find it deeply amusing, especially your reaction. It just doesn’t show. There’s something wrong with my body; it doesn’t reflect my moods the way people expect it to.”

Lord Comfrey stopped and looked at her for a long moment. “Truly?”

“Truly. Even when I was an infant. I so seldom cried that I am told I suffered – silently – a host of simple childhood ailments – dehydration, ear infections, the like – because no one could tell when I was hungry or thirsty or otherwise in need of attention. Healers treated those ailments, but none could discern the underlying cause. I have conscious control of my body, obviously, but those things others do automatically in mirror of their mood – laughing, smiling, crying – my body does not do naturally. I can try to fake it, but, well, you saw the result of that. It’s better if I don’t.”

“I…see. That certainly explains a great deal.” The dark-haired man resumed their walk. He turned them when they reached the far end of the hall. “You must be a brilliant poker player.”

“My brothers will no longer permit me to sit down with them at it.”

“Hah! A grave injustice. I observe that there is always at least one table in the gaming room at this event, if m’lady wishes to indulge.”   

“I should be very happy too, if my lord would join me? Or – have I kept you from your sister too long?” Wisteria belatedly realized she was monopolizing someone else’s companion, and she was not at all sure of the etiquette involved in this case.

But Lord Comfrey smiled at her. “She knows where to find me, if she runs short of dance partners.” He steered her to the grand descending staircase at the center of the wide hall. “So, do you mean that ‘very happy’, then, and it is not mere politeness?”

“Oh, I mean it, my lord. I do not say things I do not mean for the sake of courtesy; I find interaction complicated enough without adding well-meant falsehoods to the mix. That’s why I prefer truthfulness. I am no better at reading the moods of others than I am at expressing my own.”

He covered her hand on his arm with his own. “I shall endeavor to bear that in mind, my dear.”

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“Miss Vasilver.” A masculine voice broke into her thoughts, and she turned to see Lord Comfrey’s handsome, broad-shouldered figure. He was not so tall as Lord Nikola – only a few inches taller than herself – but his deep-chested frame gave an impression of such power that he seemed larger, magnificent in a long scarlet jacket patterned with gold. He took her breath away; an uncomfortable reminder that Lord Nikola was not the only extraordinarily handsome man of her acquaintance. “What are you doing up here all by yourself?”

He was smiling; as was her usual default, she took the question for factual and not accusatory. “Watching the dancers.”

Lord Comfrey chuckled. “That answers the ‘what are you doing’ but not the ‘all by yourself’. Lord Nikola cannot have abandoned you so early? Or, wait – you found his company so tedious that you abandoned him?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. He was called away by an emergency, but he plans to return.” Soon, I hope.

“What sort of emergency? Is his family all right?”

“Oh, nothing to do with them, my lord. A petitioner.”

“Ah.” Lord Comfrey rested a hand against the railing next to her, but turned sideways to face her, rather than watching the dancers.

Wisteria searched her mind for useful small talk and fell back on imitation. “And you, Lord Comfrey? What are you doing up here all by yourself?”

“Why, making conversation with the most beautiful woman at the ball,” he answered. Puzzled, Wisteria looked about to see whom he meant, and Lord Comfrey laughed. “I am referring to you, Miss Vasilver. You are meant to take it as a compliment.”

“Oh.” She felt more as if he were making sport of her. No one but Byron and her mother ever called her beautiful.

“I see Miss Vasilver is not to be flattered for her exquisite looks. Am I forced to confess my wish to speak with the most intelligent woman at the ball as well?”

Now he had to be mocking her, even if calling her smart made more sense than calling her beautiful. She leaned on the railing, watching the glittering guests turn and bow below. “You’d best start looking for her, then. It’s early yet, you might have time to find her.”

He laughed again. “I daresay I already have.”

“Then perhaps you should screw up your courage and speak with her instead of me,” Wisteria said.

“Ouch.”

She stole a glance at him; he looked unhurt, although no longer smiling. She didn’t know what that signified. “Shouldn’t you be entertaining the young lady you invited to this occasion?”

He smiled again. His features did not have the stark perfection of Lord Nikola’s: nose slightly bumpy instead of straight, lips narrow, dark eyebrows low and a bit crooked, face rather triangular – but the imperfections did not detract from the overall appeal. Added to it, perhaps, making his face more interesting. She looked away quickly before she started staring, listening as he said, “Alas! The weakness of the flesh forced me to withdraw from the dance floor earlier, and when I returned – mere minutes later! – my partner had already been cruelly stolen from me. My sister even now dances with that cad Blackwell, leaving me no choice but to inflict my presence on innocent young women such as yourself. Or sulk in a corner, I suppose, but what sort of a man would I be if I did that?”

“Your sister?” I must have missed that in the introduction earlier. “What terrible plague do you have that you had to ask your sister to the Ascension Ball?” Wisteria asked without thinking.

That made Lord Comfrey laugh again. “The kind that makes one procrastinate until it’s too late to ask anyone else who is not already engaged. Fear not, I am assured it’s not contagious.”

She realized belatedly how insulting that must have sounded. “I apologize, my lord, I intended no offense – it’s just something Lord Nikola said to me earlier—”

“Ah, so Lord Nikola is the one who intended to offend me?”

“No, no, not at all, he was speaking of what other people would say if…oh, I am not going to recover from this, am I? Please forgive me, Lord Comfrey.”

“Forgiven.” Lord Comfrey smiled at her again, and gave her a slight bow. “In return, might you be so good as to tell me what I did to annoy you, that I might ask forgiveness for that?”

“Oh…” Wisteria hesitated, suspecting she had completely misread the situation. As usual. “I thought you were mocking me, my lord. With that exaggerated flattery.”

“Ah.” He leaned against the rail, watching her. “I will confess to occasional use of hyperbole, miss, although in this particular instance I do not believe I resorted to it. Certainly it was not my intent to make mock of you. Why would you think that?”

She was facing the opposite balcony, her ear to him to hear him better. Does he truly think me beautiful? She could not ask. The crystals on her dress and in her hair caught the gaslight from the chandeliers and reflected it back, scattering spots of light around her. “I am…very bad at discerning intent, my lord. I took you for serious the other day when you made sport of Mr. Edgewick, and now I am wary of making the same mistake again.”

“I see. I know I warned you not to take me seriously, Miss Vasilver, but I assure you I would not sharpen my tongue at your expense. I save my mockery for deserving men – fortunately there’s always at least one around who suits, if the mood strikes me.”

“Always?” Wisteria glanced about them; their section of the balcony was clear of other traffic for the moment.

“Indeed.”

“And who would be that man now?”

“Why, myself, of course.”

Amusement bubbled inside her. “And what have you done to deserve such abuse, my lord?”

“Oh, the list is endless, my dear. The ball would be over before I was half-done. Why, I am so well-known as a monster that entirely blameless young women must assume I approach only to demean them.”

“It may be that these young ladies are a trifle oversensitive.”

“I would never say that.” He turned to rest his hands on the railing beside her, not close enough to impinge on her personal space, but she had the sense of his presence anyway. She caught the faint musk of his cologne, pleasant but curious, like chocolate and leather.

“Think it, perhaps?” Wisteria offered, stealing a sidelong glance at him. Lord Comfrey was not merely handsome but disturbingly attractive. It seemed especially wrong of her to find him so after she’d been kissing a different man not an hour ago.

“…perhaps.” He smiled for a moment before sobering. “But no, I do believe the fault is mine alone. I am quite the monster, after all.”    

“And in what way are you monster, my lord?” Does your monstrosity extend to ravishing purportedly blameless young women? May I volunteer? Accustomed as she was to having her thoughts run on inappropriate topics, this one surprised even her. Am I so much the slattern that I crave any man’s touch now? She knew nothing of Lord Comfrey’s reputation on this point, but she’d made no specific inquiries into it either, so that meant little.

“All men are monsters, Miss Vasilver. Did no one warn you?”

“Too many times to count, and I give it no credence whatsoever,” Wisteria answered at once. “It is nonsense designed to rob men of agency and lay the blame for their faults upon their sex. It not only insults men but makes a tiresome excuse, as if one’s gender robbed one of…I was not supposed to take that seriously, was I?”

“Not a bit, but please, do not let that deter you.” Lord Comfrey faced her again with a smile. “What are we robbed of?”

“…responsibility for one’s actions.”

“Ah! That sounds refreshing. I have always longed to be irresponsible.”

Wisteria was beginning to catch on to the dark-haired lord’s irreverence. “Is this where you mock yourself, my lord?”

“You have caught me at it indeed! I hope you do not intend to defend me; I should hate for you to join on the losing side.”

“Should I be part of the attack, then? I might have some ammunition from the Colbury file.”

He considered this for a moment. “All things considered, I’d prefer you didn’t. I have sufficient ammunition against myself already.”

“Am I condemned to the role of mere spectator, in that case?”

“That doesn’t seem gentlemanly, does it? Now that you mention it. Very well, I will abandon my quarrel with myself in the interests of serving the greater conversational good.” The man paused, dark eyes studying her with such exaggerated scrutiny that even she could not miss it. “That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

“…perhaps.”

“Well-played.” Lord Comfrey turned from the rail and offered his arm. “Will you walk with me, Miss Vasilver?”

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Wisteria drifted through the grand petitioner’s hall, even less adept at small talk than usual, her mind elsewhere. She could never tell whether people were greeting her only to be polite, or because they truly wished to talk. The plump brown-haired Mr. Willsham came upon her and introduced her to his escort, Lady Jessica, an even rounder young woman whose gilded gown constrained an astonishing quantity of bosom. They spent a pleasant quarter of an hour discussing spice and vegetable imports from western Cambrique and various applications, which as far as Wisteria could tell was the topic they and not she had chosen and so was acceptable. She did not mind speaking of that, or anything else, but what she most wanted was to talk to Lord Nikola.

Or to do anything else with Lord Nikola. Her mind replayed the feel of his hand against her leg, the shameless way she had clung to him, the taste of his skin. She did not want to be among these however many hundreds who did not care about the things that mattered to her. If she could not be with the one person who was willing – even eager, she thought – to discuss those subjects, at the very least she wanted to be somewhere private where she could daydream about him uninterrupted. Will he be back tonight? Perhaps I should have gone home after all. And looked like a failure to my family, I suppose, for leaving a social event when it was not even midnight yet. And missed the possibility of more time with Lord Nikola.

It was worth it for that chance, Wisteria considered, even if it was as poor as one in two. Also, the ball was hardly an unpleasant place to pass the time. It only suffered in comparison to how wonderful it had been with Lord Nikola at her side.

She made her way back to the ballroom. Rather than wait to see if a man would ask her to stand up with him to dance, Wisteria ascended the steps to the interior balcony that ringed the dance floor. Though the orchestra playing for the dancers below remained audible, the reduced number of people made it quieter up here. The lovely top-down view lent the dance a mathematical precision, glittering pieces in an enormous living kaleidoscope.

She wondered at the all-human composition on the dance floor after she noticed a couple of greatcats also watching, from the far side of the balcony. Do they have their own dances? They cannot do these, certainly, but there are so many varieties of human dance, performed in distant lands. Surely they could do something akin to dance, if they chose. Do they dislike the idea of trying, or does the Crown discourage such an attempt? She knew from history lessons that it had been quite controversial when Blessed were first discovered among the greatcats, over century ago. The Assembly had passed a resolution to bar greatcats from the nobility, a resolution the Crown overturned to bestow a courtesy title and a stipend upon the first greatcat healer. King Kevin’s service prior to that act was famous for its beauty and simplicity: “When the Savior himself has shown the way, it is the duty of mankind to follow it, not to turn petulantly aside because it looks a little different from the path we have followed thus far.” But while that settled the legal question, it left social and theological concerns.

The theological issue was particularly interesting, because traditional Savior theology held that Blessings were passed down the family line through marriages sanctified by the Savior. Most denominations accepted that marriage traditions from nations which did not worship the Savior were nonetheless sanctified by him anyway, because otherwise the mere existence of pagan Blessed invalidated the whole theory. It was true that there were no proven instances of Blessed born to women out of wedlock (although there were always rumors), and the vast majority of the Blessed could trace their line back to a Blessed of a prior generation. The humans who could not were assumed to have a Blessed farther back than they knew their family tree – few people knew their full family tree for forty-odd generations, after all. But none of that explained where greatcats could have gotten Blessings. Greatcats had not even existed as a species until Lord Ferran used his Blessing for minds to create them almost a century and a half ago, by making a number of Paradise’s native wildcats sapient. That alteration had been controversial in its own time, though Wisteria could not see how. It was unnatural, perhaps, but if one believed Blessings were the work of the Savior, it followed logically that any miracle performed by a Blessed must be the Savior’s will. Most denominations explained the later appearance of Blessed among greatcats as Lord Ferran being the spiritual father of the race. This did not strike Wisteria as one of her religion’s more convincing contentions.

Thinking about greatcats reminded Wisteria of Lord Nikola, how he’d said he identified better with their lessened interest in hierarchy. Hadn’t he said once there was something different about their minds? I wonder what. There were obvious differences – greatcats were far, far less inclined to violence: one never heard of greatcat criminals. But she doubted that was what Lord Nikola had meant. Maybe I should ask him when he gets back. I don’t think it even need be on my forbidden list. Her heart warmed at the thought of the list and Lord Nikola asking for the first item on it. Not to mention his wondrous answer to it. I wonder if he’ll ask for the second, or if we may continue…discussing…the first. That thought heated a part rather south of her heart. Her whole body ached to feel his touch.

Desire was by no means unfamiliar to her: her craving for a lover was one of the reasons she had not abandoned her search for a husband years ago. Although, ironically, her desire to marry – to have a legitimate lover, sanctioned by the Savior and approved by family and society – was one of the factors that had prevented her from ever having had a lover. No man in Newlant would want ‘damaged goods’, or a bride of questionable virtue. Why virginity was desirable at all, much less a virtue, mystified her. Inexperience was not valued in any other endeavor in life: why this one? There were obvious advantages for children to have two parents committed to their relationship, but pregnancy could be avoided by a number of means less drastic than abstinence. In prior centuries, some dangerous diseases had been spread through sexual congress, but these days the Blessed could treat them easily and such were now both rare and trivial. It was, granted, a trifle daunting to imagine her fumblings being compared to the acts of Lord Nikola’s prior lovers. But the obvious solution there was that she needed more practice, not that he needed less.

Not that she’d had any real opportunity for practice anyway. Men that she could have been tempted by, certainly, but if they’d been interested she had not noticed, and her desire had not been strong enough before to outweigh the expectations of her family, society, and position. She understood intellectually that any liberties she allowed – never mind encouraged – would be a stain on her reputation. That men could not be trusted to protect such a secret, and that any man with whom she indulged in such behavior would think less of her for it. None of which made the slightest hint of intuitive sense, of course. Nonetheless, family, teachers, and classmates had all agreed that anything with the slightest hint of sensuality to it must be avoided outside of marriage (and possibly inside of marriage too, depending on whom she consulted). That had been enough in the past to deter her from any attempts.

But she’d never met anyone as attractive as Lord Nikola, nor anyone who had so encouraged her to be bold with him. And she had been shockingly bold, and the result had been amazing. Better than anything she had fantasized. She had longed to be touched before, but never like this, a sensation so overwhelming it eclipsed all other feelings. All she wanted was to do it again, only more, and not care about the consequences.

It would be nice if he were interested in marriage, but she found it hard to care that he was not. They were wrong about men not being trustworthy, or at least wrong as it applies to Lord Nikola. We did not do much that was so wrong and he was still taking measures to make sure that it went unnoticed. And he said he respected and admired me. That memory glowed like an ember inside her, bright and full of joy. She knew what she wanted was something everyone had told her she should not want and could not have, but it was impossible to care. I ought to talk myself out of this resolution. I am not good at secrecy. What if I blurt out the truth or something that makes the truth apparent to everyone and my whole family hates and disowns me? Well, Byron would not disown me, I think. Everyone else, then. This truly ought to be more important than satisfying my lust. No matter how intense that lust might be. Wisteria leaned against the rail, not seeing the dancers or anything else, but remembering the feel of Lord Nikola’s caress down her back.

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Various acquaintances greeted him as he made his way out, but he rebuffed all attempts at conversation with the briefest of explanations: “petitioner emergency”. Fortunately, it was an excuse everyone accepted without question.

In short order, he retrieved his overcoat and hurried down the long wide marble steps of Dawnfell Palace, drawing winter gloves on in place of dress ones. The gaslights that outlined every column, ledge, and window of the palace illuminated the grounds almost well enough to make the additional lights along the steps and drive superfluous. The greatcat waiting for him on the drive gave him pause: she was a pubescent calico he recognized as Meredith, one of Gunther’s daughters. Someone had given her a dish of punch, and she jerked her head from it, licking her whiskers clean as she gave him an anxious bow. “Lord Nik – sorry ’bout your party but Mr. Whittaker said—”

“Not at all, Meredith, you did well. Thank you. Ah…” He considered her size; she was far smaller than a full-grown greatcat, about four feet at the shoulder, but even so she was several times the mass of a grown man, and around the size Anthser had been when Nik first started riding him. Of course, I was smaller then too. “I hate to ask more of you yet, feli, but do you think you might be able to bear me back to Anverlee? I don’t wish to overburden you, but speed—”

She splayed her ears to the sides. “I don’t mind, m’lord, but I hasn’t got no riding seat—”

“I assure you, I can stay on without one. If that is the only difficulty?”

“Sure. I carry Kris alla time, you ain’t much bigger.” Kris was the cook’s adolescent son and half Nik’s size, but perhaps to even a young greatcat that did not signify. Meredith lay down for Nik to mount, though she hardly needed to.

Nik settled behind her shoulders, thighs holding him snugly in place, fingers wrapped around the upper strap of her harness. “Thank you, Meredith. Let me know if the weight’s too much, I’m sure there are other runners about.” Although between the greatcats who chose not to work on Ascension night and the additional demand for transportation, it’d be faster to track down Hughbrant or Northholt and ask either of them to take him without the carriage.

Meredith started down the palace’s long tree-lined drive at a walk, glancing nervously over her shoulder at her illustrious passenger. He offered a reassuring smile. “When I was about your age, Anthser and I used to rampage across the Anverlee countryside. We didn’t use a riding seat because Anthser was too small for the ones we owned. There’s one particular orchard where we’d pretend the ground was lava, and he’d try to negotiate it as quickly as possible without falling into the ‘lava’. A few times, as I recall, he did miss a jump. But I never fell from him during that game.” At other times, granted, but not then. “Whatever speed you consider sustainable, I promise you, I will manage.”

“Oh!” She splayed her ears again. “As you like, m’lord.” Meredith faced forward, squared her shoulders, and began to trot, then loped with ground-eating strides. Her pace was markedly different from Anthser’s, all long limbs and without his practice in managing the shock of a normal run. But she wasn’t vaulting over carriages or running up trees, which more than made up for the difficulty of not having a proper seat. The jolting discomfort also drove any question of amorous activity entirely from his mind. The wintery air and darkened streets brought their own kind of exhilaration; Nik crouched low on the greatcat’s back, hunched to shield himself from the wind of their passage and glad he’d thought to switch to warmer gloves before mounting. The neighborhoods near the palace were all brightly lit by Ascension lanterns, but as they drew farther away Meredith traversed back alleys and ill-lit side streets with a surefootedness that made Nik especially glad for a greatcat’s eyes to guide them.

They made excellent time back to Anverlee Manor, although Meredith slowed by the end, tongue lolling from her mouth as she panted from the exertion. Even so, her muzzle crinkled in dismay when he suggested she get a drink and snack from the kitchen as well as some rest. “But can’t I watch, m’lord?” she asked, disappointed.

“There’s nothing to see, in truth, but…yes, of course you may watch.” Assuming Sharone doesn’t refuse me again. Well, if she does, it won’t take that long to get back to Miss Vasilver. All the lights were extinguished at the manor; everyone but a skeleton crew of servants was out at one Ascension event or another. Nik took a candle from the footman who answered the door and waved off his offered escort. With the young greatcat at his heels, Nik made his way to the Whittaker’s suite.

The soft, inconsolable sobbing just audible through the closed wooden door was not heartening. Nik rapped lightly on it, and an anxious Mr. Whittaker answered. “Lord Nikola! So sorry to have disturbed you—”

Nik could not imagine how it felt to spend your whole life apologizing for things outside your control. “Thank you for sending word,” he said to head off the rest, stepping through the doorway and onto the sitting room’s plain green threadbare rug. Sharone was curled up on one of the mismatched armchairs before the hearth in the sitting room, knees hugged to her chest, face dipped and hidden behind a mass of tangled curls. She rocked in place, whimpering. Her mother was in the other armchair, pretending to read while she stole glances at her daughter.

Meredith sidled in around Nikola. “Hey, don’t cry, kiddo. Look, I got Lord Nik for you! He’ll fix it.” The young greatcat ambled to Sharone’s chair and leaned over the arm to nose at Sharone’s hunched back, oblivious to Mrs. Whittaker’s attempt to caution her against it. The girl screamed and whirled around to flail at the greatcat’s orange, black and white face. Meredith danced out of reach, startled. “Oops! Didn’t mean ta upset her more.”

Sharone scrambled to stand on the seat cushion, small hands fisted before her, dark brown eyes glaring at Meredith and then the rest of the room. When her eyes fell on Nik, she froze. Her hands dropped but remained clenched, a small defiant figure with a round dark face half obscured by tangled black hair. “Said y’ wo’ na come.”

“But I did. You asked for me, Miss Whittaker?” Nik approached her with casual, unhurried steps.

“I told ya he’d come!” Meredith protested indignantly. Nik realized at last that Meredith must have been the designated greatcat-on-duty, with Anthser out celebrating and Gunther and Jill taking his parents to the Ball. He winced at the thought. Poor child.

“Missus Square said he wo’ na. Said better if he dinna.” Sharone looked like a wild animal, ready to bolt or attack. She took a step back on the seat cushion as Nik approached, pressing against the chair back.

Nikola stopped a couple of yards away from her. He tried to put his hands in his pockets, forgetting that neither the breeches nor the formal jacket had front pockets. He clasped his fingers loosely behind his back instead. “Why did she say it would be better if I didn’t come, miss?”

“’cause then no one’d ge’ hur’.”

“I am not going to hurt anyone, Miss Whittaker. I am not going to do anything at all without your help.”

She sniffled, dragging her sleeve across her nose. “Wha’ d’y’ want?”

His mind flicked back to the Ascension Ball for an instant, to Miss Vasilver’s embrace, to Justin dancing in the ballroom. Nik pushed the images aside and gave her a lopsided smile. “Now, that is my question to you. You asked for me. What would you like, Miss Whittaker?”

Sharone sniffled again. “I don’ wan’ anybody hur’.”

“A worthy goal,” he agreed. “I can help with that, if you like.”

She shook her head. “Missus Square says y’ won’. ’ll be worse if I don’ do wha’ she says.”

“Who’s Missus Square?” Meredith asked, whiskers splayed in confusion. Sharone didn’t answer.

Nik kept his attention on the little girl. “You understand that Mrs. Square is not being honest with you, do you not, Miss Whittaker? The things she makes you do hurt people.”

Sharone sank down in her chair, hugging her legs again. She gave a small nod, but added, “’ll be worse if I don’.”

“It will not,” Nik said, with quiet conviction. He took a step forward and knelt before her chair, putting his head a little below hers, and looked up into her face. “She is lying to you and using you.” He cast his mind back to the game with the dolls and blocks and animals, trying to recall what Sharone herself had said and done. “You cannot negotiate with her in good faith. She will not learn. You cannot reason with her. You know that, don’t you?”

Another small, scared nod. “Why d’ y’ care?”

He blinked at her. How could I not? Nik offered as simple and honest an explanation as he could manage: “Because the Savior loves you, Miss Whittaker, and he wants you to be well and whole. And he’s my friend too, so I should like to help.”

“Will it hurt?”

“No.” He drew off his right glove and offered her his hand.

With her face screwed up tight, shoulders hunched, she forced forward one trembling arm. It was as if the air were mud she had to push through. When she touched his fingers at last, her mouth opened: “AAAA—” The scream cut off an instant after it began, as the demon infesting her mind evaporated like mist under the Savior’s radiance. Sharone stared at him, breathless and shocked.

Nik cupped her little hand lightly between his. With the demons gone, he could see the extent of the developmental damage in her mind, the gaps and warping where her mindshapes had grown into and around the demon. That seldom happened – demons altered the mind’s behavior by adding to it, leaving the underlying structures untouched, so the petitioner was cured once they were gone. But he rarely saw demonic infestation so thorough in one so young. The wave of the Savior’s power suffused them both, her mind open and trusting to him. “You’ll be fine,” he said, softly. He started constructing scaffolds, building missing connections, knitting injuries closed, easing apart damaged mindshapes so they would have room to grow properly. “You’ll be fine now.”

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His hand strayed to caress her cheek of its own accord, Nik forgetting he’d taken his glove off. “Your mind is beautiful.” He drew his hand away quickly. “You don’t know how hard it is not to touch you.”

“I like it when you touch me,” she said with perfect innocence. She laid her fingertips against his jaw, undoing his reserve. “I didn’t know minds could be beautiful. I thought they would be…grey and wrinkled and squishy. Like cows’ brains.”

He shook his head, breath catching as he laced his fingers through hers. “No, the brain is where the mind is housed but the mind’s appearance is…wholly other. The mind dissolves on death, did you know? One cannot see what the mind of a corpse had been.”

“Oh. No, I did not know that.” Miss Vasilver traced her thumb over his lower lip and he swallowed, closing his eyes. “What does it look like?”

“Magnificent. Indescribable. Shape and color and texture combining in endless variety.” He let his mindsense linger on her, exploring the softness of her capacity for love, the warm velvet of desire, the web of reason that wrapped through every structure, strong but flexible, yielding. “I love how rational yours is, so elegantly arranged,” he murmured. Some of the structures were unusual shapes: senses were all normal but most of the usual interconnections with interpersonal skills were replaced by reason instead. In fact, her entire social skills web was heavily reliant on rationality, when not outright displaced by it, which perhaps explained her charming willingness to consider any subject.

“Oh,” she said faintly, cuddling closer, burrowing her face against the lace folds of his jabot, and he realized he had dipped his mouth to kiss her thumb, then nibble at the pad while she wriggled in the most appealing fashion against his thighs—

—I need to stop this. He pulled his head away to press against the sofa backrest. “You’ll not make Vasilver’s daughter one of your whores,” his father had said, and as insulting as the man had been he was right. She was a gentleman’s daughter, never married, taking her innocence was wrong, a sin of an entirely different magnitude from sleeping with a courtesan or a widow or even another man’s wife. Even sitting with her like this would destroy her reputation if they were seen, and she might not understand that but he did. I will not, cannot abuse her trust. He hugged her again, more tightly than intended, then removed her from his lap and stood.

“My lord?”

He heard the rustle and tinkle of her dress as she shifted position, but he had his back to her, a hand over his face. I need to say something or she’s going to apologize again and I don’t think I can bear that. “I’m fine, Miss Vasilver—” the formality automatic and yet absurd after such intimacy “— but I – I fear I have entirely exceeded the bounds of your question.”

“What question? Oh, that question. I don’t mind, my lord. The subheadings on the first item were extensive.”

Her reply was so free of artifice, so very her, that Nik choked back laughter. “What were the subheadings? No, no, don’t answer that, I have no business asking such a thing.” He turned to her again, fell to one knee, reached for her hand and stopped himself from taking it. “I—” His mind was a confused jumble as he searched for a way to explain how he was at fault without implying that she was.

A voice calling from the balcony, a little ways off, broke into his thoughts with a faint but distinct, “Lord Nikola?”

Nik nearly swore despite the presence of a lady. He scrambled to his feet. “I’ll get rid of him,” he growled, pulling his glove back on, straightening his jacket and the ribbon holding back his hair. He strode decisively out the balcony door and closed the door quietly behind him to ensure the searcher would not find the two of them together in such an out-of-the-way spot. He turned and walked towards the sound of the voice.“Yes?” He used his most imperious voice, glowering in the direction of the speaker as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

The other was a boy in the livery of a royal page. He bobbed a bow as Nik approached, saying, “M’lord, there’s a greatcat messenger for you, says she’s come from Anverlee.”

Sudden fear chilled Nik more than the cold night air did. “Is something wrong? What’s the message?” It can’t be my parents, they’re here and avoiding me. Lysandra? Daphne?

“Don’t know, m’lord, the message was only ‘Sharone Whittaker requesting treatment’. Said you left instructions that you wanted to know right away, m’lord,” the boy said. Nikola did swear this time, and the page cringed. “Sorry, m’lord, the messenger carried Fireholt’s seal—”

Nik tried to keep the frustration from his voice and did not quite succeed. Of all the times she has to pick now– “You did right. If the messenger’s still here, tell her to wait for me at the foot of the palace steps. I’ll be down in a moment.” After the page bowed and withdrew, Nik returned to the study. His thoughts churned in a half-dozen different directions. Part of him wanted to ignore the message. What difference would a few hours make? Why should he, lord and Blessed, be continually inconvenienced by a young girl’s madness and obstinacy? Who was to say she would not have changed her mind by the time he made it to Anverlee Manor anyway, even if he left at once?   

Excuses. I have to go.

Miss Vasilver had risen and met him halfway to the balcony. “What is it, Lord Nikola?” Her serene expression was at odds with the disheveled hem of her dress, fallen partway back down but left unattended.

“One of my petitioners – a difficult and troublesome case – I don’t wish to bore you with the details, but I must leave at once. I am most heartily sorry for it.”

“I understand, my lord. Of course you must,” she said, her voice betraying neither disappointment nor offense.

He smiled at her quick grasp. “I – do you wish to go home, my lady? Miss Vasilver,” he corrected himself. “I shouldn’t be long. I hope I’ll be able to return within an hour, an hour and a half, perhaps.”

“Should you like me to go with you?” Miss Vasilver offered.

“More than anything.” Nikola briefly indulged the fantasy – he could not hold her in that glass carriage, but the round trip would give them considerable private time for conversation – “But no,” he said, reluctantly. “Speed is essential – it’d be a quarter of an hour at least for the greatcats just to extricate the coach from the warren of them, and even on the road it’s heavy and slow. I hope to ride the messenger back.”

“Then I will wait at the ball for you. If you wish.” She lifted her hand as if to touch him, then hesitated.

Nik caught her hand and pressed her palm to his lips, then drew her into his arms and lifted her into a kiss, spinning her about as her feet left the floor. She looped her arms around his neck, as eager as she’d been earlier. After breaking off the kiss, he held her fast and whispered in her ear, “You are magnificent, my dear lady. If I am unable to return – unavoidably delayed – know that it is not because I wish to be anywhere else or with anyone else. You have my deepest admiration and respect. Never doubt that.”

He could feel tension leave her, that slim, straight body melting to conform to his. “Thank you, my lord,” she said. “You do not know how good it is to hear that.” Strange how she never looks worried about what anyone might think. But she is.

Nikola pressed his lips against her temple, luxuriating in the warmth of her mind. “Thank you for sharing your list with me, my dear. I – we need to go, or I will never tear myself away.” He released her with an effort of will, taking a moment to straighten her gown and ensure she looked unexceptionable before offering his arm to her.

Miss Vasilver did not take it at once. “…I thought I might stay here for a bit.”

He blinked at her a few times, thinking, then shook his head. “It…would be better if you did not, miss.”

She tilted her head at him. “Why does it matter?”

“Someone noted that we’d come this way or that page would not have known to look for me on the balcony. To have the two of us taking air on the balcony is not itself remarkable, but if I’m seen returning inside without you and then leaving, while you’re not seen by anyone for some time thereafter…well. It would excite talk.”

“Oh. I see.” She slipped her hand against his arm, and he fought off the urge to embrace her again. “You have a great deal of experience with this sort of thing, do you not?”

“Some,” Nik admitted, and wondered if he should not have. But she has always been honest with me. “Does that trouble you?”

“No. It’s comforting.” Miss Vasilver had her long face in profile to him as they strode along the balcony to its legitimate entrance to the exhibit hall.

Startled, Nikola laughed. “Comforting?”

“Well, one of us ought to know what we’re about, don’t you think?”

What are we about? He had a brief vision of carrying on a clandestine tryst with Miss Vasilver, arranging stolen moments in secrecy, avoiding the eye of their families, friends, everyone, for – how long? The idea was – sordid. Unappealing. I don’t want to hide how I feel about you. I don’t want to be guarded and careful. I want everyone to know. I want to marry you.

The thought shocked him. I can’t mean that. Can I? I don’t want to marry anyone. Marriage means obligations, expectations, fidelity—    

—to an ordinary woman. But Miss Vasilver is anything but ordinary. He hardly dared look at her as they moved through the exhibit hall, her steps quickened without comment to match his urgency. He thought of her document, still kept close to his heart even tonight. To her, the meaning of marriage is something one may negotiate.

He wrestled down the impulse to propose. This is madness brought on by frustrated lust. I can’t propose to her in the middle of the Ascension Ball, in the thirty seconds before I rush away to a petitioner. I need to give this serious consideration before I do something rash and irreparable.

Shaking off the reverie, he took his leave of Miss Vasilver when they returned to the main hall. As he kissed her hand, he wondered if he looked half so convincingly unaffected as she did. She did not smile at him – she never did – but she did squeeze his fingers as if reluctant to release them.

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