Custom dictated that when seating a formal gathering for a meal, men must alternate with women and no one could be seated beside the person with whom they’d arrived. Justin and Nik were placed at the opposite ends of the table; Mrs. Haskill and Mrs. Lavert were placed to either side of Justin, then Lavert and Haskill in the center and with their wives on opposite sides, and then the Lady and Miss Dasterly bracketed Nik. It was a small enough affair that conversation was not strictly confined to one’s neighbors, though the tendency remained.

Miss Dalsterly was an attractive girl of seventeen, brown-skinned and auburn-haired, and with no more than the most minimally polite interest in Nik. Judging by the amount of time the girl spent gazing up the table, Miss Dalsterly would have given much to trade places with Mrs. Lavert and be seated beside Justin. Yes, well, so would I, girl. Live the life you’re born to, Nikola thought.

Lady Dalsterly was ninety-six, short, slim, stooped, and white-haired, with a face like a smiling golden raisin. She also had a ready laugh and a supply of stories about every major event that had happened in Gracehaven in the last ninety years. After a couple of glasses of wine, she could generally be persuaded to share embarrassing stories on almost anyone. Once a few polite efforts determined the extent of Miss Dalsterly’s disinterest, Nik abandoned the great-granddaughter to whatever joy she might glean from straining to catch the conversation of Secretary Haskill, Mrs. Lavert, and Justin. He turned all his attention to the elderly woman at his right instead. “What do you think of the wine, Lady Dalsterly? I understand it’s a splendid vintage.”

“Is it? I would say that fine wine was wasted on my dull old palate, but I believe it was wasted on my sharp young palate seventy years ago too. I’ve never been able to taste all those flavors that are supposed to be in wine: smoky and fruity and nutty and whatever all else. It’s dry, though, I can tell that much, and I like my wine dry.”

“Then it is not wasted on you, m’lady.” Nik moved to refill her glass from the decanter.

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Lord Nikola?” Lady Dalsterly teased, though she held out her glass anyway.

“Of course. How else am I to take advantage of you?” Nik topped off her glass.

Lady Dalsterly laughed merrily. “I must warn you, that if you are looking to add a centenarian to your string of conquests, Lord Nikola, then I still have another four years to go.”

“Then I’d best get started now, hadn’t I? No doubt it will take me at least that long to wear down your virtue.”

She shook her head at him and took another sip. “Now, you scamp, what are you truly after?”

“Well, if you insist on doubting the impurity of my intentions – perhaps I hope for some tale of Lord Comfrey’s wayward childhood, by way of retaliation for letting him trick me into attending one of his business suppers.” At some point during the soup course, Nik had been struck by the unpleasant realization that it was likely he, and not Lady Dalsterly, who’d been invited to make up the numbers. Justin would have had to invite some lady to bring the party from five to six, and he could not have invited either Lady Dalsterly or her young houseguest without including both.

“Mmm.” Lady Dalsterly looked thoughtful. “This Lord Comfrey, I imagine, and not his father or grandfather?”

Nik considered. “As this is but a cover for my nefarious designs upon your person, I don’t suppose it matters. How long have you known the Comfries?”

“Oh, I met Lord Langston Comfrey, saints watch his soul, back when he was Lord Langston and I was still a girl, a year or two younger than Rebecca here. He was a very stern upright gentleman then, and very round too. Pie was his one great vice, you understand.”

“Pie?”

“Any kind, fruit or pudding or savory. There was a little hushed-up scandal between him and his cook, and I am quite convinced it was solely from the poor woman smuggling him late-night pastries against his wife’s wishes. The old lord was never the same after the cook’s dismissal. Wasted away to a mere oval instead of a sphere.”

At Justin’s end of the table, the conversation had turned from the minutiae of customs and tariffs to a more general discussion of policies. Nikola’s attention was caught from Lady Dalsterly when Mr. Lavert spoke his name. “Beg pardon?” Nik said, shifting his gaze from the lady to the gentleman beside her.

“I was just saying, Lord Nikola, that if we’re to discuss the appropriate compensation of Blessings, we ought to ask a man who bears one.” Lavert spoke clearly, the rest of the table falling silent.

Nik gave the group a nonplussed look. “I daresay the Code settles that question.”

“The Code begs that question,” Mrs. Lavert responded, ignoring Mrs. Haskill’s satisfied expression. “‘A gift for a gift’ – it gives no true guidance as to what the recipient ought to pay. And the Code’s insistence that ‘any who may be helped, must be helped’ offers precious little incentive to make the payment adequate.”

“Adequate to what?” Nik asked.

“Adequate to human greed, Lord Nikola. Pay no mind,” Mrs. Haskill interjected, while Mrs. Lavert scowled.

“Adequate as compensation,” Secretary Haskill said. “The Code has already been set aside for those with a Blessing in plants or stone. It’s archaic to insist those Blessed to heal body or mind – priceless skills! – must follow it.”

“‘Priceless’,” Nik repeated. “Rather the point, isn’t it?”

“A figure of speech. It ought to have a price; the existing system is unfair to the Blessed.”

“It’s as the Savior intended, Brennan,” Mrs. Haskill said.

At the head of the table, Justin cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, it’s a system that offers no incentive for a Blessed man to develop his talents. Certainly some—” he inclined his dark head to Nik “—do so anyway. But how many Blessed content themselves with the easy cures they are born to, and never exert themselves to do more? If the Blessed were permitted to charge a realistic fee for their services, they would be far more motivated to expand their powers. Learning to regrow a man’s leg when sailors will repay you in grog… well, it’s not much of a trade.”

Nikola tightened his fingers against the stem of his wineglass, then forced them to relax. “If you were standing on a dock beside a life preserver, and a man was drowning in the water before you, would you throw the life preserver to him?”

Justin’s dark eyes met his across the table. “Lord Nikola, this is not—”

“I ask,” Nik interrupted, “Would you give him the life preserver? Or would you first calculate the value of his life in marks and eighths, and demand that he ransom himself with the appropriate sum? If he were a beggar or an orphan, would you leave him to drown? If he were an old man, would you give him a discount because he didn’t have much life left anyway?”

“It is very well to be moved by a higher calling, but not all men are. Surely you as much as anyone are aware that the Blessed desire shelter, clothing, and to provide for their families?”

“Lord Comfrey.” Nikola leaned forward, raising his voice. “If I were penniless—” and you know how near that is to truth, don’t you? “—and drowning, would you save me?”

Justin looked at him as if he were a particularly obstinate pupil. “You know I would. But that is not a fair comparison—”

“It is the only fair comparison.” Nik leaned back in the ornate dining room chair. “The Savior has seen fit to give me an ample supply of life preservers. To hold that supply for ransom, only to be given to those who could meet some arbitrary price, would be an abomination.” Everyone was watching him now, some with pity and some with a shining respect bordering on hero-worship, and Nik felt a bone-grinding weariness at being misunderstood. Enough. I am neither a saint nor a martyr.

He was rescued from the silence that followed by the dessert course of spiced baked pears nestled in pastry and drizzled in chocolate. It was delectable enough to distract the company and restore an amiable mood before they adjourned to the gaming room.

Anthser carried him to Comfrey Manor at a walk so sedate that Nik asked, “Are you worn out from the run earlier? I could ask Jill or Gunther to take me.”

The black warcat shook his head glumly. “No, m’lord.” The smooth stone streets were well-lit by gaslamps in this part of Gracehaven. Tall trees flanked the streets, steelwood and marble buildings large and elegant on well-tended lots, light shining out through myriad wide glass windows.

“What’s the matter? You’re not still upset about the scramble on that roof, are you?”

“Oh, no, m’lord. It’s my life’s ambition to get you killed, y’know. I figure ‘splattered last employer taking stupid risks with his life’ will look great on a letter of recommendation.”

“Don’t be silly, Anthser. That fall wouldn’t kill me. What, forty feet? Nowhere near far enough to die.”

Anthser swiveled an ear. “Rrr. Maybe not.”

“Fracture some bones, sure. Perhaps break my neck or cause serious hemorrhaging. But die? Nonsense.” Nik waved aside the idea. “Almost certainly someone could get me to a man with an efficacious Blessing before the punctured lungs would prove deadly.”

The greatcat wrinkled his muzzle. “Thanks. I think.”

“Any time.” They reached Lord Comfrey’s courtyard – even at a walk, Anthser could outpace a man jogging – and Nik slid down at the top of the front steps. “Anthser.” The black greatcat would not quite meet his eye; Nik circled in front of him to catch it. “Thank you for taking stupid risks with my life to cheer me up. I appreciate it. Also, I did not fall, and I trust your judgment, and it wasn’t stupid.”

Anthser grumbled something about humans who were too foolish to know what was good for them, and bumped his head against Nik’s chest. “You gonna be here until some ridiculous hour like usual?”

“I expect so. Get some sleep at his felishome, or go home if you like – I’m sure I won’t leave before one at the earliest, and likely not until three.”

“Hrrf. Home’s a hundred thirty miles away.” Anthser glanced westward, to distant Fireholt. “I’ll get some catnip at Vendrigar’s and come back by one. Maybe with enough catnip in me, Comfrey’s greatcats will be bearable company.” He gave a mock shudder that made his dark fur ripple. Nik shook his head with a chuckle, and rapped on the door as his warcat strode away into the night.

§

Nikola was early enough that Justin wasn’t ready for visitors when he arrived; the butler showed him to a cozy parlor to wait. Nik selected a book at random from an end table and turned pages without following what he read, his mind elsewhere, until a noise at the door drew his attention.

“Hello, Striker.” Justin smiled as his eyes lit on Nik. “You don’t know how good it is to see you again. Thanks for coming.” He strode forward, clasping Nik’s hand as the other man rose to meet him. “I feel quite the heel, turning down your mother’s last two invitations, but I’ve been swamped. I need to delegate more or something. I don’t suppose you’d be seeking gainful employment?” His dark eyes sparkled.

Nik shook his head, his gloved hand still in Justin’s bare one. “I don’t think so. Just being in Gracehaven stirs up enough trouble for me.” At almost six feet tall, Lord Comfrey was a few inches shorter than Nik, but Justin’s powerful, muscular frame made Nik feel like a reed to his oak. Justin had long, straight black hair, the front section pulled back from his face and gathered in a herringbone braid, the rest left loose to flow down his scarlet jacket to the small of his back. A few silver hairs threaded the black, though at thirty Justin could not be considered to have earned them. His skin was the warm golden brown of Newlanture heritage; thick eyebrows gave his handsome angular face a closed, saturnine look even when he was smiling.

“Hah. Is your mother still trying to fix a wife upon you?” Justin clasped Nik’s shoulder for a moment before releasing him, gesturing to the chair behind him before seating himself.

Nik rolled his eyes and sank back into his chair. “Worse than ever. I daresay Mother set her own agenda back a few days by taking an instant dislike to her latest candidate.”

“Indeed?” Justin smirked as he took the chair opposite. “What did the poor girl do?”

‘I prefer a difficult truth to a convenient fiction.’ “She was honest.”

“Ah! An unforgivable failing in any woman. Or man, for that matter. Whatever would we do if people were honest? How would politicians garner votes, or courtiers curry favor, or business deals close? Society would collapse. I can see why such a fault concerned your mother.” Justin kicked up his feet to rest them on an ottoman, legs crossed.

“This must be why you get on with Mother better than I do.”

“No, I get on with her better than you do because I’ve never had to live with her. You know, Striker, you can always stay with me while you’re in Gracehaven. Savior knows I’ve space enough.”

“I know.”

“But you won’t.”

Nikola hesitated. You don’t have time to entertain another houseguest. My petitioners would be an imposition on both you and your staff. I don’t want to be your obligation. “My parents would never let me hear the end of it if I stayed with someone else while visiting the city.”

Justin shrugged. “Suit yourself. Or them, as you please. But you only encourage your parents when you humor them.”

“You humor them.”

Justin laughed. “They amuse me. Your problem is you feel some silly obligation to take their whims seriously.”

Easy for you to say, when your parents aren’t around to torment you. That would be unkind to say aloud, so Nik asked instead, “Who else is joining us this evening? I neglected to ask the messenger.”

Justin did not resist the change of subject. “Secretary Haskill and Mrs. Haskill, Mr. and Mrs. Richard Lavert – have you met them? – and Lady Dalsterly and her granddaughter, Miss Dalsterly.” He paused. “Great-granddaughter? I think great-granddaughter. Anyway, you understand. To make the genders even.”

Nik laughed. “Did you truly invite Lady Dalsterly to make the numbers?”

“Mrs. Haskill is Very Keen that such things be Done Properly.” Justin’s eyes glinted. “Besides, I figured you’d want someone you could talk to. Other than me.”

“I see. So is this little gathering business or politics?”

“If I admit ‘both’, will you flee?”

“It’s too late for me to make my escape. I already let Anthser go off to intoxicate himself. Have you ever ridden a ’nipped warcat? He tries to roll over and get me to rub his belly. While I’m on his back.”

Justin grinned at the image. “In that case – both. Sorry. I need to close this contract with Lavert so he can get his ships out of port, and we can’t do that until Customs clears his cargo, which they’re holding under a series of ridiculous pretexts which I suspect amount to ‘some tinpot bureaucrat has taken a dislike to Lavert and/or one of his underlings’. Hence: the hope that Secretary Haskill will expedite the matter.”

“Sounds exciting,” Nik said, dryly.

“It’s not my favorite—” A knock at the parlor door interrupted him, and Justin called, “Yes?”

“Secretary and Mrs. Haskill have arrived, m’lord,” the butler informed them.

Justin sighed. “Thank you. We’ll meet them in the stiff parlor.” He swung his feet off the ottoman and stood. “I promise the evening won’t be all business and politicking, Striker.”

The Strikers’ townhome in Gracehaven was a centuries-old edifice. It had been entailed on Nik’s family line ever since Newlant had restored titles and property to the disenfranchised Havenset nobility in the year 576. It had been something of a legal curiosity at that time, since the Anverlee Town Manor had not been part of the Anverlee County entailment when Newlant took Anverleee from Havenset hands and gave it to a Newlanter in the year 484. But since the Newlanter Count of Anverlee had added it to the entailment when he built it, the courts had ruled it part of the estate when it was returned to the Havenset line.

In the four centuries since its original construction, the property had accrued additions, new façades, modernizations, and the occasional subtraction. It had four stories and well over ten thousand square feet of floor space, including a petitioner’s hall, a ballroom, a great dining room, a private dining room, two kitchens, four parlors, a library, two studies, a gaming room, a schoolroom, nursery, eight private suites, seven guest bedrooms, servants’ quarters on the fourth floor, as well as a detached temple and greatcat quarters in the “new” (as of the eighth century) felishome on the grounds behind. Its two acres of surrounding grounds included stands of apple and pear trees, flower beds, and honeybee hives. The property was ringed by a seven foot stone wall that Anthser jumped rather than bothering to open the wrought iron gate.

Between the town manor and the even larger county seat, Anverlee was sliding into bankruptcy.

Newlant’s entailment laws meant that the properties could be neither sold nor mortgaged. They required a small army of servants to maintain in style: one could not have honeybee hives without a beekeeper, or an orchard without groundsmen. Lord Striker insisted on keeping up appearances, and Lady Striker refused to let faithful retainers – some of whose families had served Anverlee for generations – be sent away. Half the rooms were kept locked, their furnishings already stripped and sold for cash. His father had assigned the rents from the county tenants as security on a half-dozen different loans. How that income was to repay loans when it had been insufficient to pay the original expenses, Nikola had no notion. His father could seldom be induced to discuss Anverlee’s finances; Nik had only learned of the rent-secured loans because the last institution Lord Striker tried to borrow from had insisted on the heir’s signature as guarantor. Nik suspected that the full picture of Anverlee’s situation was worse yet; his father’s assurances to the contrary had an unconvincing lack of details, and the rush to find him a rich bride suggested a certain desperation.

Fireholt, Nik’s personal holding, despite or perhaps because of its far more modest dimensions, was in better condition financially. Nik had little more talent for managing money than his parents, but he was better at not spending it. He didn’t care if he wore the same suit twice in one season, or twice in one week for that matter, and he didn’t care for expensive baubles and adornments either. He did not host large house parties, not because he didn’t like them but because he refused to borrow money for the purpose of entertaining. He did maintain the same staff he had inherited from his great-grandmother with the property, but she had not kept a large retinue. The rents from his tenants were thus sufficient to his needs, if not ample. In truth, Anverlee’s problems were the creation of Lord and Lady Striker, and not Nikola’s either to make or resolve. It was perfectly reasonable to behave that way.

All it required was for Nik to be indifferent to the fate of his parents, and the homes he’d grown up in, and the people who had spent their lives in service to Anverlee.

The problem, Nik reflected, as he snuck in through a side entrance, is not that I have no choice. It’s that I have no good choice. On the way to his suite, he stopped a passing footman. “William, would you please find Lord Comfrey’s messenger and bid him tell Lord Comfrey I’ll be very happy to join him tonight? And let my lord and lady know I will be out this evening.” The footman bowed acquiescence. “Also, if you see Jill, please tell her I’d like to speak with her. At her leisure.”

After dressing for supper, Nikola retreated to the unfurnished back parlor on the second floor, where he curled up in the window seat after dusting it off with a handkerchief. He hoped to avoid another confrontation with his parents by not being where anyone would look for him, and reasoned Jill probably wouldn’t try to find him tonight. He’d brought a book, but he didn’t open it: he gazed out the window instead. It faced onto a slope of the backyard, and what view it had once possessed was cut off by the wall around the grounds and the blocky backside of the neighboring manor – the unfortunate view was one of the reasons this parlor had been consigned to disuse. Three greatkittens and two human children – all offspring of Anverlee’s servants – played together despite the additional gloom twilight gave to an already dreary day. Nik watched them tumble down the slope, shrieking with laughter, then race to the top to do it again.

The creak of the door opening caught Nik’s attention, and he turned to see Jill’s big head poke in. “Hey-o, Lord Nik.” The manor predated greatcats by two hundred years, but it had been built on so generous a scale that even Jill didn’t need to duck or squirm to get through doors. She did fill the frame, though.

“Hello, Jill. Please, come in and shut the door.”

She did so, pawing the door closed with a hindleg. “Hiding?”

“Yes. Badly, I gather, but I wasn’t hiding from you in any case.”

“Awww.” She drooped ears and whiskers in a mock-pout. “Here I had my hopes all up. You haven’t wanted me to play hide-and-seek in years.”

A smile flashed over his face. “You always did win.”

Jill padded halfway across the dusty floor before lying down, long blue-gray form comfortably stretched out on the hardwood. “So what’s ruffling your fur today?” she asked. “Girl didn’t take to you?”

Nik barked a laugh. “I have not the least idea, though I’d guess not. Hardly matters: my parents did an about-face and decided they detested her.”

“Mrrph.” Jill rubbed the side of her head against the floorboards, smearing dust on her cheek. “They could’ve figured that out earlier and saved us some trouble.”

Nik shrugged and changed the subject. “Actually, I wanted to ask a favor – I need a message run to 3915 Dale Court. I, er, damaged the building’s roof earlier today and I’d like to compensate the owners for it.”

Jill’s eyebrow whiskers lifted. “What did you do to the roof?”

“Nothing serious. A few shingles need replacing. I’d send Anthser, but I suspect he’d feel guilty—”

“Why would Anthser feel guilty?”

Nik went on without answering the interruption. “—or a footman, but Father rebuked me for asking you to convey a request to one of my people. And I’d rather it didn’t get back to my parents. So I could ask Shelby, but I hate to ask him to walk so far and if he’s going to ride I might as well have a greatcat take the message. Also, I’d prefer the family name was not connected to the incident. Which is why I can’t do it myself either.” He paused. “I’m over-thinking this, aren’t I?”

“You’re human,” Jill said, dismissively. “Why would Anthser feel guilty?”

Nik tugged his ponytail over one shoulder. “Well. He was…involved. But on my orders. My responsibility.”

Jill’s whiskers flared, amused. She licked one broad paw. “How do you know I won’t tell your father? I work for him.”

“Yes… but you’re my friend.”

She rumbled with a purring laugh, rubbing her paw over her face and licking it again as she washed the dust streaks off. “Sure. I’ll take care of it for you. Out of livery. You want to give me money for it now or bring back a bill to settle?”

He produced a wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Now is simpler.” Jill pawed open the magnetic clasp on one of her harness pouches and rose to accept the money. Nik counted out a handful of large bills. “This should cover the damage, and this is for your trouble.”

“Mrrr-hmm.” She swung her big head down to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to bribe me to be your friend, kid.”

“Yes, and you don’t have to run my errands to be mine.”

“Fair ’nuf.” Jill patted his leg with one broad paw. “Going to see Lord Comfrey tonight?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

“Good. You have fun now. Try not to wreck any buildings on the way over.”

“I’ll try. Good evening, Jill.”

The greatcat nosed at his head affectionately, and padded out.

Nik glanced into his nearly-empty wallet with a sigh before tucking it away and looking out the window again. It was full dark now, and the children had all gone inside. He checked his pocket watch, and decided it was close enough to the time of the invitation that he could leave now and be unfashionably early.

Wisteria was in her office at Vasilver Manor, examining inventors’ reports and funding requests. The work engrossed her enough to drive thoughts of Anverlee and the Strikers from her mind. She held a whistle in one hand and was studying a report on it when her brother poked his head through the half-open door. “Teeri? Ah, there you are.” He let himself in, flopping onto the couch. “How’d the Big Meeting go?”

She considered the question without looking up from the paper. “Better than our original negotiations with the Kyr in Southern Vandu.”

“Oh, good. So they’re not going to exile us from the country or take any relations hostage? Top concern of mine.”

“I believe you may rest easy on those counts, yes.”

“Superb. So…a lot better, or a little better?” Her brother rose, hands stuffed in his pockets, and paced. He looked a lot like her, a long-limbed body and a long face, with their father’s Haventure-curly hair and their mother’s darker Newlanture complexion.

“Only a little better. Father thinks it was a disaster.”

“And what do you think it was?”

“How would I know?”

“Seriously, Teeri. You’ve excellent judgement and you know it.”

“Not when it comes to judging emotional reactions. And you know that, Byron.”

Byron stopped pacing and put his hands on her desk. He leaned over it, watching her and waiting. At length, Wisteria set the paper and whistle down and leaned back. “I mortally offended Lady Striker and Lord Striker. Lord Nikola asked to call again. I don’t know if he was serious.”

“Mph. Hope he wasn’t.”

“Your lack-of-support is noted.”

“Father and Mother can be eager to see you wed if they like, but don’t see why I’d want to lose my sister and my company’s best analyst to some ignorant penurious titled twit.” Byron fell into a chair before her massive U-shaped desk and extended one long arm to toy idly with the items atop its return.

“The idea is to gain a brother, not lose a sister. I want to get married, Byron. Not die. And Anverlee is cash-strapped, not penurious. They have considerable wealth in illiquid assets.”

“‘Illiquid’ is just a fancy word for ‘worthless’.” His fingers played over the whistle Wisteria had been examining earlier.

Wisteria tilted her head at him. “Do you doubt my analysis now?”

He made a face at her. “No. Just…grumpy.” He hesitated for a long moment, then added, “Am I allowed to be both insulted that they rejected my beautiful brilliant sister and also relieved you won’t be going anywhere?”

“‘Allowed’? Can anyone stop you?” Wisteria asked, amused.

Byron laughed. “Doubt it.” He turned the whistle over in his hand. “Didn’t have your heart set on this lordling, did you?”

“Of course not. I’d never even been introduced to him before.” All right, so he was tall and lithe and strikingly handsome and took my breath away. That was not ‘having my heart set on him’. I may not be an expert on the subject – more of an unwilling amateur – but I am pretty sure that is engaging another part of my anatomy entirely. Wisteria had done due diligence on both Anverlee and Lord Nikola before suggesting the idea to her father, and had proposed it on the strength of the business alliance. It was a good match; some of Anverlee’s cash problems were the result of shockingly bad money management – the sort that Wisteria could remedy given the opportunity – and Vasilver Trading could make good use of Anverlee and Fireholt’s tangible assets. It wasn’t about Lord Nikola himself. Not…not truly.

Maybe a little. Lord Nikola had an interesting reputation: one part typical lordly dilettante, regarded as a flirt and something of a rake in society. Yet he also held the rarest Blessing: the ability to cure disorders of the mind. More than that, by all accounts he was a scrupulous servant of the Code; he treated to the best of his ability any who asked, and accepted in return any gift they offered, however humble. That was the sort of thing one often heard about the Blessed – ‘How generous they are! How noble!’ – and Wisteria had not given it much credence at first. But further investigation substantiated the claim. There were four Newlant residents whose Blessing treated mental disorders. No Blessing was perfect: there were always people who did not respond to treatment, no matter who the Blessed was. But among the other three mind-healers, Wisteria estimated that they helped between a quarter and half of those who sought treatment.

Lord Nikola succored between three-quarters and four-fifths.

The difference in initial reports was so stark Wisteria had found different individuals to study the subjects and sent them back to take additional samples on different days. It didn’t even reflect the fact that Lord Nikola – by his own command! – saw every newborn in Fireholt, in case they had some defect that might be easier to remedy if caught early. He spent more time with his petitioners, too: the typical treatment time was under a minute for the others with the same Blessing. For Lord Nikola, it was closer to eight minutes. Of course, there were other factors involved – in isolated Fireholt and even in Anverlee, fewer people made the trip to see him than did to, say, the much more populous Gracehaven or Hollinshaven. But even with fewer petitioners, he helped more people total, and spent far more time at it. Wisteria could not tell, of course, if it was that his Blessing was more potent than others, or if he was more skilled, or if others were less inclined to help those of poor means. The estimated value of the gifts received suggested the last was a factor, but Wisteria felt her data on the value of gifts was unreliable. It was a fascinating puzzle, one she wished she could justify more research into.

Of course, being a good mind-healer did not mean he’d make a good husband, or anything like it. His status as a dilettante and flirt said more negative about how he would treat a wife than his use of his Blessing said at all. And yet… Be honest. Had you only wanted a business alliance, you would have proposed that, not engagement. You want more than a household of your own and children to raise. You want a handsome man who’d make love to you, who would sate all those desires you are not supposed to have much less talk about. And you hoped this one would be desperate enough to take you. Well, he’s not. Put it out of your head.

Belatedly, Wisteria realized that she’d ignored her brother’s reply – something to the effect of ‘That’s good’. “Still with me, sis?” he asked now, before he put the whistle to his mouth and blew on it to get her attention. It made no apparent noise apart from the faint sound of his breath. Puzzled, he tried again, with the same result. He shook the item, then peered into it. “Say, what is this?”

“A new kind of whistle. One of our inventors, Mr. Bandersmith, has been working on it.”

“Well, tell him to keep working. Don’t think he’s got the hang of it yet.” Byron blew again, to no evident effect. “What’s it supposed to do?”

“Make a sound that humans can’t hear.”

“A silent whistle! Why, the applications are obvious. Why has no one thought of this before?” Byron laughed and blew it again. “You didn’t deliberately fund development on a whistle that makes no noise, did you?”

A greatcat with grey-tiger coloration and ears flat against her scalp slipped her head into the room. “Miss? Sir? Did you just hear that?”

“No,” Wisteria said to Byron. “It makes a noise. That we can’t hear.” She leaned forward to pluck the whistle from his hand. “Did you mean this, Sally?” Wisteria demonstrated it.

Sally winced, squirming through the door with her tail lashing. “Yes! Saints help us, are you making that awful sound on purpose?”

Wisteria stopped. “Is it very bad?”

“Hideous. I came in from the felishome to see what was causing it. The others were hoping it would stop on its own. You really can’t hear it?”

“Not at all.”

“Lucky you.”

Wisteria looked down at the whistle. “Mr. Bandersmith said it had considerable range. He suggested it be employed to notify greatcat servants when their services were required.”

The black-and-gray greatcat’s ears remained flat. “Can I notify you how I feel about that by sharpening my claws on a chalkboard?”

“It’s truly so unpleasant?”

“If it’s staying, I’m going,” Sally said.

“I expect I’ll tell him it doesn’t appear ready for mass distribution yet.”

“Thank you, Miss Vasilver.” With a slight bow, the greatcat withdrew.

“Guess the applications are obvious.” Byron rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yes. Pity the target market hates it.” Wisteria dropped the whistle and its attendant papers back into a large envelope. She’d confirm Sally’s opinion of it with the other greatcats on staff later.

“Technically, the market’s human employers, not greatcats.”

“Do you know, I was talking about this very subject earlier today?”

“What, silent whistles?”

“No. About how important it is for the long-term health of a business that its transactions benefit all involved parties.”

Byron held up his hands. “All right, all right, I yield. Send him back to his drafting table.”

Wisteria pulled the next report from its package. “Did you come for any particular purpose, Byron? Because if you’re just bored, I’m sure I can find some work for you.”

“No, no, quite enough on my desk already, thank you. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I am well, thank you. But…”

Byron paused, half-risen from his chair. “Yes?”

“If Mother or David or Mitchell wants to know how the meeting went, would you discourage them from asking me?”

He answered with a nod, then took his leave.