"Oh dear...not again, Comrade Kali."

The woman, ignoring the blood seeping through her fingers as she pressed her hand harder against her abdomen, shot him a sour look. "Look. I didn't come here to get lectured at. I came here to get healed. Think you can manage that?"

Mirk sighed, rolling up the sleeves of his robes in preparation as he elbowed the door to the exam room shut. "I don't mean to be a bother, comrade, it's only that I worry about you. If you keep getting hurt there--"

"Zere will be none of ze baybees, and zen we will all be so sad," she cut in, speaking with what Mirk thought to be a particularly half-hearted attempt at his accent. "I get it. I heard you the first time. All right?"

His polite smile didn't waver. Mirk knew Kali had to be trying her best to be stubborn and defiant, the better not to show the weakness she felt over being injured yet again. But Kali didn't know that he was accustomed to dealing with much more intractable patients than her. "All that aside, methinks it can't be good for you to be in here twice a month, non? It would seem to me that it might be proving a point to someone."

Kali's glare intensified as she dragged herself around and lay down properly on the table. Really, for a wound like the one Kali was hiding, they should have been in one of the surgical rooms rather than an exam room. But the Tenth had claimed them all that morning, even though they didn't have any casualties yet. A large contingent of the Third Mage Division was heading out to engage in close combat. And Cyrus wouldn't risk losing any high-born mages just because some woman who had decided to try her hand at fighting had gotten herself sliced up again. High-born or not. "It's none of her business," Kali grumbled. "She should mind her own division. I'm sure there's needlework that needs her attention more than I do."

"You're her daughter," Mirk said, patiently. "Comrade Commander Margaret surely only wants the best for you. Even if you did everything she wanted, she'd still worry. Mothers always do."

Kali refused to reply. There was no point in arguing with her, Mirk supposed. And her tenseness was probably making the wound she was still clutching worse. After fetching a flesh regeneration potion, needle, and a spool of enchanted wound-binding thread from the supply cabinet, Mirk returned to her side. "Let me see, Comrade Kali," he said, lowering his voice so it came out more like a request than a demand.

Though she still said nothing, Kali let her hands fall to her sides. Carefully, Mirk lifted up the thin enchanted maille that had, once again, failed to hold up against a blade with better enchantments, along with the blood-soaked tunic underneath it. It was a bad wound, but nothing terrible — it'd gone deep enough to cause a good deal of pain and bleeding, but not so deep that it'd nicked anything vital. Not like the wounds that had left behind all the scars above and below the current gash in Kali’s midsection.

The last had been lower, much deeper, and had left Kali sweating and pale and unable to speak. She'd needed to be kept in the infirmary for five days after that one. And it'd been the one that had spurred Mirk to have the conversation with Kali that had put her in such a bad mood that morning. Mirk had known that the issue of children was going to be a touchy one with her, but he'd thought it was only right that she knew what the limits of healing were. Kali had ordered him out of her room in response. And had refused to speak with him again until the day she'd left.

"Well...at least it's not as bad as it could have been, Comrade Kali," Mirk said, gently pushing her sword belt and the odd, half-trousers, half-skirt garment she always wore down a hair further.

"I am capable of learning from my mistakes, you know."

"Bien sûr." Mirk paused, glancing up the length of her torso. Besides the maille, all she had for armor was a leather cuirass with enchantments so faded Mirk could barely feel them, even with his shields half-lowered. It had obviously belonged to a man before she'd taken it, and a much shorter and narrower man than Kali at that. And it was made to be worn with maille of much higher quality than what Kali owned. "But methinks you wouldn't have to learn so often if someone made you your own set of armor."

"What do you think I'm fighting for? Fun? I just haven’t killed anyone with armor worth taking yet."

"I know your mother and father don't want to, euh, encourage you in all this...but, well...there are always friends..."

Kali's voice went cold. "I can take care of myself."

Sighing, Mirk shook his head, turning his attention back to the wound. He hadn't settled yet on what he was going to do about it. Standard procedure would be tending to the severed blood vessels with magic, then slathering the flesh regeneration potion -- a goopy, yellowy mess that bore an unfortunate resemblance to snot and smelled strongly of marigold and yarrow -- all over the wound. Then he’d sew it up so that the potion stayed inside and sped healing. That was how several of the other wounds on Kali's midsection had been treated.

Mirk decided to set his supplies aside. He pressed his fingertips down into the wound, closing his eyes and drawing on more of the hazy, pulsing core of healing potential at his center than was needed to just handle the bleeding. The least he could do for Kali, if she wouldn't let him help her with the armor, was heal at least one wound properly for her.

It was draining, but not difficult. Mirk was accustomed to dealing with patients whose magic stood in stark opposition to his -- fire mages, dark mages, mages with the strongest kind of chaotic orientation. As Yule had said would happen, the older and higher-ranking healers had noticed he had a knack for managing complicated patients. They had started calling for Mirk every time there was a difficult or fussy low-born patient no one else felt like arguing with.

Kali was easy. Dark, but ordered. And, sad though it was, Mirk had meddled about in her innards enough times that the patterns of her innermost workings came to him like the words of a nursery song. Simple, lilting, repetitive. He knew just where to direct his magic to draw the severed pieces back together, to pick up the tune that the injury had interrupted.

Once everything was flowing like it needed to be, Mirk withdrew his hands and his magic, stepping away from the table. The familiar dizziness overwhelmed him, and he bumbled gracelessly backwards into the supply cabinet. The dizzy feeling morphed into a slight headache and a momentary sting in his own midsection as Mirk blinked the wavering from the edges of his vision.

"You didn't have to do that," Kali grumbled.

Mirk went to rub his forehead, but caught himself just in time -- both his hands were full of blood. He glanced into the ewer on top of the cabinet behind him and found it empty. Settling for wiping them off on the front of his robes instead, Mirk returned to the table to double-check his work. "No, I didn't. But I wanted to."

But Kali was already sitting up, jerking her slashed maille and tunic down over where the wound had been. "I don't need your pity."

Fixing a smile on his face, Mirk shrugged. "I don't pity you, Comrade Kali. I admire you. And shouldn't friends help each other when they can?"

Kali looked uncomfortable, torn, as she swung her legs off the table. "There's something wrong with you."

"Oh, probably," Mirk said, nodding agreeably. "But I can't help it. You remind me of my sister."

Which was the truth. The resemblance had struck him the first time Mirk had been led to a patient room where Kali was waiting, trying to keep sitting upright and arguing with another lady who looked very sheepish about everything. Kali and Kae didn't look much alike. Kali was tall for a woman, but Kae had inherited their father's inhuman height and wings. Where Kali was ruddy-faced and lively, Kae had been ivory pale and stoic in that angelic way that Mirk had never been able to cultivate in himself. But everything else was the same. It made Mirk want to grab Kali by the shoulders and plead with her to stop fighting, to go back up to her mother's doman in the Glass Tower and do something safer.

But it was just as futile doing that to Kali as it would have been with Kae. They had their pride, their determination, their ideals, and no task would satiate their need for victory like fighting could. Some people were meant to fight. Others were meant to wait for the dust to settle so that they could pick up the pieces and pray for the dead. Mirk only wished that God would stop making war the purpose of the people he grew attached to.

Kali was searching for a response, fiddling with her slashed maille and prodding at the healed wound beneath it. Mirk was about to say something breezy and casual, something to ease the frustration he could feel welling up in Kali, when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Mirk! Messenger for Comrade Kali!"

It was Sheila, the head of one of the Twentieth's oddest, but most versatile three healer teams, the fully inhuman one. Sheila herself was an Earth-born vampire, more a fiend for gossip than blood, unless someone tried to pester her about her age. She sounded far too intrigued for her own good. Scowling, Kali yanked her tunic and the remains of her maille down further and hopped down off the table, adjusting her sword belt and trousers. Taking up a defensive, cross-armed stance, she grumbled to herself rather than responding to the summons. "If it's about that ugly lecher from up north again, I'll gut whatever damn djinn they've sent after me."

Doing his best to ignore his headache and project a sense of calm, supportive concern, Mirk went to Kali’s side. Mostly so that he'd be in a good position to intervene should Kali decide to follow through on her threat. "Come in!" Mirk called out, since Kali showed no sign of caving and doing it herself.

As Kali had predicted, Sheila ushered in a tall, immaculately dressed djinn messenger. Sheila remained lurking in the doorway behind him rather than going about her business, too fascinated by the situation to walk away from it. Kali was so fixated on glaring at her, and Sheila in grinning back, that neither of them realized the djinn wasn't for Kali until he'd glided to Mirk's side and given a polite cough to draw Mirk's attention. Once he had it, the djinn performed a deferential bow and spoke. "Seigneur d'Avignon."

Both Sheila and Kali's heads whipped in his direction. Mirk could feel himself going red. He supposed that technically was him, now. Though it seemed silly to call someone seigneur when they no longer had a family to be lord of. And he hated the whole seigneur business besides — an Earthly lord had no business taunting the Most High by stealing His title. "Euh...yes?"

The djinn didn't respond aloud. But he bowed again, that time offering out an envelope of fine parchment that he summoned out of the ether with a twitch of his fingers. Mirk plucked it out of his hand with a nod, trying to ignore the way Kali and Sheila were still staring at him. The djinn, as was only professional, had straightened up and was politely looking away to give Mirk some modicum of privacy while he opened and read the letter, his hands clasped behind his back. Since the djinn hadn't whisked off immediately, Mirk knew he must have been told to wait for a response.

Biting his lip, Mirk looked down at the envelope. There was nothing on the front. On the back was a wax seal, light blue, with a willow tree stamped in its center. Mirk's breath caught in his throat.

"Madame Beaumont," Mirk mumbled under his breath, as he fumbled to break the seal. He'd entirely given up hope on hearing from anyone from his past life, aside maybe from his grandfather's creditors once they realized they had a way of recouping their losses. If anyone who cared for him had known he was alive, Mirk couldn't fathom why they hadn't sent a letter earlier. Most of all his godmother. Mirk unfolded the letter. It took him a moment to be able to read her fine, flowing French script.

My dear, cherished godson,

I have only recently been made aware of where you've gone off to, so please forgive my delay in writing. It warms my heart that the grace of God has preserved you, despite the misfortune you've had to endure. I wish I'd known sooner, so that I could have better supported you in your time of need. Nevertheless, past misfortune is best forgotten in light of future potential, and I wish to show my support to you now. Much has come to pass since your abrupt departure, far too much for one letter. (If rumor proves correct, I assume the K'maneda grant their members too little time for even such paltry luxuries as good correspondence, though perhaps you should consider speaking to your superiors about such matters.) Please come visit for afternoon tea whenever your situation allows. I'll be holding the offer open indefinitely, as I'll be passing the winter season in London, though I do hope to hear from you sooner than later. Please tell M. Am-Hazek what day would be most convenient. (Don't hesitate to speak frankly with him -- he has been in the service of my house for ages, and can be trusted with all matters.)

Remember: God protects those who protect themselves, and you are never alone as you think you are.

With warmest sentiments, your godmother and constant friend,

1. Beaumont

Mirk read the letter twice, trying to absorb every nuance of it while he did his best to ignore Kali and Sheila's expectant stares. Hesitantly, Mirk looked up at the djinn. It would be foolish of him to assume that every djinn with the same kinship title was related, like happening upon a Martin at one party and assuming they had to be some nephew or cousin of the one he met at the next. But the longer Mirk looked up at the djinn, the more he thought he could spot similarities between Am-Hazek and Am-Gulat. They had the same long face, though Mirk didn't feel confident in comparing the rest of their features, considering how starved and ill Am-Gulat had been when Mirk had seen him.

In comparison, Am-Hazek was very muscular, in the lithe way that djinn usually were, his fine coat and the fall of lace at its collar and sleeves softening the angular lines of the well-trained body beneath. The clothes were telling in themselves. It was clear they'd been made especially with Am-Hazek in mind, without the marks of alteration that came with even the best hand-me-downs. And he had a single, blue teardrop earring dangling from his left ear. Not a gem, precisely, but a vessel for his soul.

Clearing his throat, Mirk lowered the letter and spoke up, in French rather than English. Sheila would probably find a way to sort out what he was saying, but at least he could avoid having Kali eavesdrop on the conversation as well. "Monsieur...Am-Hazek, is it?"

The djinn didn't look at him, but gave a slight nod.

"Would it be possible to take tea with Madame Beaumont this afternoon?"

Am-Hazek nodded again. "Madame has left every afternoon from now until All Saint's at your disposal, seigneur."

"Is one too early? I...I wouldn't want to be a bother, but..."

But he had to see her. He had to see her.

"If I could make a suggestion, perhaps, seigneur?"

Mirk focused back in on the djinn -- he'd gone off a little even considering the prospects of suddenly coming face to face again with his godmother. Mirk had tried to push all the thoughts of his past life so far into the back of his mind that he had trouble remembering the contours of Madame Beaumont’s smile. What came immediately to mind instead, was the less heartfelt memory of the tall, elaborate hats she was fond of. It might have been a trick of the light, but Mirk got the distinct impression that the djinn was smiling at him. "Oh. Of course, monsieur."

"Your choice of day is well considered. As I couldn't help but notice that the atmosphere in this place will soon be turning a bit...hectic. However, it is eleven already, and it will take time to prepare the carriage. Perhaps you might consider taking advantage of an extra hour to retire to your quarters and refresh yourself?" The djinn gestured with his chin, ever so slightly, at the bloody handprints smeared down the front of Mirk's robes. "I assure you that madame would welcome you warmly no matter how you choose to attire yourself, but your present choice may raise undue concern."

"Oh! Oh, yes, of course, she'll think something has happened, right...ah, I apologize, Monsieur Am-Hazek. You're right. This is all just a bit much. Two, then. Could I make one request?"

"I am at your service, seingeur."

"If she's sending a carriage, could you please have it sent two streets over from the East Gate? By the artificer's next to the park." Mirk snuck a glance over at Kali and Sheila -- they were both still staring at him. "Things can be a bit, well, delicate here."

The djinn nodded again. "The carriage will be there at two."

Mirk folded the letter and stuffed it haphazardly into its envelope. Then he tucked it into the pocket in the sleeve of his robes, trying to calm himself by taking deep breaths in through his mouth and out through his nose. He had to get himself together. Gossip spread like wildfire in the infirmary. It was bad enough that someone had seen a djinn of Am-Hazek's station visit him first hand. If it got out that the djinn had brought him a letter that had sent him into fits, the talk would bury him alive. And, if he was unlucky, attract the wrong kind of attention. Or maybe he was just becoming paranoid due to spending too much time around people like Genesis.

Am-Hazek cleared his throat. "At your leave, seigneur?"

I really am a mess, Mirk thought to himself. After being away for only half a year, he'd already forgotten half the rules of polite society. "Oh! Oh, right, that's all, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I'll be at the spot right at two."

Mirk thought he saw Am-Hazek smirk as he performed a deeper bow before turning on his heel and leaving. It wasn't a derisive one -- more like sympathetic, like he knew what the contents of the letter were instead of simply being a messenger. Sheila popped her head out into the hall to look after the djinn for a second, before turning back to Mirk, a particularly toothy grin spread across her narrow, pale face. "Well. What was that all about?" she asked.

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

Feigning a casual laugh, Mirk waved Sheila off. "Oh, just an old friend of the family. She's very fond of letters."

"And money," Kali said, as she pulled down on her cuirass. Crossing her arms had made it ride up and dig into her ribs.

If even Kali was intrigued, Mirk knew he was in trouble. "Really, it's not as interesting as it looks. Just gossip from back home. Methinks she just pities me, that's all," Mirk concluded, shrugging, his mind spinning with half-truths and excuses, anything to satiate the two womens' curiosity long enough for him to escape the infirmary without kicking up too much of a fuss.

Am-Hazek was right: the wave of potential incoming casualties from the Third would give him excellent cover. All of the high-ranking healers and most of the Tenth would be up to their elbows in screaming mages the whole afternoon, and probably most of the evening besides. One missing healer, who was barely as good as a trainee, would be easy to overlook in the chaos. Provided no one who was accustomed to his presence said anything about it, and Danu and Yule could easily be bought off with sympathy and whiskey respectively.

Sheila hummed skeptically to herself, leaning against the doorframe. "I do wonder about that..."

"It...really, it's only a little thing. It's nothing important."

There was the sound of running footsteps from out in the hall. Then cursing and yelling, though it sounded further away than the footsteps. Without looking into it, Sheila lashed her foot sideways out into the hall, faster than thought, tripping a black-clad figure that had been trying to escape toward the ground floor. She ignored the meaty thump of a body hitting the floor as she continued to mull over Mirk's excuses. "Fine. You can go. But you're helping me deal with this one first," she said, gesturing out into the hall. Two of the burlier aides trudged past just then, griping to each other about how the commanders needed to do something to the floor barriers to make it easier to keep the mages who’d gone mad from overextending their potential trapped in the long-term ward.

It seemed like a small price to pay for peace. Mirk nodded, rolling up his sleeves once more. "I'm sure it'll be easy if we work together, Shiela," Mirk said.

The vampire flashed him another toothy grin before following after the aides. "Besides, I hear you're great with lunatics."

Kali snorted, tramping out ahead of Mirk now that Sheila was no longer blocking her way. "For once, you're right about something."

- - -

"Seigneur d'Avignon, madame."

Mirk wanted to bolt through the heavy French doors Am-Hazek had opened before him and embrace the small, elderly woman seated beside the bay window. But he restrained himself. This was not the City of Glass, where people went about half-naked and weren't afraid of either effusively kissing or punching each other in the middle of the street. This was the world Mirk thought he'd left behind. This was a noble lady's parlor, even if said lady was his godmother. There was propriety. There was decorum. There were rules.

Madame Beaumont set down her teacup, a wry smile coming onto her face. "Well, don't we look handsome? Here I was expecting you to come wearing one of those awful uniforms of theirs..."

Sneaking a sideways look at Am-Hazek, who was ghosting out past him to close the doors and leave, Mirk found that the djinn had a more obvious smile on his face that time. Mirk laughed outright, his gaze returning to Madame Beaumont. "I thought it would be terribly insulting to come dressed in healers robes. A lady of your standing deserves better than that. Besides, I didn't want to get blood all over your carriage."

Once the doors were closed behind him, Mirk allowed himself to rush to Madame Beaumont's side, though he tried not to run outright. Mirk performed the necessary bow, albeit a hasty one. Madame Beaumont gripped the sides of her chair and rose from her seat, not curtseying or holding out her hand, but rather taking him firmly by the shoulders and pulling his face low enough to give him kisses on both cheeks. "It's good to see you, my boy."

"As it is you, madame."

Madame Beaumont snorted, releasing him and lowering herself back into her chair with grace unexpected from a woman her age. Well over one hundred, maybe nearing two. "What? I know I haven't seen you in over a year, but I would think you'd still have a bit of warmth left in your heart for your godmother."

Slumping in relief, Mirk let himself collapse into the chair beside hers. "I'm sorry. I just...this is such a shock. A good one, but..."

She reached out and took one of his hands, clasping it tightly in both of hers. Madame Beaumont was warm, very much alive. It made Mirk smile. "I hate to sound dramatic, but I really thought the whole family was lost. We all did. I should have known better. Jean-Luc always had something up his sleeve."

As quickly as he'd recovered, Mirk sank back into worry, though he hid it as best he could. He struggled to think of where to begin, scanning the table they were seated at. Tea had already been served, long before he'd arrived, from the look of things. Whatever news Madame Beaumont had to share with him had to be especially sensitive, if she was willing to let her guest's tea go cold rather than risk the servants overhearing. "I...don't mean to be rude, madame, but...why did it take you so long to write? I know we hadn't seen each other recently before...everything, but you've always been very resourceful."

"That would be Jean-Luc as well," Madame Beaumont sighed, her expression going a touch vacant. "Of course, we all heard the terrible news within days, even in Lyon. I was going to start making inquiries, considering how suspicious the circumstances were and how disinclined the guilds seemed toward doing the work themselves. But I received a package a fortnight after it all happened. And a visitor. Mademoiselle Polignac, an old friend of Jean-Luc's. Older than myself, even. It had a letter from him. He said that if anything came to pass, I was to wait until I received correspondence from the ghosts in Paris that someone had drawn from the family ledger to try to investigate."

"Oh..."

"He also said that if anything happened, you would be the one to survive. And if that was the case, I was to give you this." Reluctantly, Madame Beaumont released his hand, reaching for something that had been tucked in among the cookies and cakes laid out for tea. A book, small, blue, and cloth-bound. She offered it to Mirk with both hands.

"What is this?" Mirk asked. He turned it over in his hands, putting off opening it, half in caution and half in dread. There were no markings of any sort on its outside, and the feel of the pages at the sides under his fingertips was rough, hand-cut.

"I don't know," Madame Beaumont replied. "I didn't open it. Out of respect for Jean-Luc, God bless him."

Biting his lip, Mirk held the book in one hand, carefully opening it. Upon seeing the hand-written script inside, faded with age, Mirk’s heart leapt into his throat. But the anticipation died the moment his eyes traced down the first page and he found that he couldn't make sense of a single word. The journal was written in Latin script, with the right accents hovering above the letters at intervals, but it wasn't French. Nor was it any other language Mirk even vaguely recognized. "Can you understand any of this?" Mirk asked, holding the book out to Madame Beaumont.

Madame Beaumont leaned in close to the book. She brought with her the smell of the same perfume she'd worn since Mirk was a child, rose and chamomile. It made the uncertainty more bearable. "No, I'm afraid I don't recognize it all. It might be some kind of code. Jean-Luc was terribly clever like that."

Mirk sighed. His grandfather was terribly clever, always three steps ahead of everyone. Until he suddenly wasn't. Which was why his grandfather should have known, Mirk thought, that he wasn't suited to puzzles and codes. Perhaps Jean-Luc, much like everyone else, had more faith in him than he merited. "Was there anything in the letter that looked like this?" Mirk asked. "Anything at all?"

Madame Beaumont settled back in her chair, shaking her head. "I'm afraid the letter was...very to the point. I fear Jean-Luc might have taken caution too far."

But not far enough to save himself, Mirk thought, paging through the journal. There was more that was odd to the journal than just the script, Mirk realized. No matter how many of the thick pages he turned, the stack of remaining pages on the right hand side didn't seem to decrease any. At a glance, there was no telling how long the journal was. If it'd been something his grandfather had kept since he was young, there could be thousands upon thousands of pages. And every last one was written in the same mysterious language. The language that looked so similar at first glance to the one Mirk had shared with him, but was nothing like it underneath. "I have time to study it, I suppose,” Mirk said. “I do work often, but that's all, really."

"Do you?" Madame Beaumont asked. "There are many rumors about the K'maneda, but few of them mention anything pleasant. I was shocked when I heard you'd found your way to them. I wouldn't have had the faintest idea where to start looking into things if it hadn't been for Monsieur Am-Hazek. I asked him for his advice on the matter and he suggested that we attempt to locate that strange Englishman you had in your employ the last we saw you. Apparently he is quite notorious around the mage quarter's book shops."

Closing the book in his lap, Mirk shrugged. "He does like to read..."

Lowering her voice a hair, Madame Beaumont leaned closer to Mirk. "You're not having some sort of difficulty that's keeping you with them, are you?"

"Oh, not at all! They're the ones who saved me. Anyway, I think I'm doing good work there. Or, I will be, once I get better at healing."

"But is it what you want to be doing, Mirk, dear?" Madame Beaumont asked, looking closely at him again.

"It...they saved me, like I said. Not that I don't think you wouldn't have tried, madame, not if you’d known what was happening, but...well. It's done and over with, now. There isn't much sense in going home, is there? I feel awful for leaving how I did, but one person doesn't make for much of a family, you aside. I wouldn't want to depend on the charity of others to make my way when there's something helpful I can be doing here. That and...well, the rest of it. I'm not sure how much you know."

And Mirk wasn't sure how much he should tell her. It was a terrible, dark thought, that the whole meeting with his godmother had been a trap. But, after months with the K'maneda, Mirk found himself seeing plots everywhere. Really, he was lucky that Genesis hadn't been lurking in his room when he'd gone back to change into his least formal three-piece suit. The commander most likely would have wanted to launch an investigation himself before allowing Mirk to leave, lingering illness or not.

In an instant, Madame Beaumont's expression changed. Her furrowed brow and worried frown shifted to a smile as she reached for her tea cup, taking a sip to smooth the rasp from her voice before replying. Mirk hoped that was a good sign, not one that he'd been cornered yet again. "What makes you think you're the only one left?"

Before he could contain himself, Mirk sat up stock straight in his chair and grabbed for Madame Beaumont's arm. "Someone else survived?"

As she patted his hand to attempt to comfort him, Madame Beaumont nodded. "Your Aunt Christine got wind that something was going on, God bless her. Her and Isabelle put their heads together and decided to send all their children off to that bizarre workshop of Henri's down in Bordeaux along with him. They didn't even know what was going to happen, not when Henri left, but they knew that he and the children were unlikely to be missed, in any case. For once, it seems to have done someone a bit of good to marry a man of no consequence."

"Are...they're still alive?" Mirk asked, his voice coming out in a croak.

"Yes, Henri and the five children. But they've been trapped in that workshop of his ever since. Some kind of pocket realm, or illusion, or some such. Demons are involved. House Rose, but that doesn't narrow things down much, there's dozens of branches to that one. That's all they were able to sort out. Aside from how to get Armel out with a letter. Henri wanted to go himself, but, well. The teleporting gift skipped Henri. Armel was the obvious choice. He tried every estate before coming to me. Everything else is gone. Burned to the foundations."

Mirk struggled to his feet, only keping enough of his manners about himself not to shove off Madame Beaumont's hand. He could barely hear himself speak over the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears. "Armel's here? Where is he?"

"Still sleeping," Madame Beaumont said. "He had a terrible time getting here, all sorts of things chasing him the whole way. He only just arrived four days ago, besides."

"But the rest--"

"Taken care of. You're not the only one with terrible friends. Sit down, dear, before you fall."

Madame Beaumont had noticed the dizziness that had come along with his shock and panic before Mirk had even noticed it himself. He thumped back down into the chair and forced himself to take deep breaths and focus. Mirk reached down into himself, then down further, through to the faint murmur of the ground beneath him that he could still hear if he held still and ignored the rumbling voices of oak and stone that separated him from the Earth. Once the world stopped spinning, Mirk looked back to Madame Beaumont. There was a certain melancholy in her eyes, a feeling of remorse and longing that was strong enough for Mirk to feel through his mental shielding. "I...what?"

"I called in a favor with my nephew Servais. You know, the rake. The one in Black Banner. He owes me for that business with the Forbin girl last Christmas. I got a djinn from him this morning saying they're well on their way to handling it. And that he owes me nothing ever again for the rest of his life, but I'm sure he'll do something dreadful and call on me again soon enough."

"I...I'll repay you someday, madame," Mirk mumbled, fighting against the urge to rub his forehead or clutch his stomach. It was so much at once, Mirk felt as if he'd been struck over the head. Though his dizziness had cleared, an aching remained, and his thoughts were spinning so quickly it almost didn't seem to matter that the room wasn't doing it any longer.

"Nonsense," Madame Beaumont said, with a firm shake of her head. "Though there is one thing you can do for me, my dear."

"Anything."

"Jean-Luc's letter. As I said, it was very to the point. All instructions, no explanation. The last of them..." Madame Beaumont paused, her apprehension coming across so clearly it was as if Mirk had no shielding left at all. "He said, above all else, not to trust Serge Montigny. The guilds did do some investigating, of course. Jean-Luc had sat on the Circle since the Edict. And he and Seigneur d'Aumont from the Beacon had been friends for decades before that. All they concluded was that Jean-Luc must have finally stretched himself too thin and cast some spell that even he couldn't control. Is that what happened? That Henri and the children were sent away seems evidence enough to me that..." She trailed off, staring at him, squeezing his arm a little. Whether it was to reassure him or herself, Mirk couldn't be certain.

Slowly, Mirk nodded. "Yes. Serge did it."

He tried to hold them back, but the images still came to Mirk. His mother and her sisters linking arms, being dragged screaming back toward the inferno. His sister behind them, already half-consumed, her wings aflame. His father wrapped in chains on the floor, Serge standing over him with sword raised, grinning, a dozen pillars of tangled darkness and fire bearing witness. Father Jean's arms wrapping around him, pulling him out into the foyer. His grandfather pressing the staff into his hands. Running. Running for what felt like an eternity. Falling. And then the hiss of drizzle on stone, the sound of laughter, and the feel of claws digging into his shoulders.

For the first time in his life, Mirk heard Madame Beaumont curse. It drew Mirk back to the present, spurred him to cover her hand with his own. "The fiend," Madame Beaumont hissed, as she tried to compose herself. "The absolute fiend. After all Jean-Luc did for us, all he made possible, this is what he does."

"I...I'm sorry, Madame. I don't know much more than that. We didn't understand what was happening until..."

Madame Beaumont's eyes darted away from Mirk's face, to the book on his lap. "It'll be in there. It must be."

"You may be right." Mirk's eyes fell on the book as well. "Though...it may take some time." If it was just him working through it, it would take an eternity. But Mirk had a good idea of who might know better how to decode the journal than he would.

"We don't have much time. Of course, I won't tell you what to do, but...well. With Henri and the children coming up soon, we need to do something about Serge. He's walking around as if he did nothing. The scoundrel even had the nerve to speak up at the funeral."

"There...was a funeral?" Mirk's heart sank at the knowledge that he hadn't been there, though he knew there was no possible way he could have known that there had even been one.

"We held a Mass for everyone. But there wasn't anything to bury," Madame Beaumont added, in a softer voice. "In any case. The longer you wait to do anything about this, the more time Serge has to come up with some ruse to save himself. You're the only one who was there. It'll be your word against his."

His word against Serge Montigny's. Him, a child in comparison, who had no personal connections of his own, against Serge Montigny, the lord of one of the most sprawling and storied families in French magecraft, head of the Firestarters Guild and confidante to who knew how many other guild masters. If it had been his grandfather speaking against Serge, the others would have at least considered his accusation, though Mirk was certain opinion would still be divided. But who was he? "It...I'm sorry, madame,” Mirk stammered. “But I don't know what I could possibly do."

"All you can do. Plead your case before the Circle and pray to God that there's still sense in half of them. They haven't filled Jean-Luc's seat yet. I doubt Seigneur Rouzet will listen, but with the rest..."

He didn't stand a chance. Mirk knew Madame Beaumont had to have traveled in those circles long enough to know that. But it wasn’t enough to deter her. The fire in her eyes, the way he could tell that her teeth were clenched behind her lips, the tightness of her hold on him, all of it told the story so clearly that Mirk didn't need a shred of empathy to understand what she was feeling. Vengeance.

Mirk didn’t feel it burning within himself. Providence made no mistakes. What was done was done, and it wasn’t his place to judge. It was his place to accept what had happened to him and have faith that, in the long run, the pain would make him a stronger, better person. But unless Mirk did something, the remains of his family, Henri and the children, would have no place left in France. They would have to start over again. Like he had. And even then, there was no telling if Serge might one day decide to finish what he’d started. He had a duty to protect them. That was what the head of the family did. Protected. Provided.

Mirk drew a deep, shuddering breath. "How? When is the Circle meeting next?"

"God only knows. I haven't heard from anyone that they're planning on convening any time soon. But I have an idea."

"What is it, madame?"

"I've offered to host the first ball of the season. Not everyone will come, of course, since I've gone to London, but most will. If need be, I can call in more favors and imply that something worth seeing is bound to happen. That way, there'll be families there besides the members of the Circle. If you plead your case to the Circle in front of everyone, they'll be forced to at least listen. The Circle can afford to be cold in politics. But the rest of them, I think, could be moved to sympathy. And apply some pressure."

It sounded like a nightmare to Mirk. He worried at his lip, turning things over in his mind. A small, cunning part of himself that had grown louder as of late, one that saw all the broken men hauled through the field transporter and heard all the murmured tales of hopeless charges and neverending sieges and understood, at least a little, remarked that it would be easier and less risky to hunt Serge down and have him dealt with rather than stand against him in front of everyone. He ignored the suggestion.

Mirk knew himself. No matter how loud and insistent that cunning part grew, he couldn't bear to kill anyone, to plunge them into the same pit of agony he'd struggled out of. No matter what they'd done. No matter how triumphant and bloody Serge's smile had been as he'd held up his father's head in offering to the pillars of flame.

"When will it be?" Mirk asked, unable to raise his voice above a whisper.

"The weekend after the Equinox. The same as every year." Madame Beaumont turned her hand over, taking his and clasping it. "You're not alone, Mirk. I'll be there with you. And so will all the friends Jean-Luc made in his lifetime. If they want to honor his memory, they'll listen to you."

Mirk forced a smile onto his face, squeezing her hand. "I know, madame. It's...it's like you said. We're never alone as we think we are."

"Exactly, my boy," Madame Beaumont said, straightening her posture and patting at her hair to ensure that it hadn't fallen out of place. "Well! In any case. It does us no good to dwell on the negative, does it? A cheerful heart is good medicine, after all. But I imagine they don't teach you that part of healing in the K'maneda. Not that it's my place as someone without the gift to say."

Slowly, Mirk’s smile turned more genuine. The longer he looked at Madame Beaumont, the more he remembered: her astonishment over how he'd grown when he'd first been to see her in Lyon after his time at the abbey, the way she always had such a strong sense of purpose about herself, the time that her and his mother had conspired to make it so that his sister had to barge into the pond behind the Feulaines’ manse and beat its many-limbed occupant into spitting Paul-Marie Toucy out into her waiting arms. Paul-Marie hadn't exactly been as smitten with Kae as they'd hoped after that, but he had begged her for sword fighting lessons. "No, not really. They're very...hmm...stern in the K'maneda. Well, other than the low-borns. They're great fun, for the most part."

"Tell me all about it," Madame Beaumont said, releasing his hand with a final squeeze. "I must know more about these people you've decided to go live with. That dour Englishmen and all his foreign hangers-on did make for good gossip, but I can't imagine staying around them all the time. And have a madeleine too, Mirk. You're looking a bit too thin in the face for my liking. I'll have the girl bring in a fresh pot of tea."

"Yes, madame," Mirk said, dipping his head and taking one off the tray in front of them. It had a light, lemony taste.

And it was, indisputably, the best thing he'd eaten in over half a year. The grizzled ex-fighters who passed for cooks at the dining hall just couldn't compete.