The bell of the Artificers Guild’s clock tower tolled twice as Mirk hurried down the street, keeping to the middle to avoid the mess at its edges. Living in the City of Glass had spoiled him. Even though the mage quarter was far cleaner than the mortal neighborhoods of London, the filth in the gutters still made something inside Mirk cringe. Or maybe he'd just been spending too much time with Genesis.

"Half six...it has to be half six by now...where is he?" Mirk mumbled to himself, scanning the darker alleyways between the walled-off townhouses that lined the winding, cobbled road. He couldn't have been a whole hour late. And Genesis was always on time. More likely the commander was waiting for him closer to Madame Beaumont's townhouse, if Genesis had even left the City at all yet. Genesis was always exactly on time, not a second late or early. And he didn’t have to tolerate the nuisance of walking anywhere if he wished to avoid it.

Mirk was always conspicuously early, especially when he was nervous. Despite the time it took to drag his father's trunk back to his room and compose himself, Mirk had still left through the east gate of the City over an hour earlier than he'd strictly needed to. He tried to cobble together excuses for himself to explain it, anything other than nerves. The teleportation spell on the gate, the one that moved passers-through seamlessly from the City's confines to the mage quarter, a gap of forty some miles, always left Mirk feeling queasy. It'd be better not to appear at Madame Beaumont's doorstep looking green around the edges. And Madame Beaumont's townhouse was at the far end of the mage quarter, near where it blended into a wealthy mortal neighborhood, so it'd take time to get there. But even though Mirk was strolling rather than walking purposefully, being mindful not to splash his stockings in any puddles or scuff his shoes by tripping over loose cobbles, he knew it wouldn't take an entire hour to get there.

It took only three quarters of an hour, at most, if the church bell was anything to go by. Once he arrived, Mirk was dismayed to find that, though the gate to Madame Beaumont's townhouse was standing open and the lamps hung above and beside it were all blazing, there wasn't a single carriage or portal to be seen past the gap in the high stone wall that surrounded its front garden. He must have sorely misjudged what degree of lateness was considered fashionable.

The invitation had said the ball was to start at six sharp, but, of course, anyone who showed up right on time would look like an over-eager newcomer to polite society. Mirk had thought that arriving a half hour later would put him at Madame Beaumont's doorstep late enough that a few of the more elderly attendees, who might wish to depart for the night earlier than their younger relations, might have arrived. They would have granted him some cover as he slipped around to the rear of Madame Beaumont's townhouse, where Am-Hazek would be waiting at the servants’ entrance to take him up to see Henri and the children. But his bad luck apparently knew no bounds that night.

Sighing, Mirk turned and peered up through the fog at the illuminated clock tower, back near the center of the mage quarter. It was too distant for him to make out the time. There was nothing to do but wait, Mirk supposed. In an alley somewhere, to keep himself hidden from any guests that might arrive in the meantime. Madame Beaumont had suggested that Mirk make a show of his entrance. Bumbling into the first guest to arrive outside the gates, idling about like a fool, wasn't exactly the best way to make a good first impression.

That and he'd be more likely to sort out where Genesis had hidden himself if he stuck to the shadows. Even though it was the sensible course of action, shuffling off toward the nearest alley made Mirk feel like a coward. Too frightened of Serge Montigny's influence to stand up for his murdered family. Too graceless to command the respect of those who were unaligned. Too weak to do anything to support poor Henri and the children, who'd been through so much and would have nothing to show for their struggle unless he found it in himself to be something better than—

"Though I believe this isn't the most...specious neighborhood, you would still be well-advised to be more aware of your surroundings. Mirk."

Yelping, Mirk whirled about to face the low, tired voice that'd spoken up from directly behind him. He tripped over a loose cobblestone and lost his balance. Mirk would have ended up flat on his face if firm hands hadn't lashed out, quicker than thought, and seized him by the shoulders, righting him at the very last moment. Genesis. As Mirk laughed to himself and tried to get his bearings, Genesis released him. Though the commander's fussiness didn't allow him to let Mirk go without first plucking some invisible speck of lint off Mirk's cloak.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, messire. Really, I didn't mean to cause you any trouble, methinks I just get, euh, distracted sometimes, and...ah...well..."

Mirk's conciliatory gibbering petered out as he fully processed the sight before him. Genesis so rarely wore anything other than his oversized uniform blacks — cut extra-large so that they could be forced on K'aekniv if the half-angel ruined his — and his ugly brown-black overcoat that the sight of him in anything else was odd.

Though, Mirk didn't think odd was quite the right word. The Nasiri twins had gone above and beyond that time. Mirk didn't know what he'd expected the K'maneda's formal uniform to look like, aside from being black like everything else in the City, but he hadn't anticipated that it’d look so arresting. At least on Genesis.

It was cut close. Or maybe it just seemed that way because everything Genesis usually wore wasn't tailored at all. Most of it was black, like Mirk had been expecting. But it wasn't the usual brownish black that came with a thousand of Genesis's exhaustive washings — it seemed to be a strange sort of ultra-black instead, one so deep that it sucked in the lamplight and extinguished it. Or perhaps that was just an illusion created by its thin silver trim, which lined all the edges of its coat, from its lower hem that fell somewhere between proper doublet and justacorps length, up to its high standing collar by way of an offset placket that closed the coat in a crisp line three quarters of the way across Genesis's chest.

All of its adornments were silver: the buttons, etched with the K'maneda’s pentagram seal, the various campaign medals arranged in perfectly even rows across the wider half of the coat, the insignia markings on its collar. The tall riding boots were the same, spotless and laced tight, though Genesis had scrubbed the blacking off their buckles and polished their silver back to an immaculate sheen. The trousers that went with it were snug, folded and tucked neatly into the tops of the boots.

Mirk couldn't put his finger on what it was about the uniform that made it so striking. Maybe it really was just the tailoring, streamlined and utilitarian, creating a lithe silhouette that made the most of the commander's long legs and broad shoulders and left Genesis looking imposing rather than skeletal. Or it could have simply been the contrast between the uniform and the suits that were in fashion among the rest of the nobility, all clean, long lines instead of lace and baubles that blended in with the baroque decor of a finely appointed ballroom. The ensemble was a bit gauche, to be certain, but it invited the eye to linger in an appealing way. Though, what exactly he was meant to linger on remained a mystery to Mirk. The legs had a certain draw, though the combination of the uniform and the boots drew Mirk’s attention higher than the customary sticking point of a well-muscled calf...

"...is this unsatisfactory?"

Coughing, Mirk broke off his stare, hoping that his redness would be obscured by the gloom. "Nothing! Euh...nothing, really. It suits you very well, Genesis. Methinks it'd be good for you to wear something tailored more often."

“I…see.”

Though the outfit was different, the frown that came onto Genesis's face was the same, as the commander dipped a hand into the shadow cast by the gate and drew out his overcoat. At least, it bore a passing similarity to the ugly, flapping brown-black thing the commander armored himself in. His new overcoat was properly black, and had been given a bit of shaping, though it still was a bit too loose to be fashionable. Genesis pulled it on over his uniform, adjusting its lapels with a dissatisfied air. Somehow, it made the whole ensemble even more imposing. "It is...passable. You didn't have to waste the gold on a new coat. The other was more than satisfactory. Although this is...warmer."

Mirk flashed Genesis a reassuring smile. "Does that mean you'll be keeping this one? It really does look nice...an officer really should dress up a little. Methinks it might make the others listen more."

"I am undecided." Genesis paused, only seeming to have noticed that he wasn't the only one dressed for the occasion right then. Judging by the way his frown deepened, the commander found Mirk's new suit much less appealing than Mirk found the uniform. "I fail to see why a new set of clothing is necessary for every occasion. One...set of finery would seem adequate."

"Oh, it isn't at all, messire," Mirk said, shaking his head. "If I came wearing something from last season, everyone would think I'd thrown away all of grand-père's money. Didn't the Nasiris suggest something for your hair?" That was completely the same, without even a subdued bow or clip that matched the uniform to better highlight its smooth length.

Now Genesis's frown had transitioned to a proper scowl, as the commander checked the pockets of his overcoat to ensure that all his cunning instruments were still in their proper places. "They...wanted to curl it."

"Bien sûr! That's the fashion now, you know. You could pull off the King's look without a wig, even, since your hair's so long. And a little bit of rouge would have helped, though you don't need any powder. You're really pale enough to put all the noble ladies to shame, messire..."

At the mention of royalty, Genesis gave up on Mirk entirely, turning his attention toward Madame Beaumont's townhouse beyond the open gates. "Where are the rest of your...countrymen?"

"Oh. Well, methinks I must have misjudged the time. We're the first here. But I suppose it'll make it easier to get around to the back without anyone seeing us."

Genesis cast a momentary look back in Mirk's direction, his raised brows giving away his befuddlement. "The invitation claimed this...event was to commence at six. It is six thirty-three."

"No one comes on time, Genesis. It would be terribly rude. I suppose everyone must be coming an hour late now instead of just a half..."

"If they are meant to arrive at seven...why did the invitation not indicate it?"

"Because then everyone would come at eight." When Genesis didn't reply other than to scowl at him, Mirk shook his head, taking hold of Genesis's elbow. "Tiens, let's go meet Monsieur Am-Hazek. I'm sure he'll be waiting on time, even if no one else is."

Though Mirk was the one who took Genesis's arm, he let the commander lead the way. Doubtlessly, Genesis was more suited to charting a course around to the back of Madame Beaumont's townhouse in the dark without drawing the attention of the two human valets positioned on either side of the grand front steps than he was. The way that Genesis navigated through the gardens, moving quickly down its wandering paths in such a way that they were almost always obscured by either a tree or a bush that was tall enough to conceal Genesis’s height made Mirk think that the commander must have surveilled the place sometime earlier that week. They made it to the back of the townhouse without anyone calling out to them. As Mirk had suspected, Am-Hazek was waiting for them by the servants’ entrance near the stable, reading by the glow cast by a yellowy magelight hung beside the door.

The djinn was dressed for the occasion as well, in the best fashion permitted for a servant rather than a noble, a red doublet shot through with golden thread that brought out the warmth of his skin. Am-Hazek closed his book with a snap as they approached, bowing. Mirk noticed that the djinn seemed more fascinated by Genesis's appearance than Mirk's. Though that might have been due to the disapproving look that came onto Genesis's impassive face at being bowed at. "Seigneur d'Avignon, Comrade Genesis. You are exactly on time. Monsieur Henri and the children are waiting upstairs."

The severity of Genesis's frown lessened over being addressed by the proper K'maneda term rather than having some mortal translation murmured at him. When the commander didn't speak or bow, Mirk did both for him, returning Am-Hazek's polite gesture. "Oh, that's a relief, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I was worried. Is it the fashion for everyone to arrive so late now?"

Am-Hazek shook his head as he stepped aside to hold the door open for them. It led straight on to a narrow, steep staircase. "An irregularly due to the foreign location, seigneur. There are always a great number of debates over who goes first through the carriage portal."

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"Right, of course." Mirk looked up the stairs into the dimness above, his nerves suddenly returning to him at the prospect of coming face to face with the remains of his family. Mirk mounted the steps, forcing himself not to scramble up them like a child rushing to meet his parents after a long absence. Though he knew that Henri and the children must have been hoping for a better knight to come to their rescue than him, and Mirk knew he'd disappoint, his concern eclipsed his embarrassment for the time being. Behind him, Mirk could hear Am-Hazek and Genesis exchanging words about who was to go last up the stairs. The thudding of his own heart in Mirk's ears was too loud, and both their footfalls too quiet, for him to tell who'd won out.

Mirk could feel his family as clearly as if they'd been surrounding him before he made it to the top step. Madame Beaumont's townhouse had adequate wards in place, but all of them were against offensive magic rather than empathy. His family’s fatigue and worry drew Mirk like a lighthouse beacon and he stepped up his pace, knocking the door at the top of the stairs aside and hurrying through. The servants' stairs let out into their quarters — cramped, but clean and tidy. The fatigue was coming from somewhere near the middle of the townhouse, past the door that separated the servants’ rooms from the rest of the house.

"They're all together in the largest guest bedchamber, seigneur," Am-Hazek called out. "The third door on the right once you enter the main house."

Mirk called out a thanks, though he didn't need the guidance. He was very nearly running by the time he passed into the main house. Even the thick rug down the middle of the hall did barely anything to muffle his footsteps. It was a good thing none of the other guests had arrived yet. They'd have thought someone had let a horse up onto the second floor as a joke. Mirk stopped in front of the door the fatigue was emanating from, pausing to compose himself and search for what to say. He felt he should apologize. Though, for what, exactly, Mirk was uncertain. He caught himself a second before he could reach for the door handle, knocking instead.

There was no response, other than a wave of fear from inside the room behind the door. Just as Mirk was about to open it, the door creaked open. But only far enough for someone to brandish a sword at him. A long, thin blade, its edge dancing with activated runes.

It took Mirk two attempts to get the words out. And a third to shift his mind to the proper language. "It's just me. Mirk. I promise."

The door swung the rest of the way open. Claire, the older of Henri's two daughters, was on the other side, sheepishly lowering her sword. One of Henri's infamous arming swords, a bit too heavy for her spindly and shaking arms. "I'm sorry, cousin," she said, her voice cracking with disuse.

"Oh, no, it's all right. You're just being careful." Mirk lingered in the doorway, his eyes falling upon one hollowed-out and upturned face after another. Behind Claire, Armel was sprawled out across a divan, one leg still in a splint. Inès, Henri's youngest, hovered beside the room's sole bed, hunched protectively over his Aunt Christine's two children, Edmé and Honoré, wide-eyed young boys who were hugging each other atop an ottoman that'd been drawn up next to the bedside. They couldn't have been older than four and five. Armel was the oldest of all his cousins, fourteen or fifteen, just old enough to seem disappointed that the work of defending the remains of their family had been left to Claire instead of him. With a groan of effort, the lump on the bed that'd been buried in quilts sat up.

It was Henri. Pale, even more emaciated than his cousins, but still capable of finding enough energy for a weak attempt at a smile. "Thank God," he rasped. "You really are alive."

His uncle's words set everything in motion. Claire dropped her sword, instead wrapping Mirk in a rib-cracking hug. She was soon joined by the two youngest boys who, for lack of anywhere else to go, each grabbed hold of one of Mirk's legs and hid their faces in the folds of his justacorps. Even Inès, who was painfully shy, and Armel, who had to hobble along on his one good leg, bolted for him, burying Mirk in a mass of trembling limbs and enough mingled grief and relief to set Mirk's eyes streaming, despite his best efforts to keep his composure.

All of it was overwhelming. But Mirk wasn't about to draw his shields up to hide from them. He needed to feel the press of their feelings as much as he did their arms.

Unable to extract his own arms from their collective embrace, Mirk projected what little comfort he could summon out from underneath his own conflicted feelings at them in place of a hug. It was impossible to keep traces of his guilt over having left them out of the emotion.

"I'm so sorry. It...I'm here to help now, anything I can do. Anything and everything," Mirk said, only able to halt his crying and steady his voice by drawing on a bit of his life-giving potential to push warmth and strength into his own limbs. The feel of the magic made Mirk feel slightly less useless.

His words were met with a jumble of muffled replies, most of them corresponding apologies and requests not to worry about them. A small, distant part of Mirk found this darkly amusing: all the strong d'Avignons, the ones who stood fearless and proud before any foe, had been wiped out. All that remained were the meek, the cautious, the gentle. The ones who posed no threat to anyone.

Mirk wasn't certain how much time passed before his cousins finally retreated far enough for him to slip past them to his uncle's bedside. Though Henri didn't have the strength to do much more than reach over and squeeze his hand, the relief radiating off him more than made up for it.

"Uncle Henri, what happened?" Mirk asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him.

Henri let out a sigh that devolved into a coughing fit. Mirk reached over and pressed a hand to his uncle's chest, using a spark of magic to quiet it and help Henri catch his breath. He didn't look deeply into the inner workings of Henri's body, but from the sound of things, his uncle must have caught some illness during his ordeal that had led to a case of pleurisy. Shaking his head, Henri sat up a bit straighter, trying to reaffix his smile. "You've gotten better at that."

Mirk nodded. But he didn't press the issue further, waiting for Henri to answer the question in his own time. His cousins all drifted over, forming a half-circle of concerned faces around their family's new elder. Mirk was struck by the notion that Henri should have become the head of their house rather than him. But Henri had very little magic, and he'd married into the family rather than sharing the d'Avignon blood. Henri was a Dufort, a fine enough family, but one that his uncle had been more or less pushed to the edges of once it became clear that he hadn't inherited the teleporting gift. Instead, he only had enough earth magic to be good at artificing a few small things every week rather than cracking the ground apart in advance of cavalry charges. His children bore his name, at least for the time being. Though his former wife, Isabelle, had never taken her maiden name off her calling cards.

Mirk was letting his worry get out of hand. Catching the look of fear in Edmé's eyes — they all thought he might have the empathic gift, he was too sensitive to the world around him, even for a child — Mirk picked the boy up under the arms and set him on the edge of the bed beside himself. Edmé pressed against Mirk's side as they waited for Henri's answer, and Mirk began to stroke the boy's hair, hoping to soothe him some with touch, since he didn't trust himself projecting anything useful to him while he was such a mess inside.

"It isn't as bad as it looks," Henri finally said. "I just need to eat more and rest. But I'll be fine. Everyone's fussing so much that I'll be fat by Christmas."

The unsaid half of the story made shame, choking and dark, wash over Mirk. While he had been comfortable and safe inside the City of Glass, Henri had been starving himself for the sake of his cousins. Though the children were thin, they were nowhere near as fragile as Henri, who'd been reduced to little more than a skeleton. Mirk shook his head to refocus himself on the matter at hand. "I'll have you brought to the infirmary tomorrow. All of you," Mirk added, looking around at his cousins. Though Inès and Claire were doing a good job of trying to hide it, Mirk could sense how much of their magic they'd drained in an effort to protect their father. Their presence had an indistinct, shifting feel to it that Mirk recognized from mages who'd drained too much of their potential in battle. A day or two more in Henri's workshop and they'd have drained themselves to the point of irreversible madness.

There were a few silent nods. "That's very kind of you," Inès said, in her customary near-whisper. She'd been a wincing, pale wisp of a girl before her ordeal; now she was practically a ghost.

"It's the least I can do," Mirk said. "It won't be as comfortable as here to start with, I'm afraid, but the City of Glass is the safest place on the realm. And I wouldn't want to impose on Madame Beaumont more than I already have. But I'll do everything I can to help you all go home as soon as possible."

Henri looked troubled. "This isn't over?"

Mirk bit his lip. He didn't like the prospects of discussing that kind of matter in front of his young cousins, but he assumed they couldn't be entirely in the dark. And Henri had always been more discreet than his wife, Isabelle, who had been as direct as a noblewoman could be without completely burning all her bridges. Her sisters had always needed to run themselves ragged doing repairs to her reputation with the other ladies, ever since they'd been children. One good reason why his mother had never been impressed by his father's bluntness, Mirk supposed. "What has madame told you about what happened?"

To his relief, Henri waved Mirk off. "That's not important. I just want to know the children are safe. I...have a responsibility."

And it was crushing. Mirk could feel it in the exhaustion radiating off his uncle, in the lost way he searched the faces of his own children and those who'd been pressed upon him without his knowing that it'd be up to him alone to raise them all. Without lifting his hand from Edmé's head, Mirk took Henri's hand in his other, squeezing it tightly. "We do. It...well, I think it's more or less over, but it'd be best to be careful. Like I said, the City of Glass is the safest place there is."

"The City of Glass?" Claire asked.

Mirk nodded. "It's where the K'maneda live here in England. I know they don't have the best reputation..."

Henri shook his head. "If you think it's safer, that's all that matters."

"I can assure you that...given your present situation, it is much safer than...amongst the royalists."

Mirk had forgotten all about Genesis and Am-Hazek, too distracted by his family's whirling emotions to keep track of either of them. Am-Hazek was nowhere to be seen. But Genesis had stolen in after Mirk and had shut the door to the bedchamber, stationing himself in the corner of the room beside its window so silently that no one had noticed him. It worried Mirk how Armel startled and ducked his head at the unexpected sound of Genesis's voice. It reminded him uncomfortably of the men on the long-term ward, the ones who would bolt and hide themselves in cupboards or under beds at the sound of thunder.

"Oh, I'm sorry, everyone,” Mirk said. “Henri, you might remember the commander? He and his men were serving as our guard while my father was away."

Henri made an effort at looking like he remembered, tried to give the pleased nod of recognition that one gave to a long-absent acquaintance. He needn't have bothered. Even if Genesis had cared about that sort of thing, Mirk doubted that the commander could make out what an expression so nuanced was attempting to convey. "Yes, yes. Commander...er, ah..."

Genesis was too distracted to notice Henri's verbal fumbling. He twitched aside the heavy red and gold damask curtains over the window to examine its casing, tracing one one long, slender white finger along its edge. Mirk was uncertain whether Genesis disapproved more of the dust he found there, or the runes that flared at the proximity of his magic. "This...residence has sufficient wards, but it would be...prudent to reinforce them." He tested the ward, frown deepening as the shadows curled around his hand. "Hmph, not even elemental specific...purely order-based...one would think someone of such means could bribe better work..."

His cousins, Mirk realized, were all staring at Genesis as if he was some ghoul newly arisen from the grave to rip bloody vengeance from those still living. Henri wasn't doing much better, his attempt at a smile faltering on his lips. Mirk couldn't blame them for being troubled. Despite his bias in the commander's favor, Mirk had to admit that anyone who'd been stalked by demons and their constructs for months would be rightfully wary of someone with Genesis's magic and attitude. Mirk did his best to smooth things over. "Comrade Genesis has been kind enough to look after me these past few months. Really, I think I'd have been completely lost without his help. He's been very gracious."

The fact that Genesis turned his frown on Mirk when confronted with this display of gratitude didn't help to cultivate the positive impression Mirk was trying to make for him. "You have...done your own work."

"Modest, too, even," Mirk added, with a laugh.

Henri recovered a little then, his smile growing. "Well, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance again...comrade, is it?"

Genesis's frown didn't lift. "If you...must call me something other than my name, that will...suffice."

"As you wish, mo...er, comrade." Henri's smile wavered again, that time with pain as he moved to gesture at each of the children gathered around the bed. "Armel, my oldest. And my daughters, Inès and Claire. And these are Edmé and Honoré, they're my wife's sister Christine's boys, God bless her."

Once Henri had finished introducing them, the children, in near unison, gave a muted, cautious sort of enchanté. Mirk pulled an exaggerated grin onto his face, nodding encouragingly at Genesis, hoping he might recognize the cue to smile and greet the children in return.

It took the commander a moment to notice. But he did make a token effort at being cordial. As if someone was holding a knife to his throat, Genesis lifted his chin and contorted his frown into one of his tortured attempts at a smile. It looked more like he was about to sneeze. The effect wasn't improved by him somehow managing to hold his eyebrows at two different levels. "Yes. I...noticed them," he said, flatly, in place of a proper greeting.

The somber air that had dominated the room since Mirk had entered broke, the two youngest boys laughing openly at Genesis's strained expression. Claire, at least, had the sense to cover her grin with one hand, while her sister abruptly lowered her head so that her hair would fall over her face, though neither gesture stifled their giggling much. Which made Armel snicker. Henri kept it together the longest, though a few wheezing chuckles leaked through when Genesis dropped his force smile in an instant, an exasperated frown reappearing in its place.

That was enough to set Mirk off. And soon the whole family was in fits, consumed by the sort of uncontrollable laughter brought on by grieving for too long. They all pressed close together, the children speaking in fits and starts to one another, their words hard to make out through their giggling as they snuck sideways glances back at Genesis. Genesis who was staring at them all as if they'd succumbed to some sort of unexpected communal madness.

Mirk couldn't help but feel a little bad for the flummoxed commander. So he switched back to English, just long enough to give Genesis some encouragement without his cousins catching on. "They don't mean anything by it, Genesis. You're just...very unique."

Muttering darkly to himself about nonsensical French custom and the irrationality of children, Genesis dismissed them all with a shake of his head and went about laying his own ward atop the one Madame Beaumont had doubtlessly spent a whole purse full of gold to have put on the windowsill.