"Everyone really is here."

Madame Beaumont had met Mirk outside the bedchamber his family was secreted away in nearly a half hour ago. The first guests had begun to arrive: after a heated debate, a few blustery younger mages had finally sorted out who'd be stuck with the undistinguished position of being first to arrive. The rest had fallen in line soon after.

She had a few suggestions for him in regard to how to best proceed. Mirk could descend the grand staircase at the end of the hall immediately, though that would give away the fact that he'd arrived early. And possibly alert anyone in attendance who might wish the remains of his family harm to the fact that they were hiding upstairs. But it’d allow him to slip into the ballroom ahead of the most important mages and grant Mirk the opportunity to evaluate their reactions to his sudden reappearance one by one as they arrived.

Or he could head downstairs later, once all the grandees had arrived. A much more shocking entrance, and the one that his godmother preferred. It would put the others on the backfoot, left to flail for an appropriate response to his sudden reappearance, one that would leave a good impression both on Mirk and their fellows. Those who wished him and his family well, no doubt, would rush to welcome Mirk back and offer their condolences. As for the ones who didn't, they'd have to do the same eventually, but Madame Beaumont thought that he might be able to empathically sort the fakers out from those who were genuinely perplexed and needed a moment to collect their thoughts, despite the fact that everyone at mage balls usually maintained some kind of shielding meant to ward off prying empathic eyes.

Mirk wasn't surprised that Madame Beaumont favored that approach. She'd always had a penchant for theatrics. A necessity due to her refusal to do her duty and remarry, allowing her grandee line to diminish after losing both her children and her husband to the same terrible fever rather than submitting to the rule of another man, but also in line with her bold personality.

He had decided not to take her advice. It was sound, of course. Madame Beaumont had made her way in society alone for two hundred years by then; she knew every trick there was. But he was nothing like her, at the end of the day. He wasn't proud, wasn't quick-witted and demanding. Even if he tried to put up a front, for the good of his family, Mirk knew he wasn’t capable of keeping it up.

Instead, Mirk went with a third option, one proposed by Monsieur Am-Hazek. Sneak back outside and arrive on foot, inconspicuously. The better to get a feel for the moods the others were in and gauge the best time for a subdued arrival. That was more suited to him, Mirk thought. And Genesis had seemed to approve of it as well, in his own muted way. It was in line with his nature as much as it was Mirk’s: the impulsive and brash assassins, the ones who didn’t spend long hours watching and waiting for the best time to strike, were the ones who soon ended up in the infirmary basement.

Mirk wasn't there to demand vengeance for what had happened for his family, after all. He was there to protect them, along with anyone else who might have crossed Serge Montigny, either deliberately or accidentally. That could be accomplished without risking making a fool of himself by putting on airs he could never hope to uphold.

"I don’t understand why they are using carriages," Genesis said, flipping up the collar of his new overcoat against the damp, unhealthy night air. “The gate is only…two hundred and twenty feet from the portal.”

Mirk laughed a little, wringing his hands nervously behind his back. He'd thought of taking his grandfather's staff out of his pocket, but had decided against it. That wouldn't make the right impression either. Jean-Luc had always carried the staff in an off-hand way, like an old man's walking stick, unfashionable but reliable, a conceit to the old age that eventually came for them all. But there was a threat in it too, an unspoken word of caution: remember who I am. He couldn't keep up that kind of air either. Mirk had decided to leave things be, unless the situation grew so grave that the staff was needed to prove his claim. "Methinks you would say that, messire..."

He'd cajoled Genesis into spiriting them off into the nearest alleyway across the street from Madame Beaumont's townhouse, where they could keep out of sight but still take stock of the newest arrivals. Despite the anxiety churning in the pit of his stomach, Mirk knew he'd have to leave the safety of the shadows soon. It eased Mirk's mind that he could still bring some of the shadows with him, albeit in a different form.

The grandees who'd decided to make the trip across the Channel were starting to arrive. Mirk could see a few of the more prominent families' carriages back by the portal at the end of the road that'd been summoned for the guests’ convenience. Most of the ball's attendees had gone inside immediately upon arriving, save for those who had traveled separately from their companions for the evening. The night was growing colder by the second. Mirk swore he could feel the Earth beginning to wane underneath his feet, curling in on itself like a cat against the chill as winter approached. For an instant, the image of himself freezing solid in the middle of the inevitable confrontation with the grandees and the members of the Circle in attendance that night flashed through Mirk's mind. Shuddering, he dismissed it and refocused on trying to decide when to make his entrance.

He struggled to recall all the nuances of livery and charges as he studied the next few carriages in line. The one pulling up to the gates looked familiar, a deep forest green with a Roman-styled face on its side. It came to Mirk the instant the valet opened its door and laughter spilled out into the street. It was the Massons. The son, Rory, instead of his father the seigneur. Mirk smiled to himself. He'd always liked Rory. Eight or so years his senior, a formidable mage who had double the potential of his already imposing parents, but who'd inherited his foreign-born mother's boisterous personality rather than his father's stoicism. One time when Mirk and his mother had gone to visit them, Rory had animated half of the family's collection of Classical statues to sneak up on the seigneur in the middle of dinner as a joke. It'd have earned them both lashes, had their mothers not found it terribly amusing.

Rory hopped out of the carriage, ignoring the valet's hand, holding out both his own to its other passenger. His wife, Désirée, the eldest daughter of the Taubert family. She was as cool and aloof as Rory was sociable and jolly, a chaotic air mage who had mastered weather divination and manipulation. They were a good pair to slip in after. If Mirk cut things close and came in too quickly after them, Rory wouldn't hold it against them. Rory’s good nature aside, Seigneur Masson and his grandfather had been old friends.

And the carriage in line after the Massons' wasn't anything to worry about either, if Mirk remembered things right. Heavily ornamented, burnt orange, with a raven charge. A bit on the gaudy side, surely not something belonging to an old family, despite the fact that its color meant that its owner had to be related to the fire mages guild in some way. Not all of its members could be counted on to rally around Serge Montigny as its Grand Master. He'd held power over it for so long that surely an upstart like the owner of the carriage would welcome seeing Serge taken down a peg. Mirk wished he could remember who among the fire mages would choose a raven as a charge, but it'd have to do.

Straightening up, Mirk smoothed his hands over his suit underneath his cloak and sucked in a deep breath. Then he turned and gave Genesis an encouraging smile. "Well, on y va, messire?"

Genesis sighed. "Yes...let's."

Mirk walked out of the alley as briskly as he could without looking like he was in a rush, fighting to keep his head even and his smile composed despite the way his heart was pounding in his ears. He must have looked no better than a scurrying mouse, with none of the natural grace that a man of his station was supposed to find as easy as breathing. Mirk hoped that the combination of Genesis lurking off to his left, doubtlessly making no attempt to look friendly, and the shock of his own reappearance would compensate for it.

The Massons were at the door to Madame Beaumont's townhouse, Am-Hazek greeting them and taking their cloaks, by the time Mirk made it to the gate. Just as the orange carriage was pulling up, but with plenty of time for whoever was in it to notice him and wait for Mirk to head up the walk before disembarking.

Behind them, there was a crash of metal against wood as the carriage's door was flung open. Along with a familiar shout.

"My goodness! Is that Mirk? Mirk d'Avignon?"

His smile freezing on his face, Mirk slowly turned to face the carriage. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Genesis had tensed, possibly debating whether or not to pull a knife on the woman scrambling out of the carriage, tripping over her extravagant skirts and ignoring the hands held out to her by her valet. A small woman, her dark hair piled atop her head in an elegant mass of curls that her exuberance was already knocking askew, her eyes wide and grinning. Yvette Feulaine.

"It is you! Oh, what a relief! It's so good to see you!"

Before Mirk could stammer out a reply, Yvette had flounced across the gap between them and wrapped him up in a hug more befitting a drunk old infantryman at the tavern rather than a young lady on the rise. The Feulaines had long been trying to break into the uppermost ranks of the fire mages guild. Their most recent maneuvering, more accidental than intentional, had been Yvette's engagement to Serge Montigny's great grand-nephew, Laurent. One of society's most middling mages, but its most notorious dueler. As Mirk worked an arm out of Yvette's grasp and patted her gingerly on the back, he searched the open carriage behind her for another passenger. There was none.

"Ah, it's good to see you too, Yvette," Mirk said, returning her embrace with more ease now that he was confident he wasn't about to be ambushed by Laurent. There was nothing to be afraid of out in the street. Other than Genesis, who still hadn't fully emerged into the light cast by the lanterns beside the gate, his arms folded across his chest as he eyed Yvette with suspicion and distaste. And Genesis was only a potential threat to the others, not him.

Yvette clung to Mirk, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "I'm so sorry about everything, dear friend! So sorry! If there's anything I can do, anything at all, or if there's something mother or father could help with, only ask. Oh, I'm sorry, it's just so shocking...like coming across a ghost..." Abruptly, Yvette pulled back, just far enough to look him over without letting go. "You're not a ghost, are you? You always did have a strong bond with the Earth..."

Mirk shook his head. "I'm sorry for being away so long. I was ill, and then there was…”

There was everything. Mirk didn't even know where to begin. He decided to leave things be, for now. “Anyway, it's not important. But I am very sorry for making everyone worry." That, at least, was genuine. And he’d always liked Yvette, her terrifying choice in husband material aside. Then again, Mirk supposed he had no room to criticize someone else's choice in companions, in light of Genesis still sulking out in the street, with an expression on his face like he was contemplating either forsaking his debt and vanishing or throttling the first noble who spoke to him.

Drawing in a deep breath, Yvette finally released Mirk, patting her coiffure as she composed herself. "Oh, you've always been too kind. Always apologizing to everyone for everything, no thought for yourself, just like your mother, God bless her. Sorry, I'm rambling. And I'm being terribly dark, aren't I? But, really, Mirk, what have you been doing, and where have you been hiding from all of us? Have you moved to England? It's so far away! How can we come visit with you? Really, I never would have expected you to decide to go off and live with these uncivilized English folk. Terrible weather, worse food, and everyone's so dour! It's no place for a man as bright as you are."

It had to have cost Genesis the whole of his limited remaining reserves of patience to restrain himself from stalking out of the gloom and hissing something derisive in reply. Not that Genesis had much love for England, but he'd made his distaste for Continental sentimentality clear on many occasions to anyone who'd listen. Mirk decided it'd be best to let the commander emerge on his own time, offering Yvette an arm. She took it with one of her brilliant, unhesitating smiles, and Mirk led her up the front walk toward the door. "Like I said, I've been ill. I came here to recover with some friends who knew a good healer. Where's Laurent, by the way? Have you been married yet?"

"Oh, heavens no!" Yvette chortled, yanking off her cloak before either Mirk or Am-Hazek, who seemed deeply amused, could help her with it. "We've decided to wait until spring. A wedding in autumn? Who gets married when it's so cold outside? It kills the whole mood. You can't have a garden reception in autumn, and I'm absolutely set on one. The one the spring before last for Marie and Denis's wedding was so lovely, wasn't it? With all those blossoming trees the earth mages summoned? I couldn't resist! I have to have one! Oh, is that a new suit? You must have sent for it from Paris, it's too handsome to be from here. Everything these English people make is black this, black, that. Unbearable!"

Laughing despite himself, Mirk passed his cloak to Am-Hazek. The djinn nodded, tilting his head slightly in the direction that Genesis had to be standing in with a questioning tic of his eyebrows. Mirk shook his head — even if Genesis wasn't fond of his new overcoat, Mirk knew the commander would rather spend the night outside in the damp than hand it over to a stranger, only to be tucked away in a cloakroom, nestled amongst other strangers’ doubtlessly unclean garments. Bowing, Am-Hazek stepped aside, gesturing across the foyer to a wide, mirrored hall. It was a new addition to the front of the house, grander and brighter than the unassuming corridor that’d been there the last time Mirk had visited. An enchantment to make the passage through to the ballroom at the center of the townhouse more appealing. "Ah, thank you. It's really only a little something, nothing too special."

Before Mirk could think to ask about Laurent again, Yvette was already off on another tangent, gazing about at the mirrors and gilding with an appreciative murmur as she linked arms with him once more. "Isn't this a lovely house? Madame Beaumont has the best taste in everything. I swear, she must have a diviner working for her to plan out such marvelous enchantments! She's always so in style! It's too bad that it has to be in this dreary country, though. Think of how wonderful this would look with some sun in it! Do you even get sunshine up here? All the people are so pale and pinched, I can't think you get much."

"Allow me to...reassure you that we would...much prefer it if you kept your useless nobles and their...hideous finery on the Continent. We have...sufficient royalists here as it is."

If Genesis had kept quiet, he most likely could have ghosted in behind them and gone unnoticed for a while longer. Am-Hazek had noticed him, of course, but that was why everyone employed a djinn: to notice things. But three insults that just happened to paint a perfect picture of Genesis and his tastes was apparently too much for the commander to bear. Yvette turned to face Genesis, dragging Mirk along with, her face lighting up in delight despite Genesis's scowl.

"Oh! And Monsieur Genesis too! What a wonderful surprise! We really have missed your jokes, commander, they always make a dance so much more interesting!"

Genesis's expression shifted fast from disdain to horror as Yvette reached forward and grabbed hold of him by the elbow. Thus properly accompanied on both sides, Yvette continued on through the foyer. Thankfully, Genesis's tendency to freeze up when touched without warning kept him from lashing out at Yvette before the commander could think the situation through.

For his part, Mirk had to struggle to keep from laughing. He had always privately wondered if Yvette was as oblivious as she seemed. It wasn't as if he'd never played the fool on occasion, and Yvette had a suspicious affinity for imposing her effervescent self on the dourest and most prickly men she could find. With that in mind, it really shouldn't have come as a surprise that she'd decided to marry Laurent.

"I'm so fortunate to have met you two!" Yvette enthused at them as they walked on down the mirrored hall. "It really is unbearably awkward to come in alone, don't you think? But Laurent's in one of his moods again, something with that beastly family of his and not getting invited to their autumn hunt, and I didn't want to miss the ball. That man...such a dear, but so serious! It really is more fun to be happy instead, don't you think?"

"Oh, so that's where he is?" Mirk asked. It'd probably be best to keep the conversation moving too quickly for Genesis to get a word in edgewise. "Well, we're glad to have you nevertheless. And I hope he feels better soon.

Cackling, Yvette elbowed Mirk in the ribs, hard enough to send him into a coughing fit. Yvette had never been a good judge of her strength. Last winter she'd thrown Louis Bellerose out a window trying out a new dance step. "Mirk, dear, I said he was in a mood, not coming down with the plague! Though I do appreciate the sentiment all the same. The poor dear does get himself so worked up over things. Sometimes he just needs to have a rest, for the good of his soul."

"Yes...I understand..." Mirk wheezed.

"And, anyway, with Laurent busy, I got to try out the new carriage father had made for me! Isn't it the most handsome thing? He really outdid himself this time."

"Handsome...like a putrefied pumpkin..." Genesis muttered to himself.

"What was that, commander?"

Just barely, Mirk gulped in enough breath to cut Genesis off. "It's lovely!"

Yvette beamed around at both of them, supremely satisfied. "Why, thank you! I'll have to tell father you like it, he's here you know. He'll be glad to hear it praised by a man of such refined taste."

Genesis hissed to himself, but the noise was lost in the din of the ballroom they were fast approaching. Mirk covered for him again, trying to get a better sense of who all was there. The ballroom ahead was already half full, though the music hadn't started yet. "Oh, your father came? I'm glad to hear that. I'd been hoping to speak with Seigneur Feulaine..."

Antoine Feulaine, though more than two centuries Jean-Luc's junior, had been close friends with Mirk's grandfather. Which was why he knew Yvette so well, and why Mirk supposed he was as good of a person to start with as any. In the aftermath of what had happened to his family, his grandfather's efforts to make ties with Seigneur Feulaine all made sense.

The Feulaines were at the head of the mages rivaling against the Montignys for control of the fire mages guild. Even if they'd tried to make amends with Serge by marrying Yvette off to Laurent, Mirk thought the seigneur would be more open to hearing his story than most. Laurent, after all, wasn't from the best branch of the Montignys. The fact that they'd snubbed him and he was off licking his wounds instead of attending Madame Beaumont's ball was testament enough to that. And that little detail made Mirk think he’d have the chance to discuss matters with the grandees and the Circle without Serge Montigny cutting in to make his own defense. Madame Beaumont said she’d invited him, but had never received a response.

"Yes, father said he wouldn't miss it for the world! Madame Beaumont always holds the best balls. I'm certain I can find him, just give me...oh, is that Madame Lemaire? It is! I'm so sorry, Mirk, commander, but you must excuse me. I've been looking for her for ages and ages, she has a brooch of mine I insisted she borrow, but I'll be back right away, I promise! If I don't get a dance from both of you, I'll simply die of disappointment! Madame Lemaire!"

As suddenly as she'd flounced in, Yvette was off again, vanishing among the clusters of chatting guests. Mirk let out a heavy sigh, gingerly prodding at his elbowed ribs. "She's nice really," he said to Genesis, switching back to English for the time being to lessen their odds of being overheard. "She's just a little, um, energetic."

"She is an...unbearable harpy," Genesis replied, giving the direction Yvette had gone in a dark look.

"Oh, don't be dramatic, messire. You shouldn't take her and the others so seriously. They're just...euh...entertaining themselves? Sort of like how Niv and Mordecai do."

"I have been told that...assaulting another person is not...traditionally considered entertaining."

Which was debatable, given the way everyone in the K'maneda acted, but that was an opinion Mirk thought it best to keep to himself. Instead, Mirk took a harder look at the nobles who'd arrived before them. Mirk recognized most of them, though he could only put names to the mages closer to his own age and the ladies his mother had been close to. Thankfully, there were plenty of both in attendance. And, even better, no one seemed to have noticed his arrival, though Mirk knew he was working on borrowed time. He was good at slipping through crowds unnoticed, projecting an unassuming and unforgettable air for as long as he needed to in order to collect his thoughts. So was Genesis, in his own way. Though Mirk wasn’t certain how Genesis’s usual tactics would hold up in a place like Madame Beaumont's ballroom.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Mirk glanced back at the commander. He had grudgingly taken off his overcoat, probably to keep himself from making use of any of the cunning instruments in its pockets. Even with it on, Mirk had thought Genesis looked striking. Without it, he cut an even better figure. There really was something about that uniform that worked with Genesis's tall, thin frame rather than against it. And the stark contrast between its somber simplicity and the great velour bell sleeves and sweeping silk skirts on display in the ballroom made it all the better.

"...what?"

Genesis's low, annoyed voice jolted Mirk out of his thoughts. He really was overwhelmed. It'd been so long since he'd been to a ball that he'd forgotten what an assault on the senses they could be. Everyone in the room was a mage, most of them strong. It put a certain spark in the air that tended to give Mirk a headache, along with all the strong perfume worn by both women and men. "Ah, nothing, messire. Sorry."

"I was...under the impression that it is...customary to remove one's overcoat. A...measure to assure them you are not a threat, I imagine."

That wasn't it at all, but Mirk didn't feel the need to correct him. Instead, he only nodded. "Let's go find Yvette's father. Seigneur Feulaine is an old friend of the family. And much less, euh, cheerful than she is," Mirk added, at the sight of the scowl that came onto Genesis's face at the mention of Yvette.

Mirk tried to cut through the crowd unnoticed, but didn’t have much luck. He was stopped again and again by both friends of his family and acquaintances he'd been raised alongside once he returned from the abbey and entered polite society instead, each one more startled by his appearance than the last. Although he accepted their condolences and danced around their questions as gracefully as he could, Mirk could sense that he wasn't doing a good job of setting anyone's mind at ease. Perhaps it was jarring seeing him in the flesh when it'd been common knowledge that he was dead.

Or perhaps it was Genesis looming behind him the whole while, responding to greetings and questions only ever with curt nods or a single shake of his head, that was unnerving. Mirk had wanted to make an impression by bringing him along, but he was beginning to think he was making the wrong one. Maybe if he could get the commander to speak up a little more, it wouldn't be so bad.

The string orchestra was assembling in the corner of the ballroom by the time Mirk found Seigneur Feulaine. The sight of his plain, smiling face made relief swell up in Mirk’s chest. At least, it did until Mirk saw who he was surrounded by. He was flanked on one side by Madame Beaumont and a mage as elderly and dignified as she was, a man in a conservative gold-embroidered justacorps and a curled and powdered gray wig tall enough to rival Madame Beaumont's hat. And on his other side, returning Seigneur Feulaine’s smile with one that had none of its warmth, was the only other man in the ballroom that night who'd decided to wear black beside Genesis. Seigneur Lazare Rouzet, Grand Master of the dark mages guild. Seeing two of the five remaining members of the Circle and the mage who was second in line for the fire mages’ seat all clustered together made a stab of worry cut off Mirk’s breath.

The elderly mage beside his godmother noticed Mirk first. Seigneur Herbert d'Aumont, the Grand Master of Le Phare, the largest and oldest guild in France, its members primarily light mages. Friend and advisor to the King and all his closest councilors, though he wasn't exactly a bosom friend of Jean-Luc's. Seigneur d’Aumont locked eyes with Mirk for a second and nodded slightly, before turning to look at Madame Beaumont. She inclined her head slightly in Mirk's direction, narrowing her eyes a fraction to be certain her point got across. Clearing his throat, Seigneur d'Aumont approached, leaning hard on his cane. It had a golden falcon's head, with diamond inset eyes. "Seigneur d'Avignon. I see you have returned."

Something inside Mirk went cold at hearing a man of Seigneur d'Aumont's age and rank call him by the same title as his own. He instantly lowered himself into the deepest bow he could think of that didn't go so far as to count as groveling outright. "Seigneur d'Aumont. I apologize for my absence, sincerely. I didn't know I'd be welcomed back. I thought...well. I thought all was lost."

Thankfully, Seigneur Feulaine soon came to his rescue, approaching as well with Seigneur Rouzet in tow. "You're always welcome here, Mirk. I'm glad to see you're well."

"More than well, I'd say," Seigneur Rouzet said, smirking. He wasn't looking at Mirk. Instead, he was staring off over his head, at Genesis.

To Mirk's relief, the other two members of the Circle ignored Seigneur Rouzet. And he didn't seem to mind one bit that the others snubbed him, strolling over to take a closer look at Genesis instead. Although Mirk felt anxious leaving Genesis to fend for himself, he had to trust the commander. He couldn't pay attention to two conversations at once. Not when the one he was bound to have with the other two seigneurs was so important.

"I’m glad to see you’re well too, Seigneur Feulaine," Mirk said, bowing to him. Almost as low as he had to Seigneur d'Aumont, but not quite. The guildmaster wouldn't feel snubbed, Mirk knew. Seigneur Feulaine understood as well as anyone else how things were. Rank counted more than friendship, at least when it came to being polite. "I met Mademoiselle on the way in."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Seigneur Feulaine still chuckled and shook his head. "Thank you for accompanying her. Since Laurent..." he trailed off then, his smile fading. An obvious tell as to what the subject of conversation among them had been before Mirk had arrived.

All business, as always, Seigneur d'Aumont took over seamlessly. "We have been told by Madame Beaumont that you have some business with the Circle."

For just a moment, Mirk glanced Madame Beaumont's way. She was stone faced, but her eyes were gleaming, focused and filled with the same fire of vengeance Mirk had seen in them when they'd last spoke of what had happened to the rest of his family. If anything, it might have been burning even more brightly then, after seeing firsthand what condition Henri and the children were in. "Would you prefer to speak about the matter in private, Seigneur d'Aumont?"

"No need," Seigneur d’Aumont replied, shaking his head and leaning harder on his cane. "As Seigneur Montigny won't be attending this evening, nothing can be settled here. Though I'm sympathetic to your plight, Seigneur d'Avignon, there are certain procedural matters that need to be observed when leveling this kind of accusation against a member of the Circle. A more thorough investigation will be done, of course. But I don't think there's any need for public discussion at this time. Especially as the Comte and Marquise are both absent as well."

"Of course, Seigneur d'Aumont," Mirk said with another, less deferential bow, trying to ignore the way he could feel his cheeks burning. And the way he could feel Madame Beaumont's stare boring into him. "If you would like for me to give an account..."

Seigneur d'Aumont shook his head again. "Madame Beaumont has given us some indication of the gravity of the situation. I believe rehashing it at this time would only serve to inflame passions further. You can speak on the subject at the next meeting of the Circle."

Mirk wavered. Part of him knew that he should press the matter. He had a responsibility to his grandfather, to his mother, to his uncle and cousins out of sight upstairs to ensure that justice was done. But that voice wasn't strong enough to overcome the one that was clamoring at him to submit. That insisted there was no use in standing against a man of Seigneur d'Aumont's reputation when it was already so clear that he'd made up his mind. At least, not openly.

As Mirk bowed again, to buy time as he groped for a response, a different voice began to mutter in the back of his mind. It was the voice that always had a cynical remark to make about the way the Seventh and the djinn were treated, the one that balked at the minor slights given to the healers of the Twentieth by the high-born healers of the Tenth. The one that knew the right way to do things was hardly ever the most effective. And the one that knew full well what men like Genesis did in the dead of night and, knowing by now the strange contours of the commander's foreign and bloody beliefs, slept all the better for it.

For the most part, Mirk tried not to listen to its demands, its cunning suggestions about how things could be made better. But if ever there was a time to lend an ear to its counsel instead of insisting on honest and forthright methods, Mirk was sure it had to be then. Mirk fixed a grateful smile on his face that was at odds with the discomfort weighing on his chest as he righted himself. "Of course, seigneur. You have much more experience in handling these things than I do. I'm grateful you're willing to listen. I don't mean to press, but do you know when the Circle will be meeting next? It's only that travel can wear on me. And I need to make preparations to be away from my work here."

Seigneur d'Aumont, Mirk knew, wasn't an empath. Nor was Madame Beaumont fuming beside him, nor was Seigneur Feulaine, whose uncertainty was as plain to be read on his face as it was to be felt, despite how he kept his mind clouded with his magic in the same way that most noble mages did. But Seigneur d’Aumont had to be an expert at reading all the subtleties of another's body, all the minor tells, accustomed to scanning for minor slights and signs of disobedience. Though the head of Le Phare wasn't using his magic on him, Mirk could feel his ordered light magic stray away from him as he scanned Mirk for signs of discomfort, ones he most likely thought ought to be there, considering the way that Madame Beaumont had reacted to his verdict. Mirk made sure there was none. He let his instinctive reactions guide his body, the parts of him trained over years of service at the abbey and at his mother's heels to be agreeable and yielding, while he allowed the cunning voice to guide his mind.

His instincts provided good enough cover for the rest of him. Seigneur d'Aumont nodded, his posture relaxing a hair as he allowed himself to transfer even more of his weight to his cane. He'd judged Mirk a nobody. Nothing like Jean-Luc, nothing like Madam Beaumont or his mother. Nothing to be worried about, not a person he needed to scrupulously uphold a powerful and noble bearing in front of. Blood could only carry one so far, even in a world like the one Mirk thought he'd left behind, where one's family line held more power than one's magical potential. "The Circle will be holding its autumn public meeting at the Paris Forum at the end of October. I will send along a formal invitation in due time. And the Circle will be willing to provide teleportation for you, considering your situation. Are you planning on staying here with Madame Beaumont?"

It was Mirk's turn to shake his head. "Oh, no. It wouldn't be right of me to impose on her when I have no means to return the favor. My family and I will be staying in the City of Glass until this is all settled."

Seigneur d'Aumont's eyebrows raised slightly, as Mirk saw his gaze shift off to his right. Where Genesis had to be standing, no doubt. From the way the seigneur's lips pursed, Mirk could assume that whatever the commander was doing with Seigneur Rouzet made him suspicious. But it wasn't bad enough to spur him into intervening. "Ah. I was aware that your family had sought out assistance from some party in the past in matters of defense. I thought it was Black Banner."

Mirk shrugged. "I live to serve, Seigneur d'Aumont. And God always guides us to where there's the most need, doesn't He? For the time being, I can do the most good with the K'maneda."

The seigneur's eyebrows raised even further. "You are...employed by them?"

"Employed might not be the best word, seigneur. It's more like...hmm. A calling. There are always dozens of mages with healing potential ready to serve at the guild and Church hospitals, aren't there? Almost no one wants to help the K'maneda. Not that I blame anyone, given their reputation. But we can't control where God calls us to, can we? And it'd be wrong to ignore a calling."

"I suppose you have a point," Seigneur d'Aumont murmured, his brow furrowing. "Nevertheless. I will write to you there."

Again, Mirk bowed. "Thank you very much for your consideration, seigneur."

Seigneur d'Aumont turned his attention back to Madame Beaumont as the string quartet in the corner began to play the first song of the evening, dismissing Mirk. "If you'd be so kind as to direct me to the card room, Madame? I'd prefer to leave the dancing to the youth."

Madame Beaumont was still seething, Mirk could tell. He decided to step in before she could say something cross to Seigneur d'Aumont on his behalf. Using just enough potential to be certain he could cut through the bubbling emotions of the other mages in the ballroom, Mirk projected a spark of reassurance to her. Hopefully all his time spent at the infirmary over the past months, communicating his concerns and impressions to Yule and Danu by feel rather than aloud to keep from worrying their patients, would pay off.

It did. Madame Beaumont glanced Mirk’s way only for a second, and she didn't let her surprise at the touch of his mind show on her face. That or she was still so annoyed by the situation that no amount of empathy could dispel the worst of her ill humor. She pursed her lips and gave a grudging, slight curtsey to Seigneur d'Aumont before heading off with him in the direction of the card room, through a small door off to their right, opposite where the quartet was now playing.

The departure of Seigneur d'Aumont and his godmother left an opening, finally, for Seigneur Feulaine to say his piece. The instant they left, Seigneur Feulaine drew closer, reaching out and placing a reassuring hand on Mirk's shoulder, just for a moment. "I'm sorry about all of that," he said, withdrawing his hand and absentmindedly running it pack through his thick chestnut hair, disturbing the style it had meticulously been coaxed into with pomade. "I don't know what he's thinking. He probably just doesn't want to cross Serge. Not that I can blame him. The man has a horrible temper. I've been on the wrong side of it enough times to know."

"It'll be all right, Seigneur Feulaine," Mirk said, smiling up at him. "I'm sure you'll do your best when the time comes."

Seigneur Feulaine sighed, frowning down at the pomade streaked across his hand. "You can call me Antoine, Mirk. I don't mind. We're...well, you're no better than me now, anyway. I'm so sorry for your loss. Serge really is terrible."

Mirk could tell by the dark look that came onto Seigneur Feulaine's face at the mention of Serge Montigny that he truly meant the insult, without reservations. Which didn't come as a surprise, all things considered. If Serge Montigny had been willing to do something so awful to his own family, which posed no immediate threat to him, given his grandfather's disinterest in becoming the Grand Master of any of the guilds, there was no telling what he could do to someone who would challenge him openly.

Though, now that Mirk thought of that, it did help to explain Seigneur Feulaine's worry. If Serge got away with what he'd done to the d'Avignons, it was practically an invitation for him to do the same to whoever he chose as his next target. Mirk let his facade fall some, letting his own worry seep through. "I'm sure there's nothing to worry about," he said. "Yvette is so excited about things with Laurent. She couldn't stop talking about it. I'm sure Serge wouldn't do something to upset one of his own. Even if Laurent isn't his favorite."

"You're probably right," Seigneur Feulaine said, as he took out his handkerchief and scrubbed the pomade off his hand. "Still. It doesn't reflect well on any of us, letting someone get away with doing something so awful. And there's no doubt in my mind that he did it, no matter what the rest say about evidence. Not that I don't trust either Madame Beaumont or your word," he added, quickly.

Mirk shrugged. "God provides."

Seigneur Feulaine's expression grew a bit troubled. "But He also helps those who help themselves, you know."

"Of course. I'm not going to do nothing," Mirk said, fixing a smile on his face that was three times more confident than the way he felt.

Though Seigneur Feulaine looked like he wanted to question Mirk on what exactly it was that he intended to do, he was distracted by something behind Mirk. Two somethings, Mirk realized, when he turned to look. One of them was Yvette careening across ballroom with her first partner of the evening, Denis Rochefort, who was looking a bit green about the edges due to being hurled around so vigorously while Yvette chattered away at him.

The other had to be Genesis. Seigneur Rouzet was still trying to have a conversation with him, despite the commander's clear disinclination to humor him. Disinclination that was signaled to any observant onlooker by the way that the shadow Genesis's tall, slender form cast on the dance floor was growing unnaturally thick and dark. "I think it might be best if you did something more immediately about your friend. I'm not familiar with the K'maneda's customs but, well...even though I'm sure we've all wished Lazare would keep to himself a bit more at times..."

Mirk laughed a little. "You're probably right, seigneur. Though no one here has anything to worry about from Genesis. I promise, he looks more imposing than he really is."

"If you say so..." Yvette drew the seigneur's attention again as the first song of the night began to wind down and Yvette spun Denis extra hard in time with its last crescendos. Seigneur Feulaine winced, cramming his handkerchief back in his pocket and straightening his justacorps. "If you'll excuse me, I think it'd be best if I took the next dance with my daughter."

"Thank you for your kind words, seigneur," Mirk said, bowing to him. Though only slightly, in consideration of his insistence that he and Mirk were equal now, a thought that troubled Mirk more than it reassured him. It was difficult for him to think of himself as the equal to anyone at the ball besides those he’d grown up with. "I'll keep them in mind."

As Seigneur Feulaine rushed off to intercept Yvette before she could cajole Denis into dancing the next number with her as well, Mirk turned all of his attention back to Genesis. He was in luck. Seigneur Rouzet, though he still seemed fascinated by the oddity that was Genesis, had been presented with a much more appealing target for his prodding. Lizette Delacourt, the daughter of another man high up in the dark mages guild, an enticing prospect for an unmarried man. Though she was pretending to only be half interested, Mirk could tell that the door was wide open for Seigneur Rouzet to sweep in and claim her hand for the next number. It was the swaying of her lace fan at her neck, the way she was allowing her magic to pool about herself in a way that made her shadow lean a bit closer to where Seigneur Rouzet was interrogating Genesis at the edge of the dance floor. Seigneur Rouzet gave a slight, ironic bow and hurried off. Genesis didn't return the gesture.

Again, Mirk switched back to English, half to lessen the chances of being overheard and half to put Genesis in a better mood. "Messire? I hope Seigneur Rouzet didn't trouble you too much..."

Despite the fact that Seigneur Rouzet had left, Genesis was still bristling. It was in the way he kept adjusting the cuffs of his uniform coat, dissatisfied by how much of his pale and slender wrists they left bare. A tell as evident as Mademoiselle Delacourt's fan, but with a much more sinister bent, provided one knew what the commander was capable of. "He is an...idiot."

"Oh, of course. In comparison to you, most people are," Mirk said, still smiling despite Genesis's sourness. For some reason, it was a relief speaking with him again, even when compared to the friendly concern that Seigneur Feulaine had shown him. There was no double-meaning to Genesis's words, no hesitation in them. He said what he meant, always, with that unflinching exactness that comforted Mirk, in an odd way. "What did he ask you about?"

"He knows of certain commanders who had...previously been employed by the English guilds." Genesis gave up on his cuffs, clenching his fists at his sides again. "He appeared to be...very interested in their personal lives."

Mirk chuckled. "Well, then he must not have been able to get much gossip out of you."

"I fail to see the...relevance of who that lot are...passing their evenings with," Genesis said, confirming Mirk's suspicion.

"No, I don't think you would. That's probably for the best, though, messire. He's not a very nice man, or so I've heard."

Genesis paused before continuing, scanning the edges of the ballroom above Mirk's head for a time before fixing his attention back down on him. "You do not seem...displeased by your conversation with the rest. Will they be...dealing with Montigny?"

Mirk shook his head. "Not right away, no."

His words drew a deeper frown onto Genesis's face. "You said that was the...purpose of this event."

"Sometimes you can't do things the direct way," Mirk said with a shrug. "Really, I should have known that Seigneur d'Aumont wouldn't be ready to drop everything and call on Serge. But there's still plenty I can do to help."

"I...do not understand. Your...relation appeared...adamant that you insist that he be dealt with."

Mirk flashed Genesis a reassuring smile. It only seemed to puzzle the commander further. "Oh, yes, I imagine that Madame Beaumont had quite a few choice words to say to Seigneur d'Aumont. And will have some to say to me too, maybe. It's...hmm. Madame Beaumont is a very forceful person. A lot like you, really. You're used to getting your way from people. Or fighting them for it, if you think you're in the right."

"This is the sensible course of action."

"For both of you, maybe. But not for me. I'm afraid I'm not nearly as forceful. What is it you're always saying, messire...you can't be anything other than what you are?"

Genesis nodded, slightly.

"Then all I can do is be what I am," Mirk said. "I'm not good at making demands. But I am good at listening. And when you listen to other people well, they'll listen to you too."

"I see…"

The discussion wasn't getting him anywhere, Mirk knew. Just like the inevitable one that he'd be having with Madame Beaumont, once she returned from the card room, wouldn't get him very far either. What was more important at the moment was that he began to implement his plan, such as it was. It would take time, and patience, and a good deal of dancing. And that he did something to set Genesis more at ease, before his crossness over being waylaid by Seigneur Rouzet made even more work for him. "It's not important, Genesis. But I am taking care of things. Anyway, since we're here, methinks I know something you can do. Unless you feel like dancing with any of the ladies?" Mirk asked, gesturing off at the dance floor behind the commander.

Genesis couldn't keep from twitching at the mere thought of it. "...no."

"Then why don't you go have a talk with Monsieur Am-Hazek? He'll be busy, but I'm sure he'll be able to spare a minute. I had a talk with him the other day that should interest you. He was a majinn, you know. Before he came to Earth. He said he read about what happened the last time the K'maneda was involved on his realm. Talking about that seems like something you’d enjoy more than dancing, methinks."

It was as if all the rest of the ballroom had suddenly disappeared for Genesis. His eyes focused and the unsatisfactory cut of his dress uniform immediately ceased to be a matter of concern. Mirk couldn't keep himself from smiling at it. "A...majinn?”

"He should be somewhere in the back of the house overseeing dinner preparations, methinks. I'm sure you'll be able to find him."

Mirk didn't have to make the offer more than once. Without pause or a word of thanks, Genesis was off, stalking to the edge of the ballroom, from which he'd inevitably sort out the way to the kitchens. Mirk looked after him for a moment, admiring the way that the passed-over men clustered along the fringes of the room stepped aside to make way for him, instinctively, without ever looking Genesis's way.

People in the City of Glass tended to do that as well, Mirk had noticed. He didn't know whether others could sense Genesis's magic as well as he could, or if, in the City of Glass, at least, it was a matter of Genesis's reputation speaking for him. Instead of being repulsed by Genesis's strange, chaotic aura, Mirk found himself drawn to the commander. Even among the other black-clad denizens of the City, Genesis was one of a kind. And rather than taking that as a sign to stay away, it made Mirk want to lean in and study him more. Just like his new uniform did, for some unknowable reason.

Sighing, Mirk turned back around to face the dance floor, his eyes skipping over the partners twirling across it. There were enough familiar faces there among the rest for his plan to at least stand a chance of working, he thought. Now that he was alone at the edge of the floor, more of the ladies he was familiar with from earlier seasons were sizing him up, along with fewer of the men. Even if only the ladies were willing to engage him, Mirk thought it might be enough. He'd spent nearly half a decade at his mother's side, after all. He knew how women talked. And what an impression they could make on their husbands and fiancees, provided they were moved deeply.

Fixing a smile on his face and folding his hands behind his back, Mirk settled in to wait for the song to change.