"Well? What do you think?"

Genesis glanced up from his book, just for a moment. Then he frowned and turned a page. "You look as if you are going to a...social gathering of the mage nobility."

Mirk laughed, smoothing his hands down the front of his justacorps. "That's very direct of you, messire."

"You asked my opinion. I gave it."

He'd commissioned that suit at the same time as the one he'd worn to Madame Beaumont's ball, but it’d taken longer to arrive, owing to his request for a specific color and style of embroidery that weren't quite fashionable anymore. Sapphire blue silk, with silver stitching in the shape of vines and lilies and buttons to match. Mirk had felt guilty for ordering something so extravagant. But it wasn't just for himself, not exactly. It was more like a replacement for the grave his mother would never have.

The suit wasn't the exact same color as his mother's favorite dress, the one she'd sewn herself and wore when she was at her lowest, when she needed to bolster her spirits and carry on with head held high. But it was close enough for Mirk to feel a little better wearing it. As if she was with him still. She would have been elated to hear of him being invited to visit the Circle, despite the grimness of the circumstances that necessitated it. He tried to cling to that idea, that image in his mind, of her eyes, dark and flashing, and her wry grin. It was a lot more encouraging than Genesis's dismissive response, in any case. Though Mirk couldn't really blame him for being in a mood.

"Are you sure the spell will still work? I did have to use a lot of potential..."

Genesis turned his book upside-down, setting it aside on the bed. It was late morning, well past the time that the commander ordinarily would have been up and about, ghosting around the City and seeing to whatever tasks filled his overlong days. But he'd dragged himself into the infirmary in shambles around dinner last night, just after Mirk had started grinding a fresh batch of components for the fertility potion. All of Genesis’s ribs had been broken and his left leg had been hacked open down to the bone in several places.

The mage dressed all in red had been the one behind it, the same archer that had shot the Destroyer's arrow through Elijah Oliver's chest. As they'd all been expecting, the noble commanders had caved to necessity and summoned Genesis to get rid of the mage, lest the Third lose any more of its top mages. In his panic, Mirk had forgotten all about his appointment to break the bindings on the Montignys and had sunk the lion's share of his healing potential into putting Genesis back together again. The commander hadn't been lucid enough to remind him of his obligations until it'd been too late.

"This manner of binding is not responsive to force. It is a matter of...technique. That is why the nobles were incapable of breaking it themselves, presumably." Genesis slid one hand under the mound of pillows he was propped up against, pulling out a sheet of mage parchment that Mirk hadn't seen him tuck away there to begin with. A trick of the shadows, maybe. He leaned forward and offered it to Mirk, a corner of his mouth twitching in response to a flare of pain that skittered across his shields, sharp, but not strong enough to really sink in.

"You will stay in bed, won't you?" Mirk asked, as he took the parchment. That was the only reason why Genesis still wasn't locked up in the infirmary: Mirk had gotten some of the Easterners to carry him back to their quarters in exchange for Genesis's agreement that he'd stay in bed for at least two days, and do his best to eat the meal trays that were brought up and left outside the door. All things considered, Mirk thought the commander would do better healing in his own quarters, where he wasn't likely to be intruded upon by delirious patients that'd escaped the long-term ward or nosy aides. If, and only if, he actually listened for once and stayed put instead of pushing himself to recover faster than even a person with his inhuman anatomy could.

Genesis didn't respond. But Mirk refused to look away from him and consider the spell written on the parchment until Genesis gave a slight, grudging nod. Mirk returned it with a smile, scanning the notes Genesis had made for him. Mirk didn't understand at all what the meticulous list of gestures and Latin invocations were supposed to do. It all read like gibberish to him, words that made no sense juxtaposed with certain runes he was meant to trace over the Montigny men with the end of his staff. "Euh...methinks I won't be able to memorize this in time..."

"That is not necessary. I trust you can...put on enough of a show for it to be irrelevant."

"Is my Latin that bad?" Mirk mumbled to himself, reading the words over again. "I thought that was supposed to take the acc...euh...or was it the gena...hmm..."

"The words are meaningless in themselves. You would not be able to pronounce them in c'ayetnak. Thus the Latin."

Sighing, Mirk folded the paper in half and slipped it into his breast pocket. It'd give him something to focus on while he recovered from being teleported, though he doubted he'd be able to make much sense of it with his head pounding and his stomach in knots.

"Have you thought about what I told you about Elijah?" Mirk asked, double-checking his buttons one last time.

Genesis settled back against the pillows — a concession to his unwillingness to spend time flat on his back and unproductive, even if it would have been better for his healing ribs — staring off at the far wall of the bedroom rather than meeting Mirk's eyes. "I have…concerns."

"Bien sûr. It is a little strange. But I looked at his mind as best I could without being rude. There wasn't anything there. He really only seems to be interested in magic."

"Magic for what purpose?"

"Do you learn all the magic you can just for the sake of politics?" Mirk asked. "Methinks you two might be more alike than you think, messire. He made the guilds angry enough for them to take away his permit to practice magic. And if what you say about them is true, they only do that to people who want everyone to be able to study."

"Or he did something...truly heinous."

Mirk shook his head, picking up his grandfather's staff from where he'd left it leaning against the dresser. He really should have polished it last night, but he didn't even know what wax was best to use. Genesis surely would have, but he'd been in no condition to occupy himself with instructions on how to properly clean things. "I know you have good reasons to be careful most of the time, but, really, methinks you might be overdoing it. He felt as honest as Niv does. And don't you think I'm a good judge of character?"

Genesis seemed unconvinced. If anything, Mirk's comparison of Elijah to K'aekniv only deepened his suspicion. "You...seem to accept everyone...without reservations."

"Just because I'm polite to people doesn't mean I agree with them. Or even like them all. It's about getting along. You, euh..."

"Don't. Get along. As you say," Genesis said, flatly. Something about the notion upset him, Mirk thought. Genesis's face had taken on that certain blankness that always arose whenever he was struggling with some emotion, though it was impossible for Mirk to tell what it was.

"I'm not saying you should trust everyone. Even I'm not like that. But it wouldn't hurt to have a few more friends, non? Not all friends agree on everything all of the time. We all have to compromise sometimes to get anything done."

"A man who would...assist Ravensdale in exchange for something as trivial as grimoires is making too great of a compromise."

Mirk mulled this over, adjusting the falls of lace at his wrists. He knew they weren't completely even, and no amount of fussing on his part would fix it, but it was something to occupy himself with other than the fact that something about writing Elijah off entirely didn't sit well with him. "I don't think Elijah understood what he was getting into. And methinks now that he does, at least a little...he'd rather not think about it than try to fix what he did. Maybe he doesn't think he can do anything to change things."

"Willful ignorance is...worse than plain ignorance."

Mirk nodded. "But most people try to avoid pain. I know what it feels like, Genesis. To see things that are wrong but feel like you can't do anything. Like...you're too small. Methinks it might be hard for you to understand, since you've always had no choice other than to try. But not everyone is as strong as you are."

"Flattery...will get you further with the nobles than me." Although Genesis's words were harsh, Mirk could tell he was getting somewhere — the commander's frown had deepened again, and he was rearranging his meticulous piles of blankets for the third or fourth time. "A...compromise, then. If you wish for me to speak with him, tell him that he must let you look into his mind. If his intentions are as innocent as you assume, he should have nothing to hide."

Mirk had been worried Genesis would make that sort of demand. "It's not very nice to do that, you know."

"As I said. It should not matter if he has nothing to hide."

"I won't do it against his will-"

"I didn’t say you should."

"-but I will ask him if he'll let me look. Is that fair?"

Genesis picked his book up once more, dismissing Mirk with a wave of his hand. "Then the plot is in your hands. So to speak."

"I'll ask him about it soon. Anyway, I'd best be going. The carriage from the Circle will be here soon." Again, Mirk paused to check his outfit, to reassure himself that he'd tucked everything important away in one of his vest or justacorps pockets. He always felt a little out of sorts without his bag, but arriving at a meeting of the Circle, even a private one, with a blood-stained healer's bag slung over his shoulder wouldn't make a very good impression. "Please try to rest a little? I know you don't like being idle, but thinking too hard all day isn't going to help you get back to work any sooner. And try to eat at least a little of what gets brought to you for lunch."

Genesis didn't lift his attention from his book. "You'd be better advised to...concern yourself with the nobles rather than me."

Sighing, Mirk turned on his heel and left, shutting the bedroom door behind himself as he went. Compared to dealing with Genesis when he was in a mood, handling the members of the Circle was bound to be a piece of cake.

- - -

"Ah! You both look lovely..."

Kali glowered at Mirk, her arms folded tightly over her chest, as if the gesture could hide the ruffled black shirt she'd been forced into wearing underneath the close-tailored coat that went over the long, gathered black dress of the women's uniform. "This isn't a uniform. You don't wear a damn corset when you're going to fight someone."

"Think of it like a cuirass," Mirk said, trying to reassure her. "It's extra padding, non?"

"I can't breathe!" Kali snapped back.

"If you calmed down and centered yourself, it wouldn't be a problem," Catherine said. Whereas her sister looked out-of-place and miserable in the uniform, Catherine looked composed and graceful, having gone so far as to add ebony hair pins to the ensemble along with a matching brooch to make the uniform a little less drab. It was another way that Catherine took after her mother, Mirk supposed — they looked very much alike, with the same fine features, slender frame, pale, unblemished skin and controlled, proper movements. Mirk thought he should make it a point to seek out Comrade Commander Casyn sometime. If he was small and pale too, he'd really have no choice but to wonder where Kali came from.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Comrade Catherine," Mirk said to her, with a friendly, easy bow. Much like her mother had, Catherine responded in kind with a curtsey of matching casualness. "Thank you both for coming with me today. Especially you, seeing as how we've never met."

Catherine smiled. Hers was wider, more heartfelt than her mother's had been. "Oh, no, thank you, seigneur. I've always wanted to travel abroad more. And I'm very interested to see what the French mages are like. We don't get to mingle much, considering how the mortals are always at odds."

"I hope we don't disappoint," Mirk said. "I'm afraid there won't be much for you both to do besides stand and listen."

"Typical women's role," Kali grumbled under her breath.

Mirk chose to pretend that he hadn't heard her, instead gesturing for them both to follow along after him. The carriage that was to take them to Mademoiselle Polignac's chateau would be arriving in one of the small lanes that branched off the main street leading out into the mage quarter of London beyond the East Gate of the City of Glass. Out of sight, out of mind. Carriages with the ability to teleport were a real rarity, owned only by the guilds or a few rare nobles who had enough gold to own one for personal use. It'd be better if no one caught sight of him hopping into one with a pair of commanders' daughters in tow. There was enough troubling gossip about him floating around at the infirmary already.

Mirk poked his head around the corner and glanced down the lane. The carriage was already there waiting for them, Seigneur d’Aumont's personal djinn, Er-Izat, standing beside it, glancing at a pocket watch. At least the carriage had the Circle's colors on it rather than Seigneur d'Aumont's. Inconveniencing the Circle with tardiness was one thing, but holding up a Grand Master's personal carriage was another. That and, though Mirk didn't like to think of it, he felt vaguely uncomfortable with the notion of riding in Seigneur d'Aumont's carriage, considering the suspicions about the Grand Master that their conversation with Am-Hazek and Am-Gulat had revealed. Mirk hurried down the lane to meet Er-Izat, his staff clacking against the cobbles.

"Monsieur Er-Izat? Are we late? I'm terribly sorry..."

The djinn turned to look at him, replacing his watch, flashing him a tight-lipped smile. "Of course not, seigneur. We make it a habit to be early."

Mirk laughed, awkwardly. Though he tried not to stare too much, Mirk studied the djinn's collar as best he could, comparing it with the ones that he'd seen on Am-Gulat. Er-Izat's collar was heavier than the standard, but it was gleaming silver rather than black, intricately carved to match the embroidery on his coat. And the skin around it showed no sign of irritation. If the magic inside it was potent and biting, Er-Izat either rarely did anything to aggravate it, or had learned from experience that the consequences of struggling weren't worth whatever reward might come of it. The thought was discomforting. "Oh, yes...right..."

Er-Izat opened the door of the carriage, stepping aside with a deferential bow. Mirk ushered Kali and Catherine in first, then grabbed hold of the handle beside the carriage's door and hauled himself up, sitting down on the bench across from them inside the cramped space. Kali had unclipped her sword from the belt around her waist and held it across her lap, fiddling with it. She seemed wary, though Mirk couldn't sense why. "Is everything alright, Kali?" he asked her, mirroring her pose, albeit with his grandfather’s staff rather than a sword in its scabbard.

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"Fine."

"I've never been in a teleporting carriage," Catherine commented, looking around with interest. The interior wasn't richly appointed, but it wasn't plain either — the windows had velvet curtains hung beside them that could be drawn for extra privacy, and the seats were covered in black leather rather than being bare wood. "It's interesting. If I try, I can feel the magical potential..."

Mirk shrugged. "I've never been in one either. But...um. Methinks it's not going to be good."

"What do you mean?" Kali asked, shoulders tensing.

"Ah...well...teleportation spells tend to make me ill...and I haven't been put through one in a while, especially one that'll take us so far..."

Catherine leaned forward on the bench. "Is there anything I can do?"

Mirk shook his head. "I'll manage. Though, maybe talking would help a bit. After the jump, though." The carriage had begun to move, with the crack of a whip from outside. Mirk gripped his staff tightly in his lap, closing his eyes and bracing himself.

The carriage didn't so much as shudder as the teleportation spell on it engaged. He doubted either Kali or Catherine noticed the jump, unless they were feeling for it. But it hit Mirk like a punch to the sternum, bile rising up in his throat, head instantly beginning to throb. He gagged and hunched over, trying his best to keep his breathing even through his nose as he waited for the worst of the nausea to subside. Once it did, he forced himself upright, blinking rapidly. His vision remained blurred for a few seconds, but eventually the two women across from him came into focus, Catherine concerned and Kali looking puzzled.

"Are you all right?" Catherine asked.

"Yes, fine...fine...it'll be a little while until we make it to Mademoiselle Polignac's, at least. Her chateaux are all very magical, you see, so there's no teleporting to them directly."

"Is she a member of this Circle we're meeting?" Kali asked.

Mirk shook his head, instantly regretting it. It made his vision swim again. "No...she's a close friend of one of the members, though. The Circle started holding its private meetings at her residences because of something that happened a few hundred years ago...grand-père told me about it once, methinks, but I've forgotten about it all. It's not important, I suppose. She's a mélusine and an expert in illusions. Which is why her chateaux are all very safe."

Catherine leaned forward again, this time more intrigued than worried. "A mélusine?"

"Euh...they're from up north...a little like mermaids, I suppose? Only they have wings and two tails instead of just one. They used to be very common there, or so I've been told. But now there are only a few left."

Kali frowned. "Who'd she get married off to?"

"Oh, no one. She's very independent. For as long as grand-père knew her, she made her own way. It's their way of life. And she has enough magic and money of her own not to need to marry, besides."

"Lucky," Kali muttered.

"Is she friends with the man whose carriage this is?" Catherine asked, ignoring her sister’s aside.

Mirk managed to catch himself before shaking his head that time. "It's the Circle's, not any one person's. But she's really only good friends with the Marquise, though her and my grandfather were also closer than she was with the rest. Which only makes sense, really. The Marquise is a water mage, and grand-père was always fond of interesting people."

Kali sighed. "This is getting confusing. Start at the beginning instead of jumping around. Who are these people, and what do they do? Margaret didn't tell us anything other than to be on our best behavior," she added, voice heavy with sarcasm. Catherine frowned at Kali's use of their mother's given name rather than using a more affectionate term, but didn't comment. Mirk imagined that over two decades spent dealing with Kali's intransigence had taught Catherine to pick her battles.

Drawing in a deep breath, Mirk made himself sit up a little straighter. His head and his stomach protested, so he closed his eyes again as he began to explain, in the hopes that it might help him feel better more quickly. "The Circle started as a council that managed relations between the mortal nobility and the magical ones. But it's gotten less formal since then. Now it's mostly a way for all the guilds to coordinate with one another and smooth out their differences, though it's still involved with the mortals too. It has six members, one mage of each element. The head has been Seigneur Herbert d'Aumont since grand-père was invited to join. Seigneur d'Aumont is the Grand Master of the light mages' guild and a close friend to many generations of royal advisors. That's how he met my grandfather and asked him to join. Grand-père was very involved with the mortals."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," Kali said.

"Hmm?"

"If he was anything like you, it makes sense. A lack of pretension and all."

"Ah, well," Mirk shrugged, laughing weakly. "I suppose that does run in the family. Anyway. Seigneur d'Aumont is the head. The second oldest member would be the Comte de Coudrey, he's the Grand Master of the French Guild of Teleporters and sits on the council of the air mages' guild as well. They're both very serious, though the Comte doesn't have much to do with the mortals. Then there's Marquise Bachelot, she's the one who's close with Mademoiselle Polignac. A water mage, though she's not very close to either of the water guilds. She's from an old merchant family in Lyon. They've handled trade between the European mages and the foreign mages around the Mediterranean for ages.

“The other two members are much younger. There's Seigneur Feulaine, who's a close friend of my family. He was just chosen to be the Grand Master of the fire mages guild. Very friendly and easy to get along with. And then there's Seigneur Rouzet. He was a bit...euh...controversial? His father was the Grand Master of the dark mages guild and sat on the Circle of Friends as their representative for a long time. He and Seigneur d'Aumont had a bit of a falling out before Seigneur Rouzet's father passed thirty or so years ago. Which was why he ordered their guild not to send a new representative to the Circle until his son came of age and could take his place. He wanted that to be his memory. And there's the rumors that the Rouzets practice necromancy beside all of that. They have close ties to the demonic houses too, which doesn't sit well with most everyone else."

The roiling in his stomach had calmed as he'd recited what little he knew of the inner workings of the Circle, gossip he'd gleaned from his mother and grandfather and his running correspondence with Madame Beaumont. Mirk blinked his eyes open, relieved that the interior of the carriage was no longer spinning, and that one of the two ladies had been considerate enough to draw the curtains. Catherine was watching him intently, deep in thought. Kali, on the other hand, was fiddling with her sword across her bouncing knees, impatient to arrive at their destination.

"It all sounds very complicated," Catherine said, with an encouraging nod.

"It is. Aside from Seigneur Feulaine, everyone else who sits on the Circle has been, euh, dealing with each other for decades and decades. And I'm sure you both know how noble mages never forget any arguments they've gotten into, even if it happened a long time ago."

"Vividly," Kali said with a snort.

Catherine ignored her. "Will we be expected to take part in anything? Are the manners mostly the same?"

"Yes, for the most part. Methinks they won't ask you much. I don't mean either of you any offense, but you're more, euh...curiosities than anything else. I'm not really sure why they're having me sit in on a private meeting and not just having me take care of the Montignys and be sent home again." Mirk paused, looking down at the staff across his knees. Its wood was warm under his palms, though he wasn't certain whether that was because he'd been gripping it tight to help struggle through his nausea, or if the magic inside it could sense his distress and was trying to comfort him, in its own way.

"That's a good point," Kali said. "We do know how the nobles work. Anyone under a hundred is just some idiot child to them. And what are you? Twenty?"

"Twenty-five in February," Mirk replied.

Catherine had shot her sister a cross look at her interjection. But she smiled as soon as she turned her attention back to Mirk and tried to soften Kali's words a little with friendliness. Another way that she was different from her mother. As much as Kali and Margaret disagreed, they both were the sort of ladies who didn't spare feelings for the sake of appearances. "Is that so? I'll be twenty-five in March. Do the French mages have their debut at that age as well? Though I suppose it's not quite the same for men..."

"You're right. It's not as important for men either in France. But...well. I'm the head of my family, and most men don't become that until they're at least seventy or eighty. Which makes things even more different for me, I suppose."

Catherine nodded, though she picked up on his troubled air, and chose her next words carefully. "A man so young being the head of his family is...ah, attractive."

"But you don't have a mother breathing down your neck, at least," Kali said.

More than anything else, Mirk wished that his mother was beside him on the constantly rocking and jostling bench, rubbing his back and telling him idle bits of gossip and anecdotes about whoever they were going to visit to ease the discomfort he always felt when traveling by carriage. But he did his best to smile through the nausea he could still feel threatening to rise up in his stomach and not make an already tense situation even more troublesome by drawing attention to his private troubles. "Methinks that's not why they want me to stay to speak with them after, though. It's probably this," Mirk said, lifting the staff off his lap for a moment.

"What about it?" Kali asked. "It's a walking stick."

"It's very powerful," Catherine said, unable to keep the edge out of her voice. "You really should pay more attention to things, Kali. If you did, maybe you wouldn't get stabbed so often."

Mirk cut in before the two could start to bicker, shrugging. "It's all right. I make an effort to make it not look like anything special. It's...well. If someone wanted to try to take it from me in the City, I'm sure most people could best me. And I'm not really sure how to use it well. Maybe that's why they want me to look at the Montignys first. To see if I can use it at all."

"Who are the Montignys?" Catherine asked. "That's not one of the families on the Circle, from what you said."

"They were on the Circle, until recently. Serge Montigny was the Grand Master of the fire mages guild before Seigneur Feulaine. But...ah...well, Serge and my grandfather got into a disagreement, and it caused everyone a lot of trouble. A mage from the Empire put a spell on the Montignys because of it. They want me to take it off."

Catherine was sharp enough to hear what Mirk left unsaid, thankfully. She moved the conversation on to another subject before Kali could question Mirk further. He did his best to keep up with the conversation, answering questions and trying to lighten the mood. But it was hard for him to keep track of things, with his attention being pulled in what felt like a dozen directions at once, his worry over whether or not he'd be able to lift the spell on the Montignys warring with Madame Beaumont's instructions to take careful note of every last hint of deception he could get out of Seigneur d'Aumont, all of it overlaid with the constant churning in his stomach due to the carriage's incessant bouncing. When the carriage came to a halt, with the sound of stomping hooves and a barked command from the driver outside, Mirk was relieved enough at finally being still for the rest of it to not seem so awful, if only for a moment.

Then he heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel outside the carriage, and he was scrambling to compose himself, pressing the back of a hand to each of his cheeks in turn. He didn't feel flushed; his nausea and headache had subsided enough that he could manage to draw himself upright and make a proper entrance. Mirk checked his hair one final time, smoothing his hand over half-curls that he hoped looked more artful than bedraggled, and forced a smile onto his face as the door to the carriage opened.

Er-Izat was there again, bowing as he held the door aside. Mirk hopped out, as gracefully as he could considering how tall the carriage stood. It was much warmer on Mademoiselle Polignac's estate than it had been in the City. The illusion spell that concealed her chateau's location from nosy passers-by included alterations to the weather. She preferred to live in a perpetual early summer day rather than enduring the chill and rains of winter.

The chateau itself, straight on ahead from where the carriage had drawn to a halt, was much more fantastical than the ones favored by the other noble mages. It had countless turrets, their tops clad in bronze, and rows of wide windows on every level, the stuff of a children's storybook princess. Which made sense, considering the lady herself was something out of the fairy stories his mother had told him.

Mirk looked back over his shoulder at Catherine and Kali. The sisters had disembarked after him, Catherine wide-eyed and delighted by the change in scenery, while Kali was ignoring it all in favor of sizing up the guards posted on either side of the chateau's double doors. They were dressed in Mademoiselle Polignac's white and gold livery, armed with swords made of either glass or crystal, obviously heavily enchanted. Kali grumbled to herself about the impracticality of it all as she clipped her sword back into place at her waist.

Er-Izat bowed again after shutting the door, gesturing off down the brick pathway that led from the circle in front of the chateau up to its front entrance. "If you will follow me, seigneur, comrades?"

"Yes, of course, monsieur. We're very glad to be here."

Just as he had the last time, Er-Izat looked slightly disarmed by Mirk's use of the title on him. But he recovered fast, nodding and leading them up the path. Mirk studied the djinn's back as he followed Er-Izat, searching for signs of discomfort, the lingering signs of old injuries. There were none. But, again, Mirk was struck by how different his build was compared to that of the other djinn he'd seen, broad and thick rather than lithe and graceful. He'd have to remember to ask Am-Hazek to tell him more about Er-Izat's kinship line.

When they reached the doors, the guards opened them and stood to the side, not giving any of them a second glance. Beyond the doors, Mademoiselle Polignac herself was waiting, wearing a voluminous and extravagant gown, its silk a light seafoam color that matched the inhuman hue of her eyes and that of her diaphanous wings, positioned so low on her back that they almost seemed like no more than an extra layer to her skirts. Mirk wasn’t certain whether she moved on land by magic, her tails concealed by her heaps of petticoats, or if she was able to shapeshift into a more fully human form. She met them at the threshold, bobbing a curtsey before reaching out and taking Mirk by the hand. Though she was smiling, Mirk thought that her eyes had a worried cast to them. But he could feel no emotions from her when they touched skin to skin. Hers was as cold as Genesis’s, though it was surprisingly rough rather than flawlessly smooth.

"Mirk Dishoael d'Avignon," she said, her voice a soft, burbling near-whisper. "I'm glad to see you're well. You look like Jean-Luc when he was younger...it's like seeing a ghost, almost..."

Mirk laughed to hide his embarrassment. He knew he was nothing like Jean-Luc, that he didn't possess a shred of his grandfather's self-assured and confident yet open air. But he still took the compliment with a smile and a half-bow. "I'm pleased to meet you as well, mademoiselle. You're as lovely as the stories."

Her smile took on a rueful cast. "Ah, but you're polite. Jean-Luc never cared to flatter a lady. At least not until he met Enora. Please, walk with me, seigneur. There have been some changes you should know about."

Mirk took her elbow and fell into step beside her, Er-Izat walking ahead of them through the light stonework foyer with high, arching ceilings and down the grand hall that followed it, Catherine and Kali trailing behind. Like the outside of her chateau, the interior was full of illusions, making the space appear grander and larger than it had to be underneath all the magic. Mirk would have liked to have stopped and studied it. But he was finally starting to feel an emotion from the mélusine, fainter than that of a human's, and colored with a sort of polite distance that reminded him of the djinn.

Mademoiselle Polignac was deeply worried.

"What's wrong, mademoiselle? Is it the Montignys?" Mirk asked, keeping his voice low.

She nodded. "They're worse now. Herbert asked that I keep them here with me, to make sure that no one took advantage of them. But someone has. There are more marks on their chests now. And they've all fallen asleep. Caught in their dreams. A specialty of mine, but I can't reach them through the magic that's on them." She paused, her lips pursing. "Herbert is not pleased by it."

She didn't have to explain any further for Mirk to catch the implication in the statement. Seigneur Herbert d'Aumont had never succeeded in negotiating with the Imperial angels for good reason: he was suspicious and domineering toward non-humans. Doubtlessly, the Grand Master suspected that Mademoiselle Polignac was behind the Montignys' worsening condition. Mirk didn't know what reason she could have for wanting to harm the Montignys. But considering how she'd been the one that Jean-Luc had entrusted his journal to, Mirk suspected that Seigneur d'Aumont assumed she was working against the Montignys just like his grandfather had, continuing whatever unknowable grudge had led to his family's passing.

Which made it even more imperative than before that he lift the bindings on the Montignys, lest the mélusine also be consumed by the intrigue that had swelled in the wake of his grandfather's passing.

Mirk squeezed Mademoiselle Polignac's arm, projecting reassurance that was more aspirational than genuine along with the gesture. "It's all right, mademoiselle. I...I've been told that the binding spell isn't as bad as it seems. And I'm sure you had nothing to do with it. The angel that put it on them isn't a pleasant man."

She turned her sad smile on him, an iridescent sheen passing over her eyes for a moment in lieu of her blinking her more human set of eyelids. But she wasn't looking at him, not exactly. She was looking at the staff in his other hand. "I do hope you're right, seigneur. And that the lady favors you as much as she did Jean-Luc. Everyone is waiting for you in the solarium. We've been keeping the men there, to make sure they stay warm."

Ahead of them, Er-Izat had paused before a set of French doors inlaid with a glass mosaic depicting a scene of a mélusine holding court in the middle of a pond, creatures of every possible description ringing the deep blue waters, fixed on her every word. A flicker of gold magic raced around the topmost edge of the djinn's collar. Then he nodded and pulled the doors open. Mademoiselle Polignac released Mirk’s arm and stepped away from him, head lowered, her silvery hair falling over her face and hiding her expression.

"Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d'Avignon," Er-Izat said, bowing low beside the doors. "And his attendants."

Mustering the dregs of his courage and drawing himself up to his full height, Mirk entered the solarium to confront the Circle and the men who'd been struck down in his family’s name.