"Euh...is everything all right? Genesis?"

"I have no complaints."

Mirk straightened out the shoulders of his robes, tapping the magelight on his wrist to make sure he didn't trip over any of the meticulous piles of books crowding out all the free space in the common room of their quarters in the gloom. None of them had been there when he'd stumbled back to the bedroom from the bath twenty minutes ago, Genesis included. He'd been worried Genesis had finally found his constant reminders to take care of himself too burdensome and had pulled one of his usual vanishing acts. Apparently, he'd been worried for nothing.

They had settled into an oddly domestic routine, once Mirk had healed all of Genesis's wounds properly and had given the commander permission to leave bed for anything other than his lengthy spells in the bathroom. When not occupied by either divisional or assassination contracts, Genesis preferred to follow a routine so rigid Mirk could have set his clock by him. The commander always spent exactly five hours in bed, from midnight until five in the morning, though whether or not he actually slept during them was still a mystery to Mirk. After that, it was all grimoires and spell diagrams for sixteen hours straight — or at least Genesis always seemed to be at his desk for the duration, though Mirk came and went, taking a few shifts at the nearly-empty infirmary and seeing to social obligations with his godmother and few of her noble friends. Genesis claimed he left for a few hours each day to "ensure the maintenance of his physical conditioning", whatever that meant. Though he'd also reassured Mirk that it was nothing strenuous enough to pose him any bodily harm. And that it didn't involve the use of his magic.

Aside from that, the only breaks Genesis ever took from his studies were to clean their quarters, take care of his befuddling array of cunning devices — daggers and garrotes and magicked balls of blades Mirk didn't want to know the purpose of — and to take his nightly bath. Always for exactly fifty five minutes, since that was the length required to receive the optimum benefit from all the potions and salts he steeped himself in, according to Genesis. It was odd, but Mirk wasn't about to complain. It suffused their quarters perpetually with the faint smell of lilies and oranges, the scent getting stronger the closer he drew to Genesis. Mirk did his best not to dwell on how much he savored that smell.

Genesis had even been eating, though whether that was out of genuine hunger or a desire to keep Mirk from fussing over him. Which was what he was doing now, picking at the food as he kept reading, perhaps because being distracted throughout the process made it less tedious. It was always the same meal: a perfectly square cut of beef, trimmed of all its fat and mostly raw, along with half a melon and an apple without its peel, each cut into five precise wedges. It hardly seemed like enough to Mirk, but Genesis wasn't as alarmingly thin as he had been when he'd returned from his last bloody contract. It probably had to do with the vast quantities of sugar-filled tea he consumed, with the explanation that he didn't trust even the City's water unless it'd been boiled first.

"Did you go out?" Mirk asked, despite knowing full well that Genesis had, sidestepping through the piles of books to his side to see what he was working on. It was hard to see the script in his grimoire with the aid of nothing but the dim blue-green magelight above the door and the one tied to his wrist, but what little he could make out made Mirk's eyes swim. Some forgotten demonic language, probably, well-suited to cunning and destructive magic.

"You.instructed me to eat. Thus, I needed to procure…adequate provisions."

"You do look better for it, messire."

Genesis finally glanced up from his book, only to frown at him. "I am unconcerned with aesthetics."

Mirk was well aware of that fact. And yet, the part of him that was intent on cataloging all the small details of Genesis's appearance always had some troubling aside to add. At present, it was fixed on how Genesis’s efforts to take regular meals for a change was adding a pleasing smidgen of bulk to his shoulders and backside and calves. "I meant healthier. You were so thin when you came back..."

"I found the food on Tal-Hatha disagreeable. Other...issues aside."

"Did you go to the library too?" Mirk asked, gesturing at the piles of books that had sprung up on the floor while he'd been getting dressed, clustered together like mushrooms after a spell of damp weather.

"I had...set them aside in the Abyss previously for this purpose. It was only a matter of retrieving them."

Mirk knew it'd be better if he didn't ask the question, but his curiosity overcame his better judgment as he scanned the titles of the books piled to Genesis's left. The only ones he could read were in an unfamiliar, scholarly sort of Latin. "What are you working on?"

"The matter of the arrow. At present. Though I am...constrained by not knowing the exact magical properties of the djinn's collars."

Mirk sighed. "Do you have any idea how to learn more about them? I've been working on things from my end, but Monsieur Am-Hazek doesn't have any good ideas either."

"Perhaps...your relation's hypothesis about the...French Grand Master could be worth pursuing. Or Am-Gulat's proposal of investigating this...Erv person."

He'd been worried that Genesis might suggest that. It only served to remind Mirk that he had a letter from Seigneur Feulaine to reply to. Apparently Seigneur d'Aumont had decided Mirk wasn't important enough to correspond with himself, and had delegated the task to its newest member. The Circle would be meeting again at the beginning of March, in advance of the spring social season and the renewal of the Sun King's perpetual casting about for someone to fight with. And Mirk had been invited once again, despite there being no indication that he was either going to be invited to join as a constant member or of the others having chosen someone else to represent the interests of France's Earth mages.

Mirk didn't know what to make of it, and neither did Seigneur Feulaine. Or Madame Beaumont, though Mirk tried not to talk about it much with her. Even the most indirect mention of Seigneur d'Aumont was enough to send her off on a half-hour rant about how glad she was that she'd refused his marriage proposal over a century ago.

"I'll see what else I can learn about Seigneur d'Aumont. Though methinks I won't be able to find out much more until the next meeting of the Circle. And I'll keep listening for this Erv, though I haven't heard anything yet. Maybe you might have better luck?"

The suggestion was intriguing enough to make Genesis put down his book. “Is this a…formal request to return to work?"

Mirk looked Genesis over, lowering his shields and taking stock of the strength of his chaotic aura while he surveyed his body with his eyes. Nothing seemed out of place, though his magic still wasn't strong enough for Mirk's liking. The shadows underneath his worktable remained still rather than eagerly unfurling outwards at the prospects of a fresh challenge. "Methinks maybe it'd be better if you kept resting, messire. But you are going out and doing some exercises already, non?"

"Yes. But none involving magic. As…instructed."

"Then keep doing that. But more, euh, focused. You can use your magic for listening and looking, but not for fighting."

It was hard to tell whether Genesis was disappointed or encouraged by his verdict. But rather than hurrying to put on his coat and leave, Genesis picked up his book once more. "It will...doubtlessly yield less useful results than a full assault. But it is better than doing...nothing."

"Methinks you couldn't do nothing if you tried, Genesis."

The commander waved a dismissive hand at him, going back to his reading and picking at his meal. Mirk left Genesis with a dip of his head and a bevy of well wishes, stepping carefully over the piles of books as he went to the door to collect his cloak and work bag. Neither his nod nor his encouraging words were returned. But Mirk found himself smiling nevertheless.

Then it was down the steps, out the dormitory's double doors, and into the cold. Mirk paused atop the outside steps overlooking the street, looking up to the sullen, cloud-filled sky. Another cloudy day in an endless series of miserable, blustery, cloudy days — ever since England had tumbled headlong into autumn, the sun had been scarce, save for on rare occasions, which were usually marked by brutal cold.

It fit the tone of things. Autumn was when everything had fallen apart for him, when a pall as heavy and featureless as the leaden clouds above had descended upon his life. And just like the weather, it showed no signs of breaking. Perhaps with spring, with the return of warmth and sunshine to the City and England beyond, the same life would return to him. Mirk clung to the thought, to the faint encouragement it brought him, and headed off toward the infirmary.

Mirk was halfway there when he was knocked out of his woolgathering by someone falling into step beside him, the sound of the hard soles of their shoes clacking on the cobbles accompanied by the faint press of their hesitation and dark magic against his mental shielding. He didn't recognize the woman at first. She was wearing the plain, mismatched garb of one of the Supply Corps maids, her face and hair obscured by a long gray shawl. Then she looked over at him, and Mirk realized Comrade Commander Margaret, Kali and Catherine's mother, had joined him on his walk.

Startled, Mirk forgot himself and greeted her like he would have any other noble lady rather than a K'maneda commander, stopping dead in his tracks and dropping into a bow. "Pardonnez-moi, madame, I didn't recognize you...is something wrong? I'm at your service, as always."

Rather than returning his bow, Margaret pulled her shawl lower over her face. "We'll discuss this at the infirmary."

"Of course, ma...euh...Comrade Co—"

"At the present moment, I'd prefer it if you refrained from titles, seigneur."

"Of course, of course. Anything you need, of course."

He had to bite his lip to keep himself from babbling on at her, adjusting his bag on his shoulder as he stepped up his pace. Margaret matched him without any difficulty. Though Mirk didn't allow himself to pry out in the middle of the street, he did lower his shields further to see if he could catch any clue in her emotions that could explain her disguise and sudden appearance. The feel of her hesitation grew stronger, colored by a faint hint of frustration. But without any other context, his empathy wasn't good for anything besides telling Mirk that whatever had brought Margaret to him that morning had put her in a black mood.

They continued on together in strained silence until they reached the infirmary. Mirk held one of the front doors open for her, stepping aside to let her enter before him. He caught himself before he could bow, though he did end up giving her a deep nod as she passed.

"Take me to one of your shielded rooms," she said in a low voice, without looking over at him. "I would prefer that our discussion remains private."

"Bien sûr, madame. Follow me please."

The empty infirmary was a blessing and a curse. It meant that there weren't many people around to spy them walking together up to the second floor. But it also meant that those who were hanging around, the lower-ranking aides and nurses, inevitably spotted them and had to wonder what he was doing taking an uninjured common woman to one of the containment rooms that were usually reserved for mages who were too badly hurt to keep hold of their magic. Thankfully, Mirk recognized none of them other than as passing acquaintances, and no one called out any greetings to him or stopped to question him.

Mirk had come back to his senses a little more by the time they made it to second — he didn't hold the room door open for her, instead going in ahead of her and waiting inside to close it behind her. He let out a deep sigh of relief as he engaged both the physical locks on it and the room's shields against prying magic.

"No one will bother us here, Comrade Commander," Mirk said as he turned back to face her. Margaret was a woman on a mission; she knew exactly what she was after, though she hadn't yet shared that information with him. Rather than vacillating in the middle of the room, she went straight to the exam table, climbing up onto it as gracefully as possible, given the circumstances, and pulling her shawl down to her shoulders. Her expression was cold, a touch distant. "What can I do to help? Is something wrong?"

Margaret hesitated before answering, her expression hardening further. "I have heard rumors from the lower-born ladies in my division that you are something of an expert in women's matters. Is this true?"

He did his best to hide his apprehension behind a polite smile. "Methinks I'm not an expert, Comrade Commander, but they've been training me on them now that the winter contracts are over."

It had all started after the incident with Alice, and it'd been troubling Mirk for a number of reasons. Cyrus had coldly informed him that if he was going to be making it his business to rescue every woman who showed up on the infirmary's front steps, the least he could do was spend his energy on worthy women rather than whores. In the spare moments of calm they'd had since then, Mirk had been pulled away from his usual work with Yule and Danu to be trained on "women's matters", the politely vague term used around the infirmary to discuss pregnancy and childbirth.

The most senior of the healers he'd been working with, a graying and businesslike man named William who had to be nearly three centuries old, told him that it was fortunate Mirk had been sent to them when he had. As everyone kept saying, there was no healing to be done in the infirmary during the weeks leading up to the Festival of Shades other than the occasional messy assassin case and babies.

Babies, it turned out, were a messy, painful business. Even worse than the assassins, in many respects. Mirk wasn't permitted yet to use his magic on any of the women he'd helped see to — all officers' wives, as the wives of low-born soldiers and the Supply Corps women were left to fend for themselves among the midwives of London. But he'd spent a great deal of time holding hands, projecting reassurance, and observing. What he'd seen thus far hadn't exactly reassured him about the promise of the new field of man-midwifery.

His concern for the ladies and his constant hand-holding had only earned him eye-rolls and sighs from the other healers who handled women's matters, though the men were all too aware of his social position to openly scold him about his sentimentality. It'd come as a surprise to Mirk that all the healers who dealt with women's matters at the infirmary were men. He knew very little about how that sort of thing was handled in other places, but his mother had never said anything about man-midwives. Nor had any man been permitted to enter the room of a laboring woman when he'd been at the abbey, including the priests, though they were always called on in advance of difficult labors. They were scolded out of the way until the very last moment, until one of the sweat and blood streaked midwives called Father Jean in to either administer the final sacrament or a first blessing.

The rough and dismissive way that the man-midwives handled their patients shocked Mirk even more than the fact that they were men. While all the healers were always on pain blockers during labor, the screaming and writhing women weren't allowed so much as a drop. The most modern theories regarding the influence of a mother's magic on her child dictated that putting any magical barrier between them could result in a lower transference of magical potential, William had informed him. Thus, potions of all kinds were forbidden. Instead, the women’s arms and shoulders were strapped down to the birthing tables to make things easier on the healers, and they were encouraged all the while to keep a cheerful attitude as they bore up under the pain for the good of English magecraft.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

It horrified Mirk. But he didn't have a high enough rank among the infirmary healers to do anything about it. Other than hold hands and pray as he tried to think of a better way to handle things.

"Regardless. I would prefer to discuss the matter with you first," Margaret said, drawing Mirk back to the present.

"Euh...and what would that matter be, Comrade Commander?"

Margaret's expression remained distant and cold. "My husband is lacking a son. I'm certain you know well enough how this business goes."

Mirk sighed as he went to her side, setting his bag down on the nearby supply cabinet. He did know plenty well how "that business" went, at least at home. A noble lady with magical potential had much more latitude than a mortal noblewoman, and magically gifted daughters were far from useless, but only sons could inherit. "I see...are things going well with Kali and Catherine, though?"

Her expression softened a fraction, though her back remained ramrod straight, her shoulders level and composed. "No, that's not an issue. Catherine is doing well with her training. I believe things will be easy for her when she makes her debut this spring. And Kali...well. She doesn't write often, but when she does, there's much more talk of lessons and children than murdering. That's some progress."

Mirk was glad to hear it. Uncle Henri was a terrible letter writer — all dull rambling about business and ideas for new enchantments he'd like to try out rather than news of his cousins or Kali. He'd been expecting to have to wait until he met with Kali and Catherine for the next meeting of the Circle to hear any news about how things were going in Bordeaux. "I'm happy they’re both doing well, Comrade Commander."

"However, Catherine was a difficult birth. I was ill for most of the pregnancy, and the labor itself was an...ordeal. I was told by the healers here and the ones my husband hired afterwards that having further children would be challenging. They advised me to wait twenty years before trying again. I have been trying for the past five. There has been no success. And every healer I've seen hasn't had any useful recommendations."

Margaret was keeping a very careful hold on her feelings, well aware that he'd be able to sense them, despite both his shields against emotions and hers against magic. But Mirk could tell from the subtleties of her expression and her vague choice of words that the trying hadn't been a joyful experience. He resisted his instinctual urge to comfort and reassure her, only nodding instead, his hands clasped tightly behind his back to keep himself from fidgeting. "Has anyone examined your husband? Just to be certain?"

"Of course not," Margaret said, her expression somehow hardening even further. "He provided adequately for two daughters. The issue must be mine."

Mirk wasn't so certain about that, considering her husband's position as a cavalry commander, but he let the matter drop. "I'm sorry, Comrade Commander. I can look and see how things are, but I can't promise I'll be able to help."

Grimly, Margaret scooted further back on the table, trying to keep as much of her dignity about herself as possible as she lay back and began drawing up her skirts. Although she'd donned the outer dress of a common woman, her underskirts bore the lace of a woman of her position. Mirk hurried to stop her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, no, that's not necessary, Comrade Commander. Please, sit up."

Margaret's expression wavered; she frowned as she glanced over at him. "I've been through this often enough, seigneur."

"Of course. But...well. It's preferred by some, but it's not necessary. There are other ways of knowing how things are. Though it will mean lowering both our shields."

That was another thing about his work among the English men-midwives that had bothered Mirk. Instead of using their magic to conduct exams, they universally forced their patients into compromising positions and went prodding about with an array of magical instruments that Mirk was still unsure of the usefulness of. Considering the already delicate situation, Mirk thought the men would have done everything in their power to keep things from being even more distressing. But the men seemed to write off his discomfort with the standard procedures as more sentimentality, more Catholic fussiness that hadn't yet been beaten back by enlightened science.

That didn't surprise Mirk, considering how hard the women tried to conceal their discomfort and how many blockers the men-midwives took before doing their rounds. If their empathy hadn't been dulled, Mirk thought that even the weak empaths among the high-born healers of the Tenth would have had more sympathy for their patients. Depending on the age of the woman and the problem that brought them to the infirmary, they tolerated the healers' cold treatment with resignation at best and near-terror at worst. Mirk had felt the edges of too many memories and emotions that were similar to those he'd endured firsthand to be willing to do any exams the same way the other healers did, and they'd told him to get out or only observe when he'd suggested doing them with magic instead.

It annoyed Mirk, but he held his tongue. He supposed very few men, especially among the higher-ranking sort that dominated the Tenth, would have ever gone through something that could make them sympathetic toward a woman’s fear of having an unfamiliar healer prodding around in her private space.

"The Twentieth keeps its reputation for strangeness," Margaret mumbled under her breath as she sat back up on the edge of the table and rearranged her skirts. Despite her words, Mirk felt the slightest twinge of relief in her.

"You'll have to lower your shields, like I said, but...well. Methinks that might be better than the other way." Holding oneself open to a strong empath could also feel like an invasion of privacy, but Mirk imagined it wasn't nearly as bad as having something that looked like a tatting hook jammed up inside of you.

Margaret nodded, closing her eyes as she drew her magic back into herself and lowered her shields against foreign magic, a basic precaution that most high-potential and formally trained mages used, especially in the presence of empaths. They didn't work quite as well as an empath's shields against emotion, but some protection was better than none, Mirk had been told. She took a few slow, deep breaths to center herself, trying to bury her anxiety and frustration under intense focus on her own breathing. Mirk didn't know whether she'd appreciate a bit of projected sympathy, or feel patronized by it. He decided against it, saying and projecting nothing as he settled one hand on her back and the other on her lower abdomen. Then he closed his eyes and drew on his magic.

Her tactic of focusing on her breathing helped Mirk align himself with her body and the flow of her magic within it. He slipped easily into the stream, his ordered orientation meeting no resistance from her similar one. Her darkness element was a bit trickier to navigate, but after nearly a year of dealing with Genesis's shadows, it wasn't much of a burden. Gradually, his breathing slowed until it matched Margaret's. He let his magic drift along through her systems, pushed through narrow capillaries and wide arteries by a heart that was stronger than what he'd been expecting to find inside a woman with Margaret's slight frame. And with a sound that reminded Mirk of the steady thrumming of a cello setting the deliberate tempo of a solemn requiem. He let his mind float lower on the currents of it, toward where she'd said the problem lay.

She was right: her last pregnancy had been difficult, had left its lasting marks on her body. There were hardened knots of tissue from scarring, slight shifts in the set of her pelvis and ribs that had never corrected, alterations in the flow of her magic through her body that kept her potential from permeating every part of her like it should have. Mirk examined the last of these disturbances closely, gently touching the missing connections with his magic, seeing if he could use his to encourage Margaret's to bridge the gaps.

It didn't work. It felt a little like maneuvering around an imprinted scar, a dead spot in her body, stubbornly resistant to the touch of healing magic. It made sense why she couldn't conceive. If there was no way for her magic to fill every part of her, the odds of it being able to concentrate and swell in just the right way to create a new spark of potential were low, though not impossible. Mirk pulled his mind and his magic back into himself slowly, carefully disengaging the parts of Margaret's magic that had latched onto him — something that didn't seem to happen to most other healers, but that was always happening to him — before opening his eyes and drawing his shields back up.

"I'm finished, Comrade Commander. You can go back to shielding now, if you'd like."

Margaret shook her head a few times to help refocus on the world outside of herself, looking over at Mirk with a puzzled expression as he lifted his hands off her. "That's all?"

He nodded, deciding to broach the less comfortable of the two issues he'd spotted first. "Catherine is very powerful, non?"

"Yes. She has at least three times her father's potential, and double my own."

"And her orientation? It's opposite yours, isn't it?"

"Chaotic, yes. Like her father's. But our elements are the same."

"There's always some strain when a mother's orientation doesn't match her child's. It gets a little worse when the child's potential is greater as well. You...well, you should be more careful when things are like that. It's important that the labor be as easy as possible so that things can sort themselves out on their own. But...euh..."

A bitter expression crossed Margaret's face. "Catherine was not born. She was removed."

"I...yes, I thought that might have been the case. It caused some damage. Everything has healed, but there are still scars, of a sort. Both physical and magical."

"I am well aware of that," Margaret said. Her frustration flared against his shields — Mirk could tell that it wasn't directed at him, and only partially at herself. It was the small things that told the story, as always. Her steadfast refusal to refer to her husband by name, the grim way she spoke of her efforts to conceive, the location of the physical scars he'd been able to sense on her body, her very decision to come to him rather than the men-midwives of the Tenth.

Mirk sighed. "It's all complex, Comrade Commander. Not that I don't think you can't understand. Everything is connected. But I'll see what I can do."

He paused for a moment, deliberating whether or not revealing his opinions would do more harm than good. He decided to speak his mind. Margaret seemed more open toward him now than she had before the examination. Perhaps it was because he'd done it without embarrassing her, or maybe it was just an aftereffect of holding his mind so close to hers, even if he'd made it a point to keep his fixed on her body rather than prying into her emotions. "None of this is your fault. And you aren't doing anything wrong. Methinks that anyone who would say that sort of thing doesn't understand how complicated birth is. No matter what some of the other healers think, the body isn't a machine. There are still some mysteries in the world, Comrade Commander. Maybe I'm...hmm, old-fashioned? Sentimental? But methinks some of them won't ever be solved by grimoire magic."

Margaret looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. They were small, delicate, perfectly white. One of a noble lady's finest assets, and a mage's as well. "Sentimental, perhaps. But the sentiment is appreciated."

He flashed her a smile, having to resist the urge to project his sympathy to her again. "Methinks there isn't enough of it in the world, really."

When Margaret finally looked up at him, she was smiling as well, albeit only slightly. "You will make some woman an excellent husband one day, seigneur. Have you considered visiting English mage society? I think there are plenty of ladies here who would be willing to overlook your heritage in order to pass an evening in the company of a man of culture."

It took all of Mirk's self-control to keep his expression open and warm, laughing and shaking his head rather than recoiling from her comment about his marriage prospects. "Ah, methinks I'm not quite that promising yet, Comrade Commander. My family's not known here. And we're still recovering besides. It...euh...well. Methinks being all the way here in the City makes me a poor head, but there isn't anyone else close to being of age."

Margaret turned on the bed to face him properly, giving him the sort of critical once-over that only a mother with two unwed daughters could manage. "How old are you, seigneur? If it's not too familiar a question."

"Euh...twenty-four. Twenty-five soon."

Her interest only sharpened at the news. "You have the air of a man at least twice that. It must be an angelic trait."

"Oh, pas du tout. In angelic society, I'd still be considered a child. My father was over three hundred when he married my mother, and that was considered a very young marriage."

"Three hundred? Angelic men must have much more restraint than humans."

The slow way that Margaret said restraint, the pointed look she shot him while speaking the word, made it abundantly clear to Mirk what she meant by it, despite her having drawn her shielding back up. Again, Mirk laughed, hoping that it would come across as light and breezy rather than nervous. "Their...euh, tempers are much more even, yes."

"It gives one the impression that you are a man who can be trusted with the welfare of a young woman looking to make her way in the world," Margaret concluded with a nod. "Which brings me to a much less difficult issue I'd like to request your assistance with, though it is more immediate."

"Oh?"

"Since Catherine turned twenty-five a few weeks ago, she will be expected to make her debut this spring. I had intended to have my brother accompany her, but he's been called away unexpectedly on guild business. Would you be willing to accompany her in his place? I trust an entry into English society would make it worth the trouble. Catherine told me that your Circle is looking to mend ties between English and French magecraft now that there's a pause in the interminable warring."

Mirk was blindsided by the offer. A mother entrusting a near stranger with the future prospects of her more eligible daughter wasn't a trifling thing. Part of him, the one that had picked up too many sinister ideas from listening to Genesis's constant complaints of plots and backstabbing, thought there must be something more to it beyond Margaret simply having no other man in her life to call on. Could she be one of Ravensdale's countless eyes and ears in the City, looking to wring him for information on Genesis and the Easterners?

Or maybe she thought that if he spent more time with Catherine he would warm to her, and something might develop between them. He was technically of marriageable age, but women usually looked for a man who was well established, a guildmaster at the very least, or a Grand Master at best. Though he did have something that very few men under the age of two hundred possessed: access to the whole of his family's ledgers, and free reign over how they were spent. Most ladies settled for marrying someone who might stand a chance of inheriting in a century or two, willing to bide their time alongside their husbands in hope of a prosperous life. And some, even ladies as young as Catherine, married men hundreds of years their senior to gain access to the security of coffers full of mage gold.

Either way, the offer troubled Mirk. But the determination in Margaret's stare, and all her veiled comments about her husband, were too much for Mirk to fight against.

"I'm honored, Comrade Commander. Yes, I'd be willing to accompany her. Though if you find someone more suitable before then, I wouldn't be bothered at all if you changed your mind."

The commander of the Twelfth gave him another appraising once-over. Mirk did his best to keep his smile firmly affixed. "I had questioned your discernment," she said, "considering some of the company you keep. However, I see now that it's due to your mild temperament. You seem to be very much aware of the manly qualities that best benefit a woman in search of a husband. I trust that you'll make sure Catherine doesn't get involved with anyone too disreputable." After a moment, she spoke again, in a quiet voice and mostly to herself. "I would rather that I had been accompanied by a man with such discernment when I made my debut."

A faint emotion whispered against Mirk's mental shielding, almost too quickly for him to notice — a sort of gnawing loneliness coupled with regret. He didn't catch himself fast enough that time. He reached out to Margaret, putting a hand on her shoulder, though he didn't project anything along with the touch. "It'll be all right, Comrade Commander. It's...difficult to find men who appreciate the things ladies find important. But it's not impossible."

She glanced over at him again, nodding. "Then it's settled. I'll have the schedule sent over to you along with the necessary invitations. Where are you staying, seigneur? In the mage quarter, or the healers dormitory?"

"Euh...neither. In the low-born officers dormitory on the second eastern ring. The house matron will hold it for me with the rest of my letters."

Margaret's surprise pressed hard against his sheilds, just for an instant. "The officers dormitory? And the low-born one?"

"I...euh...have had some trouble finding a place to stay recently. It's difficult with so much empathy. I gave my room in the healers dormitory over to someone who needed the shielding more. Methinks I'll get it back eventually, but I'm staying with a friend for now."

"One of your more questionable ones?" she asked, her finely manicured eyebrows arching skeptically.

"Well...sort of." Mirk shifted the topic quickly. at a loss for how to best handle her continued interrogation. He wouldn't lie to her flat-out if she asked him directly who he was staying with, but he would rather avoid trying to explain how he found sharing cramped quarters with a man as notoriously difficult and disreputable as Genesis preferable to drawing on his family's funds to rent a townhome in the mage quarters. "But thank you for trusting me with this, Comrade Commander. I really am honored. And, euh, as to your other issue, I'll do what I can. Methinks I have a few ideas. Nothing too invasive. Potions, mostly. I'm sure you've taken most of the obvious ones, but I have been working on a new one to manage this kind of problem recently." Namely, he'd still been trying to master that fertility potion he'd found in the library to give to Danu for her wedding. In comparison to coaxing a woman who was half-Death into bearing children, even Margaret's issue seemed manageable.

Nodding, Margaret slid off the end of the table. She straightened her skirts and drew the shawl back up over her head, adjusting her posture to be just a fraction more upright as she headed for the door. "There'll be no need to see me out, seigneur. It may raise even more suspicions."

"Please take care, Comrade Commander," Mirk said, bowing reflexively to her retreating back. "And if you need anything else, I'm always at your service."

Mirk waited until he heard the clacking of her shoes fade down the length of the second floor corridor before he allowed himself to relax, slumping against the supply cabinet and staring up at the room's featureless ceiling. Well. It should have been featureless. Blood had sprayed across it and dried there, leaving a pinprick mosaic arced above the bed. Mirk supposed it was impossible to spot every place that needed cleaning in the infirmary. Unless there was someone with Genesis's fastidiousness looking after things.

Genesis. Margaret's words remained stuck at the front of his mind, unwilling to vanish no matter how hard he tried to think of something else to replace them with. You will make some woman an excellent husband one day, seigneur.

He'd be no one's husband. Ever. And he'd do everything in his power to avoid it.