"What a wonderful dress, Mademoiselle Catherine! It's very fashionable. And gray really is your color."

Catherine gathered up her voluminous skirts and dropped into a curtsey as Mirk hurried to meet her, his grandfather's staff clacking on the cobbles of the plaza in front of the East Gate. He had done everything he could not to be late. He wasn't, at least not according to the clock above the gate's high stone archway. But Catherine had bested him nevertheless.

Mirk couldn't fault her for that. The English had a reputation for punctuality. And though Catherine had mastered the ladylike art of keeping her composure under the worst circumstances, Mirk was certain the young woman was terribly nervous.

He really shouldn't have been thinking of her as young. They were the same age, after all perhaps only two or three weeks apart at most. Yet she seemed young to Mirk that night, buttoned up in a dress he thought to be far too conservative for a debut season. It had a high collar, much like the ladies' uniform, and though the skirts were large, the bodice was plain, with none of the extravagant lace edging and jeweled stitching he was accustomed to seeing on young women. Gray also seemed an odd choice of color to him, though he'd been honest when he'd said the color suited her, with her dark hair and eyes. All the women at home preferred something livelier for the debut season, something that would mirror the brightness of their personality. And none of them wore such tiny, plain hats, felt rather than silk and with only a single black feather tucked into its band, though Catherine did wear it cocked to one side rather than straight.

All of it made Mirk wonder if he hadn't misjudged things when choosing his own outfit for the evening. He'd gone with the same lilac three-piece suit he'd worn to Madame Beaumont's ball, though he'd remembered to order a set of silvery stockings to go with it, since everyone who was anyone was wearing stockings with a metallic sheen enchanted into their weave for the upcoming season. Mirk had wanted to wear the blue one he'd worn to the meeting of the Circle to bolster his courage, but good manners deemed wearing the same suit on the two occasions he'd gone out with a particular lady a minor insult. He should have worn the same conservative gray suit he'd worn to meet Maragaret for the first time. At present, he almost felt like he outshone Catherine, with all his falls of lace and delicate embroidery.

"Good evening, seigneur," Catherine said, her eyes cast down, drawing her cloak close around herself as she straightened up. Another item that was far too plain for a debutante, in Mirk's opinion — there wasn't even any fur on it, and its lining was black silk rather than an eye-catching brilliant red or rich violet. "Father said he'd meet us with the coach at half past, but...well."

"The invitation said that the ball doesn't start until seven. Is it far away?"

Catherine looked puzzled for a moment, though she soon sunk back down into her worries. "We wouldn't want to be late."

Mirk was starting to feel concerned too. The grim dress, the punctuality, it all spoke to a social scene that he felt woefully unprepared for. "I didn't know that your father would be joining us. Methinks it's only proper, but..."

"He'll be off with the others the second we're in past the doors," Catherine replied. "Mother said that it'd be better to have someone more...attentive on hand as well."

"Is everything all right?" Mirk asked her, when Catherine made no effort to keep the conversation going. "I know that your sister didn’t enjoy balls..."

"I had been hoping mother would join us as well. She said that her and the others from the division are working on a particular divination spell tonight, but..."

Despite his mental shielding, it was impossible for Mirk not to feel a tinge of Catherine's discontent. "It is hard to go on your debut without your mother. Or your sister. They've both been through this before. Even if things didn't, euh, go the best for Mademoiselle Kali."

The mention of her sister got a smile to ghost across Catherine's face, at least. "She broke Edmund Drewell's foot five minutes into the first dance."

Mirk laughed, going to her side, passing his grandfather's staff to his left hand so he could take her elbow with his right to reassure her. "Methinks I might not understand everything, but I know how hard it can be. I only ever had my mother with me. She knew what she was doing, of course, but it was hard not having my father there too. It was hard for me to...hmm, have the right attitude? Maybe? I already never went to the academies or any of the guild lectures with the other men. And I was terrible at riding and hunting."

At the mention of riding, Catherine brightened a little more. "Is that so? Most of the earth mages I've met have had a talent for riding. Father's different among the rest for not being one, even if he has a bit of the teleporting gift."

"Angels don't ride. Most of our carriage horses were terrified of my father and his guard. Maman found me a human tutor, but, well. I wasn't stern enough, I suppose. I was more interested in seeing where the horse wanted to go than I was in directing him."

"I've always loved riding. But past a certain age...well. I only have a good excuse when mother wants someone to keep an eye on Kali."

At first, Mirk thought his nerves had to be playing tricks on him. As Catherine looked off into the evening fog that was rising up from between the cobbles, Mirk thought he could hear the distant sound of hoofbeats. Then he felt it — a faint stirring in the street beneath him, like the slumbering stones were begrudgingly rising to attention, turning over and shifting position before returning to rest. "Is your father coming from the City? Or the mage quarter?" Mirk asked Catherine, lowering his voice and edging closer to her. Not that he'd be of much help if there was genuine trouble brewing.

"It's someone else," she replied, also in a whisper. "Father never rides his horses that hard. Or uses that kind of magic."

They didn't have long to wait to find out. A sharp yip pierced the silence that had fallen over the plaza, the Watch men beside the gates leaping to attention and grabbing at their swords. A moment later, a lone rider on a bay horse thundered past along the City's outermost ring road, hunched low over the saddle. Everything seemed to split to grant them passage: the fog, the cobbles, the cluster of high-born officers who'd been crossing the plaza, headed for the East Gate and their homes beyond. Mirk anticipated feeling a rush of exhaustion against his shields, sparks of pain and uncertainty. But instead, he felt the giddy excitement of a foal that'd finally found its footing, along with the intense focus of the rider.

"Oy! The fuck's the matter with you!" one of the officers barked.

"Watch where you're going, you bastard!" another cried out.

But the rider was already gone.

Beside him, Catherine laughed. Once the rider had passed, Mirk could catch a hint of her delight percolating on the other side of his mental shields. "What a talented rider! To manage a bracing charm and fleetness spell at the same time...I wonder what division he's in?"

That answer soon arrived. The hoofbeats returned, albeit at a slower pace. The rider circled back to the plaza, the stones once again vibrating strangely beneath their feet at his approach. Thankfully, the officers had hurried off rather than hanging around to berate the rider who'd nearly run them down. It was the head of the new group of Easterners who'd come back with Mordecai to join the Seventh. Whose foreign name Mirk completely forgot in his surprise.

The bay snorted and reared its head, and the Easterner reached down to calm it, giving it a few friendly pats on the neck. The horse — a stallion, much larger up close than Mirk had appreciated as it had streaked past — didn't feel nervous, exhausted. It felt curious, just like its rider. He slid off its back easily, bouncing a little on his feet before sweeping his circular fur hat off his head and performing an awkward bow. Mirk got the impression it was directed more toward Catherine than him.

Mirk released Catherine's elbow and returned the bow, as she dipped down into a curtsey beside him. "Bon soir, Monsieur...euh...Ou..."

"Orest!" The Easterner cheered, grinning at Catherine. Mirk nudged on the translation charm pinned to the inside of his sleeve. But rather than speaking in his native tongue, Orest struggled on in English. Unlike when Mirk had first met him at the infirmary, he wasn't prepared with the Easterners' vocal translator. "And you! You...Ma...Mis..."

"Mirk."

Orest slapped his thigh and nodded, grin growing even wider. He hadn't yet sacrificed his beard in the fashion of the English mages, but he hadn't let it grow wild either. "Yes! Mirgosha, yes."

"And this is Mademoiselle Catherine," Mirk said, sweeping an arm in her direction. "Comrade Commander Margaret's daughter."

"A pleasure, my lady," Orest replied as he bowed again. In his native tongue, judging by the echoey tone his voice took on, just for a moment. K'aekniv had been at work there, Mirk thought. Whenever one of the new men asked him about the best way to approach Englishwomen, K'aekniv said that bows were a must. But K’aekniv had an awkward, stiff way of doing them, owing to his wings, which was evident in Orest's gestures.

"Monsieur Orest has just joined the Seventh. He's from the east, like K'aekniv. His people are renowned for their skill with horses," Mirk explained to her.

"I'd agree. Your control really is remarkable, Mister Orest. He's barely even out of breath," Catherine said, marveling at both the stallion and its rider.

Orest kept grinning, but Mirk could tell by the way that his dark eyes darted in his direction that he hadn't a clue what Catherine had just said. Mirk did his best to simplify, to make clear with gestures. "The stones," Mirk said, waving down at them and tapping at the cobbles with his grandfather's staff. "You used your magic? I could feel the stones moving," he added, tipping one hand from side to side, then gesturing at the stallion's hooves.

"Yes! Ah! Need help right now. Make soft. For Mitya," he said. "But soon, strong. Ride more."

"Very few men in the cavalry show such consideration to their horses," Catherine said, smiling up at the both of them. "Is he yours? He's lovely, really..."

Orest shook his head. "Dauid. My horse? Zirochka? In spring," he explained, haltingly, pointing down at the cobbles to try to emphasize his point. Though he turned back toward the bay stallion a moment later, stroking its face and speaking to it in a soft voice, though the way it echoed off the buildings ringing the plaza and the fog made his words just loud enough for Mirk's translation charm to pick them up. "But I won't forget about you, big boy. I'll still find you a good pasture, I promise. All the grass you can eat. And we'll run and we'll jump and life will be just like a foal's for you, and that bastard Dauid won't keep you in that piece of shit barn of his."

Catherine turned her head toward Mirk, ever so slightly, cocking a curious eyebrow. Mirk flashed her a smile, gesturing for her to wait and see. "Are you working for Dauid, Monsieur Orest? Training his horses now?" Mirk asked, turning back toward the Easterner, making a gesture like he was clutching reins.

"Huh?"

"You're helping with his horses?" Mirk said, slowly, gesturing at the bay.

Orest caught the drift of things then, nodding again. "Yes! All five!"

"Your skills must be as impressive as they look, to have a commander entrust his horses to you," Catherine said.

Mirk wasn't certain Orest understood her. But certain things were universal. Such as the slight, warm smile Catherine treated Orest to, the color rising to her cheeks as she shifted her gaze away from Orest back to the bay stallion stamping its feet impatiently behind him. Mirk could feel its desire to set out again, the trickle of simmering excitement almost too faint to reach his mental shielding — the emotions of animals didn't reach him as precisely and as strongly as those of humans, but Mirk had always been able to sense them all the same. Though all the other empaths he'd spoken with about it seemed to think he was imagining things.

Orest laughed, looking like he wanted to reach out to Catherine. But he held himself back, sensing through some combination of her dress and whatever K'aekniv and the other men had told him about Englishwoman that such a forward gesture wouldn't be taken the way he intended it to. Instead, he bowed again, though that time he added his own flair to it: a click of his heels, a sleight-of-hand trick that involved sweeping his hat off his head in such a way that it rolled down the length of his arm into his hand. Catherine hid a giggle of her own behind one lace-gloved hand. "Thank you, Ma...Ma..."

"Miss will suffice, Mister Orest."

"Miss Catherine! Yes! But now, we ride! Work to do." Orest scrambled back up into the saddle, as easily as a man sitting down in his favorite armchair. At some unseen signal given with his thighs or knees, the stallion wheeled around and was off again, Orest's magic engaging to make its way more certain and swift. Behind him, Mirk heard the Watch men grumbling to one another, though not loudly or distinctly enough for their words to reach him and Catherine.

"What an interesting man," Catherine said, turning back to face Mirk. "You know him from your work with the Seventh?"

Mirk nodded. Though she was doing her best to be politely attentive, Catherine's eyes kept drifting in the direction Orest had gone, around the ring road. At the speed he was riding, doubtlessly he'd be around again soon. It was simply a matter of who would arrive first: Orest, or Catherine's father, Casyn, with the family coach. "I don't know him well, since he only just arrived. But he seems much more friendly than the others." Mirk paused, then added, with a smile. "Methinks he'll get the hang of English soon enough. All the Easterners seem to be quick learners."

She hid it well, but Mirk could tell Catherine was a bit disappointed when the sound of hooves — too numerous for one horse and rider, and accompanied by the creaking of wood —returned, from the direction of the East Gate. A sleek black carriage pulled up just inside it, and a man hopped down from the bench beside the coachman. Casyn, as middling and plain as when Mirk had last seen him at the Festival of Shades, despite the fact that they were headed for a much more formal occasion. He was still in uniform rather than wearing a suit, and though his long black fur cloak had kept off the worst of the streets' muck and dust, Mirk still thought his uniform looked too shabby for a debutante ball. At least in comparison to what he and Catherine were wearing.

Casyn approached, only noticing Mirk once he was within arm's reach of his daughter. Who he declined to even greet, his narrowed eyes fixed on Mirk instead. "Are you the foreigner Margaret invited along with?" he asked, sizing Mirk up. They were roughly the same height. Though Casyn was a good deal broader, his face pockmarked by at least a century of living.

"Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d'Avignon, Comrade Commander. Your servant," Mirk said, bowing to him. It was returned with only a nod, as was custom among the less well-mannered K'maneda, no matter how high-born. "I'm honored to accompany both you and Mademoiselle Catherine tonight on Comrade Commander Margaret's invitation, yes."

"Kali and I accompanied the seigneur on a visit to his home lately," Catherine elaborated. "And Kali's still with his uncle, Monsieur Henri."

"Oh, right," Casyn said, nodding along, expending the effort to force a smile onto his face. "Haven't seen you around at the dining hall or anything. But you're a healer, right? They all keep to themselves."

"Yes, Comrade Commander. In the Twentieth."

Casyn's eyebrows lifted, but he didn't comment. "Well, let's be off. It's a bit of a hike to Lord Emerson's but we should make it five minutes early still, as long as the horses cooperate." Something in Casyn's tone, in the deliberate way that he retreated to the carriage, made Mirk glad that he'd be inside rather than out on the bench to witness his horsemanship. Though Casyn hadn't thought to offer Catherine an arm, Mirk did, with a deferential half-bow.

She took it, mustering a brittle smile. Mirk didn't have to feel even a hint of Catherine's emotions to tell that she'd suffered such off-hand treatment from her father often enough for it to have taxed her nerves. And if it was pressing her, Mirk could only imagine how Kali would have reacted to it. Mirk patted her hand, lightly, then headed off for the carriage.

Hopefully Comrade Commander Margaret and her daughters were a better example of what English magecraft was like rather than her father. Otherwise, Mirk had the impression it'd be a very long night.

- - -

The English way of doing things, Mirk soon realized, was the polar opposite of what he was accustomed to. And not in a way that made him think very charitably of it.

After a tense and silent carriage ride, during which Mirk had been too distracted by the churning in his stomach to even attempt to make polite conversation, and a jump from a teleportation spell that only made the ache three times worse, they arrived at the manor house of that evening's hosts. A certain Lord Emerson and his wife, Lady Elanor. It was a towering, somber affair, its facade all clean, plain lines. And even though its garden had been left to go dormant rather than being kept going by enchantments and earth magic, Mirk could tell at a glance that it was an equally regimented, plain affair.

The grim style continued on in the manor house's foyer, a boxy room with none of the mirrors and velvet wall hangings and forgiving, yellowy magelights that were a must inside any respectable family's foyer in France. It was cold and gray, just like the country it was situated in. A little like the style favored in Brittany, which Mirk had visited only on occasion to meet with distant relatives of his grandmother, but even more depressing in its orderliness as opposed to the northern province's wild, casual flair.

Rather than mingling all together and chatting, the mages waited their turn to enter the ballroom in a pair of long lines, only the couples who'd arrived together speaking with one another in hushed tones. Mirk hung back behind Casyn and Catherine, feeling a bit lost for lack of a partner. Instead, all he could do was struggle against the dregs of his nausea and observe in silence.

Things seemed to loosen up some once the pairs entered the ballroom proper. But first, all the pairs needed to be introduced to the room by a djinn footman and, from what Mirk could sense and see, it seemed the other guests paused their conversations to pay attention to the titles and names of those who'd just arrived. Another odd English custom, Mirk supposed. A French mage would be insulted by having to be introduced by a servant at a party. Anyone who’d put any work into their reputation at all expected to be recognized by most in attendance on sight. Or, if they were new to the scene, they made an effort to simply be so striking that the other guests couldn't resist coming over to introduce themselves and sate their curiosity.

Not that many of the guests had particularly striking attire, from what Mirk could see. He wondered if their host for the evening wasn't attached to the K'maneda somehow, considering how much black was on display. The ladies favored muted pastels and high necklines, with only soft touches of lace and wide skirts that weren't balanced out by cinched bodices. The men were three times as severe. Rather than representing their guild colors properly in their suits, the men preferred to accessorize with them, with pins in their cravats and accents on the inner linings of their justacorps and on their hat bands. And there were a good deal of hats on display that night among the men rather than wigs. Mirk hoped he hadn't miscalculated by choosing not to wear one.

As he neared the front of the line, Mirk paid more attention to the names of those being introduced. Not that he doubted Catherine wouldn't be kind enough to show him around the room. But there was little else to do in line, since a stony silence had fallen between Catherine and Casyn ahead of him, and the pair behind him, a severe young woman and what had to be her grandfather, were having a conversation Mirk knew would upset him more than being helpful. Scripture. But in the English style, with a lot of talk about how excessive and wasteful the mages had grown as of late. If they thought the drab line of mages ahead of them was too frivolous to gain entry to the Lord's Kingdom, Mirk didn't want to know what they thought of him.

"Master Lord Wainwright of the Potioners Guild," the djinn said, with a slight bow, as he held out an arm toward the pair ahead of Catherine and her father. A middle-aged man in a navy suit, rail-thin, with fingertips stained a faint purple color. The dress of the young woman on his arm matched the blotches on his hands, lilac like his own suit, albeit a bit more muted. Mirk wondered if the lady had made an intentional choice to match her father, or if it'd just been an unfortunate coincidence. "And his daughter, Miss Abigail."

The pair bowed and curtseyed, then entered. Mirk was close enough now to the doors to hear the faint strains of a four piece ensemble accompanied by harpsichord, playing a light enough tune that the music wouldn't drown out the introductions. He didn't recognize the song. Casyn and Catherine stepped up to the threshold, Casyn running a hand quickly over his hair to check that any locks of it that might have been tugged out of his ponytail were at least slicked down. The djinn bowed in greeting to them. But Mirk thought that the djinn's expression grew even more closed than was customary upon being presented with a K'maneda commander and his daughter. Servants always talked, Mirk knew. The djinn were no exception.

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"Comrade Commander Casyn Rak'sen of the K'maneda's Fourth Cavalry Division," the djinn said. "And his daughter, Miss Catherine."

Casyn made a haphazard attempt at a bow, as Catherine dipped down at his side. Mirk took advantage of it to peek past them into the ballroom. He didn't think the crowd's reception of a K'maneda commander was any less cool than it'd been to any of the guests who'd come before them. Casyn headed straight for a particular group of men clustered near the string ensemble as soon as he was unburdened of his daughter. Mirk recognized the portly mage and his spindly counterpart who'd arrived at the Festival of Shades alongside Ravensdale in that particular cluster. They had to be the other K'maneda officers, unburdened of their blacks now that they'd been let loose on polite society. For a change of pace, they were wearing more lively colors than the rest of the crowd, Casyn excepted.

"Good evening, sir," the djinn said to Mirk, as he turned to introduce him next. His eyes ran down Mirk's suit, lingering for a moment on his grandfather's staff. "Would you happen to be the foreign guest of Comrade Commander Casyn?"

Mirk smiled, nodding. "Yes, that's right."

"And a relation of a certain Madame Beaumont, I believe. Visiting for the season in London," the djinn said. His face remained impassive. But Mirk thought he glimpsed the faintest traces of a reddish magic circling in his eyes.

"My godmother, yes." He pressed his smile wider, allowing a soft empathic projection of reassurance to slip past his shields. If the djinn manning the door was anywhere near as perceptive as the others he'd met, Mirk was sure he'd pick up on it.

The djinn didn't comment. But a smile played along his thin lips in return, just for a second, before he turned to introduce him to the ballroom. "Seigneur Mirk Dishoael d'Avignon," the djinn said, as he bowed. "Of the Circle of French Guildmasters."

Mirk bowed along with him. But he was too alarmed by all the cutting glances turned in his direction to check his nerves. He reflexively moved into the most differential bow he knew. One that was low enough to convey a proper degree of politeness, but that was far too elaborate and beseeching for the somber nobility before him. Internally, Mirk cringed. But he managed, barely, to keep his discomfort off his face.

The djinn had done him a favor, even, which Mirk was determined to repay, either that night or after. Technically, the Circle's official title was as he'd recited it. But everyone knew it better as the Circle of Friends. A far less prestigious title in the eyes of the English mages, no doubt, even though the opposite held true at home. Anyone with enough grimoires and potential could become a Grand Master. But only a mage of exceptional grace and wit could claim those who sat on the Circle as friends.

That question was on Catherine's lips as she moved to join him. She'd been put into a subdued mood from having to spend the last half hour beside her father. Luckily for her, it fit the prevailing attitude in the ballroom better than her usual spirited curiosity. "Did the djinn introduce you properly, seigneur?"

"Oh, yes. Nothing to worry about," Mirk said. He lowered his voice further, as he took her elbow and led her to the outskirts of the crowds for the time being, a fitting place to better gauge the mood of the party and observe those in attendance. "The party is a little quiet for a debutante ball, non?"

"It's because we're at Lord Emerson's," Catherine said, inclining her head slightly toward a man near the room's bank of floor to ceiling windows. There was no enchantment playing beyond them, as was customary at French mage balls. Instead they opened on the dormant gardens at the back of the house, as boxy and prim as the ones out front. "The head of the ordered light mages. A very pious man."

Mirk could believe that. He wore black, much like a K'maneda, only his suit was meant for study, not for fighting in. And his hat put Mirk in mind of the ugly, flat-brimmed one that Genesis wore in bad weather. It was a shame that the commander detested social gatherings, Mirk thought to himself. He would have fit in very well among the English mages. At least in terms of restrained propriety. "Euh...it seems an odd choice to pick him as the host for the first ball of the debutante season, methinks. But perhaps I'm misunderstanding things."

"His granddaughter is making her debut this spring," Catherine explained, indicating a waiflike blond woman drowning in an equally plain black dress and white bonnet near him. "Esther. Since Lord Emerson refuses to come to any other balls, he hosted one instead to keep an eye on her. Things are usually a bit more lively than this. Though probably not exactly like what you're accustomed to, if what I've heard about the French is true."

None of the younger men who'd arrived, Mirk noticed, had yet dared to venture close to Esther or her grandfather. And Mirk could understand why. No matter how grand a lady's lineage was, if said lineage was a particularly severe one, Mirk could see why a young man who was looking to enjoy himself a little before settling down would stay far away. Mirk sighed. "Methinks that must be hard for her. Hopefully he lets her dance a little, at least."

"Only to check on the menfolk's magic, I'm sure," Catherine said. From her tone, it was clear to Mirk that she pitied Esther just as much as he did.

"Do the English mage dance too?"

"At least at this sort of party. I'm surprised the show-offs haven't started yet."

She indicated said show-offs with another nod of her head. A group of young men who were involved in a spirited debate over something near the harpsichord. And who were all staring at them. "Ah, I see..."

"I'm undecided on what to do with them," Catherine said, turning her head to face Mirk, just in case one of the men might be trying to make out the topic of their discussion from across the room. "I'm not sure what you're accustomed to, but in England, the only eligible men who are nearer our age are very focused on their studies. A dedicated student from the right family can be a master by thirty, if he devotes himself to nothing else. And a master is always a good match, if he comes from the right family. But so much focus on magic tends to make a man a little more...inexperienced in other areas."

Catherine didn't have to say anything else. Mirk knew the type all too well. If Elijah hadn't been low-born, he'd have been right there arguing with the others. Oblivious to the ladies, despite that being the ostensible reason for the ball to begin with. "At least studying is peaceful work," Mirk said, doing his best to convey his sympathy to Catherine by tone while keeping his words more composed. "Who else is here for the debutante season?"

"I have no doubt father would prefer for me to favor one of the K'maneda men," Catherine said, though she avoided looking over at the officers. "Mother is of the opposite opinion. She would prefer I settle on one of the English mages. Not one of the young men, someone more established. She thinks it'd be better for me and Kali to move beyond K'maneda circles. And she holds a low opinion of K'maneda men in general."

The slight, dissatisfied frown on Catherine's face made Mirk suspect Catherine agreed with her mother. But the next bit of information she had to share with him was even more worrisome. "An exception could be made for a dignified man of means within the K'amaneda who isn't quite so warlike, though. But I think the only man who'd fit that description in attendance tonight would be you."

"I, ah..."

She flashed him a tight-lipped smile. "You don't need to worry, seigneur. You're very pleasant company, and I'm glad for the help that an empath can give in this kind of situation. But I have other prospects in mind."

At the mention of other prospects, Catherine's gaze went distant. Which meant that she completely missed the group of young scholars near the harpsichord collectively deciding to strike out across the ballroom to introduce themselves. They were led by the least awkward of their number, a short, broad-shouldered man in a gray suit. A dark elemental mage, like Catherine, if the English propensity to wear colors that matched their element held true. Mirk squeezed Catherine's elbow lightly to bring her back to the present, then let go of her to bow to the crowd of oncoming young mages. "Bon soir, monsieurs," Mirk murmured, as he lowered his head. They either hadn't picked up on his empathy yet, or didn't view him as someone worth attempting to shield out. Though he couldn't tell whether their skepticism was directed more toward him or toward Catherine.

"Good evening," Catherine echoed, as she hastily curtseyed to the group, which surrounded them in a half-circle.

"Good evening Miss Catherine, Mister..." The man in the gray suit frowned. "My apologies. The djinn didn't name your guild. Only that you're on the French's guild council." Mirk caught him staring at his suit, perhaps trying to puzzle out what sort of magic lilac could indicate.

"This is Seigneur d'Avignon," Catherine said. She recovered remarkably quick, Mirk noticed. And had much better social graces than her sister. Her smile was warm and pleasant, despite how the man had slighted her by fixing on Mirk in favor of her. Kali doubtlessly would have had a cross word or two to say about that. "Seigneur d'Avignon, this is Master Atticus Greene. Of the Guild of Chaotic Dark Mages."

"Enchanté, Monsieur Greene," Mirk said, with another deferential dip of his head.

"Are you with the Briseurs?" Atticus asked, squinting across the gap between them. Mirk could feel his magic pressing against his mental shielding, though the mage was trying to be at least a little subtle with his probing. "I thought that someone else was the head of that, but we don't get news often from the Continent."

"Ah, no, I'm not a member of any of the French guilds, I'm afraid. I'm a member of the K'maneda, like Miss Catherine," Mirk said, in an effort to draw her into the conversation. "Though I'm a much less talented mage than she is. I'm only a healer. Methinks you'd probably find my work very dull."

Atticus, however, didn't have the grace to follow the conversation. He remained fixed on Mirk, now squinting at his grandfather's staff rather than directly at him. "But you're on the Circle? I thought only Grand Masters were allowed."

"Not quite, monsieur. And I haven't been formally accepted. I'm only holding my grandfather's spot at present."

"Your grandfather?"

"Jean-Luc d'Avignon."

"d'Avignon...d'Avignon..." Atticus muttered under his breath.

"Did you pay any attention at all during your history lessons, Greene?" one of the other men butted in. A fire mage, judging by the ruddy color of the lining of his justacorps. "He's the one that broke the Church mages."

The light of realization sprung onto Atticus's face. "Oh. That d'Avignon."

"Then you're the only one that might stand a chance with Miss Esther," the second man quipped. "Provided you're as strongly against Rome as the rest of your family."

Mirk chuckled politely, but tried again to shift the focus of the conversation back to Catherine. The last thing he wanted to explain to as pious and somber of a crowd as the one gathered in Lord Emerson's ballroom was that his grandfather had struck out at the Church more out of personal pride rather than religious sincerity. Or that Jean-Luc had enthusiastically become a regular attendee at Mass later in life, even if it was only to appeal to his grandmother's convictions rather than out of personal faith. "Are you and Miss Catherine's family members of the same guild? I couldn't help but notice that you have similar elements..."

"My grandfather was the head of the Dark Mages Guild before they split by orientation, yes," Catherine said, nodding. "Though I wouldn't presume to join, of course."

"It really is wonderful how much room the K'maneda gives the ladies to learn the arts, methinks," Mirk said. "Every time I come to the Glass Tower, you're all hard at your studies. I'm learning so many new things here in England."

None of the men were taking the bait. They all were all still fixed on Mirk. Or, rather, on Jean-Luc's staff, a few of the men at the back of the group whispering to one another in hushed tones about what manner of enchantment had to be on it.

It was taking all of Mirk's manners not to say something provocative. He sincerely hoped that not all of English magecraft was as dense as the young men who'd ambushed them. It made Mirk wonder if their parents invested in giving any of them proper education in the courtly arts at all, or if they focused solely on the magical potential of their sons. It all only further convinced Mirk that Genesis would fit right in among them, if only he could hold his tongue about his hatred of the guilds and their monopoly on magic.

"Are you familiar with the Rouzets?" Atticus asked Mirk. "They're the only name in French dark magic I know of that's current."

"Necromancers," a man at the back grumbled.

"Esoterics," another spat.

"The theory on that wouldn't hold up for a second."

Mirk ignored them, nodding. "I've met Seigneur Lazare a few times, though I'm afraid our families didn't socialize much. But isn't this a lovely chance to get to know each other? Though methinks our balls at home are a bit more lively than yours. Are we waiting for everyone to arrive before the dancing starts? And I'm very excited to see what kind of refreshments you all favor. I do enjoy a good glass of wine, but I'm sure that the English standard must be just as lovely."

"What? Dancing?" Atticus asked. The mention of it had finally succeeded in knocking him out of his study of the staff. Though it didn't draw his attention to Catherine, a lady who'd come for the express purpose of dancing, and whose magic would doubtlessly be compatible with his, still waiting patiently beside him. "Oh, yes, we wait until everyone's arrived."

"But there's no refreshments, not tonight," another man piped up. "Lord Emerson's opposed to drink."

Mirk fought not to let his dismay rise onto his face. The prospect of an entire evening stretching out before him, dodging questions about his family and faith and negotiating with men who didn't have the slightest sense for good manners, made something inside Mirk shrivel up in protest. "Oh, well, that's understandable, but still too bad. The next ball, then. Your debutante season goes well into the spring, non? Almost to summer, really."

"Yes," Atticus said. Though his tone made it clear to Mirk that he found the prospect of further balls more of a burden than a boon.

Mirk cast a sideways glance toward the door. The line that'd stretched out into the foyer beyond was depleted. At the very least, there'd be dancing soon. Though Mirk hated to think of what sort of grim shuffling counted as permissible in Lord Emerson's opinion.

Catherine was also getting desperate, Mirk sensed. As they'd been talking, the group of Kamenda mages had been drifting in their direction. Mirk didn't know if it was because the men felt the need to keep Catherine among themselves, or if Casyn had urged the younger men among them to stake their claim before any of the other English mages could ask for Catherine's first dance.

Mirk knew from experience that Catherine had an interest in magic, but it was far less single-minded than those of the young men gathered near them. However, out of necessity, she decided to engage Atticus on a topic he doubtlessly found more interesting than the cheerful company of a pleasant woman. "Has the new work by Vinke on chaotic illusions arrived at the guild library yet, Master Atticus? Our copy just arrived last week. I was wondering if you'd perhaps seen it already and could tell me if it would be worth my time to pursue it."

For the first time that night, Atticus finally seemed to see Catherine. His dark eyes fixed on her, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "The K'maneda already has Vinke's exhibition manuscript? No, we don't have it. But I read the pamphlet he based it off of. I..."

Atticus had been on the brink of holding out his hand to Catherine. But movement back by the door caught his attention, dragging it away from Catherine once more. Though Mirk couldn't feel it, Mirk could hear the apprehension in the djinn footman's voice as he announced that night’s final guest. "Lord Alistair Ravensdale," the djinn said. "Grand Master of the K'maneda."

It was as if the whole room gave a collective inhale. The few sparks of unshielded magic Mirk had been able to pick up around the room winked out, though traces of emotion remained: wariness, skepticism, along with a few flickers of interest and disdain. Mirk snuck a glance back over his shoulder toward the door.

Ravensdale appeared to be far more relaxed in the ballroom than he had been beside the funeral pyre during the Festival of Shades. Unlike at the Festival, he'd put more effort into his appearance. He'd worked hard to try to disguise the glamors he wore over his features, but Mirk knew where to look for them, having seen him already in a more natural state. His features were even sharper that night, the artificial cut of his jaw even more square, more masculine. And Mirk thought he'd added a good half hand worth of height to himself. Though he'd elected to wear the K'maneda black, he'd chosen much finer materials for his suit that night than the other commanders and most of the English. Silk, embroidered with silver thread and buttons. With a crimson lining that didn't align with what Mirk knew of his natural elemental magic.

But the way he sauntered into the room, head held high and wide smile firmly in place, betrayed how he didn't belong there. The other English mages, though they were much stiffer and utilitarian than the noble mages at home, still had mastered the sort of upright, controlled bearing that spoke of self-restraint and good manners. Ravensdale's bearing telegraphed his rough beginnings more than any poorly cut suit ever could. He moved like a street brawler, with the same squared shoulders and aggressive swagger that the low-born infantrymen used to convey to each other that they weren't afraid to throw a punch if need be. And even though none of his djinn had accompanied Ravensdale that night, he didn't try to shield away the magic he'd stolen from him. The skirts and coats of the nobles he passed on his way to the other officers stirred in the phantom breeze generated by his windswept aura, ready to fling aside anyone who got in his way.

"Oh...I didn't know that Comrade Ravensdale would be coming," Mirk babbled into the silence that’d fallen over their group upon Ravensdale's arrival. "How...euh..."

"Interesting," Atticus finished, flatly. Rather than resuming his conversation with Catherine, he abruptly excused himself and hurried back to his previous post beside the harpsichord, the rest of the young intellectuals heading off after him without even bothering to bid either him or Catherine a good evening.

"I had been hoping to get Mister Greene's attention before this happened," Catherine said with a sigh, though her warm smile didn't falter.

"You were nearly there," Mirk reassured her, resisting the urge to comfort her with a hand on her shoulder. "Though...well...he does seem like a bit of a single-minded sort. But mages often are."

Catherine scanned the room, pausing on a mixed group of men and women across from the windows. The more lighthearted of that evening's attendees, if Mirk had to guess, the older and more well-established families. They all seemed well-acquainted with each other. And the few single men in attendance — older than the mages, but not so old that a debutante would only consider them if pressed by the needs of her family — already seemed to be taking their pick of the young ladies among the crowd, conferring with their fathers and grandfathers to get an introduction before engaging the ladies themselves.

"Methinks I might have better luck with them too," Mirk said, following Catherine’s gaze. "They seem more like what I'm accustomed to, anyway. Shall we go over?"

She nodded, taking his arm. "Mother was right. You don't give off the air of a K'maneda. I think we have good odds. At least better than I would with father. You are very interesting, after all, seigneur. To those who are inclined toward making conversation, in any case."

Though almost everything else was different about that strange English ball, the musicians followed the same traditions. The timbre of the next song was more somber than he was accustomed to, but Mirk recognized the sprightly beat to it. That night's dancing would commence with the next number; this was the unspoken signal for the men to choose their ladies. Or square off against each other, if they couldn't attract one.

Which would be the case for many that night, Mirk suspected, judging by the size of the crowd. There were only forty or so young debutantes in attendance, if Mirk had to guess, and nearly twice that number of men without a wife hovering nearby. He allowed Catherine to guide him indirectly rather than taking the lead, as they strolled across the ballroom in the direction of a pair of middle-aged men in plain brown suits. Artificers, if Mirk had to guess, judging by the detail of the metalwork on their buckles and buttons.

But they were intercepted before they could make it across the ballroom, by Casyn calling out to Catherine from somewhere behind him. Both he and Catherine cringed at his raised voice, uncalled for in a setting that wasn't solely populated by battle-hardened mages and fighters who wouldn't respond to anything other than a yell or a smack upside the head.

"Catherine! Catherine, there you are! I lost track of you," Casyn said, voice thankfully lowering the closer he got. Unfortunately, he wasn't alone. Ravensdale and his two mismatched right-hand mages were trailing after him, all of them exchanging questioning looks. "Has anyone asked for your first dance yet?"

"No, father," Catherine said, pausing for a moment to gather her wits before turning to face her father fully, Mirk still holding on to her elbow. "I was just about to introduce Seigneur d'Avignon to Masters Blake and White from the Artificers."

Casyn opened his mouth to reply. But he was cut off by Ravensdale, who stepped out ahead of him, giving both Mirk and Catherine a once-over with his eyes and magic. It was the gaze of a man who was more accustomed to taking stock of his possessions than of people. "Seigneur d'Avignon? Are you that new recruit from the Twentieth? Cyrus said something about a Frenchman...but he implied that you weren't much of a noble anymore..."

Mirk let practice take the lead while his mind scrambled to catch up with the sudden turn of events, leaning into a bow that was deeper than strictly necessary. "Yes, Comrade Ravensdale. I joined the Twentieth this past summer."

Behind him, the portly mage exchanged a skeptical look with Casyn, who shrugged him off without comment. Meanwhile, the spindly mage was staring determinedly down at the floor, as if he wished the boards would part and swallow him whole. "I'll have to have a word with Cyrus," Ravensdale said, with an off-hand, dismissive gesture. He wasn't looking at him, Mirk noticed. Much like the young mages before him, he found Jean-Luc's staff far more interesting. "It's a waste to have a noble in the Twentieth, even if you aren't from England. You know we don't discriminate in the K'maneda."

"Of course, Comrade Ravensdale. That's very considerate of you," Mirk replied.

"Margaret says that all the women love him," Casyn piped up. "Best healer they've all been with in ages."

"And it's paramount that we keep our women happy," Ravensdale said, nodding along. Mirk felt like he was going to be sick. He knew full well, from all the horrible stories told to him by Fatima's ladies, that Ravensdale had about as much interest in the health and happiness of the K'maneda's women as he did his djinn. "Speaking of," Ravensdale continued, as his gaze shifted to Catherine. "I didn't know that your younger daughter was making her debut this season, Casyn. Catherine, is it?"

Catherine dipped into a curtsey, her eyes lowered. "Yes, Comrade. Catherine Rak'sen. It's nice to see you again."

"She's the smart one," Casyn said. "Best enchantress we have. Though I may be a bit biased."

Something in Casyn's tone grated on Mirk. They were cut from the same cloth, Casyn and Ravensdale, though Ravensdale had at least mastered the art of speaking gently, even if the rest of his manners were lacking. They both acted like all of the people around them were nothing but tools, things to be shuffled about and rearranged and discarded at will. "Do you share Comrade Commander Margaret's element and orientation?" Ravensdale asked Catherine.

"Element, yes. But I'm a chaotic dark mage, not ordered."

Ravensdale's eyebrows lifted further. "I'd be interested in seeing a demonstration. Would you care to accompany me on the first dance? I promise I won't keep you for long," he said, offering out his hand.

The smile didn't leave Catherine's face. But Mirk felt dread rise up in her, hidden underneath a subdued display of her magical potential, which made the shadows cast by her petite frame and wide skirts darken and lengthen. Something he'd seen Genesis do often enough, though Catherine's magic didn't have the same coldness to it that the commander's did, the same uncanny intelligence and destructive intent. She nodded and took Ravensdale's hand as the notes of the night's first proper dance wafted across the ballroom, along with several debutantes and the men they'd chosen to test the compatibility of their magic with. "I'd be honored, Comrade Ravensdale."

The pair headed off toward the area at the center of the ballroom that had the necessary enchantments for mage dancing inscribed upon it. Casyn watched with smugly folded arms, beaming from ear to ear, mostly over the way the other K'maneda officers on the far side of the room were watching his daughter and their leader. Though the trio of commanders didn't stay right beside Ravensdale, they kept close to him, lest he forget about them while being entertained by Catherine's charm.

As soon as the officers had moved off, Mirk allowed his smile to fade. He'd never thought of himself as a combative person before. But something about the conversation that'd just gone on in front of him made him want to knock the lot of them upside their heads with the staff. Mirk glanced over at it, spinning it between his fingers. The wood was warm against his skin. Though he decided it'd be better not to take any chances by reaching out to the staff's magic, Mirk got the distinct impression that whatever energy resided within the wood was as annoyed by the whole display as he was. And that it was the staff that wanted to inflict itself upon the officers rather than him.

Hopefully Ravensdale would be true to his word and not keep Catherine for more than one dance. In the meantime, Mirk thought it best to do his duty as her makeshift ward and try to secure a dance for her with someone more agreeable than Ravensdale. He wasn't about to try with the young scholars, though those were the men Catherine seemed most amenable to. Mirk turned on his heel and set out toward the pair of artificers instead. No other lady had attracted their attention. And he thought he'd have much better luck maintaining a pleasant conversation with them than he would any of the other mages in attendance that night, K'maneda included.

He couldn't listen to the staff. It might favor smacking some sense into the officers. But for him, the war was always going to be waged with words.