"Are you sure I can't help you with anything, seigneur?"

"No, no. I'll be fine. Methinks I just need some air. Though you're welcome to come with if you'd like to enjoy the sun, mademoiselles."

Both Catherine and Kali lingered in the solarium doorway, exchanging a questioning look. Mademoiselle Polignac’s estate near Nice was peculiar, an odd mirror of the one in Limoges. The main difference being a lack of doors and windows that could be closed, leaving every room open to the breeze off the Mediterranean and the sharp bite of salt it carried with it. The solarium was no exception. The plants there had a decidedly more foreign, tropical flavor than her collection in Limoges, with more orange and lemon trees and scores of pink and yellow flowers as big as serving platters nestled among palms that grew up straight out of gaps in the tiles rather than in pots. The ladies would be suffering in their blacks that day whether they decided to venture outside or not. Kali doubly so, owing to the breastplate she refused to take off, the same as the battered leather cuirass that'd come before it. Mirk was glad he'd opted for one of his summer suits.

Kali answered first. "I'd rather not," she said, folding her arms as a shield against scrutiny, as usual. Though she added a grumbled thank you at a pointed look from her sister.

"As long as Monsieur Er-Izat can stay with you, I'd prefer to stay inside as well," Catherine said, eyeing up the djinn who was currently bearing most of Mirk's weight for him. Er-Izat had needed to practically carry him up the front steps. Even though the coachman had assured Mirk as he'd climbed into the Circle's teleporting carriage that if he'd been fine enough from London to Limoges, then the second jump to Nice wouldn't be that bad, Mirk had nearly ended up throwing up in Kali's lap from the strain. If they'd lingered for a half hour or so before the second jump, Mirk thought he could have borne up under it. But the coachman had a schedule to keep. And a noble taskmaster waiting for him in Nice who was far more intimidating than Mirk and his two lady guards.

"Is it all right, Monsieur Er-Izat?" Mirk asked the djinn, switching back to French. Mirk was trying to support his own weight, making periodic attempts to shift it over onto his grandfather's staff rather than clinging to Er-Izat’s side. But his body, covered with sweat under his fine new suit and crawling with gooseflesh, refused to cooperate. "I'm sure Seigneur d'Aumont will be needing you..."

Er-Izat looked out the solarium door, out over the beach. Two figures in suits, one black and the other gold, were standing at the end of a stone path that cut from the solarium’s back door down to the waterfront. Beyond them, down the length of a weathered jetty, two ladies had ventured even further out. The Marquise and Mademoiselle Polignac, if Mirk had to hazard a guess. But the world was still spinning too badly for him to look very hard.

A moment later, Er-Izat looked back down at Mirk, a flicker of golden light circling around the upper and lower edges of his collar. "Master has private business with Seigneur Rouzet. I will help you to the water, Seigneur d'Avignon. If this is to your liking."

Mirk wasn't sure whether being further assaulted by the smell of seaweed and salt would settle the churning in his stomach. But at the very least, it would give him time to speak with Er-Izat more or less in private. Sneaking a sideways glance at Er-Izat's collar, Mirk nodded, taking a tentative step past the doorway and onto the path down to the beach. All visible traces of magic had faded from Er-Izat’s collar, but it'd be prudent to assume that Seigneur d'Aumont could hear everything his servant could through it, if he was so inclined. He'd have to choose his words carefully. A trial Mirk was almost too exhausted to contemplate, considering the throbbing in his temples.

"You're quite strong, Monsieur Er-Izat," Mirk said, trying to force the wavering out of his voice. He gave up on his struggle to stand on his own, leaning fully against the djinn's heavily muscled side. The forearm that was bearing most of his weight, straining underneath Er-Izat's finely embroidered gambeson, had to be nearly half as big around as one of Mirk's thighs. "For which I'm very grateful."

"My thanks, seigneur," the djinn replied. Despite his size, Er-Izat had a much softer voice than either Am-Hazek or Am-Gulat. It reminded Mirk a little of Ilya, whose pleasant, cheerful tone didn't match at all with his hulking frame. But Er-Izat's voice had none of the lightness and wonder in it that Ilya's did. Er-Izat's voice was toneless. As if he wanted to make himself as invisible as all the rest of the djinn servants, but couldn't manage it due to his size, no matter how hard he tried at all the usual tactics.

"I haven't been to a beach like this since I was a boy," Mirk said, deciding to keep up the conversation for him by letting himself babble. Both to distract himself from his body's aching, and to see if he could stumble across a topic that might make Er-Izat show a few of his cards. "I'm from the north, you know. We went to the beach all the time, but the ones on the Atlantic are very different from the ones here on the Côte d'Azur."

"I have heard, seigneur."

"Can we walk on the sand a bit? It might make me feel a little more, euh, grounded. But I wouldn't want to be even more of a burden to you than I already am, Monsieur Er-Izat."

"As you wish, seigneur."

Mirk edged off the stone walkway and onto the sand. As they were still far from the water, the sand was deep, thick, warm. Mirk could feel it sneaking in over the low sides of his shoes. And though it did make him feel less out-of-sorts to be welcomed into the Earth's embrace, it also made him useless on his feet, unable to walk for more than a few steps without needing to pause and catch his breath. "I suppose this isn't very proper," Mirk mumbled to himself, with a winded laugh.

Er-Izat remained silent. But he looked back over in the direction of the mismatched gold and black figures at the end of the walk. They were both facing the sea, their backs to them. One slender and one curved with age, but both proudly upright. Although the smaller, gold-clad figure required the assistance of a cane to manage it.

"Do they have many beaches like this on the djinn homeworld?" Mirk asked, as he stumbled to a halt and closed his eyes. The better to center himself as he tried to will the beating of his heart to match the slow roll of the waves against the shore further ahead of them. It didn't work well. To his addled senses, the water felt like a giant churning well of uncertainty ahead of him, as restless and unruly as the sloshing of his stomach. "I'd always pictured it as being sandy. But that might just be because you all bear such a resemblance to the half-angels from across the sea. You know, who live in the great desert. My father employed a few."

"No," Er-Izat said, after a long pause. "They are stone, seigneur."

Mirk forced his eyes back open. Er-Izat was staring out over the water, his face the same expressionless mask that most well-trained djinn wore when they were called upon to make themselves presentable. But something in the question had unsettled him, Mirk thought. Maybe it was only because he'd felt Am-Hazek's magic without a collar between them, but Mirk thought he could feel Er-Izat's magic moving in him too, underneath the iron of his collar and fabric and skin and muscle. Still wavery and indistinct, but with a definite, gravelly note to it that both Am-Hazek and Am-Gulat lacked. Am-Hazek had said that djinn favored different elements, kept them in different balances as required by circumstance and temperament.

"I apologize if I've touched on a sensitive topic, Monsieur Er-Izat," Mirk said, ducking his head as much as he dared. His stomach still felt like it was on the verge of creeping up his throat. "I'm afraid I don't have good manners like most of the men you must meet. And I have a tendency to babble, as I'm sure you've noticed."

"I do not know how to answer your questions, seigneur," Er-Izat said, nudging Mirk along. Or more like picked him up and carried him, though he didn't subject Mirk to the indignity of being slung over a shoulder or cradled against his chest. Mirk wouldn’t have minded the latter at the moment, even if it was improper. He always had an easier time quieting his own body if he could match its rhythms to those of another, calmer, more sensible person. "No one asks me questions."

"That's a shame, Monsieur Er-Izat. I get the impression that you'd have a lot to say, if only someone was there to listen."

The djinn made a faint sound of discomfort as he continued to half-walk, half-carry Mirk down to the shore. The closer they got to the water, the more firm the sand grew underneath Mirk's feet. But Mirk didn't truly find his footing again until they were nearly close enough to come within range of the waves lapping at the shore.

Mirk didn't know whether the Mediterranean was supposed to be calm or not at that time of year, on that particular shoreline. But he had a feeling that even if it usually was more wild, there was no chance of a rogue wave hurling itself up unexpectedly and soaking both him and Er-Izat. There were two water mages tending to it at the moment, after all.

Rather than staring off over the waves like Er-Izat, Mirk shifted his attention to the jetty stretching out into the water. The waves were rougher out there, smacking into the wooden support beams and throwing up spray nearly as high as the two figures standing at the end of it were tall. But both ladies' dresses remained clean and dry, as far as Mirk could tell.

He didn't know whether it was intentional, but Mademoiselle Polignac and the Marquise had chosen outfits that complimented one another that day. The Marquise's dress was a dark grayish blue, the same color as the sea out where it crashed into the sky. Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Polignac's was a brighter cerulean, like the water nearer the shore. While the mélusine kept herself shaded from the sun with a white lace parasol, the Marquise was basking in it, bare-headed. Not a common sight, considering the lady's position, but Mirk supposed anyone who might have been looking would be willing to grant her that liberty. A mage in the midst of her element couldn't be blamed for wanting to relish it.

Though Mirk couldn't see either of their lips moving, he got the impression they were chatting, somehow. It was in the way the Marquise's shoulders jumped up every so often, as if she was biting back a laugh. And the way that something that was decidedly more solid than a breeze, something seafoam-green and scaly, flicked at the back of Mademoiselle Polignac's skirts.

"What a lovely day," Mirk mumbled to himself, as he stared across the water at the two ladies. They were too far away for him to feel any true emotion from either of them. But he thought there was a certain warmth floating between them, something close to the way the sea would feel on bare skin three or four months hence, once the sun had been given more time to work its magic on it. It reminded him of his parents.

"It was supposed to rain, seigneur." Er-Izat said, flatly. "The Marquise honored the Mademoiselle's request to drive it away."

"How very kind of her," Mirk replied. Only then did he realize he was still leaning hard on Er-Izat's arm, and made himself stand up a little straighter. Mustering the whole of what little composure he'd been able to regain, he turned to the side and looked back toward shore, where the two male figures were still standing by the end of the walkway that joined with the jetty further on. Seigneur d'Aumont and Rouzet, as Mirk had expected. They were deep in conversation, ignoring the sunshine and the sea breeze and him and Er-Izat. Mirk got the impression that their conversation was much less pleasant than that of the two ladies at the end of the jetty. "Has Seigneur d'Aumont made up with Seigneur Rouzet, then?" Mirk asked the djinn. "I'd heard they hadn't been getting on well as of late. Not since Seigneur Rouzet's father passed."

"This is not something I know, seigneur." Er-Izat turned to look back toward the pair as well. Another glimmer of golden light raced around his collar. And lingered in the mark on its side, the cross with the rose in bloom wrapped around it.

"Ah, right. It'd be better if I asked him myself, I suppose. I didn't mean to put you in an uncomfortable position, Monsieur. You've already been so considerate toward me today."

Er-Izat ducked his head, not meeting his eyes. "I live to serve, seigneur."

Mirk had heard that phrase hundreds of times, murmured by brothers and sisters at the abbey, by his father as he thumped his fist over his chest and nodded down at an Imperial messenger, from himself. It didn't feel right coming from Er-Izat. It made a shiver race down Mirk's spine, made him hastily look away from the two lords on the walkway and back out at the sea. Yet Mirk had to say something, in case Seigneur d'Aumont was listening.

"I suppose we all do, in a way, Monsieur Er-Izat."

- - -

"Isn't this absolutely stunning?" Yvette crowed, hauling hard on Mirk's arm. "Worth all the gold and the time, I'd say. They've been building it for two hundred years, did you know?"

Yvette used both her own boundless energy and the permission granted by having a lord by her side to bully her way through the throngs of journeymen mages gathered just inside the front doors to the Circle's meeting hall. Mirk supposed that the great glass dome that the hall had for a roof would be much more impressive if he hadn't spent so much time in the City of Glass by then. Although few places in the City still had its namesake windows and roofs, he'd been spoiled by sneaking naps whenever he could up in the plague ward. While the dome hanging above him presently was a massive undertaking, Mirk knew, it paled in comparison to the infirmary's. The glass dome of the meeting hall was split every foot or so by iron support lattices, whereas the plague ward's roof was a clear expanse of glass, as unbroken as if one was standing out in the open.

No one had seen fit to put an enchantment on the other side of the glass, or convinced a mage from the air or water guilds to conjure up a spell of fine weather. The sky beyond the glass was as oppressive and gray as a stone ceiling would have been. Another way in which the guilds’ attempt at matching what the ancient K'maneda had mastered fell short. It was always sunny up in the plague ward, no matter what the weather was like outside. But Mirk decided it'd be better not to spoil Yvette's cheerful mood with undue criticism.

All in all, it'd been a miserable trip.

The private meeting of the Circle in Nice had been as grim and confusing as Mirk had expected. Nothing but constant sniping between Seigneur Rouzet and Seigneur d'Aumont, with the Comte making caustic asides about youthful frivolity every few minutes, always with a wary glance across Mademoiselle Polignac's parlor at the younger members, Seigneurs Feulaine and Rouzet. The Marquise struggled to represent her own interests in the gaps, pressing Mirk on whether or not any of the K'maneda were willing to help with her shipping concerns, which were mounting with the coming spring. Mirk had done his best to reassure everyone in attendance, trying to smooth tempers alongside Seigneur Feulaine. But it was hard to get anywhere with a selection of nobles who were all so intransigent and invested in their own points of view.

Although Seigneurs Rouzet and d'Aumont were perpetually at each other's throats, Mirk thought they must have come to some kind of agreement on the largest issue facing French magecraft at the moment. They agreed that if the mages were going to advance, keep turning tidy profits and bolstering the strength of the guilds, they needed to start reaching beyond the Sun King's borders and start making alliances with other countries' mages instead of being continually used as cudgels against one another by the mortals. What they disagreed on was the best approach to take in forging new alliances. Understandably, Seigneur d'Aumont was more interested in reaching out to the more established noble families, the ones who'd intermarried at times with mortal nobility and were more interested in keeping things steady than trying to launch some grand new movement. The ones who knew the mortals as well as he did, who respected them well enough to reason with them about what was an appropriate and honorable degree of warring and what was too much.

Mirk got the impression that Seigneur Rouzet had a much different perspective on the matter. He had a great deal of quips to make about mortal nobility. And about how senseless it was for mages to let a people who only lived a sparse six or seven decades and reproduced an unseemly amount to dictate the actions of men like themselves who were capable of truly perceiving where the world was headed. It was clear to Mirk where he thought the world was headed: in the direction of men of commerce and cunning. Which was why he claimed he was so interested in the K'maneda and the English, Mirk gathered. Whether that claim was the whole truth of Seigneur Rouzet's opinions was a whole other matter entirely.

It had all given Mirk a terrible headache. When he'd gone out with Seigneur Feulaine to meet his daughter at the family coach, he'd wanted nothing more than to retreat back to the City and curl up in his own bed instead of going and being sociable with Yvette. But the prospects of another long carriage ride back to the City of Glass had been too galling for Mirk to bear. He'd accepted Yvette's invitation to spend the night at the family estate instead of returning to the City and coming back again to Paris in the morning for the public meeting of the Circle.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

It meant he'd needed to send Catherine and Kali off alone, Kali back to Bordeaux and Catherine with instructions to find K'aekniv and get him to let her into his quarters to retrieve his gray suit and have it sent down to him in time for the public meeting. Kali hadn't been happy about that. But Catherine's insistence that she could take care of herself, and Mirk's warning that Catherine appearing unannounced and unaccompanied at his quarters could perhaps result in her triggering whatever maze of defensive magic Genesis had on his rooms had won Kali over, grudgingly. That or she was simply too tired from having to put up with Seigneur Rouzet eyeballing her all afternoon to put up much of a fight.

That afternoon wasn't shaping up much better. He was an honored guest of the Circle, there to receive the Montigny men's apologies for what had happened to his family and reassure all the guild mages in attendance that there was no bad blood on either side. Most likely, he'd be called upon to make some kind of speech. Mirk didn't know which he was dreading more, having to watch as all the men who the Empire had irreparably scarred on his behalf groveled to him, or having the scrutiny of all the other mages turned on him. All the serious guild men would be watching to judge whether or not he was a fitting heir to Jean-Luc's legacy. Someone to be followed with interest, or dismissed as a bumbling fool.

Of all the Montigny men, Mirk dreaded meeting Laurent again most of all. Yvette had reassured him all night that there was no bad blood remaining between them, that Laurent would have come to Nice for dinner if only he hadn't been so busy with his family's guild work. Laurent had been tasked with negotiating the shift in responsibilities within the Briquet from the mages close to the Montignys to those more closely aligned with Seigneur Feulaine's interests. A boon, Yvette had reassured him, making both Laurent's position in the guild and their marriage all the stronger. Mirk had a hard time imagining Laurent engaging in tactful diplomacy. But perhaps past events were making him judge the man too harshly.

Mirk spotted Laurent right away as they came into the meeting hall proper, seated beside Seigneur Feulaine at the head of the wedge of chairs dedicated to the fire mages. All those in attendance were dressed in their most somber attire, only the masters in robes of varying shades of red that were embroidered with arcane sigils and runes that invoked whatever spell they'd crafted to earn their position. There were at least two guilds that served France's fire mages, probably more, though the Briquets had been the foremost one for ages, as far as Mirk knew. Mirk didn't know what Seigneur Feulaine's masterwork spell had been. But whatever it was, Mirk suspected that it involved something delicate and persistent, slow and cautious like himself, judging by the impression the stitching on his robes gave. Most of the other masters seated behind him had much flashier, striking spells. Combat magic, if the French fire mages were anything like the English ones Mirk had heard of from Elijah.

Once Seigneur d'Aumont entered, Mirk knew from having attended in the past, all the other members of the Circle would leave their positions at the head of their respective wedges and join him in the six chairs arrayed at the front of the hall, on a raised platform. Mirk would be watching the meeting from the furthest away seats alongside the women and the foreigners, as he always had. Though women could gain access to the guild halls and libraries through their husbands and fathers, none of them ever were included as formal members. Which made for an awkward situation when a woman rose as high as the Marquise, all the way onto the Circle but not to the top of any particular guild. She was seated in a chair much better than those that the rest of them would be consigned to, at the head of the general seats, her two usual burly attendants flanking her and showing her ledgers and charts to pass the time as they waited for the others to arrive.

Yvette ushered Mirk into a seat nearer than front than the back, close to the aisle so that he could escape the crowd easily when it came time for him to accept the Montignys' formal apology. He was glad he'd called for his gray suit. In all his preoccupation with how the English mages presented themselves, he'd ordered all his new suits, the cream one excepted, to have touches of green hidden in them. But there was an unspoken rule among the French mages that at formal meetings only those who'd been admitted into a guild were permitted to wear the color of their element.

He probably should have worn something black. He was a K'maneda now, after all. But gray would have to do.

"Oh, but it always is so terribly stuffy in here, don't you think?" Yvette said to him, tugging on his arm to make sure she got his attention. She'd been talking at him the whole while, but Mirk hadn't been listening closely. "With all this glass everywhere, you'd at least think they'd open one of the windows to let a breeze through. I'm sure none of the men would admit it, but they must be as warm as we are with all those extra layers."

"A bit of air would be nice," Mirk said, nodding agreeably and fixing the best smile he could muster on his face. "And it's not raining. At least not yet. A very dreary day, though." He stared up through the latticed glass, watching the clouds creep and sulk overhead. "I'd been hoping for better weather. It's always terribly gray in England."

"Another reason for you to quit and come back to us," Yvette needled him, as she flicked open her fan. "You're not thinking of marrying one of those awful Englishwomen, are you? If you aren't, you'd better start thinking of at least spending the spring season down here. Otherwise you'll be stuck with the dregs when it comes time. And a pleasant man like you deserves someone better.”

Mirk made a polite, inquisitive noise, hoping Yvette might catch the hint and turn the conversation in a different direction. She didn’t.

“A man of your rank absolutely must have someone better than one of those drippy English girls. Though I am curious to see whether there are any shining lights hiding up there. That one woman you brought with you, the small one, she seemed a decent sort. A bit too serious for my tastes, but Laurent says everyone is too serious for my tastes," she added with a snicker, casting a fond look over at her fiancé. Laurent looked like he was fit to combust, his fists clenched on his knees as he stared dead ahead and waited beside Seigneur Feulaine.

"You always did like a bit of excitement," Mirk said, matching her laughter.

"If you're ever in need of someone with a sense of humor to go with you to one of those English balls, I'd be more than happy to make the right introduction for you. I think that your company would make it worth the trip for anyone, curiosity aside. That is, if you can get me and Laurent an invitation too," Yvette teased, turning her grin back on him.

"I'll...euh, consider it."

Mirk was spared from having to make more polite conversation by the arrival of Seigneur d'Aumont. Rather than entering through the door the rest of them had filtered through, he stepped out of a hallway near the front of the room, looking neither left nor right as mounted the platform the Circle's high-backed, gilt-laden chairs were arrayed down the length of. As if no one else in the room was worth paying attention to, at least not yet. The golden, ermine-lined train of his robes was as long as he was tall. But he carried the same cane as always, Mirk noticed, the one with the golden falcon's head and diamond eyes.

Once he'd taken his seat, the third in from the end, the other members of the Circle went up one by one. In order of long they'd sat on the Circle rather than by age or any other marker of rank. The Comte, the Marquise, Seigneur Rouzet, and finally Seigneur Feulaine. The last chair on the podium, the one reserved for a mage who'd represent one of the guilds frequented by earth elementals, remained empty.

At a rap of Seigneur d'Aumont's cane against the floor, everyone in the room rose to their feet. They all bowed and curtseyed to the greatest among them. Then, once everyone was seated again, the meeting began.

The first matter up for discussion was the empty chair at the end of the podium. Mirk hadn't made too many inquiries as to who the Circle was thinking of calling upon to replace his grandfather, but he assumed competition would be fierce. There were a great number of guilds that admitted earth mages, ranging from healers to artificers to more combat-minded mages. It made for a lot of jealous Grand Masters who all had their eyes set on the ultimate prize. If Mirk had to hazard a guess, he expected the Circle to give the seat to either the Duc de Saint-Simon, the head of the most military-minded of the earth-aligned guilds, the Briseurs, or Seigneur Francois de Lesseps from the artificers. It'd be the Duc if Seigneur d'Aumont got his way, Mirk supposed, and Seigneur de Lesseps if Rouzet got his.

Instead, it was neither. Mirk hadn't been paying attention to the speech going on at the front of the room, each member of the Circle saying their own agreed upon part of it. He'd been watching the wedge of the hall delegated to the earth mages instead. It was larger than the rest, owing to the number of guilds sheltered under the guiding hand of the combat-focused earth mages’ guilds.

Mirk hadn't been watching any of the Grand Masters in specific. He'd let his physical eyes go unfocused, watching the proceedings with his mind’s eye over the edge of the shields he'd built thick around himself in preparation for his confrontation with the Montignys. All of the Grand Masters had their own shields, of course, too thick for an empath to pierce, even if none of the Grand Masters were empaths themselves. Mirk listed and watched for the emotions of the men around them instead. The Briseurs seemed confident, but so did the artificers. And the rest of the lesser guilds mostly just seemed worried, preoccupied by what the advance of either of the pair would mean for the standing of their own organization. Especially the few empaths within the wedge, sitting near the back with the healing guilds. Their minds were warmer, but also more concerned than those of the others.

Mirk only just registered Seigneur Feulaine's words as he spoke them, the mental outcry over the Circle's decision overshadowing Seigneur Feulaine's soft-spoken acknowledgement of the Casse-pierres and its Grand Master, Seigneur Flaubert Masson. Though the Seigneur was a serious sort, as steady as his element, his hair close-cropped and expression grave just like the busts of Caesar he collected, his son Rory wasn't. The young mage Mirk had grown up visiting and playing with had to check an open-mouthed gape as his father rose from the seat in front of him and waited for Seigneur Feulaine to descend the platform and lead him up to the open seat. But Rory's shock was soon lost in the confusion of the others, an audible murmur rising from all in attendance.

Including Yvette Feulaine, who leaned forward to peek around the other ladies in their row and wave with her fan at Rory's wife Désirée down at the far end. "Congratulations, Désirée! Oh, I'm so happy for you!" Yvette gushed. A bit too loudly, considering the cross looks shot her way by the other ladies. Désirée only nodded, her expression still as measured as that of her father-in-law's as Seigneur Feulaine escorted him up onto the platform. But Mirk thought he spied a hint of satisfaction playing around the corners of her mouth.

The newest member of the Circle would at least keep his remarks brief, Mirk was certain. To the point, without any gloating or grandstanding. Seigneur Masson scanned the room, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood before his chair. He was an interesting choice, to be sure. Seigneur Masson was of the same generation as Seigneurs Rouzet and Feulaine. A bit older than both of them, but not by more than three or four decades. And a great deal younger than the other members. Mirk wondered what Seigneur Rouzet had offered Seigneur d'Aumont to help make his case for choosing Seigneur Masson over the two elder Grand Masters within the earth contingent.

"My thanks to you all," Seigneur Masson said, with a bow first to the crowd, and then to the other members of the Circle. "I will serve the realm to the best of my ability. With honor and honesty. And with respect to the legacy of my predecessor, Seigneur Jean-Luc d'Avignon. I hope to also one day forge a better future for us all."

At the mention of his grandfather's name, Mirk had to fight not to slump down in his seat to hide himself among the women. Luckily, everyone was still too shocked by the unexpected choice to be paying him much heed. That changed the second Seigneur Masson sat and Seigneur Rouzet rose, while the assembled mages clapped the last of their approval.

"Speaking of the legacy of the late Seigneur d'Avignon," Seigneur Rouzet said, grinning down at the crowd as he waited for them to settle. "Before we move on to more mundane business, the Circle would also like to pay its respects to our former member. And offer an apology for the tragedy that struck both him and his house. If the present Seigneur could come up...?"

Mirk hadn't been expecting to be called on so soon. He thought the apology would have been an afterthought, something tacked on to the tail end of the meeting, when everyone was preoccupied with leaving and discussing what had transpired with their friends. That would have been the sensible choice, both owing to his family's lack of remaining influence and to spare the Montignys any further humiliation. It took a violent nudge in the side from Yvette to spur Mirk up out of his chair and onto his feet. He squared his shoulders and made his way down the aisle to the front of the room, neither too slow nor too quick, making an effort to keep his expression open and pleasant and not to lean too hard on his grandfather's staff. Its wood was cold underneath his fingers.

He stopped in front of the platform, before Seigneur Rouzet, and performed the lowest bow he could think of. "I am at your service, Seigneurs. Comte. Marquise," he said, having to strain to speak loud enough to be heard. There weren't any amplification charms on the floor; those were only up on the platform proper.

"As we are at yours, Seigneur d'Avignon," Rouzet replied, returning his bow. There was a certain edge in the dark mage's tone that Mirk didn't like. One of mingled triumph and amusement. "Please, come all the way up."

It was all Mirk could do to not either turn around and run or call on the power of his grandfather's staff to open a chasm in the floorboards that would swallow him up. The apology had been talked about at the private meeting like an offhand thing, something of no real importance, a mere formality. Surely, a formality didn't necessitate him coming up on the platform itself? He was no Grand Master, not even a journeyman.

Mirk forced himself to circle around to the side of the platform and ascend the three short steps nevertheless, crossing it until he was beside Seigneur Rouzet at its middle. The seigneur reached up the sleeve of his robes and drew out a scroll of mage parchment, which he presented to Mirk with a flourish. "No representative from the demonic realm was able to attend today, unfortunately. But I was given this to pass along to you. With regards from the Lady of House Rose."

His body took the scroll. But Mirk’s mind had already left.

It was as he was in two places at once, half of him still smiling and bowing and murmuring his thanks atop the platform at the head of the grand meeting hall that hundreds of mages had toiled over for years, while the other half of him vanished into the ether to escape the horror of what had just been pressed into his hand. With regards from the Lady of House Rose. Mirk's head was filled with a static that made listening to Seigneur Rouzet impossible. A sound like the clouds looming over the glass dome had surrendered to the inevitable, just like he had, and a drizzle had begun to fall.

With regards from the Lady of House Rose.

What regards could she possibly have to send to him? What more could she ask from him that she hadn't already stolen?

He hadn't even known her name. Not until after. And it had never felt, either when it had happened, or during the brief, dark moments where Mirk found himself incapable of avoiding the memories, like she'd ever bothered to learn his. He wondered who the message clenched in his fist would be addressed to. Him? Jean-Luc? No one?

For a moment, Mirk thought he'd lost himself entirely. The rage was back. Hot and choking. Then Mirk realized that there wasn't any lust forced along with it, detached from any kindness or affection and wielded as a tool meant to pry what was needed from him. Mirk blinked hard and found the Montigny men arrayed before him on the floor below the platform, all of their heads lowered in a bow that he needed to respond to. The rage was percolating up from all of them. They'd accepted their chastisement and his aid. But they hadn't forgotten what the Empire had done to them.

"I...thank you, monsieurs, seigneur," Mirk said, as he fumbled through a bow in return. He only realized as he spoke the word that he didn't know which of the remaining men of the family actually was the seigneur, now. Maybe the one at the furthest end, the one who the youngest with the thin mustache had dreamed of with such terror. "I promise you all, there's no bad blood left between us. We've all suffered enough. I'm sorry for everything that's happened. There's no need for any more pain."

None of the Montignys, once they'd straightened up and begun to file back to their seats, looked very impressed by his weak apologies. Aside from Laurent. For some reason, rather than sneering at him with disdain or shaking with repressed anger, Laurent was the sole man among the Montignys who side-eyed him with some modicum of grudging respect. Yvette must have truly meant it when she'd said she'd been hard at work on his behalf.

Once the Montignys were all seated once more, Mirk moved to excuse himself and make good his escape. Yvette would be mad, but he needed to be outside. Needed to feel the cold on his face, needed to go find some out of the way corner to kneel in and touch stone. But, once again, Seigneur Rouzet decided to step forward and disarm him, taking hold of his elbow.

"Your late grandfather truly was a gift to us all," Seigneur Rouzet said. He must have been referring back to something that'd been said earlier, something that Mirk had missed. "And we hope that you might continue his tradition of service, seigneur. As the Marquise said, the Circle has decided the time has come for us to end our isolation and warring. The Circle invites you, Seigneur d'Avignon, to be one of our official ambassadors."

"I...euh...pardon, seigneur?" Mirk asked with an undignified cough, as he felt all the blood rush to his face.

"Along with Madame Masson to the Holy Roman Guilds and the Low Countries, Seigneur Marbot to Spain, and Monsieur Estienne to the Italian states. You, of course, would be tending to our friends to the north. The English. More will come later, but we thought these would be the best places to start."

It all felt like some kind of ruse. Some trick Seigneur Rouzet was playing on him, to further his embarrassment. But as he spoke each of the names, a figure rose from the crowd, each of them nodding their assent. The whole arrangement must have been discussed ahead of time, either while his mind had been gone or in some letter that had been lost by the Teleporters or the house matron at the dormitory. Mirk followed their lead and nodded, shifting into yet another bow when that alone didn't seem like quite enough to convey his gratitude. "Yes, of course, seigneur. I'd be honored to serve the Circle however I can."

"Excellent, well done. We'll speak soon, Seigneur d'Avignon." Seigneur Rouzet made a subtle waning potency gesture with his free hand, as he gave Mirk's elbow a reassuring squeeze, leaning closer to him, just for a second. Just long enough for him to whisper a suggestion to him, one that Mirk was thankfully recovered enough to recognize the command in. "Perhaps in the rear hall once the meeting is concluded? As long as you don't have pressing matters elsewhere."

Mirk nodded, flashing both Seigneur Rouzet and the other members of the Circle the best smile he could muster. Then, with a final bow, he fled back to the safety of the crowd.

On the way, he banished the scroll from House Rose to the inside pocket of his justacorps. He'd had enough shocks for one day. Whatever poor excuse for an apology the House Rose demons had to offer him could wait.