Don’t dare to blink – elections hang on the brink!

  Only one circus mattered in Ruhum as Harvest rolled into its second half: the Conclave vote on elections. What should have been a procedural matter, voted and forgotten in the sea of scandals, instead stole the headlines. Criers shouted every half-founded rumor for the morning traffic; every man became a seer and a pundit. Would this House support the elections? Would that House abstain rather than draw the ire of the People?

  Overnight, fully-grown, The People emerged. The People unified, energized and emboldened, and woe to any House that thought to ignore that will! The People knew what they wanted, and The People just so happened to agree with whoever spoke last.

  For her part, Alisandra wondered on the difference between The People and God. Both spoke from the mouths of self-appointed prophets, and both demanded obedience to invisible, all-encompassing forces.

  The voice of God is quite the lucrative position, she thought. Perhaps the prophets of The People hunger for a share.

  The radio embargo against heresy collapsed under intense pressure from the financial sector on the sixty-second of Harvest. All matters of heresy aside, the bankers of Ruhum needed to know what changes the Stormmother meant for policy. After all, she was an ancient, fickle creature; what if this woman repealed the gold sovereign accord?!

  Local channels scheduled a rotation of preachers to ensure the faithful remembered that this Stormmother was a witch with delusions of grandeur. Any righteous man would easily discern that the lassitude of the tropical climates impaired the faculties of those southerners who worshiped such a woman.

  The Whistler channel from across the sea dispensed with the moralizing and reported every lurid detail. In a sure sign of the moral decline of the nation, that channel played in virtually all of the salons and cafes of Lumia.

  When the morning of the Conclave vote arrived, Alisandra opened her day with morning coffee and the Whistler channel.

War and redemption on the Plateau!

The Stormmother declares amnesty for the Lord of Peaks!

Formal delegations announced to spread her word to each nation!

  “I hope you understand the path you walk, Lynne,” Alisandra muttered, perched on the kitchen stool in her sleeping gown.

  The Lady Mishkan had planned to charge headfirst into her investigations, but a certain smug angel vanished into the night, little black book of contacts still in his pocket. Alisandra was a noble Lady. She did not know any spies, and she could hardly nip over to the neighbors to borrow theirs!

  She quietly suspected this was an intentional delay on Sebastian’s part.

  In the meantime, she scheduled an appointment with Father Lucas and hoped the Inventor boy would prove his mettle.

  This would be so much easier if Father would come home.

  She sighed, all too aware of the contradiction in her thoughts. She wanted her Father to return and smooth the way, and yet she wanted him to release her to stretch her own wings.

  “Only one question remains,” the Whistler jockey breathlessly barked. “Will the Conclave allow an election, or will that august body smother democracy in its cradle?”

  Chugging the last of her coffee, the angel retreated to her room to change. A historic occasion meant thousands of pictures, and that in turn required her to appear flawless. She pinned her hair high to spill over the nape of her neck, applied exactly the approved amount of lipstick and eyeshadow, and wiggled into her newest strapless gown.

  Fashion is a strange beast. Leave my shoulders bare for the look… She fetched a shawl and draped it over her shoulders. …and cover them so I don’t freeze in the breeze.

  She examined the multitude of gowns abandoned to her closet and shook her head. “If there was a resale market for these blasted things, I would not need to scrape for every gold!”

  Then again, what noble woman would be caught dead wearing leftovers? The Tailoring Guild would fund a gossip piece against such a Lady in record time. After all, a woman who could not even afford a dress was surely on the edge of financial ruin!

  Somehow these rules did not apply to the men, of course. They updated to the latest cut of suit at their leisure. If they wanted to keep wearing the old style, that only made them iconoclasts.

  Perhaps I can start the fashion of male makeup so they too can experience the joy of paying twenty silver for a tube of emulsified fats.

  Entertaining a chain of similarly dour thoughts, she double checked her appearance in the mirror and found herself acceptable. Minding her skirts, she slipped into the seat of the Mishkan car, commanded the autopilot to life, and settled back to nap.

  None of the other angels slept, but Alisandra found that dreams came with ease.

  Under the brilliant Spring sun and a canopy of towering flowers, she rode a wagon through the gentle hills of the Mishkan estate. Her father towered to the left, guiding the reins with easy tugs. This was a familiar path, and the horses needed little guidance.

  She glanced down at herself, unsure of her place. Small and skinny, she dangled her legs from the wagon’s bench. That wasn’t any help. How was she to know how old to act if she couldn’t place how old she was?

  A new detail of the dream resolved so that she wore a yellow sundress with a flower sewn to the breast – her favorite dress when she was eight.

  Her mother had sewn it, along with a dozen others, to fit the growing daughter she would not live to see.

  “Watch out up ahead,” the Archangel warned, shielding her with a wing.

  The dream flowed like a river, carrying her along. It told her what to say like a director before the stage.

  “Or my dress will stain,” she agreed.

  The towering flowers spat waterfalls of rainbow pollen a moment later. The colors rained onto the wagon and the Archangel’s protective wing, shining like the stained glass in the Cathedral. His white pinions stained, soaking the colors like a horsehair brush, and not a single drip fell through to his daughter.

  “And thus is your dress saved!” he teased. “It will live to be worn again.”

  The dream told her to giggle, but her neck prickled with paranoia. She swept her gaze across the giant garden. Someone has watched me in this moment…

  “Is something wrong?” the Archangel asked, and the dream wavered.

  The director before the stage hurled his script to the floor in frustration.

  You have done this a thousand times! The cartoonish playwright shouted, stomping his feet. Can’t you stay in character just once?!

  “I thought the witness spied…” she murmured.

  “Of course not, my little flower. He went to find me.”

  The dream director pulled at his hair and motioned the theater to close. The edges of the dream began to diffuse into abstract colors as the curtains prepared to close.

  Alisandra felt a prickle of anxiety, incongruous with a lazy Sunday dream. There was a purpose here, something buried in the fog, and she returned to this dream in search. And returned…and returned…

  Only the good girl who humored her role would advance to find out. So she kicked her feet restlessly and asked, “What’s today, Father?” in her best childish wheedle.

  The director rolled his eyes, but the dream continued.

  “Sixty first of spring,” he supplied. “Which means how long until summer?”

  Bright flowers and soft breeze, chirping birds and floating thoughts. She struggled to remember her math, cold numbers rattling loose through her mind.

  The curtains close if I do not answer, she thought. Answer too slow and fail. Answer too quick and fail.

  For a dizzying moment, she saw herself in this place again and again. How many times have I been in this dream…?

  Who could say what dreams evaporated with morning?

  What waited at the end of this wagon ride?

  “Nineteen,” she answered, clinging to her role.

  The director sighed and motioned the wagon on.

  Father chuckled. “I’m afraid not, my dear. Twenty-nine. Ninety days to a quarter and five to the inter-year.”

  “You try doing math while you’re asleep!” she retorted hotly.

  “Now is not the time to sleep, silly girl. Not today!”

  Alisandra bounced forward on the wagon seat. “Why not? What is today? You can tell me!”

  The dream stuttered with the sheer force of her overacting. Would a child try so hard? Or would she simply breathe her nature, confident as a fish?

  A lesson for other things as well, little one… whispered no one at all.

  Alisandra twisted, seeking for that voice, but she was with her father on a wagon ride and no more.

  “I can’t spoil the secret,” the Archangel teased with that infuriatingly adult smile. “Soon, my dear, soon.”

  “But I want to know now!”

  She railed against the dream, and it opened to swallow her. She fell, and she lost sight of the shore.

Adults were terribly unfair! As unfair as her lessons with Lynne! The angel of oceans insisted she spend so much time reading musty old books and practicing dull old chants in a dead language that felt like tar on the tongue. Which was all mighty strange given all her friends were devout Auren nobles, and of course the Cecille triplets – so mature already, and their parents let them throw parties! – already got to go on trips across the sea, and…

  Alisandra jolted awake.

  “I dreamed,” she mumbled, grasping after the straws. A pattern repeated, the feel of wood beneath her skirts, and a place she desperately needed to see…

  Only one incongruent detail remained of the tumult.

  “Ninety days in a season, four seasons in a year, and three between to rest…” she corrected, puzzled. “Why did Father say the year had three hundred sixty-five?”

  Something to check at the family library after the vote.

  The angel straightened in her seat, smoothing the wrinkles from her slouch, and checked the road.

  Her trip was almost over. Mel approached.

  Though it was the seat of the Conclave, Mel lacked many of the innovations that defined Lumia. The roads were narrow and treacherous, the buildings squat and packed, and the parks dingy even in Spring. The city only recently completed integrating a sewer system, and the construction of electric lines stumbled along under countless legal disputes.

  There wasn’t a square inch of this city free of squabbling Houses, most of whom would rather see the city gridlocked in the courts than share their lawns. A man could start a business in Mel, but it would belong in all but name to the noble who owned the building where he tacked the sign. He would sign contracts of servitude barely above slavery, and the business would pass to the noble rather than his son when he passed.

  As a result, Mel was a city frozen in the past. It more resembled the country estates where each House still ruled with an iron grip than the tumult and opportunity of Lumia.

  The autopilot steered to the tail end of a noble caravan. A pack of constables preceded the line of black cars, shoving aside peasants and wagons so the upper crust could pass. The streets before the Conclave were already cordoned and closed so that the gentry might park in a shiny, black line along the steps.

  Behind the constable line, a small legion of reporters shouted and snapped pictures. Further, the legion of commoners camped, waiting for the verdict.

  Alisandra emerged from her car and surveyed the crowd of peasants. Thanks to Sebastian’s constant drills, she knew to assess the demographics. Well-heeled seminary students would protest for grades, girls, or boredom, but the commoners would only gather – and thus sacrifice a day’s precious wages – for a historical event.

  Men and women of all ages stretched from one end of the block to the other, somber and patient.

  She shivered, slamming her car door shut. They hunger for a voice, and they will not forget the hunger even if we kill the vote.

  “Lady Mishkan doesn’t even have a servant to open her doors!” one reporter jeered.

  “Won’t be a House much longer!” another heckled.

  She maintained her composure and breezed up the marble steps to the Conclave.

  The dome of Aure greeted her warmly, and the servants took her shawl.

  Alisandra danced through the usual social pleasantries and soon chose her seat beside Mirielle Visage.

  The demon of indulgence glanced over and sniffed. “Tell Sebastian to leave my Inventors alone. He skulks like a paparazzi in the wings.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Is this about the new one? Oliver?”

  “Worse. Last week, he took the guise of a priest and counseled the Inventor of Acoustics to donate his fortune to charity!”

  The angel of witness certainly seemed to enjoy spending other people’s money! Nevertheless, Alisandra defended him. “I thought the money was their own to spend as they wished?”

  “Typically, my dear, charitable donations of that size are done after one’s death.”

  “Ah,” she hummed, “setting a poor precedent.”

  Might even disrupt the poor schedule.

  “It is his nature to violate the very notion of privacy.”

  The young angel remembered the fit of paranoia in her dream. “Even dreams?”

  “Everything.”

  Alisandra grimaced.

  Mirielle crossed her long legs, allowing the split seam of her skirts to ride up. “I sniffed for Oliver’s little Redeemers. Just another mystery cult; that woman flits through all the parties, seducing rich young men with promises of enlightenment. Witchcraft always attracts the foolish and empty-headed. If the church wanted to squash the cults, it would only have to lift the ban on witchcraft. There would be no fun in the known.”

  The angel shrugged, thinking of witchcraft and its myriad applications. “Consider the House wards. My manor is shielded against trespass by imp, elemental beasts, curses, prophecies, and other things I can’t even decipher…but nowhere does the ward consider a thief walking in the front door.” She wound a lock of hair around her pinky finger. “I think we angels float too high above the mortal world sometimes.”

  Mirielle examined her a long moment, expression closed. At last, she shrugged. “As you wish. Oliver may work with you. With you. So long as he keeps up with the schedule.”

  “He is putting himself in danger for us,” Alisandra said. “I want more than a pledge of non-interference.”

  “The angel demands I intervene?” the Lady Visage mocked. “I thought your morality required you to leave him to sway in the breeze.”

  “He could be hurt!”

  “The fact that you consider that possibility is the only reason I allow this silly venture.”

  “Would you stop treating this matter like a child’s play?!” Alisandra snapped.

  “Why? It is a child’s play.”

  “I am working to remove a dangerous influence from Lumia!”

  “Oh, are you now? The great angel of mysterious aspect, you descend to the mortal realm to bequeath your wisdom.” Mirielle opened her palm and conjured forth a tiny image of a beneficent angel before a groveling crowd. “I hear your dreams whispering around you. Little Alisandra, spoiled as old milk. The apple of an angel’s eye. You follow your father’s little rules, rush home by dark, and play with his shiny toys.”

  The demon’s lullaby thrummed, low and aggrieved. She snapped her hand closed, and the illusion popped.

  Alisandra pressed her lips together. She would not be baited again.

  “Do you think a witch is a threat to you? Will your family go bankrupt if an Invention fails? If the Redeemers suddenly seized the city, you would still go home to your mansion, your guardians who all love you dearly, and your dreams of Mommy.”

  Alisandra’s world skipped a beat. “What?”

  “Dreams of Mommy, my dear, and you look so adorable in that little dress.”

  My mother…waits at the end of the garden path?

  “I am a demon of desires, Alisandra. If you reveled in your perfect little life, I would accept that as honest – if selfish. Nothing wrong with a bit of self-indulgence.”

  If Mirielle meant to mock Alisandra, she utterly missed the mark.

  Alice Mishkan, the woman who could tame angels. Queen and legend.

  “But your kind prefer to wallow in the burden of nobility. Have you wondered why I, lady of indulgence, never seem to indulge you? You are already spoiled to the gills, girl. What more can I add?”

  Alisandra grew to adulthood in the protection of immortals, tutored in secret arts and lost technologies. She did not know hunger nor want. As an angel, she would never know the ravages of time.

  “Mirielle, may I confess something?” she asked quietly.

  The demon blinked several times. “I suppose you may.”

  “I do not remember the moment of Blooming.”

  She had no idea how she passed the border between mortality and eternity.

  “I just woke up…changed.”

  The Conclave thrummed, though none but Alisandra felt the stirring.

  “I am spoiled,” she admitted.

  Spoiled in every arena of her life except for a single gaping hole left where her mother should have smiled.

  But my dreams will lead to Alice Mishkan…

  Mirielle cleared her throat and glanced down. A shimmer of gold passed under her heels and through the Conclave tiles to Alisandra.

All that I have been given

A gift, a debt

I must be worthy

I must be perfect

   “Alisandra?” Mirielle asked, slightly panicked. “Alisandra, the Conclave is Aure’s work. You must control yourself. The stones will hear your call!”

I must make her proud.

  In her life of plenty, Alisandra quietly admitted one thing she still desired.

  If I am an angel, if I am one of the esteemed, then I might be worthy to meet her! Why not? Are not angels elevated above the mortal cycle? Why can’t I meet the one person I miss the most?!

  As long as I’m good.

  Another thrum of gold, and the dome of Aure began to crackle with a power like lightning.

  Mirielle swore to herself, grasped Alisandra by the chin, and injected raw sensations into the angel’s mind like a bullet to the forehead.

The crush of silk. The warm, stale air. Men staring as they always stare. I wouldn’t wear such skirts if I wanted them to look elsewhere. Not that they would see the actress for the part.

The tiles burn beneath my heels. I am an infection to be rejected. I dare to dream of this world.

I endure the pain as I must.

  Mirielle’s stream of consciousness hurled Alisandra’s train of thought from its tracks. The angel abruptly felt the hard pew beneath her rear and the cold, chamber air against her bare shoulders.

  “Aure built these works to calm the Isle!” Mirielle chided. “If you disrupt his balance with your childish desires, this nation will have far greater concerns than today’s vote!”

  “I…I’m sorry,” Alisandra stuttered, rubbing at her face. “I forgot myself.”

  Her tomes spoke of the exhilaration of Works, but words on a page were a far different thing than a torrent of gold in her veins…

  “You’re an angel now, dear,” Mirielle continued. “Mind your dreams.”

  She bowed her head. “My apologies.”

  “All is forgiven,” the demon agreed, choosing to be magnanimous today.

  None of this had disrupted the milling of the Conclave, of course, and the Keeper of the Flame shuffled to the stage as the last nobles trickled to their seats. He reached a hand to the worn podium to stroke it as he always did. As his fingers approached the wood, though, the air suddenly popped, and the old priest swore.

  Through the benefit of acoustics, the entire assembly heard his curse, and the Conclave fell deathly silent.

  He cleared his throat and mumbled, “Excuse me.”

  A black pockmark marred the podium, ringed by scorch marks, like a tiny burst of dynamite.

  “What in the world?” Alisandra muttered.

  Mirielle laughed at the man’s expense. “Good work, Lady Mishkan.”

  The young angel glared at the Lady Visage, but the demon merely offered a condescending smile.

  “Keep your secrets, then.”

  “How charitable. I will.”

  “This entire election is your fault.”

  “And you wish to know why?” the demon purred. “Confess that you desire the knowledge.”

  Alisandra’s strongest glare could no more thaw Mirielle than an iceberg.

  First I must mind my dreams, and now I must embrace them?

  “Fine. I desire to know your motive.”

  “Was that so hard?” The demon leaned back in her chair and lifted her heels from the floor. “I needed to distract the Conclave. They were envious of the Inventor’s profits and planned a series of choking regulations.”

  “You instigated an existential threat to the nation to prevent regulations?!”

  “I must have a free hand for the program, dear. From self-righteous angels and greedy mortals both.”

  The demons are going to doom us all…

  The last Lord found his seat, completing the formal assembly. Every House was in attendance, and the galleries above were shoulder-to-shoulder. Despite the crowd, the Conclave remained deathly quiet. As the Keeper of the Flame began his ramble of prayers and rituals, the Lords and Ladies waited in tight, quiet clusters – for the battle lines had already been drawn.

  Meaningful glances flew furiously across the field, tomes worth of conspiracy firing in all directions.

  And not a one loyal to the Regency. Who among us truly waits for the Kings of yore to return?

  As she had lectured Edmond Curia, some of the braver scholars dared to call the modern government a monarchist republic. In theory, each House served as the champion of all those under its wing. The Lord of a House was both father and master to his servants, furthering their interests in tandem with his own.

  Of course, this meant the free peasants in the city received absolutely no representation, theoretical or otherwise. Little wonder, then, that Lumia now agitated for a new order.

  Who was better suited to rule? A generation of experienced statesmen trained from birth for the burden…or the mass of yeomen? On the face of things, it was a farce to even ask.

  Yet Alisandra scanned the chamber. The third floor of commoners filled the eves to bursting, but the eighty-one House representatives could not fill a floor meant for three hundred.

  In ten years, will there be only fifty? In a lifetime, will it be five great Houses that divide Ruhum like petty kings?

  Mirielle smiled, and her lullaby gently stroked Alisandra’s dissatisfaction. Only a touch was required…

  Perhaps I have the question wrong. Perhaps it is not an abstract matter of the righteous ruler, but the more pressing matter: if we do not break from this path, we will have kings again.

  The Keeper of the Flame finished his prayers, and the final round of arguments began. The Lords and Ladies mounted the podium with flowery oratory and elaborate metaphors, but the arguments boiled down to three general positions.

  For: “This election is the abdication of responsibility we need. Let us string the rope around the neck of this elected mayor and hand the people the lever by which to hang him! While he bears the brunt of the people’s ire, we can sabotage his every attempt to exercise any real power. Thus hamstrung, his failure inevitable, he will provide fodder for the bully pulpit for years!”

  Against: “The power to guide Ruhum belongs in the hands of those educated and prepared for the august burden. A sham election for a tawdry position will only whet the appetite of the masses. A mayor in Lumia today invites a demand for a seat at the Conclave after!”

  Neutral: “My position hinges on the amount of gold shipped to my address. For bidding, please contact my Livery assistants.”

  Eventually, the session broke for lunch. Alisandra stole a sandwich from the buffet and retreated to the solitude of the western wing. She knew a bench in the Auren museum where the only person in sight would be the janitor. There she ate, surrounded by the displays of ancient craft, and contemplated the decision before her.

  None of her choices appealed.

  Soon the session reconvened. The Keeper of the Flame hammered the gavel and announced, “Let us arrive at consensus through the wisdom of Aure. Voting may commence.”

  Houses voted by age, youngest to oldest. Each House representative held the floor indefinitely, free to ramble until their throats ran dry. On a bad day, this process could last until well after dusk. The first Lord took the stage, cleared his throat, and argued that the election was notable, certainly, but renewed funding for his family shipyards was the critical issue.

  “Every damn session!” muttered Alisandra. She glanced at Mirielle. “A riddle, then, while we wait.”

  “Oh?”

  “Guildsmaster Reed attempted to coerce me into voting against the election with one breath while he stumped for his own position with another.”

  The demon laughed. “Did he now?”

  “Then he sent an imp to maim me when I refused.”

  “Crude. Did the little devil give you any trouble?”

  “It will not be poking anyone else.”

  “So the riddle is his motive?”

  “Yes. When it comes to the duplicity of politics, you are the master.”

  “I am. Wise of you to learn from such an august source.” Mirielle wagged a finger like a professor at the lectern. “His motive is simple. To lose an election is often superior to winning.”

  Alisandra shook her head in bafflement.

  “Guildsman Reed, hero of the people. How he strived to better their lot, but the evil Conclave of Nobles destroyed his chance. So brave, so outspoken. He was willing to take on the establishment, and he almost won. If only the nobles were not so depraved…”

  “Not a single word of that statement is true.”

  Mirielle wiggled happily. “Oh, my adorable Alisandra, when has politics ever bothered with truth?”

  “I see why you’re at home.”

  The demon tutted. “You’ll receive no marks for cheap taunts. A good insult must latch into an insecurity in the listener or at least turn a clever phrase. The world has already decided what I am, and I am not ashamed to play along.”

  At the podium, the second and third Houses voted in terse, rehearsed statements. Seventy-eight remained…

  “Pretend you work for me,” Mirielle suggested.

  “Actual work or the variety that requires high heels?”

  “Either is fine,” teased the demon. “Good girls often hide surprises. Regardless, your task is to herd mortals. Do you work through the Conclave or a million random strangers?”

  “There are scarcely a million men in all Ruhum.”

  “Any million then.”

  “A significant portion of all the men alive, then. How am I to reach them?”

  “That is part of your task, child.”

  The most obvious problem was communication. A handful of large cities used the radio to broadcast their messages, but wide swathes of humanity still operated on word of mouth. For a message to reach the wild tribes in the far east, she would need to send runners on the dangerous journey through the Verdant and the Bones.

  Alisandra nodded to herself. “Then I choose the Conclave. We congregate for work and play. At the right party, you can whisper in the ear of every House. Make the party attractive enough, and they will compete to listen.”

  Mirielle smiled. “You’re welcome to my parties. No invitation ever necessary.”

  “Your base instincts are strong today.”

  “It is the thrill of the hunt,” the demon offered, a finger dancing across her midriff.

  The pleasure to drown out the pain¸ echoed Mirielle’s music in the angel’s ear.

  “Hunt someone else. Do you accept my answer?”

  “I suppose; it is rather traditional wisdom. Do you listen to the radio often?”

  “Rarely.” The same news arrived twice a day in the papers without the annoyance of the advertisements or bombastic jockeys. “Is this about Lynne and her sudden activity in Wave’s Lament?”

  The demon twitched, smile straining. “Angelic hypocrisy doesn’t shock me anymore. Stay on point.”

  “No, I don’t listen to radio much. It has uses, certainly, but most of the air time is mindless patter.”

  “Exactly,” the demon agreed. “I’ve invested heavily.”

  The gavel rang.

  “Ah, my turn.” Mirielle smiled. “Wish me luck, dear.”

  House Visage gleefully announced fifteen votes yay, placing the yay count firmly ahead.

  The next Houses negated that advantage, one after the other. The nay was now ahead by three votes.

  Returning to her place, Mirielle hummed. “Rather tight, isn’t it?”

  “The vote or your dress?”

  “Don’t be jealous, dear. The vote, of course.”

  The staid Conclave began to murmur, and the meaningful glances of conspiracy flew ever faster. The yay and nay factions nipped at each other like hounds. The gallery began to cheer aye votes and fling paper at the nays.

  “And they slowly come to see,” the demon gloated. “The weave of fate drawing ever tighter…”

  Her lullaby plucked sharp, excitable notes from a violin.

  “Mirielle…what have you done?” Alisandra hissed.

  “I was speaking with the priests yesterday,” the demon replied instead. “There are some amongst the clergy who remember former glory. The days when the word of a Keeper of the Flame could topple a king.”

  “And how exactly will an election in Lumia return glory to the church?”

  “If it comes to a tie, they will not vote for the election, my dear,” Mirielle lectured. “They will vote against the Conclave.”

  She cast a knowing smirk at Alisandra, and her music spun yet faster.

  The Lords and Ladies danced as she willed. They abandoned their flowery speeches to vote as quickly as possible, hunkered to the podium against a rain of wadded paper.

  “Oh, my. At this pace, we’ll be done in ten minutes.”

  Yay and nay roared, too close to call. The constables rushed the third-floor gallery to try and clear the rabble. Shouts and blows echoed under Aure’s dome, and the Keeper of the Flame could not make himself heard.

  “I do love when fate saves the best twist for last,” Mirielle smirked.

  The last vote.

  The oldest House.

  The vote? One hundred fifty against, one hundred forty-nine for.

  And the church will vote for.

  Alisandra spared an accusing glance at the demon of indulgence.

  “Your father is nowhere to be found. Make your choice.”

  Will you meddle? asked the music. Dare to change? Or are you simply your father’s daughter?

  Steeling herself, Alisandra mounted the stage. From her vantage, she watched the heaving sea of humanity. The Conclave boiled, frothed and swore like the inside of a stew pot. The Lords and Ladies abandoned decorum, hurling accusations across their battle lines, and the commoners held their ground against the constables like an army defending the motherland.

  Even as she watched, a trio of men pummeled a constable; the officer curled into a ball against the balustrade.

  Such rage for such a small thing, she marveled. Surely these men understood that the election was a sham, a diversionary tactic for commoner discontent. They beat a man who merely followed his duty to express their rage at the untouchable nobility.

  Little frustrations, endured daily, that now boiled over. Furtive glances at noble daughters on the street, deliberately blocking intersections for noble cars, and crude graffiti on tenement walls were no longer enough.

  Like a volcano, the pressure grows.

  The family library spoke of revolution – lines of the noble awaiting the guillotine. The elite had not believed they would suffer their fate, even as they marched in shackles for the platform.

  The eruption has begun. Did Mirielle understand the force she courted? Her idle convenience was life and death for the men of Lumia, and this fire would not fade to peaceful cinders on her whim. The flames rise. It can no longer be stopped…only channeled.

  What began with the Inventors would spread. Mass communication, mass apparel…mass representation?

  Why would a man cleave to a House if he could make his own way with better margins and less Lordly meddling? Yet a dozen men could not agree on breakfast; how could they hope to run a city?

  It is the chaos of men or the stasis of oligarchy.

  She saw the end of Houses and Conclaves as the great mass of humanity escaped the old estates for free cities…or an iron elite, Houses grown to gargantuan excess, who ruled from on high.

  Is this wisdom?

  Nobles and commoners alike screamed at her to seal their fate.

  How would I tell?

  Only Mirielle remained quiet, the spider at the center of the Conclave.

  The Lady Mishkan pressed her lips tight and made her decision.

  “Aye!” she called.

  Let man drive his own destiny.

  Half the Conclave cursed her as a fool, and half screamed her name like a goddess of old.

  She returned to her seat, avoiding Mirielle’s eyes.

“There’s hope for you yet,” the demon said.

  “Let us see if I chose well.”

  Three Auren priests mounted the stage amidst the chaos. Their duty was to meditate in Aure’s name and thus receive his verdict – a tricky feat when their god was long vanished. According to custom, they could be given no charity, guidance, or sustenance until the word of God revealed itself or they died of exposure.

  Alas, commoners kept pelting them with fruit, and the fruit kept getting larger.

  Amazingly, the word of Aure descended to them – unseen, of course – in five minutes!

  The eldest assumed the podium and raised his hands for silence. “Aure has spoken!”

  A full melon crashed to the podium at his feet, and a tomato whizzed past his ear.

  Ducking, he shouted, “Let the motion pass!”

  A rotten apple pegged him between the eyes.

  Mirielle chuckled. Laying her hand on Alisandra’s wrist, she whispered, “Let the fun commence.”

  Lumia would have its election.