Two thousand pounds wheat lost to spoilage.

Five tons rice stolen at sea (one crew dead).

Estate foundation sinking on east wing.

  The howling storm flung itself against the noble hill like a madman. Sideways rain and mingled chunks of hail smashed into the shingles, power lines failed before the winds, and lightning replaced electric power above the city.

  Safe at home, Alisandra reclined in her chair, watched the lightning fly, and groaned, “I’m flat broke!”

  Like any other House, she relied on the Guilds for virtually all her needs. The Guilds offered brokerage, bookkeeping, tailoring, tutoring, catering, construction, espionage – though the last was not a matter for public discussion. This meant any given House usually owed thousands of gold to dozens of different contractors. No one publicly admitted the truth, but most Houses existed in a state of perpetual leveraged debt: title rich, dirt poor.

  The Guilds held a formidable trump card. There existed furtive legislation, passed without proper review and hidden beneath a farm bill, which gave the Guilds permission to call House debts to account if a Guildsmaster had reason to believe a House was insolvent. If the other Guilds followed suit, they could collectively demand impossible arrears.

  Twenty years ago, that very trick crushed House Vivian. Alisandra’s former playmates went from riches to bread lines in the span of a month, buried beneath the bills. She still remembered watching her friends depart their mansion for the last time with tears in their eyes.

  Unlike the Cecille sisters, the Vivian children did not rise like the phoenix, and she had not heard from any of them in several years.

  Given Guildsmaster Reed’s antics, Alisandra needed to protect her House. Thus, in the last week, she hunted her debts like gazelle. She cut payments like a queen, settling thousands of gold notes worth of Guild accounts. By paying early, she managed to negotiate cash discounts in excess of three percent!

  Staring at the tattered remains of her ledger, that three percent mattered.

  The normal expenses of a House could destroy her now. A vote spree, a gala, a tax assessment…

  If she lost the House…

  If she lost her mother’s name…

  Alisandra pressed her fingers to her temples. “That is not going to happen.”

  She would not see her legacy thrown to the wolves, just another vote on Mirielle’s books. Anyone who thought she would surrender her House that easily would find themselves in a duel with a young woman who could throw cars.

  Of course, her finances would not be in such dire straits if her butler had not surreptitiously blown a king’s ransom on charity!

  With trademark perfect timing, Sebastian’s headlights flashed through the windows.

  Alisandra scooped up the ledger and marched down the hall. Before he could escape into the kitchens, she stamped into the garage and shouted at the idling car. “Sebastian! Why in the cold hells did you buy a junked up old mine with the last of my money?!”

  The angel of witness opened the driver door. “That is not factually correct.”

  She hefted the ledger, ready to smack him. “I see here an entry for two thousand gold thirteen days ago. Gold I sorely need!”

  “My apologies. Let me clarify: the mine is not junk.”

  “You appended records that state the iron reserves ran out a decade ago! The only thing it produces is hunks of red quartz!”

  “Rutile, actually. A mineral form of titanium.”

  She paused. “Titanium?”

  Like all the angels – and former angels – who grew up in House Mishkan, Alisandra had at her fingertips a library containing secrets long lost to mortals. The tomes within the library taught metallurgy that would make a blacksmith weep, and the treatises on history were firsthand accounts from the angels themselves. This was to say nothing of the mystical schematics available for a bored young noble girl to read on a rainy day.

  “I assure you that the mine will bear astounding profits quite soon.”

  Alisandra sometimes how affected reading the manifold lies of her own country’s history had skewed her childhood. Obvious falsehoods peppered her childhood lessons, and she earned no goodwill from her tutors when she spoke out. Would she have made more friends if she had held her tongue?

  Would I have made more friends if I had known a mother to guide the way?

  Her heart twinged; she banished the pain with practiced ease.

  “Then this is about the Inventors,” she muttered. “Of course.”

  “Indeed. Mirielle’s program is quite predictable if you follow the underlying principles.”

  Underlying principles would not restore House Mishkan’s cash flow!

  Sighing, the angel lowered the ledger. “Were that she was content with the books…”

  Treatises that taught how to cure malaria and fevers; tomes that whispered the secrets of the skies and even the stars. Brilliant, forgotten men had devoted their lives to uplifting the species beyond the till and plow, but the only ones who remembered were the immortals who suppressed those secrets.

  She too sometimes wondered about her father’s wisdom.

  Sebastian rested a hand on the car and addressed her thoughts rather than her words. “Knowledge is always recovered, Alisandra, but wisdom must be discovered. If Mirielle knew nothing of our secrets, she would still seek what she seeks.”

  “But you must admit their lives would be better,” she objected softly.

  “Easier? Surely,” the angel of witness chided her gently. “But better? That is a harder question.”

  “Then allow me to play Mirielle’s part. What justification can we offer to the child dead from malaria?”

  He smiled faintly, happy to rise to her bait. “What justification exists that you decide when they live?”

  “The fact a child may live and a family remain whole.”

  “And if that child should live to adulthood and be killed in war. Is that a greater pain or a lesser one?”

  This was hardly the first time she argued with her grey-eyed teacher, and she redirected. “A false premise. We do not control the child’s entire life, but we do hold the power to avert that one death.”

  “And that power contains within it a dozen other deaths. How do you plan to reveal the vaccine without germ warfare?”

  “You just admitted that knowledge will reemerge eventually.”

  Sebastian’s smile grew broader. “Yes, but now we have dredged it ourselves from the bottom of the Lethe. Will you claim accolades for the discovery and ignore the application? When the missiles land, will that be the problem for another department? Mirielle thinks so. She envisions this: all of mankind will stand tall, and some unlucky few will be crushed. Acceptable losses. Does the blood rest on her own hands, or was it mere necessity?”

  Alisandra hesitated. This was a new trap. “You imply that our actions will cause more harm than inaction.”

  “Ah, but we are not the only actors. Merely the largest. We of Light create ripples that spread far beyond sight. To use another metaphor, we exert a heavenly gravity. Would you have mortals orbit us like the cherubim before the Throne?”

  “Of course not!” Alisandra could barely stand half her gentleman suitors; she would go mad trying to run the world like Mirielle. “But action is not a binary. We might step softly and act unheard.”

  Now Sebastian grinned. “So we might, perhaps, war as mortals might?”

  Alisandra groaned.

  Her mentor chuckled. “What a wondrous idea, Alisandra. Have you mentioned it to your father?”

  “Sebastian…”

  “Do not despair, Alisandra. You will one day stand free to decide where your sword might fall. All the Chorus will marvel.”

  “Oh? Are you offering to take me to them?” she asked. “I have heard so much about them.”

  He raised a hand to forestall her. “In time, Alisandra. Master the world beneath your feet first.”

  She considered hitting him with the ledger anyways, but another detail caught her eye first.

  “…why are you holding the passenger door?”

  “Ah, yes. I should probably let him out.” Sebastian opened the door.

  “There’s someone in there?! Why wasn’t that your first priority?!” She huffed in annoyance. How exactly was she to explain their conversation to some random mortal?!

  “We were having a discussion.”

  “We can talk any time! Isn’t our visitor’s business more important?!”

  “No,” he replied. “Helping you find the righteous path is by far my most important duty.”

  The young man in the car hesitantly peeked out, rubbing his hair. “…sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t find the latch. I started hammering buttons, and the seats melted into a bed!”

  Alisandra directed her withering glare – so ineffective on her servants – against the young man. “You. You were at Thea’s workshop.”

  “Oliver,” he supplied, offering a hand.

  She let him stew. “Mirielle’s newest toy.”

  He flushed bright red. “I have a will of my own!”

  “I’m sure you think that.”

  “Children, please,” Sebastian chided. “Oliver has additional information on the miscreants who stole your father’s diary.”

  “Miscreants? Plural?”

  “Indeed. It seems we have been derelict in our duty.”

  “And whose job was that, witness?” she snapped.

  “The constables,” Sebastian replied serenely. “Unfortunately, in this case, I expect that a sum of gold has turned their eyes aside.”

  “They do say that gold is blinding.”

  Sebastian inclined his head jovially at the pun.

  Oliver groaned.

  She cleared her throat and glanced down. Her rumpled blue dress would hardly impress the papers. “I offer you formal welcome, Oliver. Be at ease. House Mishkan will see to your needs, and I will have the servants cook you a meal.”

  “You have proper servants?” he asked.

  Sebastian raised a hand. “I have extensive training.”

  “As much as a Livery butler?”

  The angel of witness twitched. “I assure you, young man, my roasted pheasant would cause their head chef to fall to his knees and weep.”

  “This House really is on the skids,” Oliver muttered beneath his breath.

  Alisandra contemplated punting this callow youth off the hill. Could she lob him all the way home? Maybe with a running start…

  Still, as Lady of the House, she would show all due courtesy to her guests, and that meant no punting.

  “Please follow me,” she asked.

  Sebastian retreated to the kitchens, and Alisandra led the youth to her library. She offered him Sebastian’s chair and began clearing the ledgers from the table.

  He leaned back in the chair, watched the storm rage outside, and mumbled to himself about the weather and air currents.

  Mirielle’s touch must have knocked a few screws loose.

  Alisandra almost asked Oliver what it felt like to have a demon press herself into his soul, but such a question was far outside the bounds of propriety. Best to let him linger in the cold silence.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sebastian arrived, armed with a succulent, steaming peasant surrounded by glistening vegetables.

  The smell alone stunned Oliver into awed silence. Even Alisandra felt her stomach surge in ravenous protest. She had not eaten in almost a week, after all.

  “Incredible!” Oliver marveled, watching the dish like a wolf. “And ready so fast!”

  Oh, don’t give Sebastian an excuse to–

  Clearing his throat, Sebastian explained. “The trick is to cook the meal well ahead of time. This pheasant, for example, was cooked nearly a month ago. I then blatantly abused the holy power of Light which I command to freeze the bird in suspended animation. All I have to do now is revoke the spell and enjoy.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “In a blatant violation of the rules of spacetime,” Alisandra supplied dryly.

  “The trick is to only violate the rules when it doesn’t matter,” Sebastian replied serenely.

  She still wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

  “Could you freeze me in time?” Oliver asked in awe.

  “Of course not,” the angel of witness said. “It would be very painful to even try.”

  The young Inventor thought a moment, smiled, and shrugged. “Well, I’m not one to look a gift pheasant in the mouth!”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Oliver tore a glistening drumstick from the pheasant and chomped with gusto.

  Alisandra nibbled at her own portion with well-engrained decorum.

  The grandfather clock rang the second bell in the morning, and the storm outside began to ebb.

  Once fed, Oliver volunteered his story from the Dreamer’s Den.

  It was not good news.

  “This infection runs deeper than Fa- than the Archangel suspected,” Alisandra mused. “Who knows how many contacts Donovan generated in his years here?”

  “Donovan was an immigrant from Wave’s Lament,” Oliver supplied. “The Stonemason Guild recognizes apprentice hours from the south, but not journeyman hours. Assuming he hit master legitimately – which is kind of a stretch the more I learn – he would have had to work full time for five years.”

  “I am more interested in the spell this witch cast,” Sebastian wondered. “What was the word she spoke?”

  “Baqa.”

  “Sunder in the lost tongue.” Sebastian idly drew its rune on the table with a finger. “I would like to know where she learned it.”

  “Alas, someone has blown the last of my House’s finances on red quartz, and spies are expensive,” Alisandra replied tartly.

  The angel of witness accepted her jab with a nod. “This too is a learning opportunity. Even at my age, I still make mistakes of judgment. I focused the weight of my sight on Mirielle and thus allowed myself to be blind to the mortals swirling at my feet. The mistake has been made, and there is no unwinding Time. Let us instead look to the next steps. I will listen intently for the echo of Will; if this witch speaks again, I will hear.”

  Alisandra shrugged. “Reed will surely put her to use immediately. You won’t have to wait long.”

  “Yes, this Guildsman certainly aspires to great heights.”

  Mentally reviewing the youth’s account, Alisandra changed the subject. “Oliver, you said a priest attended as well.”

  “Didn’t know the guy.”

  A séance attended by an Inventor, a Guildsman running for office, a cluster of nobles, and a priest. “Given that the Redeemers are clearly cultivating relations to people of power or potential influence, we should assume that the priest represents the ear of Father Lucas.”

  “A reasonable hypothesis,” the angel of witness agreed.

  “Reed’s mafia will hardly speak freely,” Alisandra mused. “I would need time and money to turn their ears.”

  “The election may offer opportunities to move freely between the factions under the guise of evaluating support.”

  “I didn’t think the election was a guarantee yet,” Oliver muttered.

  “Depends on if Mirielle wants it,” Alisandra replied.

  “Is she that influential?”

  Neither bothered responding to that.

  The Lady Mishkan leaned back in her chair. “Maybe this election will have its uses after all. It might draw out the Houses’ true allegiances…”

  “Allegiance and the knives,” her servant agreed.

  Oliver scowled between them. With his account confessed, he was now superfluous to the plans of these strange creatures.

  Angel or demon, these creatures liked to speak over their mortals.

  Could he really expect any less of angels? Immortals rank with hypocrisy…

  Never to lie dead undying in Foundations of stone among the icy darkness.

  “Are you alright?” Sebastian asked him.

  “F-fine,” Oliver muttered.

  Never to watch them in squalor and pain while high lords turn their noses.

  “As you say,” Sebastian allowed.

  Alisandra regarded the boy with suspicion from the corner of her eye. Just how deeply did Mirielle twine herself through his mind? Even if he arrived with true intentions, what could be said for the woman behind?

  Drumming his fingers, the angel of witness continued. “We have insufficient coverage for our objectives. I do not have official standing with the church. Your father does, but I do not know when he will return from his latest sojourn.”

  “I am the Lady of a House,” Alisandra said. “I am perfectly capable of this.”

  “As you declare, it is so.”

  Oliver assumed this statement was pure sarcasm, but Alisandra accepted his words at face value.

  “I will begin with the priests,” she said.

  “Is that wise?” Oliver interjected. A noble girl playing detective like some penny dreadful is going to end up in a dumpster. What strength underwrote her confidence? The Inquisition was a shark that feasted on Houses, and she wanted to waltz into its mouth?

  “My apologies. I did not realize you were ordained,” she noted. “Perhaps I know the priest who sponsored you for seminary.”

  Sebastian interrupted. “Alisandra, be kind.”

  “I am being kind. I’ve let him stay.”

  Oliver bit back several choice replies to that.

  Nonplussed, the noble girl continued. “The fact remains that I could not buy the services of a back-alley gossipmonger right now. If we are do accomplish this, we must do it ourselves. Sebastian moves freely among the servants, and my father cultivated relationships with the church which I might leverage on his behalf.”

  Sebastian turned to Oliver, the question obvious.

  “Leaving me to…” the Inventor hazarded.

  “To be my eyes in a dark place.”

  “To be your eyes?” he squawked in astonishment.

  “This woman you call Lace and her partner in crime, Donovan, already possess knowledge that was buried for good reason. Based on her lecture, it seems that she has some vague understanding of our existence. We must tread with extreme care.”

  “So give Lady Mishkan here her cavalry saber and let her put some holes through the Dreamer’s Den like it was a secret laboratory!” the young man protested bitterly.

  Expression placid, the angel of witness folded his hands. “That is not how we do things.”

  They never want to do the dirty work, whispered a demon’s voice in his ear.

  “Call the constables?”

  Alisandra cocked an eyebrow.

  “Okay, fine. Just trying to be optimistic.”

  “I will not compel you,” Sebastian assured. “If you wish, you may leave this house with gold for your trouble and no ill will from this House.”

  The Lady Mishkan visibly twitched at the mention of more gold spent.

  You have Inventions to build, nudged the music in his head. You have to make the world a better place.

  To make a better world…

  The room was suddenly very quiet. Remote like a ship at sea. Poised, waiting.

  He reluctantly broke that silence. “These Redeemers…are they dangerous?”

  “We do not yet understand their objective,” the angel of witness admitted. “Mystery cults are a fact of life, and very rarely do they learn anything that one could not learn with a good book and a quiet glass of wine. It is possible, if unlikely, that this witch harbors no greater ambitions than her predecessors.”

  Lace knew how to dissolve a corpse, and she was willing to sell that service to Guildsmaster Reed.

  To make a better world…

  Donovan lived a double life, complete with roommates to take the fall when he no longer needed that fiction.

  Don’t I have to be the one to build that world?

  Oliver found his spine. “I’m in!”

  The angel of witness nodded, pleased. “Good. Alisandra, Oliver, please work between yourselves to coordinate channels of communication, funding, et cetera.” He rose, stretching like any old butler, and sauntered for the door.

  Once safely in the hall, he muttered to himself, “Now to deal with Lynne’s new mess. The Archangel must hear…”

  Neither of the two inside heard that last part, though. They began to discuss details of logistics. The plans began simple enough, but both of them soon fell into the enthusiasm of a self-spun spy story: dead drops, secret codes, and furtive encounters in public places. All wildly overwrought, of course, but the noble girl and the dingy Inventor shared something in common now.

  They were both finally getting to do something.

  The dawn surprised them.

  Oliver leaned back in his chair, yawned, and rubbed at his face. “Your father…the Archangel…is he going to help?”

  Alisandra frowned. When had she let slip that little secret? This Inventor boy was sharper than he looked. “…I wager we finish before he returns.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Honestly, I have not the faintest clue,” she muttered, eyes on the horizon and idly stroking her shoulder. For a moment, a young woman instead of a Lady…

  The mansion was dark, cold and howling with no one else home.

  Not all that dissimilar to an Inventor’s warehouse.

  She straightened and closed her expression; the Lady returned in full force. “Come, then. I will see you home.”

  Oliver trailed her through the manor, stealing glances at the artifacts in glass cases. They were as worn and aged as anything in the Conclave museum, but there were no plaques declaring their importance for visitors to nod over.

  In the garage, she opened the back seat for him by pressing her hand into the bare metal.

  “Thank you,” he said, puzzled.

  “This car is keyed to flesh,” she explained. “Your standard genetic whitelist.”

  “Oh, sure,” he muttered, slipping in. “Standard.”

  She slipped into the driver’s seat, wiggled happily, and adjusted the mirrors.

  “You can drive?” Oliver asked in surprise. “Isn’t that a job for your servant?”

  “Sebastian takes pains to avoid giving me the chance,” she murmured, revving the engine. “He says I am too aggressive.”

  She watched over her shoulder as the garage door slowly rumbled open.

  “What do you say?”

  “That he worries too much.”

  The door crested the hood of the car by a solid inch.

  Alisandra threw the throttle into reverse and slammed her foot onto the accelerator.

  Her passenger toppled forward, cursing.

  The young angel smirked to herself. So Mirielle’s puppet has a personality after all. “Seatbelts,” she commanded the dash.

  A harness like a hungry octopus whipped free of the seat and dragged Oliver back into the cushions.

  “What is wrong with this car?!” he howled.

  Grinning, Alisandra shoved the pedal to the floor.

***

  Oliver scrambled free of the Mishkan car, sweat-stained and weak-kneed. Was he even alive? Or had they toppled off the side of the road, rolled down the noble hill, and died in the ditch?

  Human beings are not meant to go that fast!

  Alisandra hopped out. “Thrilling ride, is it not?”

  He shivered. “And if we crashed?”

  “Air bags.” She mimed an explosion.

  “How does blowing up something else fix a crash?” he demanded.

  “Rather depends on what’s blowing up. Once you finish your probationary period, perhaps you can Invent some car safety for Novian models. The speed limits are low enough that wrecks rarely kill anyone in Lumia right now. In the future, though…”

  He frowned. “You already know what’s coming?”

  “I can guess.”

  “Would you stop it?” he asked quietly.

  Alisandra crossed her arms. “I do not know.”

  The veil of rich snobbery withdrew, and Oliver thought he saw someone not much older and not much wiser in the face of this new world.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  “This is your laboratory, correct?” she asked, pointing.

  “Y-yes,” he said.

  “I don’t remember who used it last.” She shrugged. “Not all of the Inventor candidates survive the cut. Show me inside.”

  “You do realize there have to be two dozen people with eyes on us, right?”

  He was faintly surprised she had the correct paperwork to enter the Inventor’s wharf.

  “I mean to be seen. A certain degree of espionage is good show for any House.”

  And there’s the snobbery again. Does this girl care about anything but her title? Is she even really an angel?

  Regardless, he unlocked the door and admitted her. Inside, a new shipment of raw materials waited on pallets, and the servant from last night still busied herself cleaning.

  Has she been here sweeping the entire time?!

  He hurried to meet her. “Thank you, but you can go. You don’t need to work so late! Or so early!”

  She curtsied, spreading her Livery skirts in perfect form.

  A tiny part of Oliver, uninvited, decided to suddenly imagine Alisandra in the Livery uniform instead…

  Knock that right off! he remonstrated himself.

  The servant left her broom in the closet and brushed out the door.

  “Livery Guild needs to learn some boundaries,” he muttered. “I can sweep my own floors.”

  Basic chores helped him fill the vast quiet.

  Helped him drown out the music like Mirielle’s breath in his ear.

  Ignoring the boy entirely, Alisandra beelined straight to his drafting table. She flipped the notes with two fingers, reading to herself.

  “Vector calculus,” he bragged a little.

  “Not my favorite subject,” she admitted.

  “I could teach you.”

  She toyed with the scale model of a ship on his desk. “I have the books if I cared.”

  He shrugged to hide his disappointment. “Very well.”

  She hesitated a moment, debating internally. “Oliver…remember your rights. House Visage is your patron, but not your owner.”

  “I know that.” Quite permissive rights, actually, far beyond the average worker.

  “Don’t let Mirielle control you,” she insisted, staring him in the eye. “Your soul is your own.”

  He grinned bravely, but his stomach clenched. How much did she know about his infernal bargain? Could an angel sense the taint on him like in a fairy tale?

  Music whispered in his ear, adjusting stray thoughts. And if she does? Bear this shame. Become the sacred martyr.

  Alisandra frowned, ear cocked. “Did you hear something?”

  “No!”

  “Then our business is complete. Let Sebastian know if the situation changes.” She nodded stiffly. “Good day.”

  Once she vanished, he finally exhaled. There would be plenty of time for regret soon. For now, he turned his attention to a stiff pot of coffee and another day at the drafting table.

  If he had thought to watch the angel leave, he would have seen the Livery servant join her in the black car.

***

  “I do not require a ride,” the demon said, slipping into the back seat. She brushed her fingers along the chassis of the Mishkan car, tasting the living metal. Mortals might gawk at the rippling material, but Thea the Illuminated knew better.

  “Of course not,” Alisandra replied, settling onto a cushion beside her, “but here we are. Tower Visage, please.”

  The auto pilot activated, backing the car out from the Inventor’s wharf.

  Thea tapped the metal, making the glass squirm. “Does this vehicle require repairs?”

  “Of course not. If I had not Bloomed, this car would have outlived me.”

  “But Bloom you have,” the demon stated.

  “It is good to see you again,” Alisandra offered as an olive branch. I am sorry that I hit you with the Hand of God.

  Thea inclined her head.

  “Peace between our Houses?”

  “An absence of war,” corrected Thea.

  Nevertheless, the demon doll pressed her jointed hand into the door. Her fingers and the metal melted together, and the chassis vibrated. The floorboards reshaped themselves, pushing a drink mixer from between their feet. A cup popped out, and the mixer poured chocolate milk.

  Thea handed the chocolate milk to Alisandra.

  “This was my favorite when I was ten.”

  “And now?”

  “Nothing wrong with chocolate milk.”

  The autopilot effortlessly navigated the midmorning tangle of cars, wagons and pedestrians that strained Lumia’s narrow streets. The tinted windows offered privacy, and the advanced temperature control blew pleasantly chilled air around their knees.

  Luxury for those who remembered what was once mundane.

  “Have you relocated your workshop?” Alisandra asked at last.

  “Yes.”

  “The man who invaded your workshop continues to annoy us from afar. He commanded a cult calling themselves the Redeemers.”

  Thea hummed to herself. “Interesting.”

  “You didn’t know this?”

  “The mystery cults are a fungus that spreads in the fetid caves of ignorance. I cannot track them all.”

  “Even with all your multitudes?”

  The Mishkan car drove past a woman with long, straight black hair handing out pamphlets on a street corner between jointed fingers. The woman did not bother glancing after the noble car any more than a runner watched his feet.

  “I am not infinite.”

  Alisandra leaned away, sighing. Must this be such a trial?

  Thea banished the mixer with a tap on the window. “You are but a year Bloomed. Why do you chase mystery cults? The dance never changes. Spend time with your father while you still can.”

  “…do you plan to kill him?”

  Thea blinked several times, processing that statement. “Kill him? As though I possessed that power.”

  “Then what?”

  “He is often gone on sojourn these days, is he not?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “His gaze is drawn away from this place. From these mortals.”

  “That is not true!” Alisandra snapped. “He very much cares for Ruhum!”

  Though Thea’s carved expression never changed, she nevertheless radiated skepticism.

  The youngest angel gripped the armrest in her hands and squeezed, the only outlet for her frustration she dared. Beneath her fingers, the living metal squirmed, squealed, and began to crumple inwards.

  “Do you wish to strike me again?” Thea murmured ever so quietly.

  Despite herself, Alisandra growled.

  “Your father’s restrictions chafe, do they not?” Her tone was intimate, the two of them alone in all the world, and her mask rippled with something quicksilver. “That you should Bloom to new vistas and find yourself confined to your rooms.”

  Alisandra’s grip crushed the armrest into a ball of metal.

  “That you should find in your fingertips the strength of mountains and yet live in a world of silks.”

  Don’t let her bait you. Don’t let her bait you. Don’t let her bait…

  “With all that you learn and all that you command, does it burn yet to think of the mother who died in childbirth in a room of men who knew every healing rune?”

  Words that buried themselves deep in Alisandra’s breast.

  Before she could contemplate her impulse, Alisandra slugged Thea in the face.

  The car heaved sideways as though shot by a cannon. It rolled into the culvert beside the road, frame ballooned from the inside out.

  The demon doll shuddered, embedded in the door. Her head rested on the cracked glass, and her limbs twitched in a strewn pile across the floorboards. Her one remaining eye blinked twice, slowly, and then the light faded from behind the mask.

  Instead of a demon, merely a broken mannequin.

  Alisandra swore. She stumbled across the toppled back seat and cradled the empty head. “Thea! I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just…”

  There was a knock on the sunroof, now easily reached.

  Alisandra glanced up.

  The sunroof receded, revealing a woman with long, straight, black hair and a stack of pamphlets.

  “Is this really the philosophy you desire, Alisandra Mishkan?” Thea asked. “Or merely the one you inherit?”

  The demon tossed down a pamphlet for a jazz club.

  “Do you even care that I interfere with your newest Inventor?” Alisandra whispered, defeated.

  “I care that he meets the schedule.”

  The sunroof closed itself.

  Creaking and groaning, the House Mishkan car began to right and repair itself. The tires shifted back into alignment, the mirrors grew new glass, and the dented door sucked inwards. The car rocked itself back and forth, slowly wobbling back onto all four wheels, and then the autopilot stumbled up the incline to the road.

  Two baffled wagoneers watched this process in silence. They glanced at each other, sharing an unspoken consensus: even the tabloids would not believe this!

  Alisandra sunk into the cushions, dropped Thea’s empty head to the floor, and swore to herself as a Lady never should.

  “I’m a fool of an angel.”

  What is the Chorus? When will Father let me meet them? What truly happened to drive Thea and Mirielle away?

  Questions that invited disaster, and she feared the change of truth more than ignorance.

  “What will it require to heal my family?” she asked the mannequin.

  But not all things healed as easily as the Mishkan car.

  Somewhere in two haughty demons, there lurked the warmth of angels.

  Alisandra just didn’t know how to make it shine forth.