Stephen eyed the large piece of bread skeptically. It looks stale, he thought to himself. And where are the plates? The round slice rested directly on the table.

Isolde, seated next to him, whispered in his ear. “It's a trencher. You eat off of it. It's like a plate. You're not expected to actually eat it.”

Maude, seated directly at the duke's left hand, cleared her throat and looked at the duke, clearing her throat.

“Let us give thanks for this meal. Be well at my table,” Avery said, after exchanging glances with Isolde. The duke paused for a very long moment. “Steward, you may begin serving the meal.”

Stephen produced a fork and spoon from his belt, and then hesitated, looking around the room. Nobody else was holding a fork. He slipped the fork back under the table and looked at Isolde.

“We're a little old-fashioned here. Sorry,” Isolde whispered. “Spoons, knives, and fingers. The little bowls are for rinsing off your fingers as needed. Just follow my lead, okay?”

Stephen nodded. “Yes, ma'am,” he whispered back. He glanced over at Sabine on the other side of the room. She was seated on the right-hand side of the horseshoe-shaped high table, wedged in between two of Avery's intended brides.

Traditionally, seating would be by rank, which meant that the petite blonde sitting closer to Avery had to be Elizabeth, daughter of the Earl of Northumbria; the tall lanky girl on the other side of Sabine was likely the daughter of a baron. He wondered if Sabine was happy or unhappy with her seat. On one hand, she'd been lumped in with the duke's brides-to-be; on the other hand, the seating assignment implied Elizabeth outranked Sabine.

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For her part, Sabine was more concerned about the size of the event. It was true that she would have preferred to be placed above Elizabeth in precedence, but she was determined not to let Maude irk her. However, her plans had been devised with the thought of a private dinner with Maude and Isolde, perhaps with a mere handful of other people.

Not only was the dinner being held with the entire ducal household, but all eight of Avery's current intended brides had moved in and most of them seemed to have brought their families with them. The high table alone had over twenty people seated at it. However effective the phantasmal perfume would be on Avery, he wasn't close enough to be affected, and the setting was far too public.

She had decided to risk dabbing her wrists with the simple pleasure perfume. Surely it won't hurt to have Maude and Isolde feel delight in my company, she'd thought to herself. It would be a good test to see how well the perfume held up over the course of a longer night. A tiny crystal bottle containing the combination of phantasmal desire and arousal was carefully tucked away in her sleeve in case she managed to encounter the duke in a quieter setting later in the evening. Then she'd sat down between two awkwardly anxious and nervously uncertain brides-to-be; two women who both had their own distinct reservations about their impending mutual marriage to the duke even before the murders.

As the meal progressed, Sabine's neighbors grew first calm, then cheerful, then downright giddy and giggly, sending flirtatious looks in the direction of the duke. This grated on Sabine’s nerves. In spite of her confident words to her brother Stephen, Sabine would have preferred to have the duke to herself than to share him with others. Particularly other noblewomen of rank. Also, she had second thoughts about placing a target on her own head. Anyone targeting her tempted the wrath of Lancaster, but whoever had targeted the duke's brides was already willing to risk the wrath of the Duke of York in the heart of his domain.

As Sabine’s dinner companions grew more jovial, her mood soured.

“Are you going to eat that?” Althea pointed at a lonely purple-skinned roast moonapple stuffed with goat cheese on her plate. “Those are delicious!”

“Oh, go ahead,” Sabine said. “I'm not really hungry.” She looked up to the head of the table, where Avery was quietly talking with Ricard of Northumbria.

“Well, I am,” Althea said, deftly spearing the starchy tuber with her knife and then plucking it free with her fingers. “I was so upset about the murders that I didn't eat all day.” She let out a wine-scented giggle. “Everything seems fine now, though. If I die tonight, I'll die a happy woman.”

“I'm sure we're perfectly safe here,” Sabine said, then started in her seat as Avery suddenly turned and looked straight at her, his inhuman slit pupils keenly focused on her. He'd sensed her lie from that far away? She tried to look away, but his stare pinned her in place.

Althea stared at her, puzzled. “What did you say?”

“I just said we were safe,” Sabine said, and took a bite of a thin slice of a larger moonapple. The fried tuber was almost crunchy. She glanced back at the duke, trying to silently beg for forgiveness for lying in his earshot.

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The duke's eyes flicked away from her as he returned to his conversation with Ricard. They'd been talking about the alternatives to skeleton power – watermills in particular. The earl wanted to attract investment in a water-powered manufactory he'd been trying to build next to the Tyne. The recent moonapple blight had wiped out the cash flow he'd depended on, leaving him in debt and unable to finish building the facility.

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James, I need someone to go have a look at a manufactory in Northumbria, Avery sent. Do you have any agents on the ground up there?

There was a distant pause. No. Sorry, Avery, I'm a little bit busy in the south at the moment. Things are getting complex down here. I might need to miss the wedding.

Oh. I was hoping you could help with… some things around here, Avery replied.

Another distant pause. Gregor asked me the same thing. He's feeling a bit in over his head. I'd hoped he was more ready. I'll let you know when I can make it back up north to York. In the meantime, you should listen to what the dogs have to say. They like you, you know.

Avery glanced behind him. There was a great gray wolfhound waiting at his elbow with a concerned look. He tore a piece off the corner of his trencher and slipped it to the hound.

Good boy, he sent. What's the matter?

Your mates. Too happy. Unnatural. The wolfhound chewed the sauce-laden bread and swallowed. Sabine has smell that confuses the mind. Beauford and Manny investigated. Now rolling around like puppies.

Avery fed the hound another piece of his trencher.

Give fried moonapple instead. The dog held the piece of bread in his mouth without chewing, looking up at the duke with plaintive eyes. Trenchers tough. My teeth old. Just one?

Avery sighed, signaling a servant carrying a plate of fried moonapple wedges. As the servant leaned over to fork several onto Avery's plate, the platter suddenly tipped sideways, as if moved by an invisible hand. Moonapple wedges fell on the table and the floor.

Bad dog, Avery sent, shaking his head. He turned back to the servant, plucking a stray wedge out of his hair. “Don't worry about it, it's alright. I'm sure the earl and I both wanted a hearty serving, and Manfred here will take care of the ones on the floor.”

The hound systematically cleared the floor of moonapple wedges, his tail wagging. Remember, Sabine has magic smell. Young Manny, my strong-willed heir, rolling around like a puppy – you must control yourself.

Avery raised an eyebrow.

The wolfhound cocked its head. Not afraid?

Afraid? Avery asked, a smile creeping across his face. Of course I'm not afraid. What makes you think I would be?

The wolfhound snorted as he swallowed the last moonapple wedge. Dangerous!

Avery rolled his eyes. I'm not dangerous, and neither is Sabine. You're barking up the wrong tree, old Manfred.

The wolfhound barked once, sharply, then turned and trotted away.

Avery chuckled and reached for his wine. If Sabine was using some sort of subtle enchantment to beguile his brides-to-be into forgetting the tragedy of last night's murders, that was fine with him. It had been a long, tense, and stressful day in the keep, and the mystery of the murders was no closer to being solved. Their bodies had vanished; investigations had revealed they'd been bought by a known necroindustrial procurer, who'd in turn delivered the bodies to a manufactory partly owned by one Edward Taylor – Beatrice’s father.

When questioned by Gregor in the afternoon, Edward denied any specific knowledge of those particular bodies, but probing his mind revealed that he and his business partners regularly purchased bodies without inquiring too closely of their origins and ownership – and sometimes resold them to other necroindustrialists, depending on price and opportunity. On being told not to lie to the duke's master of hounds, he'd then offered Gregor a substantial bribe to look the other way, and hinted at regular payment if he would continue to do so in the future. Gregor had then called for a meeting with the three owners of the manufactory, and they'd all denied knowing anything about the murders.

They'd all had alibis, too. The existence of an active black market in corpses concerned Avery, but given that it seemed unrelated to the murders, he'd decided that was an issue that could wait until after the wedding. After the wedding, there would be time to investigate the entire necroindustrial sector of York's economy and see to the firm application of the laws of York set down by his great-great-grandfather. For now, he needed to focus on making sure the wedding went smoothly… and that he didn't lose any more brides to murder before then.

Marcus and Maude had a loud argument over whether or not he should be trying to increase or reduce the number of brides at the wedding. He'd ultimately sided with Maude; eight brides were more than enough. He needed the families and their pledges of loyalty; he didn't need additional brides. If a few more had cold feet and preferred to seek alternate arrangements on Maude’s terms, that was fine with him.

He shook his head. Enough woolgathering, he thought to himself, and looked across the dining hall at Sabine. He needed to find out more about this strange scent the hounds had noticed. The young noblewoman had been silent throughout most of the meal, her face pale and her eyes wide and unblinking. She hadn't eaten much for her dinner, either. Perhaps she was ill?

He looked over at Sabine's brother Stephen, who was talking with his cousin Isolde on the other side of the table. A moment’s concentration, and he sent silent thoughts across the table. Isolde, I'd like you to create a situation where I can talk privately with Sabine later this evening.

Metalface, are you serious? Don't you have enough brides? Isolde turned, giving him a sharp look.

It's not like that, Avery sent. I just want to ask her a question or two.

Fine, Isolde said, her tone turning sour. But you owe me a favor. Her brother is insufferable, and he’s the chaperone we’ll have to peel away.

Avery nodded. Fine. I owe you a favor.

After a moment, Isolde replied. I'll tell Stephen I want a chess match with his sister. She's terrifyingly good at chess, which means she probably loves the game enough to want to meet a challenge. I haven’t played her yet, but she beat Anna, and Anna thrashed me badly.