Avery passed the door to his cousin Isolde's chambers, then paused outside his old room. He heard movement inside and knocked politely.

“Come in,” Aunt Maude replied shortly.

He opened the door, glancing around at what still felt like his bedroom. The ducal chambers still didn’t.

“I've been expecting you. Please, take a seat, I have a few things I want to discuss with you.” She didn't look up from poring over some papers spread across his desk. “For one thing, you need someone else who can help you read these reports you're receiving from James's agents here in York as well as the ones he has spread across the rest of Britain. When I volunteered to filter through it for you in James’s place, I had no idea what kind of volume of correspondence that little man handled on a weekly basis.”

His aunt gestured to several chairs around the table near his old bed. Avery sat next to her, keeping silent as she continued to flip through pages covered with neat handwriting. A moment later, she set a stack of parchment sheets face down on the table next to them.

“I think the ones from the city itself should probably be handed off to your seneschal,” she said. “If you can’t trust Marcus with sensitive matters, you picked wrongly, and his responsibilities encompass much of the day-to-day handling of the affairs related to York’s security.”

Avery nodded. “I’ll pass them on to him. Surely, though, that wasn’t all that was on your mind when you sent for me.”

Maude stared into space for a moment, deep in thought. “On your marriage. I wish I’d told… well, never mind who I wish I’d told. Some people, some women will do whatever they deem necessary to gain what they want and don’t believe in any limits to what they'll consider acceptable in love or war,” she said. “Don't trust anyone who seems to be offering you something for nothing. Your marriage will be a hard-earned trade with give and take.”

He sighed. His aunt had always been blunt when speaking with him in place of the mother he didn’t have. He knew better than to interrupt when she had a lecture prepared, and he sensed one coming now.

“If they offer a gift or ask a favor that seems excessive compared with their past behavior, they likely mean to deceive you. Those who are deceitful lack principles, and those who lack principles will bend to power.” She cleared her throat. “My deepest fear is that you marry a viper who poisons you as soon as you've put an heir in her arms. You need an heir, but you must also take care.”

Avery raised an eyebrow at his aunt in surprise. While Marcus’s warning had left him considering the possibility that one of his cousins might want him dead, this was a new worry to consider. He paused in thought, then spoke. “Was Uncle Roger poisoned by his wife?”

She exhaled slowly and rubbed at her temples with thumb and forefinger for several seconds before replying. “You’re old enough. All I know is that it wasn't a poison an expert could identify quickly and treat. Few poisons work if the victim has the means of treatment nearby, and Roger was, unfortunately, an expert in such matters to judge by the collection he left behind. Honestly, I don't know. Maybe.”

Avery scratched his chin with a taloned finger while he thought. The smell of mint wafted through his nostrils, and he looked down. Aunt Maude had a pot of mint tea perched on his desk. He poured himself a cup and then took a sip. “All right, then. Marcus told me I shouldn’t give my wife a second husband, and you say I should be wary of murderers bearing expensive gifts. What else do I need to know about picking a wife?”

Aunt Maude’s lips curved slightly upward in amusement. After she told him more details, including a list of which nobles she trusted more and less, she finally stood. “Enough sitting and idle chatter,” she said. “Isolde and I have made arrangements to help move you along in picking out a bride. Come with me.”

Curious despite himself, he followed her out of the chamber. They walked down the hallway toward the stairs. When she reached the bottom step, she pointed up. “Isolde has visitors in the solar. Go on, they’re waiting to meet you. You don't need your old Aunt Maude holding your hand for this,” she said. “I’ve more reading of reports to do, in any case.”

He squared his shoulders and marched briskly up the stairs. If he acted as if he wasn’t intimidated, perhaps the nervous flutters in his stomach would die down. After all, he was a duke; if he could command an army and collect taxes, he could command the butterflies in his stomach and collect his wits. He pushed open the heavy oak door that led into the solar, pausing briefly to take in the imposing size of the room. When would the ducal chambers feel like they were his, and not the old duke’s? He entered.

A dozen women were scattered throughout the room, each wearing a long gown. The colors ranged widely, younger women wearing the brighter colors and older women wearing more muted colors. He recognized a couple of faces among them. Most smiled at him in greeting.

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Two women stepped forward when the door thumped shut behind him. One of them was a matron of middle years in a dull gray dress; the other was a girl in a pale lavender dress decorated in elaborate lace, with ribbons that trailed almost all the way to the floor. Both women curtsied gracefully, but the younger woman kept her gaze averted shyly as though afraid to look at anyone directly.

“Greetings, your grace,” the older woman said warmly as she rose to her feet. “I am the Lady Charlotte de Mathieu. This is my daughter, Johanna.”

The younger of the two women curtsied again; she smelled pleasantly but faintly of soap. In spite of the warning, Avery felt caught off guard by the sudden appearance of women of marriageable age in his life. He didn't think he was ready for this sort of thing yet. He opened and closed his mouth.

“I am pleased to meet you both,” Avery said.

The girl mumbled something about being honored, staring straight at the floor and turning pink. The older woman frowned, and gave her daughter a sharp pinch on the arm. Avery shifted uncomfortably.

“She has an excellent seat. I'm sure she would be delighted to join you on the hunt,” the mother added quickly, gesturing towards her daughter's flanks. “If you might be holding a hunt while we are visiting, of course.”

The daughter nodded sharply, making a nervous bobbing notion that was almost a bow but not quite another curtsy.

“I will be sure to have Isolde let you know,” Avery said, looking over at his cousin.

Isolde nodded. “Avery is not much for hunting, usually. He'd much rather the boar come to him.” She cracked a sly smirk. “But please, I have been a rude hostess. I think it is my duty to perform the introductions, and I have been failing.”

Avery relaxed a little bit. That meant Isolde would take over carrying the conversation.

Isolde waved at a cluster of three women. “May I present to you Lady Rosa de Montague. And this is her daughter, Mabel. And this lovely maiden is named Beatrice.”

The first two women stood and curtsied, issuing a set of polite pleasantries that passed in one of Avery’s ears and out the other.

The third woman stayed seated and looked up at Avery with a smile, flouting formality. “You may call me Bella,” she said, staring at him with an intense expression that reminded Avery of a hungry hawk.

Avery decided it best not to comment on any particular woman lest it be misunderstood; from the tension he felt all around him, he felt anything he said, complimentary or not, was likely to be taken as an offense or a snub. Instead, he bowed formally and looked back at Isolde. Isolde resumed pointing around the room, barraging Avery with half a dozen more names and titles in rapid succession.

“Thank you, Isolde,” he said. “Um. Delighted again to meet all of you. I suppose I should let you get back to … whatever it is you were doing?”

Isolde shot a glare at him, her lips tightly sealed. Her mind’s voice sounded sharply in his head. Metalface, they're all here for the chance to talk with you. Pick one to learn more about, sit your tall butt down next to her, and join in polite conversation.

Acknowledging the telepathic message with a glance, Avery hastily sat on the couch between Beatrice and Mabel. “That is to say, I’m curious to learn what fascinating conversation I interrupted with my arrival.”

Isolde cleared her throat before speaking out loud. “We were just catching up on the latest news,” she said. “Beatrice tells me that there is to be a new manufactory in the city soon. They will be bringing in skeletons and perhaps a trained industrial necromancer from London. Her father is one of the investors.”

Avery nodded slowly. Easy access to the river and to the wizards’ collegium made York an attractive site for new industrial development. A steady supply of skeletons had been the main sticking point when it came to such matters. As long as their pockets were well-padded with bribes, licensing fees, and tax revenues, authorities in other parts of England were willing to look the other way as peasants disappeared to alleviate a skeleton shortage; the old duke had not. Avery would not, either.

“So I have heard. I believe it is to be a textile manufactory,” Avery said. "Is that right, Beatrice?"

Beatrice nodded vigorously. A small lock of hair fell into her eyes. She brushed it away without breaking her fixed stare. “Yes.” She licked her lips nervously, keeping eye contact. “I have been told they also plan to hire a master alchemist. If I’m lucky, my father may even arrange for me to take lessons with him while he is in town. He’s an investor in the project.”

She held Avery’s eyes firmly until his cheeks felt flush under their unbending scrutiny. Not that it would show on his silver cheeks. Through the rest of the morning, whenever Avery glanced in Beatrice’s direction, her eyes locked on his. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t taken her eyes off him at any point. It was unsettling, but at the same time flattering. No woman had ever looked at him like that before – her persistent stare bordered on rudeness. Perhaps it was rude, but he wasn’t quite sure of all the rules for women.

For the most part, the escorting matrons directed the conversation, deftly turning it towards the various virtues of their daughters. Avery nervously stumbled from topic to topic, offering polite compliments as it slowly dawned on him that he was walking through a battlefield of an entirely different kind.

On this battlefield, he wasn’t a fighter, but a prize, and his cousin Isolde was working hard to block his retreat.

That one is Mabel, if you forgot her name, Isolde sent. Women like it when you address them by name. And if you try to leave early again, I am sending Mom after you to drag you back.

There were points at which Avery was tempted to call Isolde’s bluff. He was the duke, not a child. If he wanted to leave, Maude couldn’t force him to march back up to the solar full of marriageable maidens and their escorting matrons.

However, if he did flee, he would feel like a child, because Maude was right: He did need to get married. The first step in that process was evaluating his options.