Wylan de Vaillant woke to the sound of someone pounding on his laboratory door with what sounded like a wrench.
“Rise and shine, my darling disaster! Your mother’s summoned the troops, and I refuse to face her wrath alone!”
Divina. Which meant tonight was the dinner, he had overslept, and the only person willing to fetch him was the one who found it entertaining.
He stared at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no solutions.
“I can hear you breathing in there,” Divina called. “Don’t make me pick this lock. I have an experimental screwdriver I’m aching to try on something, and your door looks positively screwable.”
She would, too. The lock was his own design, and she’d been critiquing it for months.
“I’m awake,” he called. “Give me a moment.”
“You’ve got half an hour before your mother sends someone less charitable. I volunteered because I wanted to see what you’ve done with the filtration array—and because watching you panic is one of life’s simple pleasures.”
Of course she had.
He swung his legs off the cot he kept in the corner (the bedroom down the hall was technically his, but he rarely used it) and took stock of himself. Singed cuffs. A crust of residue on his collar that might have been yesterday’s experiment. His hair, white-streaked and uncooperative at the best of times, had achieved new heights of chaos.
Presentable was probably out of reach. Not actively alarming might be achievable.
He unlocked the door. Divina stood in the corridor; her beard braided with copper wire and small gears that clinked when she moved. She looked him up and down with the elaborate dismay of a theatre critic at a disappointing opening night.
“Oh, sweetling. You look like something the cat dragged in, chewed on, and rejected for having insufficient nutritional value.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“It’s afternoon.” She swept past him into the laboratory, eyes already scanning the workbenches. “I might have let you sleep more—the gods know you need your beauty rest—but your mother wants you downstairs, dressed, and not smelling of reagent. Guests arriving early. Some merchant.”
Wylan crossed to his workbench and unlocked the small cabinet beneath it. Inside, nestled among vials of considerably more dangerous substances, sat a row of small amber bottles. His private reserve.
“What’s that, then?” Divina had materialised at his elbow; because of course she had.
“Insurance.”
“Against what, pray tell?”
“Eligible young ladies.” He selected a vial. “And their mothers.”
Divina’s laugh was a delighted cackle. “Oh, it’s going to be that kind of evening, is it?”
“The Marchand girl visited three times last month. Three. Each time with increasingly transparent excuses.” He tucked the vial into his waistcoat pocket. “I’ve learned to come prepared.”
“And what does this little potion of yours do? Turn them into toads? One can only hope.”
“Three drops in a drink. The target becomes... indisposed. Spectacularly so. Unconscious before dessert.”
Divina studied him for a moment, one eyebrow arched magnificently. Then she sighed, theatrical and fond. “Suppose that’s one way to handle it, darling. You tried just telling them you’re not interested?”
“Several times. They seem to think I’m being coy.”
“Ah.” She nodded slowly, her expression softening. “One of those situations.”
Wylan wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that, but he didn’t ask.
Every time Wylan entered the hall, he took a moment to appreciate the two things about the house he liked.
The Immolator-installed chandelier came first: its phlogiston array elegant, twelve years of steady light without fading. One day he'd catch up with the artisan to compare notes.
Then his eyes tracked down to the statues, geometric planes and implied motion, and Wylan lost himself for a moment. He had always found them faintly companionable. They too were holding their breath.
? The sculptor had called the style ‘Essential Humanity.’ Critics had called it many things, few of them printable.
Clang. Scrape. Clang-clang-clang.
His sister and the mistress-at-arms were fighting in the entry hall again.
At least it’s not me causing problems today.
Isabella’s blade was a distraction for the elbow aimed at Elariana’s throat, the foot sweeping towards her ankle, dirty and practical. It worked on monsters.
Elariana, by contrast, fought like a poem. She parried Isabella’s blade, sidestepped the elbow, and somehow made avoiding the leg sweep look like choreography.
“That,” Elariana said, not even breathing hard, “is not in any duelling manual I’ve read.”
“Monsters don’t read duelling manuals.” Isabella reset her stance, grinning. “Neither do I.”
“Clearly.”
They came together again, steel ringing off steel. Wylan settled onto the bottom step to watch, safely out of range. This was better than he’d hoped. His mother would be furious about the entry hall being used as a training ground with guests arriving, which meant her fury would be directed at Isabella and Elariana rather than at him. He patted the vial in his waistcoat pocket. The evening was looking up.
Isabella pressed forward with a flurry of strikes (orthodox, for once) then dropped low and swept her blade at Elariana’s knees. Elariana leapt, impossibly graceful, and brought her sword down in an arc that would have ended the bout if Isabella hadn’t rolled aside.
“Better,” Elariana admitted.
“I’ve been practising.”
“On what?”
“A couple of creatures escaped from the menagerie. I’m thinking Lambert finally found his other family.”
Elariana’s lips twitched, the closest she came to a laugh. They circled each other, breathing harder now. The footman completed his journey across the hall and vanished through a service door. One of the abstract statues watched the proceedings with geometric disapproval.
The bout intensified. Isabella feinted left, struck right, nearly caught Elariana’s blade arm. Elariana’s riposte forced her back three steps. Four. Isabella’s heel caught the edge of a marble tile. Loss of a point. Loss of face. Loss of temper. And then they were fighting for real, blades catching the afternoon light like frozen lightning.
The main doors burst open. Both blades froze mid-swing.
“I’m here! It’s me!”
Alexisoix Beaumont stood framed in the doorway, arms spread wide, coattails caught in the winter wind like emerald wings. His voice announced formal training and a complete absence of shame.
“Your favourite cousin, at last!”
Isabella’s sword stopped a breath from Elariana’s throat. Elariana’s blade hovered at Isabella’s ribs. Neither moved.
Alexisoix swept into the hall, taking in the scene with theatrical delight. “Oh, ladies. You need not put on a show for me.” He placed a hand over his heart. “I am the show.”
“Alex.” Isabella lowered her sword. “Why.”
“Why am I here? Why am I magnificent? Why does the Pendulum swing? These are questions for philosophers, darling, and I am merely a humble artist.” He was already adjusting his cravat in the reflection of one of the statues. “I heard the most devastating rumour that the Countess d’Aubigne would be gracing us with her presence this evening. They say strong men weep at the sight of her. They say—”
“Alex!” Elariana said flatly. “She’s married.”
“Ah, my dear Elariana, but so am I.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Married to a life of sensation and luxury.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Elariana sheathed her sword with a decisive click. “I’m going to change for dinner. Isabella, we’ll continue this tomorrow. Wylan.” She acknowledged him with a nod as she passed. “You have something on your collar.”
He did. He’d forgotten about it.
The Bard watched her go, still hopeful despite considerable evidence to the contrary. “She wounds me.”
“She’d like to,” Isabella said. “Literally. You should stop asking.”
“I haven’t asked anything in months.”
“And yet she still remembers. Funny how that works.” Isabella rolled her shoulders, working out the tension of the bout. Her eyes found Wylan on the stairs. “Little brother. You look almost presentable.”
“Divina’s influence.”
“Ah. That explains the scorch marks.”
Across the hall, Alexisoix had found another reflective surface, this time a window, and was adjusting his hair. Behind him, dominating the wall above the main doors, the portrait of Alexios de Vaillant watched the proceedings with oil-painted serenity. It had overshadowed Wylan every day since the funeral: his father, young and vital in a heroic pose.
He watched Alexisoix shift into feigned imitation of that stance. The strangeness of it: the Beaumont heir carrying his father’s name, yet so unlike him. In some ways, more unlike Alexios than even Lambert.
Aunt Saffron had insisted. Mother had compromised.
“Do you think the Countess prefers emerald or sapphire? I have a sapphire coat, but it’s at the tailors. I could send someone—”
“She prefers silence,” Isabella called. “And men who take hints.”
“I take hints beautifully. And flowers, letters, and of course ladies’ favours.” He turned from the window, satisfied. “Now. When does she arrive? I need to position myself advantageously. First impressions are everything. A bard without a proper entrance is just a man with a lute and questionable life choices.”
The service door opened. Cedric stood there, immaculate as ever, his posture braced.
“A carriage has been sighted on the drive,” he announced. “Monsieur Chevalier’s, by the livery.”
Isabella swore under her breath. Alexisoix’s face lit up with anticipation before falling as he registered the name. “Chevalier? The merchant? I thought you said the Countess—”
“The Countess arrives later,” Cedric said. “Monsieur Chevalier is expected first.”
The entry hall dissolved into motion. Servants appeared from nowhere, straightening already-straight cushions, adjusting candelabras that needed no adjustment. Cedric began issuing quiet but stern commands.
Then Laila arrived.
She swept into the entry hall like a weather front with Phaedra at her shoulder. Despite her stature, the room contracted around her, making everyone seem shorter in her presence. How does she do that?
Her gaze took inventory of the hall: discarded practice swords, Isabella flushed and sweating, Alexisoix preening in emerald velvet, and himself lurking.
“This will not do,” she announced.
Isabella opened her mouth.
“No.” Laila held up one hand. “I don’t want explanations. I want solutions.” She turned to a hovering maid. “Fetch the rose water. The strong one.”
The maid vanished.
“Isabella, you will stand by the east pillar, and you will not move. You will smile pleasantly and speak as little as possible until you no longer smell like a gymnasium.” The maid reappeared with a crystal bottle. Laila took it and advanced on her daughter. A general taking the field. “Arms up.”
“Mother—”
“Arms. Up.”
Laila administered the rose water with liberal abandon, dousing her until the scent of sweat surrendered to aggressive florals. Isabella stood rigid throughout, radiating humiliation.
“Better. East pillar. Now.” Laila turned. “Cedric, fetch Maximilian, Mirembe, and Aurora. I will not receive Monsieur Chevalier without the full family present.”
“At once, madame.”
“Phaedra, stand with Isabella and if she tries to escape—” Her gaze found Isabella already edging towards the corridor. “Petrify her.”
Isabella froze, mere proximity doing the work.
“Alexisoix.” Laila’s tone shifted, softening. “I wasn’t aware you were joining us this evening.”
“Dearest Aunt.” Alexisoix swept into a bow that would have been excessive in a royal court. “I heard rumours of distinguished company and simply couldn’t stay away. Imagine my delight when I learned the Countess d’Aubigne would be gracing us with her presence.”
“Stand somewhere out of the way and try not to seduce anyone before the first course.”
Alexisoix pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”
“No, but I will turn you into a dolorous wretch, unable to hold a tune or a compliment for a week, if you sully the memory of Alexios tonight.”
Alexisoix paled. “You wouldn’t.”
Laila’s smile didn’t waver. She turned finally to Wylan, still frozen on the stairs. “You. Come here.”
Wylan obliged as the path of least resistance. Laila produced a handkerchief and attacked the stain on his collar.
“You will be polite,” she said, scrubbing. “You will not mention alchemy, explosions, or anything that bubbles. You will shake hands if offered and you will not warn anyone about chemical residue. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Good.” She stepped back, assessed him, and sighed. “It will have to do.”
She turned and suddenly Lambert was there, materialising from whatever shadow he’d been occupying. For a servant of the Light, he had an unsettling habit of stepping out of the dark.
“By the Light, Lambert!” Laila pressed a hand to her chest. “And you will... stand there... good lad.” She composed herself once more.
“Of course, Madame.”
She ignored this and put Lambert behind her, to face her first guest as the main doors swung open.
Laurent Chevalier entered House de Vaillant expecting applause. He was a man of middling height and considerable presence, his silver-streaked hair swept back from a face that had perfected the merchant’s greatest asset: the ability to seem trustworthy while remaining absolutely nothing of the sort. His coat was impeccable, his smile wide. His gaze lingered on the silver candelabras, the abstract statues, the family arranged before him. Each assessed and filed away.
“Madame de Vaillant!” His voice filled the entry hall. “Radiant as ever. Your household puts the finest establishments in Pharelle to shame.”
“Laurent.” Laila’s tone walked the precise line between welcome and warning, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable.”
“A merchant lives and dies by his timing, madame.” He swept into a bow that managed to be both gracious and theatrical. “And might I say, the family assembled thus—what a picture. The very image of Gallian nobility.”
His gaze moved across them: Isabella by the pillar, smelling aggressively of roses; Alexisoix radiating charm from his carefully chosen position. Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me. Laurent’s smile didn’t waver.
Maximilian arrived then, Mirembe at his side with Aurora in her arms. Aurora gurgled happily.
“Monsieur Chevalier,” Maximilian said, extending a hand. “Welcome to our home.”
“Your Grace.” Laurent’s bow deepened. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”
The pleasantries continued, each exchange perfectly calibrated. Laurent's attention kept drifting to Laila; small glances, quickly redirected.
Sure enough, barely a minute into the social niceties, Laurent’s voice dropped.
“Madame de Vaillant, might I trouble you for a word? Somewhere private?” His smile remained, but his tone had shifted. “I believe this is a matter best kept between us.”
Laila’s expression didn’t change. She’d been expecting this.
“Of course.” She turned to the assembled family with a smile that permitted no argument. “If you’ll excuse us a moment.”
She guided Laurent towards the far corner of the entry hall, her hand light on his arm. Their voices dropped to murmurs, inaudible across the vast space.
The family exchanged glances.
“Well,” Alexisoix said brightly. “That wasn’t suspicious at all.”
I just need an insider.
His gaze found Phaedra, still standing by the east pillar where Isabella fidgeted with barely contained impatience.
He crossed to her, pitching his voice low, conspiratorial. “Phaedra. I need your help. A little reconnaissance, nothing too difficult. Just get close enough to Mother and Monsieur Laurent to overhear whatever clandestine plotting they’re up to. Then report back to me.” He smiled, the smile that worked on tutors and servants and occasionally even Lambert. “Easy, right?”
Phaedra listened. Her expression remained impassive. Then she nodded, excused herself, and walked directly towards Laila.
Yes. He’d done it. He’d actually managed to—
Phaedra leaned in and murmured something. Wylan watched in mounting horror as his mother’s gaze found him across the hall. One eyebrow rose. Her lips pressed together, though the corners twitched.
She’s telling Mother everything.
A moment later, Laila took Laurent’s arm and guided him towards the rear of the house. She didn’t look at Wylan again. Somehow that’s worse.
“The garden,” he heard her say as they passed. “The air may be brisk, but it’s well-suited for delicate conversations.”
They disappeared through the garden doors.
Isabella, still trapped by the east pillar, caught his eye. Her expression was caught between sympathy and amusement. Then her hand moved, a quick sequence: up, watch, go.
The balconies.
Wylan didn’t hesitate. He ran for the servants’ stairs.
Behind him, he caught a glimpse of Lambert emerging from wherever he’d been lurking, already moving, already adjusted, already heading for the west wing before Isabella’s hand had finished its arc.
He took the stairs two at a time, emerging onto the east balcony just as Lambert appeared on the west. They locked eyes across the frozen garden. Lambert held his gaze for a moment, then looked back at the garden below. Neither spoke.
Below, Laila and Laurent stood by the fountain, their breath misting in the cold air. The water still flowed, defying the frost, its burble masking their words from ground level. Mother had used this trick for years.
But not from directly above.
He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew a small vial, the reagent that would activate his rubberisation. There were many dignified ways to gather intelligence: bribes, blackmail, careful cultivation of informants. Dangling one’s ear like a fleshy fishing line was not among them.
He swallowed the bitter contents.
The effect was immediate. His ear felt warm, then oddly flexible, then (there was no dignified way to describe it) pliant. With a grimace of concentration, Wylan stretched his ear away from his head, the flesh elongating like pulled taffy, and lowered it over the balcony railing towards the conversation below.
The words drifted up to him, fragmentary but audible.
“—exhaustive,” Laurent was saying, his voice stripped of its usual charm. “The trail took me across the Litorate continent, all the way to Cimmeria.”
“Cimmeria?” Laila’s tone sharpened. “Surely it could not have travelled such a distance.”
“I had reports from sources I trusted.” A pause. “But upon arriving, I found myself ambushed.”
Wylan strained to hear more, leaning further over the railing, extending the ear another few centimetres.
Laurent shifted his weight. His boot came down on something yielding.
Pain lanced through Wylan’s skull, sharp and immediate. He bit back a yelp, tears springing to his eyes, and yanked his ear back with desperate haste. The flesh retracted, stinging, and he clutched the side of his head as the appendage resumed its normal proportions.
Below, Laurent scraped his boot against the flagstones; an action normally reserved for slugs.
Wylan caught only fragments now, muffled by distance and the fountain’s burble: “—too many eyes—” and “—resources, organisation—” and “—set a trap.”
Then nothing.
Ambushed. Searching. A trap. Searching for what?
Across the garden, Lambert stood at his balcony, perfectly still. His lips were moving, faintly, matching the conversation below word for word. No potions. No rubberised appendages. Just a man who had bothered to learn a useful skill.
I dangled my ear over a balcony, and he just reads their lips!
Wylan wound his ear back in, grimacing at the bitter taste in his mouth. Probably the reagent. It was chemically indistinguishable from defeat.
He’d tested this.
Lambert was waiting for him in the upstairs corridor, arms folded, clerical robes immaculate.
“Well?” Wylan demanded. “What did they say?”
“Father’s signet ring.” Lambert’s voice was flat, clinical. “It’s been missing since his death. Mother has had Laurent searching for it.”
The ring. He could almost see it: heavy gold, the de Vaillant crest, always on Father’s hand. I thought it was lost. Just another thing swallowed by the chaos.
“And he found it?”
“He was ambushed in Cimmeria. Fed false information deliberately. Someone else is searching too, and they have resources and organisation. They knew enough to set a trap”
Lambert’s gaze was on the middle distance rather than on him.
The ring. Missing since Father died, and Mother never said a word.