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[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Evening, 29 Ophus, 2719
The Home of Violetta Ballington, King's Court

Niccolette examines the slender neck of the bottle, tracing her fingers lightly over it. She ignores, without compunction, the long pause of the silence in the carriage, the quiet shuffle of Terrence against the edge of the seat; he is half up on the wall, to leave space for Norton and Anatole both. One long finger settles on the V at the top of the diagonal writing, and traces, slowly, along it.

Niccolette is abruptly aware of the buzz of the glass and a half of white wine she drank, and the champagne at Violetta’s before that, and she cannot quite recall whether she has eaten anything today.

Anatole speaks.

Niccolette looks up at him, and raises both eyebrows. She smiles. “They make a variety of Nassalans, Terenadettos and Rossiolos,” Niccolette says casually. She tilts the bottle a little more, so it catches the light from the carriage lamp. “This is a Rossiolo, from the look and the year,” Niccolette settles the bottle back into her lap, lifting her eyebrows. “Rather a rare vintage; 2709 was a difficult year for grapes.”

“Rossiolo,” Violetta says, thoughtfully. “Rather Bastian, isn’t it?” She smiles at Niccolette.

Niccolette smiles back. “Quite,” she says, crisply. “Scarcely found outside of Tessalon,” she shrugs. “Very dark, almost purple.” She settles the bottle in Violetta’s hands without the slightest hesitation. “Something of a bold flavor, fruity and spicy both,” Niccolette grins, faintly, “when made properly.” She is sitting easily, now, comfortably; her hands are loose in her lap, and her ankles crossed still. The little smile lingers on her lips when she stops speaking.

“Lovely,” Violetta says. She is not looking at the bottle; there is no need for it, between them. Niccolette smiles at her, and takes the bottle back when they are done with the pretense.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the Villamarzana winery before,” Terrence says, a little curiously, looking up from the corner.

Niccolette looks up at him; he is very still. Her smile widens, a tiny fraction, and his shoulders soften. “No,” she says, casually. “Anatole is blessed of Hurte tonight. The bottles are not sold anywhere; this wine is quite literally priceless.” The smile on her face curls a little wider.

They wind up; at first, they are busy streets all around, and there are shouts of laughter and other noises which creep through the windows and walls. King’s Court rises swiftly up from the Harbor, and descends long before Lossey is ever reached. Here the streets are smaller, narrower, quieter.

They come to a stop beneath a pool of blue phosphor light. Niccolette climbs out first, bottle in hand; she does not offer any assistance to Anatole or Norton, but politely looks away. Terrence scrambles out after them, a little ungainly, but has both hands ready as Violetta descends, smiling, and if there is a quiet grunt from him as her weight comes down, they all pretend not to have heard it.

Violetta’s home is at the edge of a cul-de-sac, very nearly at the top of the hill of King’s Court. Wrought iron gates meet a metal fence built up with ivy; it twines all through them, blowing in the breeze. The small garden behind before the door is pared back, but leaves crunch softly underfoot, and here and there they are still scattered beneath the trees. One path, and another, wind off from the main path, but the five of them head for the door.

It is colder, here, further up from the water; Ophus bites down hard, and the wind chill is more bitter than it was on the docks.

The front door opens to greet them, and a human in a neat suit hurries out. He bows, deeply. “Welcome home, madam,” he says. “Mrs. Ibutatu,” he bows next to Niccolette, “Mr. Collingwood, Mr. Farthington,” a bow, and a bow, “and sir,” he bows last to Anatole. “Please, madam, let me,” he offers Violetta his arm; with a last pat of Terrence’s, she takes it. His whole frame is bent, carefully, sideways.

“Thank you, Baker,” Violetta says with a long sigh. He helps her up the stairs at the front of the house, past the broad white porch.

They go inside, where it is glowing warm; there is a stand for coats, and a smiling maid with neat dark hair who takes each of them. “Good evening, Rue,” Violetta greets her with a smile. “Madam,” Rue says, back, with a bright smile. Baker leads Violetta down the thick cream-colored carpet to a small sitting room just off the hall, and she settles herself down into a hard-backed chair with supplanted with cushions with a soft sigh.

The room is beautifully apportioned; there is a fire crackling in the hearth already, and a rich oak table with decanters set out. There are bookshelves, one or two, a little out of place with the rest of the décor, but somehow fitted in all the same. The rug is a rich bright thing, Mugrobi, a pop of vivid purple color which spills across the floor. There are more than enough chairs for the five of them.

“Shall I decant it, madam?” Baker asks, politely.

“Yes,” Niccolette says, idly; she hands him the bottle. He takes it, and carries it to the table; priceless or not, he takes the cork out expertly, and pours the wine a wide, flat-bottomed decanter; it is as dark as Niccolette said, nearly purple in the glow of the fire and the lamps.

Niccolette crosses to Violetta, and crouches next to the edge of her chair. She raises her eyebrows.

“No, dear,” Violetta says, lightly. “I am, I’m afraid, simply old.”

Niccolette takes her hand and kisses it, and lingers, just a moment.

[Tom Cooke]

The Kalogeropoulos Home • King's Court

Late Afternoon on the 29th of Ophus, 2719

I
f blessed of Hurte gets a little twitch of a smile out of him, he smooths it out posthaste.

The tide’s beginning to ebb, as he climbs out of the carriage and into the quiet street. He doesn’t remember how much he drank, but it wasn’t enough; leastways, the night has taken on a sharpness it lost during Kalogeropoulos’ party, and his thoughts are turning over themselves too clearly and coherently by far. They’ve chased the rabbit into unfamiliar brush and got caught on the brambles.

His breath steams on the air. Behind him, he can hear the clatter of Mr. Farthington climbing out, the grunt of effort as he helps Mrs. Ballington down. He can picture her coming down unevenly, though he can’t picture her hems brushing the stones – if they do, everyone will say they didn’t – and he’s still feeling the reverb through his own stiff legs, his own hip aching sharply. Collie’s cane clatters, and his shoes scrape for the first time on the stones.

There’s more rustling ivy here, twining up the wrought-iron gates; more crackling leaves, more plant-matter smells, though he can’t catch whiff or whisper of the sea.

Beyond the pool of blue phosphor light, the cul de sac slumbers easy and quiet. He pauses, looks up the street, as they rattle through the gate and into the garden beyond. Each mant house is a pile of bulky shapes, eaves and crow-stepped gables black against the moon-edged clouds. Some windows are lit, little dots of warm light.

Beautiful old houses, he thinks, in the daytime. He used to dream of getting lost in one, while the doorframes got lower and lower.

He’s the last to enter. He is frozen, for a moment – just drunk enough for all of this to feel unreal; just sober enough to understand why. He is terrified to hear the barking of a dog, or a whistle. At any moment, he will turn back into himself, like the wearing-off of a spell; they will catch him and beat him.

The prickle of static mona brings him back to himself. Collie’s the second-last; he’s hung back. “Incumbent?” he says, quietly.

Anatole smiles pleasantly, waves a hand, and they join the other fields in the garden. He remembers to caprise them; the clairvoyant mona mingles freely, even as the front door of Mrs. Ballington’s house opens, spilling lovely warm light. The human inside, impeccable as the coachman, greets them all with a bow and helps Mrs. Ballington along. He already knows the others’ names, he notes.

The nattle named Rue has a pretty smile, as she takes his coat. She’s a little taller than him, but he’s used to it; he smiles back, but he knows not to bow or speak. They’re moving on, anyway, and he follows, feeling creeping back into his chilled fingers, reddening his cheeks. Collie is muffled against the thick carpet, but he leans a little more heavily on his cane, now.

The carpet in this room is Mugrobi; he recognizes the pattern. A brief, wistful smile; he thinks of a fabric he’s seen hanging in a shop window. Collie is sinking gratefully into a chair, and Niccolette has passed off the ‘09 Rossiolo to be decanted. Anatole is standing, for a moment, watching the dark red gurgle out of the bottle, glittering rich in the light. He can smell it, faintly: tannic, bitter-dark plum, a whiff of something spicy, like Niccolette said.

He wonders at how well she knows them. Not everyone whose fami has a vineyard can tell you about the vintages, or knows the difference between a Terenadetto and a Nassalan. Quite literally priceless, he remembers; he turns this over in his head, too. He’s thinking of the Uccello’s unfortunate captain, and of the insult to kenser’s erses. He doesn’t think he could place Tessalon on a map, if asked, but Etienne speaks of it, sometimes.

With the sense of prickling danger gone – the one he had at the party, anyway – he can comb through it more clearly. Personal, he thinks again. This, the Brothers – the fami business, inherited? Or is it the other way round?

At the sound of Mrs. Ballington’s voice, he turns back; Niccolette is crouched at her knee, and kisses her hand before rising.

“Quantitative, Mr. Farthington,” comes Collie’s voice, polite but characteristically clipped. He seems a little breathless, at first, but he regains his voice. “Might I ask what interested you about it?”

Anatole clasps his hands behind his back, very straight; he is looking away, toward the bookshelves that draw his eye, pleasantly homely among all the tasteful decor. There’s a cushy-looking seat nearby, with a pillow like he was coveting at Kalogeropoulos’. But he hesitates, eyes skimming the shelves.

Some gollies have bookshelves he can’t make sense of; most of Anatole’s library is lost on him. But these names, he recognizes, brightening slightly. Novels. Euphrasie Foucquet, gold lettering on a dark spine; on another, the Lady d’Orme. D’Orme he remembers – the Orchid – he remembers squinting, finger hovering above the tiny print, Caina sounding out words impatiently, trying to explain it wasn’t just one of them ladyfolk books…

He can’t make out any more of the titles from here. “May I, madame?” he asks quietly, gesturing toward the shelves, with a smile that might’ve been sheepish on anybody else.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Evening, 29 Ophus, 2719
The Home of Violetta Ballington, King's Court

Niccolette rises, and settles herself into a nearby chair. She stays close to the fire; her hands are aching with the cold. She looks down at them, her fingers oddly white against the dark velvet of the dress. Carefully, she flexes them; she folds them into one another, curls one hand up beneath the other. The ring aches against her finger; the cold lingers in the gold, just a little longer than all the rest.

Niccolette takes a deep, steady breath.

Terrence has sat with his back facing the table and all its decanters, in a high-backed chair close to Collingwood. He looks a little surprised at being asked; something in the slight lift of dark eyebrows. “I liked the idea of having all the answers, sir,” he says with a sheepish grin. It’s a pert answer, a boy’s answer, but there’s something in the wry smile on his face that says he knows that well.

“Once I’d sorted how much more to it there was than that,” Terrence adds, slowly, “it was a bit late to change course. I don’t think I’d do it differently, though, even if I could go back. I learned quite a lot, although I’m not sure how much of it was really about force and distance equations, in the end.”

“Here, madam,” Rue comes in with an armful of blanket, a soft quilted thing which has the elegant look of a gift from talented hands. It is silver threaded through with blue, or perhaps blue threaded through with silver, and looks as natural with the dress as the brocade shawl. She tucks it over Violetta with a smile.

“Thank you, Rue,” Violetta says. “Very thoughtful of you.” Her eyes close; her cheeks had gone a little pale beneath the powder, but color is coming back to them, slowly and steadily, as she is washed in the room’s warm light. She glances around. “Would you see if Mrs. Maison can put together a bit of cheese and crackers for us, please?”

“Of course, madam,” Rue says, smiling. She turns and goes.

“Please,” Violetta says with a smile, glancing over at Anatole, when he makes his request. “I am not sure how much they shall interest you.” She says it as if she really is not sure; there is a little smile in her voice.

“He may surprise you,” Niccolette says, glancing up from her lap. She smiles; she crosses her legs at the ankle, and settles in more comfortably.

There are no grimoires on these shelves; many of the spines are well-worn, with thin white lines running down them where they have been held open and held open again. The authors are not only female, but there is a lean in that direction; tucked amidst the classics of Anaxi and Bastian literature sit a slim volume of controversial feminist poetry, an annotated translation of a classic Hessean epic, a Bastian novel titled The Tiger’s Embrace. In one corner, gleaming-spined, sits Web of Souls; halfway across the bookshelves, the name Awameh marches down the back of a book in gilt lettering.

“What are your plans for Clock’s Eve, dear?” Violetta asks Niccolette.

“Back to Vienda,” Niccolette says with a little shrug. “I cannot hide here forever,” she makes a distasteful little face. It is not Grand Mercy she thinks of; she has grown used to the hospital, strange as that sounds. It is not, quite, the Belleverie either; the rooms where she has stayed these last months feel oddly like home.

“With your goddaughter?” Violetta asks, smiling.

Niccolette laughs, unexpectedly. “I should know never to assume you are unaware,” there is a little smile in her voice. “Do you know, she is quite ugly? I had no idea babies looked so…” she grimaces, but she cannot quite hide the smile on her face, or the softness in her eyes. “I thought it was just a strange custom to avoid complimenting them, but I have found it quite easy.”

Violetta laughs, too. “I doubt, my dear, that two people as lovely as Francoise and Aurelien could have a truly ugly baby.”

Niccolette shrugs. “Perhaps she will grow into her looks. I am given to understand they often do,” she is still smiling.

[Tom Cooke]

The Kalogeropoulos Home • King's Court

Late Afternoon on the 29th of Ophus, 2719

F
orce and distance equations have a way of making themselves about other things,” Collie says. He can’t see anything of Farthington over that high-backed chair; he casts a glance over his shoulder, and Collie is smiling wryly. He sees those grey eyes flick over the lad’s shoulder, toward the table with the decanter, and back. “All of my engineers are quantitative conversationalists,” he goes on. “A minute disparity in velocity, temperature – dimensions a hair off – and a delicate balance can become brutal indeed.”

He gestures with his hand, casual-like, but so the scarring catches the light. He has more of his breath back, now. Anatole, as if disinterested, turns back to the bookshelf, but not before he smiles again at Mrs. Ballington and Niccolette.

“Funny, Mr. Farthington,” he hears Collie go on, at his back, “it’s always seemed to me quantitatives know better than anyone just how few of the answers they have…”

Collie and the lad’s voices are joined by Niccolette’s and Mrs. Ballington’s. They burble together, blend, dissolve behind him.

He stands with his back to the room, scanning the spines. It’s warm; somewhere, he can hear a clock tick, tick, ticking. His breaths are measured: in, out.

He remembers the dark-haired nattle with the nice smile, Rue, draping that macha blanket round Ballington, silver glimmering in its folds. Thoughtful. The shelf slips away, too, for all he tries to hold the names – Alleaume, d’Orme, Cavalcanti, Withershins – in his head; they lose their meanings.

He’s imagining himself, himself as Anatole, a very old man, his whole head of curly hair snow-white. He can’t seem to picture any of the servants fetching him a blanket without being asked, nestling it round him like a benevolent dagka.

He forces himself to focus on the books. He may surprise you, Niccolette has said. Another wistful smile. The lady d’Orme’s book is an old Anaxi classic. He takes it out, flips through the careful-cut pages with a careful hand. This is the printing he used to have, though these pages are crisp and do not stick together, and the cover isn’t half-chewed, and the spine doesn’t crack with water damage. He sees unfamiliar words, but familiar printed illustrations: the slim masked man, taking out his rapier on the rooftop; a swirl of cross-hatched ballgown skirts, a toffin bending to kiss a lady’s hand, her dark lips a surprised o.

He asked Caina, once, why the fields weren’t drawn, though he supposed even then it was hard to draw woobly. You can almost imagine, looking at these – if you’re wont to – that they’re humans. The truth, he knows now, is stranger: to represent the mona isn’t often done, just like speaking Monite with no intention to cast.

Near Orchid, he spies something called The Tiger’s Embrace; his fingertip hovers over the spine, then skates lightly over to the book beside it, Roger de Mercy. He takes one slow step, then another. He smiles at the sight of Tsadi pezre Awameh, Liminal and Other Poems (2663–2678), and nearly takes it, but pauses – another slim volume has caught his eye.

Tzacks-cxil. He’s starting to understand Mrs. Ballington’s tentative smile. He starts to take it out, then pauses; he slides out another, thinner book, Fairer Voices: A Collection shimmering on the spine, and opens it, running his hand along the fold in the middle.

Towhead, they call her, for the hair like wheat,
Wheat harvested by the scythe;
Full of flax, petals on the breeze –

He turns a page, careful it doesn’t crackle. Clock’s Eve, Mrs. Ballington is saying; your goddaughter. Something that’s like, but isn’t quite guilt prickles at him. The baby’s born? He wouldn’t’ve known; he faintly remembers hearing something of it. He hasn’t spoken to Incumbent Rochambeaux since their last argument over the border policy.

He keeps his eyes on the print, vain are the thousand creeds that move men’s hearts, unutterably vain, wordless as withered weeds … A frown creases between his brows, draws the lines on his face long. Do you know, she is quite ugly?

He breaks into a smile, though he hears something else, something he can’t explain. He turns to look at Niccolette and catches the flash of her wedding band in the dark velvet folds of her skirt.

Slow steps, heel to toe; he moves to take one of the chairs, the book of strange poetry under his arm. “Many do, I think. I never did,” he adds matter-of-factly, “but Mrs. Rochambeaux is a great deal prettier than me.” Fox’s smile again.

Collie’s laughing wheezily; he can hear him, “I hope you don’t often try that line, Mr. Farthington…”

“You’ll be in Vienda for Clock’s Eve?” He shuts Fairer Voices, runs a hand over the cover. “I’ve been informed that Diana and I are throwing a party; I did not know you were in the capital, or I would’ve extended an invitation.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Evening, 29 Ophus, 2719
The Home of Violetta Ballington, King's Court

I am not sure,” Niccolette had said, frowning, looking down at the cradle.

Francoise had laughed. She had looked rather pale for some time after the birth, but then such things were rather to be expected. The doctor had left; Niccolette had not. The wet nurse had taken Jacqueline – for Aurelien’s mother, Francoise had said, some weeks ago, with a little grimace of a smile – away, after proper wails, and had reported back to let them know she had a healthy appetite. Francoise had held her, at first, but scarcely smiled when the nurse came, her eyes fluttering.

Niccolette knew the smell of blood, of course, quite well.

She was not sure whether Aurelien had given his blessing for her to be Jacqueline’s godmother before; he did after. She had seen him watching her as she cast, his hands wrapped in Francoise’s, shaking. She had felt nothing, nothing even at the blood on her fingers and palms, bright red drying dark; it was not a time when she could.

“Go ahead,” Francoise had said, lightly.

Niccolette had grimaced, and reached a hand delicately into the little cradle. Jacqueline’s hands were small, and quite chubby, the Bastian noted. The baby had the oddest smell about her, like milk or perhaps warming bread. She had settled a fingertip carefully against one small palm, more to say she had done it than anything else, and watched, frowning, as tiny fingers curled around hers.

At some point, Niccolette was aware, she had stopped frowning.

“I never have before, sir,” Terrence says, brightly, “but it seemed as good a time as any.”

“I do expect the growth of hair will considerably improve her overall appearance,” Niccolette grins. She smiles at Anatole, a little edge of wickedness curling around at the edges of it. “Although I suppose it must not be so in every case.”

Violetta is laughing. Her bright blue eyes have not missed Fairer Voices in Anatole’s hands; they linger on the cover for a moment, then lift up to his face. She smiles, as if he has passed some test, as if they had both suspected he would.

“Yes,” Niccolette says, shrugging lightly. “Not with the Rochambeaux family, I am afraid; they have their own plans.” She smiles. Francoise is still in no state to go out, of course, and may not be for a month or more yet. Once, she thinks, Aurelien would have left her at home. She does not think he will, now; this is a pain she can feel, a good sort of hurt. It is an odd mingling; it has been for some months, gratitude and warmth and a miserable sort of jealousy. She lets herself feel it, and it does not show, not on her face or in her hands, and certainly not in the bright indectal ramscott around her.

Anatole has not, quite, extended an invitation; Niccolette does not presume.

Rue returns before anyone else can speak; she brings with her an elegant silver platter, laden with two plates; on each is a generous spread of cheese and crusty, toasted bread, with wedges of persimmon and small bowls of rich dark pomegranate seeds spread in a colorful accompaniment. One is set next to Anatole, Niccolette and Violetta; the other Rue settles next to Norton and Terrence. She leaves a little stack of china plates next to the gleaming tray, and she curtsies with a smile. “I’m afraid there might be more to come, madam,” she says, politely, tray resting against her side.

“Please tell Mrs. Maison not to disturb herself too much,” Violetta says, eyes crinkling in well-worn laugh lines.

“I’ll try, madam! I will,” Rue grins, and leaves them to it.

Niccolette finds she is unexpectedly hungry; she takes a small plate, and settles a piece of bread on it. After a moment of deliberation, she takes a small sliver of cheese on her knife, and spreads it carefully over the bread. She takes, too, a little bowl of the pomegranate seeds, and settles it on the plate. She sets it next to her, on the little table at the arm of her chair.

[Tom Cooke]

Violetta Ballington's House • King's Court

Late Afternoon on the 29th of Ophus, 2719

H
e catches Mrs. Ballington’s light blue eyes on the book in his lap, and then she meets his gaze and smiles.

His smile broadens, and he turns back to Niccolette. “Some of us are more fortunate than others,” he replies pleasantly, his smile gone crooked.

He’s never been sure what he thinks of babies; funny, wrinkly, squirmy things. There’s a lull, after Collingwood’s laughter and Farthington’s reply, and he finds himself looking down at the book again. He brushes a long-fingered hand over the gold lettering, the tasteful curl of a flower set into the buckram. Funny to think how that hand was once small enough to fit in its palm. He hasn't grown into his looks; some other man grew into them.

Niccolette brings him back to himself, and he looks back up at her. He remembers Rochambeaux’ polite note declining his invitation; this surprises him more. He raises his eyebrows slightly.

Before he can speak, Rue is back with a glinting silver platter. The smells of soft, sweet cheese, sharp crumbly cheese, crusty bread, rumble something in his stomach that he seems to’ve forgot. As the nattle distributes the plates, he hears a grateful grunt from Collie, who’s already begun to spread some cheese on a bit of toast before Rue can curtsy.

The easy back-and-forth brings a smile to his face; he doesn’t know what to make of it. Mrs. Maison he can picture crisp and clear as if he’s met her, tawny hair shot through with grey, round-faced and round as all cooks worth their salt are. Something gnaws in his stomach and aches in his chest, even as he smiles.

And then the human is gone, and the pressure eases, if not the guilt. Back to thinking on Clock’s Eve and the Rochambeaux, he waits for Niccolette and Mrs. Ballington to serve themselves, then takes one of the delicate porcelain plates himself. There are wedges of persimmon, pale orange, interspersing the bread and cheese and pomegranate seeds; it’s one of these he takes first.

“...hard to come by, anyway,” Collie’s saying, blissfully through the last of a mouthful of bread. “You’ll find yourself sought-after, Mr. Farthington. Let the dashing aeroship captains have their adventures.”

He’s never much liked pomegranates. All that trouble, and the sweet little pellets of corn are strangely guilty eating; they seem like fruits for paintings and stories. The persimmon’s as mild-sweet as its color, and goes well with the cheese.

He knows the Makarios di Veste well enough. He remembers, as a lad, the gnarled Bastian midwife bustling through the cluttered hall, muttering on the peeling wallpaper and dubious smells, shooing him away whenever he was too underfoot to ignore.

Nobody had ever hidden from him where folk came from – getting in the family way was common enough, round Greene’s, whichever way it went – but he’d always been mystified by the squalling little things. He’d asked the midwife questions aplenty about her qalqa, whenever she came. He knows better, now, it’s not a man’s place.

Ne, he chose a qalqa on the opposite end. This, at least, he’s got in common with Niccolette, and at least one other kov in the room. He thinks of it, watching her take a bowl of cherry-red seeds. It’s hard to imagine her in the room with a baby. He wonders if she’s held it; he can’t picture that, either.

He looks again at Ballington. He’s not sure if it’s said of natt – you’re meant to ignore them, most often, at least in the capital – “Do give Mrs. Maison my compliments, madame,” he says anyway, taking the chance, thinking of the kind lines round the elder galdor’s eyes. “You’ve a fine staff.”

He looks at Niccolette, after a crunch of crusty bread. Swallowing, he sets it down on the plate in his lap, then sets the plate aside.

“You shall have to let me know where to send an invitation, so I can rectify the matter,” he says, raising his brows.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Evening, 29 Ophus, 2719
The Home of Violetta Ballington, King's Court

Niccolette examines the pomegranate; she takes one and eats it, crunching softly through hard seed inside the sweet flesh.

Perhaps it’s all the rest of them eating – Terrence has fallen upon the platter almost as quickly as Norton, and all but inhales the first slice of bread with cheese; the second, he comes at much more slowly, taking his time with the spreading of the cheese – but Violetta leans forward and takes a slice of bread for herself, and spreads a thin layer of cheese over it with a smile, nibbling at the edges of it.

Niccolette, too, settles comfortably into her appetite. She eats another pomegranate seed; she takes a bit of the bread, and then, another, after a moment or two, and sets the half-slice aside. She has relaxed a little more into the chair; she isn’t slouching, or anywhere near it, but the long straight line of her back isn’t quite so straight. She reaches forward and takes a slice of persimmon as well, nibbling at the pale-sweet orange flesh.

“Thank you,” Violetta says with a warm smile; all the lines round her eyes crinkle up once more. “I will.”

Niccolette smiles at Anatole; it is not quite with Violetta’s warmth, but it is an easy sort of smile all the same. “The Hotel Belleverie,” she says; it is a small hotel, elegant rather than comfortable, far from Vienda’s most expensive but, too, thoroughly ensconced in Uptown. She sits back a little more, and eats the rest of her persimmon slice.

There is a careful, thoughtful pause. Niccolette turns her head slightly, studying the crackling fire; the light from it glows warm over them all. A log pops, and sends a faint shower of sparks up into the air. She turns back to Anatole, and inclines her head lightly. “I shall look forward to it.” Niccolette adds. There is something crooked in the edges of her smile, but it smooths out easily enough. Her hands curl together in her lap once more, settled there.

“Properly,” Niccolette says, a few moments later, glancing back over her shoulder; Baker has just re-entered, with larger wine glasses better suited for the dark red, “the wine should decant for a few hours. But I think perhaps…?” She raises her eyebrows.

“Yes,” Violetta says with a smile. She turns to Anatole. “Incumbent Vauquelin, will you take some wine?”

Baker pours the wine into the glasses one at a time; he does not pour one for Terrence, but there is more than enough for the rest of them. He steps out; he returns with a glass of water with a lemon wedge for Terrence. Terrence takes it with a smile and a nod; he kept his eyes firmly on the fire as the wine was poured and distributed.

Niccolette swirls her glass of the Rossiolo. “Good tears,” she says, quietly, watching the pale ring of liquid form at the top of the glass and drip, slowly, down the side. She breathes in the scent of it with a little nod. “To Her stripes,” Niccolette says, somehow ineffably more Bastian than usual, raising her voice a little and glancing through the room; she lifts the glass, too, and lowers it against to take a sip. It is a good wine; it is fruity and spicy both, as promised, and mellowed by age; there is a hint of tannic bitterness, but it does not leave the mouth too dry. It is accompanied by no small sense of satisfication; by, Niccolette thinks with a little smile, something like conquest.

Niccolette swirls the glass again, carefully; she sets it off to the side, and picks up the other half of her slice of bread, and resumes nibbling at it.

“You were saying, sir,” Terrence says to Norton, intently, “about balance?” He sets his water glass down; he takes a bowl of the pomegranate seeds, and eats them, carefully, one at a time.

“Do you like poetry, Anatole?” Violetta asks with a smile. “I find it rather a strange question – to me it seems like asking if someone likes breathing – but there are those who answer no,” she does not quite look at Niccolette, but somehow manages to smile in her direction.

[Tom Cooke]

Violetta Ballington's House • King's Court

Late Afternoon on the 29th of Ophus, 2719

T
o Her fearful symmetry,” joins Anatole, and raises his glass. There was never any question; he accepted the glass as if he’d never thought otherwise, as quickly as anyone else. To good tears, he thinks, and takes a sip.

It hasn’t decanted quite as long as the Terenadetto from dry season, but it’ll do. Maybe it’s the company, too, makes a wine breathe.

There’s once he’d not have been able to tell an ‘09 Rossiolo from a ‘45 Terenadetto. One Rossiolo from another, to him, is any man’s guess; but he can taste this one, for all the benny wine he’s drunk in the last few months. It’s dark, darker than a Nassalan though not quite dark as an Eqe’udahi; it’s bitter-dark but sweet, not dry. Niccolette isn’t lying – she never does, he knows well now – when she speaks of its spicy edge.

Things taste differently now, too; some things he couldn’t stand before are all right, and some things he loved taste too bitter or too sweet. He tries not to think too much on it, to wonder.

Closer to the fire, Collie is smiling his narrow, knowing smile. “You can’t power your way through handling crude aetherium,” he’s saying. “Hyperoscillators are everywhere – every caster who’s used a prodigium knows how to use one – but the raw substance is much more volatile than the average sorcerer is aware of…”

The Hotel Belleverie, he sets down in his memory. He’s heard of it. Diplomats stay there sometimes, and visiting businessmen. It’s Uptown and damned benny, but not in the Ro Hill district.

He knows she doesn’t lie, and so he knows she will look forward to it; he knows, too, from the wicked slant of her smile, it’s doubtful the night will be uneventful. He wasn’t lying, either, when he said he’d’ve invited her anyway: a little wickedness might make Clock’s Eve almost bearable.

Some things are different now. With something that’s not quite a shrug, he takes one small bowl of pomegranate seeds and tries one. It’s a delicate, wintry sweet, and complements the Rossiolo well.

He’s spreading the softer cheese on another slice of bread when Mrs. Ballington addresses him. The book is still tucked at his side, safely away from the foodstuffs; he glances at it, then glances back up at her, and his thoughtful expression melts into a smile.

It’s not the thin smile of the Kalogeropoulos party, or a sneer, or the crooked, mischievous smiles he’s exchanged with Niccolette. It’s almost sheepish.

“I would have said no, once,” he replies carefully, “and not so long ago.” He looks over at the Brother, the stem of her glass in one delicate white hand; she swirls the dark red with Bastian grace.

“Breathing, Mrs. Ballington?” comes Collie’s voice.

The conversation has suddenly plucked up his interest; he’s turned in his seat, away from the fire. The light from the hearth limns his long accountant’s face, but sparks the red in his dark hair. Anatole hesitates, glancing from Ballington to Collingwood, and he thinks he can gather from the expressions on their faces that this is a well-worn path.

“Perhaps I’m not a man for metaphor,” he offers, the rough edge to his voice a little rougher, cocking an eyebrow sideways at Farthington. “I’m no stranger to the written word – nor to breathing – but I find my time is better spent in the study of history and strategy. One learns much more from the minds of great men like R. R. Matignon and the late General Clérisseau.”

Anatole set his plate aside and takes up his wine again. “This is not my, ah” – qalqa? – “my profession… but is it not so that poetry and literature are an important part of history? And reveal what is lost between the lines of history.” Lost on purpose, maybe. He thinks of Tzacks and Lreya Vks, Adopu and Tsadi pezre Awameh all.

The light from the hearth catches, too, the red in Farthington’s towhead mop, and sparkles in his glass of water, already gathering condensation at the base. A little wedge of orange floats in it.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Evening, 29 Ophus, 2719
The Home of Violetta Ballington, King's Court

It is Matignon Niccolette thinks of. The tiger cannot protect herself from traps, she wrote, and the lycat cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a lycat to recognize traps, and a tiger to frighten wolves. Norton does not, quite, put her in mind of either a lycat or a tiger, but Violetta has caught him rather neatly, all the same.

“I disagree with an entirely different premise of the argument,” Violetta says. Niccolette can hear the delight hidden not very far beneath the surface of her voice. Her eyes are brighter than before, and she is sitting up a little more in her chair, good color in her cheeks and the thick slice of bread mostly gone. She takes another small sip of wine, and sets the glass down.

Niccolette is holding her own glass again, between her fingers; she glances down at it, and watches the firelight shine through the wine.

“Poetry and verse can shed an important light on history, of course,” Violetta turns a benevolent smile on Anatole, then fixes Norton with her gaze. “More importantly, they are like a two-way mirror. In the reading, one learns a good deal of what is shown – but, too, unless you read only very lightly, a poem can reveal deep truths about the reader as well. There are poems I have read every few years since girlhood, and I take away something different from them each time.”

Niccolette glances away, and watches the dancing flames. Norton disagrees, as Violetta must have known he would, politely but staunchly. Anatole chimes in, perhaps a little tentative. She does not hear Terrence’s voice for a few moments.

“I think,” Terrence says, carefully, frowning lightly; he glances at Violetta, and then at Norton, and his voice grows a little firmer, “not that a well-written text on history or strategy isn’t absorbing, but the best poetry and novels have a way of taking you out of yourself, of transporting you. I don’t know,” he grins at Violetta, “if I’ve ever seen something different, when I returned. I’ll have to think about it.”

Niccolette watches the fire, and the light of the flames dance in the gold of her ring and flicker against the curve of the glass.

“Listen, beloved,” Uzoji might have said, looking up from his book with a smile. “Through endless seas, through endless skies; a placeless journey, without time.” He would have shut the book, then, leaning forward on his seat; the memory of them blurs together, and Niccolette does not know whether to picture the study in the Rose, with the fire crackling before them, or the little library on Dzum, with the wind ruffling white drapes. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Niccolette shuts her eyes for a moment; just a moment. She has set the wine glass, down, carefully, before doing so; her right hand settles, comfortably, against her left side, and curls into place.

“… without the least imagination!” Violetta takes another sip of her wine, and laughs.

“A window to the heart,” Niccolette says, quietly. She is conscious of a shift in the room; she feels it. She glances up, then; she smiles, a little crookedly, though her eyes are dry and clear. She shifts in her chair, brushing her hair back off her forehead, and swallows. “That is how Uzoji spoke of it.” She doesn’t hesitate on her husband’s name; the thin smile on her lips trembles, and softens, and widens into something more comfortable and easy to hold. Her forehead twitches at a frown, and smooths out too. “As if he could see through the page and into some other, distant place.”

Niccolette does not pick up the wine glass again; nor does she touch the pomegranate seeds. She shrugs; she sits up a little straight, leaning on the arm of the chair. She is aware; she understands. Norton has gone very stiff and straight; Terrence has shrunk back, slightly, into his chair, as if any moment her calm indectal field might slant.

Violetta, at least, is smiling; there is still good color in her cheeks, for all that her sharp blue gaze has softened. Niccolette glances at Anatole out of the corner of her eye, and back away. She knows what is to be done, here; some light-hearted comment, she thinks, about herself perhaps. She cannot quite find the desire. “I, too,” Niccolette says, quietly, thinking back to Violetta’s earliest remark “would have said no.”

[Tom Cooke]

Violetta Ballington's House • King's Court

Late Afternoon on the 29th of Ophus, 2719

H
e’s grinning. He’s not sure when the talking took him out of himself, and maybe it’s the wine; he’s thought to himself he can let this much through, surely, without realizing just how close to the bone he’s being cut. But if he’s bleeding, it’s pleasure, warm gold like phosphor. He keeps his field indectal, but only just. He speaks when he can, careful and tentative – mostly, he listens and watches.

Mrs. Ballington is hard not to watch. He’s not sure when the slice of crusty bread has disappeared, or when the color came back to her cheeks. Not a fevered flush, but lively. He’s not sure when the blanket stopped looking like a blanket and started looking like the drapery on a statue.

For all he’s the one pinned to the corkboard, Collie looks delighted.

When Farthington speaks, Anatole is looking at him. There’s a frown on his young face, a ghost of a crease at his brow. When he grins, it smooths out, but he finds himself thinking that one will have its way with the lad eventually. It’s a strange thought, one he’s not sure where to place.

“Transported?” repeats Collie, with the sharp, matter-of-fact raise of one brow.

His own smile has softened. “Taking you out of yourself,” is what he repeats, looking down for a moment at the wide bulb of his glass, the small sliver of Rossiolo left sliding round the bottom. “Apt, Mr. Farthington. Taking you out of yourself and into someone else, perhaps – someone else’s way of looking at things, someone else’s places…”

Fairer Voices still sits at one side, tucked between the arm of the chair and his thigh. But he thinks suddenly of ada’xa Brellos – bring me your heat, flow around me – how they can take you back into your own memories, sometimes. Then, plucked from a sloshy dark somewhere in his mind: the sound of a Bastian-accented voice reading poetry, under the crash of nearby waves and whipping winds. He can’t place it; it falls back into the dark.

Still, he looks over at her, looking into the fire. Before he catches up with himself and knows to look away – she shuts her eyes, the fire softening the kohl and blood-dark lip color, playing unreadable on her face. Her hand finds the dark velvet of her side, nestling there.

Collie has been saying something. In the corner of his eye the man’s sitting straight as a ramrod, uncharacteristically, holding his glass between his knees, on the edge of his seat. Another admonition from Mrs. Ballington; Anatole looks at her, finds all the lines on her face laughing.

Niccolette speaks.

There’s a proper smile on his face. He isn’t surprised, not really, that Uzoji was a man for poetry; it tickles again at some memory he can’t grasp. Something about a gift…

Better he can picture a small study packed with books, a long time ago, before a hand on his shoulder guided him away. He wonders now what he’d make of them, what he’d say of them; he wonders what Uzoji would’ve said of Tsadi pezre Awameh, of the imbali poets on either side of the exile. He wonders, sometimes, what Uzoji would’ve said of so many things. Honor and intent and names.

The tightening in his chest makes it hard to smile; he doesn’t try anymore, not really. “I daresay he could,” he says, before he remembers that you’re not meant to speak of the dead among these people.

Askance, Mrs. Ballington is the only one who doesn’t look as if the floor will open up. Mr. Farthington is condensing like his lemon water. Collie bears up, as always, a little too stiffly, a little too hard. His mouth is a brittle line; he’s nothing to impart here, no general’s battle-borne wisdom.

Anatole looks back toward Niccolette. “The seeing is beyond me, I’m afraid,” he says, with a smile then at Mrs. Ballington, Farthington. “I admire those who can. I treasure the words themselves, all the same. There is something in the speaking of them, too, out loud. And the listening.”