The house was in an uproar.

Skeletal thralls bustled down the corridors and up the stairs, dusting and polishing and changing linens. From the kitchens a hellish din could be heard, accompanied by a slew of heavenly aromas. Holding court at the central foyer, Jemison shouted instructions to a squadron of Suits as they took down old paintings and replaced them with newer works.

Beatrice watched from the upper level with D’artanien at her side, white-knuckled hands gripping the railing.

I can do this. I can get through this. I am ready.

The mantra looped end-to-end, for she allowed herself to think nothing else. It was vital that she come to believe these lies, to make them true, if the arrival of Charles’ mother was to be anything less than a fearsome disaster. There was no turning away such a force, and no outrunning it. A storm was coming.

For her part, Beatrice had read and re-read her books’ passages on power suppression, written letters to her family in an attempt to distract herself, and finished off by changing into a much finer gown that was the color of ice-frosted thistles.

All she could do now was brace herself and wait.

The skyship’s arrival was heralded first by the cawing of Gray’s crows. Next came the bellowing proclamations of Her Grace’s true herald, his voice amplified by Coyote magecraft as he announced her grand arrival. She was early.

There was a great scramble in the foyer as everyone finished whatever it was they were doing and rushed to join the ranks forming along the interior walls. Lifting the hem of her skirts, Beatrice hurried down the stairs to join the rest of her pack where they assembled in the central space, her guardian breaking away to take his place among the rows of Suits to the back of the chamber. Charles, Gray, Arron and Jemison—with Victoria in his arms—arrayed themselves around her. Then a pair of thralls pulled open the doors, and in marched the retinue of the Duchess of Arinvale.

First came the coyote mage who’d announced them. Then the leading rank of guards…mages of every kind save Beatrice’s own. Then came what looked to be the duchess’s steward, advisor, and other companions, followed by lady’s maids. And lastly entered the duchess herself, a final rank of guards at her back and her other son, Lord Theodor Blackstone, at her side.

Both mother and son were clad in blacks and grays, but the Duchess’s presence eclipsed all else, small in stature though she was. She had fierce eyes, narrowed and glittering, and dark skin that contrasted sharply with the white coils of her upswept hair. And then of course, there was her scent—strong even for a Silver, all crushed pine needles and woodsmoke and lavender.

With the exception of her two primary bodyguards—a Hyena and a Jaguar mage—her attendants stepped in sync to either side of her, forming a sort of aisle by which the Duchess Arinvale and her son made their approach. Gray inclined his head, Arron bowed, Jemison and Beatrice curtsied, and Charles stepped forward to accept his mother’s embrace.

Then the younger of the two Silvers turned back and, with a look of apology on his face, took Beatrice gently by the hand to present her before the woman who was ruler of her home province and niece to the king of all of Dustren.

“Mother, it honors me to present to you my betrothed, Lady Beatrice Stagston, now of Hygard. Lady Stagston, my mother; the Duchess Aureline Deborough of Arinvale.”

Again Beatrice curtsied, her blood chilling under the imperious eye of Charles’ mother. The duchess, snapping shut her silken fan to reveal the scarlet wolfstone gleaming at her clavicle, raised a brow.

“Lady Stagston? One of your packmates has married her already…and I was not invited?”

“It was a small ceremony, mother. You know how private Darcy is.”

Her lips twisted, and she shot a sideways glance at Theodor.

“Now, that I did not know,” he said, defensive.

“Well, my son,” she said, composing her full lips in a gracious smile as she looked again to Charles. “I pray you will forgive me. When I heard you’d taken to hearth a new bride, I could hardly wait for the invitation I’m certain you’d every intention of making, and rushed to your side to assist.”

“Mother, I assure you—”

“Of course, I had hoped I might have the chance to meet the lady and offer my blessing before her induction as a permanent member of your pack, but alas. I am here now, that I may oversee and attend your wedding at least.”

“Indeed.” Bending to kiss her proffered hand, Charles withdrew again a little too quickly, locking arms with Beatrice.

“I should like to refresh myself, before we all drink and dine together,” drawled the duchess, fan whipping wide once more to bat at the air, an agitated gesture like a snake twitching its tail. “But first, I require a word with your betrothed.”

Beatrice went rigid and Charles frowned, acquiescing with a curt nod. He squeezed her arm as he escorted her, alongside his mother and her primary guards, to the sitting room just off the central foyer’s first floor. There he was forced to leave her, with only the Duchess’s Lion and Jaguar mages joining them inside.

Striding to the center of the room, the Duchess Arinvale turned to face Beatrice…fan batting, expression unreadable.

A silence stretched between them, and though Beatrice knew it may seem insolent to speak first, she began to wonder if perhaps she should.

“Your Grace, it is an—”

“I was relieved, you know. When that Alice woman disappeared.”

No longer able to resist the pull of the terrifying Silver’s gaze, Beatrice looked up. The duchess’s eyes skirted from hers to track down her face and fix on the tiny wound at her neck before dragging down still further to land upon her foxstone. Her expression hardened, and the weight of her presence intensified. A smothering, leaded blanket.

“Your Grace?”

“Charles may be a Fox and a bastard, but he is still my son. His blood is entirely noble. He deserved better than an unknown urchin of no name and no rank, and I gave thanks in prayer when she was gone. I had high hopes for his second marriage.” Her lip curled. “But it would seem the spirits take delight in vexing me. And so, I come in mourning.” She spread her arms to indicate her inky finery.

Beatrice’s feet rooted to the spot, cheeks gone cold as the blood drained from her face.

“My son has chosen to burden himself yet again with a girl of lowly connections and ill repute. Worse, now…a girl who flaunts a foxstone as though it weren’t a curse.”

At once, Beatrice’s hands flew up to cover the offending feature. The Duchess’s lip twitched upward to one side.

“It would be a shame, wouldn’t it, if she proved to be a mage, and I was forced to take her away with me to the capitol before the wedding could even occur?”

Beatrice swallowed painfully, her mouth gone dry. Though the Duchess did not move from where she stood, her presence bore down on her nonetheless.

“Have you shown any signs of power, girl?”

The urge to declare the truth crushed down on her, and she fought it—prepared by Charles’ warnings. But she’d never had to resist the workings of a Wolf mage before, and it was no simple feat.

“I…I…” she dragged in a deep breath, tried again. “Y—No.”

The Duchess Arinvale studied her face, the shadow of a smile still curling one corner of her lip. Then she looked sideways to her lion guard and gave the smallest of nods.

Beatrice shrieked as fire roared to life in a whirling ring all about her. In shock, her power flared—too sudden and too intense to disperse. But she managed just in time to harness it rightly, the colors coalescing around her to leave her furred and trembling, the fire now spinning well above her head. She skittered backwards and the flames blew out. The Duchess’s dark eyes followed her, expression inscrutable.

“You may go,” she said, after a moment’s terrifying silence. “And send in my sons, if you please.”

With some effort, Beatrice managed to compose herself once more into human form.

“Y-yes Your Grace,” she managed. Then, all sense of propriety fled, Beatrice turned to do the same—catching herself as she reached for the door handle and turning back just long enough to sketch a passable curtsy.

Outside, the others awaited in a mixture of excited murmuring and tense silences. And though Charles relaxed quite visibly at the sight of her, his was a fleeting reprieve. As he joined Theodor in conference with his mother, the lines of his face drew grim once more. The instant the door had closed behind him, Beatrice threw a pleading look to Jemison, who with a gracious nod dismissed her.

As the lady of the house, she had ample excuse to be off. But after she made her curtsies and took her leave, D’artanien breaking away to follow, Beatrice did not go to the kitchens to look in on dinner’s progress. Nor did she check the state of the guest rooms one last time before their occupants claimed them. For, though he took the role of host as well, it was Jemison who was the true keeper of Highreach.

My only job is to hide what I am.

It shamed her, that all she could do for her pack and household was to attempt to prevent the disastrous potential of her own useless presence. But she couldn’t help but think of the first portal she had conjured, which Arron had stepped safely through.

What made the second portal go wrong? If only I could learn to hone and control my powers, I could be very useful indeed. Just like the fox mages of old, before the Fox Lord had spoiled it all.

But only so long as Darcy never finds out.

She heaved in a deep breath, slowing to a halt on her way back to her chambers. She had some three hours yet before the household and all its guests were set to dine together.

Perhaps now is my chance.

Turning on her heel, she made for the library.

 

~*~

 

Its size had dazzled Beatrice, when first she’d seen it. But given free run of the place, the immensity of Highreach’s catalogue quickly overwhelmed her.

It’s going to be weeks before I find the section on Fox mages, if there even is one and they haven’t hidden every book that mentions us. She dare not ask anyone outright, of course, not even D’artanien. And so, hardly a quarter of the way up the tower, Beatrice was forced to abandon the endeavor for the evening. It was time to change for dinner.

I’m going to run out of fine enough dresses by the end of the day, tomorrow, she realized, frowning to herself as she made her way up to her bedchamber. There she found that the door was open just a crack, though she was sure she’d shut it, and there was a heavy scent not her own lingering in the air. A scent she knew well.

She swallowed as she pushed the door inward, forcing back warring emotions—most particularly curiosity and an inexplicable yet potent bolt of terror. Theodore Blackstone sat on the edge of her bed, looking up upon her approach. Open in his hand, he held her journal. On the mattress at his side lay her now-treasured copy of Forsythe’s Fairy Tales, the pamphlet of the forbidden story of the Fox Lord laid out over top of it.

Lord Blackstone smiled.

“Good evening, princess.”