"Methinks it might be better for me to step in..."

  Am-Hazek considered the two couples bristling at one another in the middle of Madame Beaumont's front walk, then gave an elegant shrug. "I don't believe it'll come to blows, seigneur. It is a matter of what impression you wish to cultivate."

  The main thing Mirk had been hoping to achieve by writing different times on the invitations he’d sent off to the English and French mages was coaxing them all into arriving together rather than hours apart. He had been to enough balls hosted by both parties by then to know their routines: the French custom was, out of politeness, to arrive at a host's front gate at least an hour after the indicated hour, whereas the English took offense if guests weren't already lining up to enter a half hour early. The thought of having only the English mages tapping their feet impatiently in the ballroom for hours before his friends from the Continent arrived was unbearable.

  So he'd played with the numbers. The English were told to arrive at eight, while the French were informed that the teleportation portal would be open by six. The result was currently sneering at each other underneath the floating lanterns he'd collected from the artificers' that morning. Two young couples, one English and one French, trying to settle without exchanging words which of them would proceed to the front door first first. He had also decided against the English custom of lines and formal introductions. Mirk was beginning to get the impression that rather than creating a more welcoming atmosphere by forsaking it, he'd only set himself up for a headache.

  "I suppose no one will fault me for being friendly," Mirk mumbled, adjusting the lapels of his justacorps before setting off down the front walk. That aside, the two couples were no one important. A grand-nephew of the Marquise's on her late husband's side and his newcomer wife for the French contingent, and the son of a middling guildmaster who was friends with dour Lord Emerson and his unfortunate granddaughter on the English side. He’d decided to invite the English mage for the sake of said unfortunate granddaughter. The woman shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot beside the guildmaster's son was one of the few ladies Lord Emerson's granddaughter was allowed to socialize with unsupervised. Miss Esther deserved a break from having to put up with Percival, who would undoubtedly come as long as Ravensdale did.

  "Bonsoir, messieurs, mesdames," Mirk called out as he approached. The greeting didn't ease the tension hanging between the two couples, but at least it got them to quit glaring at one another, "Je vous en prie, come inside. Unless you'd like to admire the garden a while longer?"

  He'd put a lot of potential and gold into it. The gold had gone toward finding the right kind of blossoming trees and bushes, and the potential had gone toward making them grow large enough to make up for the fact that he hadn't bought enough. That aside, it had settled his nerves that afternoon to have a project to work on, even if it was technically a waste of potential. It was spring. Mirk had more than enough to magic work with, contrary to the scolding of everyone who'd seen him up to his elbows in vines that afternoon rather than making himself busy with the preparations indoors.

  "Oh, we'd love to, seigneur," the wife of the Marquise's grand-nephew said, her expression brightening at the mention of the garden. However, she refused to speak in English. Or turn on the translation brooch pinned to her bodice. "Such big hydrangeas! But these English..."

  "We arrived after this gentleman," the English mage said, casting a disapproving sideways glance at the grand-nephew. "However, they seem unwilling to proceed to the door."

  "Ah, I see. I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," Mirk said with an apologetic bow to the English mage and his uncomfortable wife. "We do things a little differently on the Continent than you're accustomed to, monsieur. There's no line or introductions. You're free to come and go as you wish."

  The English mage refocused his distaste on Mirk. "Is that so? Even among strangers?"

  Mirk nodded. "Please, feel free to introduce yourself. There's no better way to make fast friends than having a conversation, non? I believe Monsieur Leclerc and you may have some interests in common. Aren't you involved with the light guild's dealings with the artificers, Master Brown? Monsieur Leclerc has a similar role, only with the water mages..."

  Brown's frown lightened just a hair when Leclerc nodded, producing a calling card from the breast pocket of his justacorps. It resolved entirely when Leclerc elected to address him in English rather than French, like his wife had. "You work with trade? Master Brown, is it?"

  Once the ice was broken, it was a simple matter of shepherding the men inside — although the English mage was reluctant to leave his wife behind, Leclerc's mention of the recent troubles with piracy between the Continent and England convinced him to allow it. Since it would be improper to burden a woman with hearing about such violence, of course, even second-hand. Mirk got the impression that the two ladies shared a laugh over that as they ventured off together down one of the winding paths that led deeper into the front garden.

  Without needing to discuss the plan, Am-Hazek and Mirk fell into their respective roles. Mirk lingered under a tree midway up the walk, greeting new arrivals and heading off disagreements, assuring the French that he'd be inside soon and the English that the French were more than happy to be approached and conversed with. Meanwhile, Am-Hazek took the visitors' cloaks and hats and led them down the mirrored hall toward the ballroom. As long as Am-Hazek didn't try to get his attention, Mirk assumed things had to be going well enough inside.

  Mirk made a strategic retreat when one of the evening's guests of honor arrived, with the bang of a teleportation spell and a startled curse that he muffled in the crook of his elbow. Ostensibly, he was one of Mirk's most cherished new friends, a count from the far east, there to delight and amuse the other guests with his odd customs and costume. In reality, it was only Orest, stuffed into some manner of traditional fine dress that both he and Mordecai had assured him was befitting a man of means.

  He brushed on the translation charm pinned to the inside of his justacorps as he hurried down the walk, calling out a greeting to the bewildered fighter. The outfit the Easterners had cobbled together was more impressive than Mirk had expected. Tight breeches tucked into high riding boots that'd been polished to a sheen, a long red coat that was lined with jet black fur and had dramatic, conveniently voluminous sleeves. A collection of medals that were likely Ilya's creative handiwork rather than actual laurels were pinned across the front of the tunic Orest wore underneath the coat. And atop his head was the same tall fur hat he always wore, freshly washed, made even more striking with the addition of a few long feathers that had been dyed to match the coat.

  "Mirk! Mirk, is she here?" Orest asked, rushing over to him. The echo of the translation charm didn’t cover up the worry in his voice.

  Mirk shook his head. "Methinks she'll be coming with her father. And Casyn is always late."

  Orest cursed, either too expressively or too low for the translation charm to pick it up. Offering him a reassuring smile, Mirk took Orest’s arm, half to comfort him and half to keep him from bumbling into the pair of elderly English mages who'd just come through the teleportation portal. The only friends Madame Beaumont had managed to make since she'd arrived in the country, thankfully tolerant of strangeness. They only chuckled and shook their heads as they headed arm in arm up the front walk. "I knew I should have waited longer," Orest said, after clearing his throat.

  "It'll be fine," Mirk said. "I'm sure you'll be able to find some way to keep yourself busy."

  Orest sighed, but let himself be led up the walk. When he'd heard about the part of their plan involving Catherine, he'd insisted on being allowed to join the Easterners who'd be masquerading as servants. But the fact that he was new and unknown aside from around the stables presented them with the opportunity to have a fighter who was free to wander the ballroom without having to pretend to be a servant. It was plausible enough that a low-ranking foreign noble would choose to stay with the other Easterners rather than go to the Fourteenth. The fact that Dauid trusted him to train his stallions added another bit of credibility to the ruse.

  "This is one person's house?" Orest asked, looking up at the facade of Madame Beaumont's townhouse. "You really are as rich as everyone says."

  "Try not to look too impressed," Mirk replied, laughing. "You're as rich as I am, you know. Even if things are different where you're from."

  "No one who's rich where I'm from wastes their gold on a big house," Orest said, making it a point not to look at Am-Hazek as they passed by him on the doorstep. "Horses. And things for spells."

  "Methinks your people might be more sensible." Mirk scanned the foyer, which had been enchanted with mirrors to match the hall connecting it to the ballroom, making sure things were still in order inside. Though he'd borrowed the mirrors from Madame Beaumont's favored style, he'd added his own touch by bringing the outdoors in. More plants in gilt pots, mostly creeping vines that he'd coaxed into scaling the walls and sprawling across the ceiling, filling the entryway with the heady perfume from their purple and white flowers. Though the few English mages who'd chosen to linger in the hallway rather than heading straight for the ballroom seemed vaguely disapproving, a great number of ladies from the Continent had stopped to marvel over them and speculate whether they'd be able to recreate the effect in their own chateaux.

  The gossip shifted to Orest as soon as his guests caught sight of him in the reflection of the mirrors. Many of the younger ladies they passed whipped out their fans in preparation as he and Mirk walked by. Which reminded Mirk of one thing he'd forgotten to discuss with the fighter. "Euh, did anyone ever give you those dancing lessons, Monsieur Orest?"

  "Huh? Dancing lessons? I can dance just fine."

  Mirk sighed, thinking back to the sort of dancing he'd seen the other Easterners perform at Danu's wedding. It was much more energetic than the type favored by English and French mages, entirely unsuited to the sort of music that the quartet he'd hired for the occasion knew. Even if it did earn him odd looks from his fellow high-born mages, he supposed the spectacle would at least keep most of his guests from noticing that anything else untoward was going on. "When you do ask Miss Catherine to dance, methinks it would be better if you followed her lead."

  "She knows how to do these rich people things," Orest replied with a shrug. He paused at the threshold to the ballroom, eyes widening as he looked around at the mages in all their finery and the broad expanse of the dance floor. The room's ceiling, in actuality, was low and wood-paneled, but it'd been enchanted to appear as if it was made of high stone arches. An idea Mirk had borrowed from all the hours he'd spent daydreaming and staring up into cathedral rafters as a boy. "It's even bigger on the inside than it is on the outside!"

  "It's nothing but illusions," Mirk said, dismissively, though he gestured with his chin pointedly at one of the balconies that circled the dance floor, strung with magelights and covered in trailing vines. The illusion had been pricey, but even more troublesome had been managing to hide one real balcony among the false ones. It'd taken Elijah and Genesis the entirety of the afternoon once the illusionist from the dark magician's guild had left to sort out first how the mage had cast the illusion, and then how to make the wooden platform that the Easterners had cobbled together and attach to the wall to appear to be one of them. Madame Beaumont had had plenty of cross asides on the matter of ruining the wallpaper in her ballroom with it, but she'd also been more than happy to provide the Easterners with gold enough to cook up a hearty supper for themselves in her kitchen after they'd all finished.

  All of it was risky business. But Alice would only get one shot. It was imperative that she have access to the best possible angle. Once the ball was in full swing, she'd shimmy through the portal Mordecai had set up to connect the platform to the servants' hallway and await the best time to strike. There were extra illusions on that false platform to hide her, but the instant she took her shot, the spell would be ruined. She'd be fully exposed. With any luck, all the guests would be too distracted by the commotion to notice her before she could slip back through the portal.

  Mirk was still unclear on which of the djinn would be freed, which would start the chain reaction that would hopefully free all of them. Fatima and Genesis had disagreed strongly on the matter; for once, Genesis had refused to concede. He insisted that Am-Gulat be the one who started things, even if it meant taking extra risks to ensure that Ravensdale chose him. Thus the business with the bottle and the stolen diamond that had left Joan bleeding to death on the back room's table.

  He sincerely hoped that Genesis was right. That it'd all be worth it, that it'd make a difference that Am-Gulat was the first.

  "So what do I do?" Orest asked Mirk, tugging on his arm and gesturing around at the steadily filling ballroom. Although it was to be expected, considering Orest's odd dress and the fact that he was the host, it troubled Mirk that all eyes were on them, some openly, some only from the side or hidden by fans. "Go dance? This is bad music for dancing. Too quiet, too slow."

  Mirk shook his head. "The formal dancing won't start until everyone's arrived. You're supposed to...euh...mingle."

  Orest's brow furrowed, and he stroked distractedly at his freshly trimmed and combed beard. "Mingle?"

  "Walk around and talk to people. Or let people introduce themselves to you. Methinks one of the younger mages will try soon enough."

  "Bah, I need a drink," Orest muttered, tramping off after one of Fatima's ladies who was circulating with a tray of wine glasses. She was every inch a proper lady that night, in a servant's subdued navy dress and a white undershirt buttoned up to her chin, her hair pulled back into a chiffon underneath a bonnet. But there was still a certain swagger to her walk that Mirk hoped the other guests would overlook.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Mirk sighed, looking helplessly around the ballroom, wondering where to start. Madame Beaumont hadn't descended from her upstairs chamber yet, nor had any of the young nobles he was closest to arrived. All of his friends tended to like to make an entrance, his godmother included. She'd told him to send someone up to fetch her once Seigneur d'Aumont had arrived.

  Ultimately, he decided it would be best if he went and got himself a drink as well, if only so that his nerves weren't so transparent. One glass wouldn't hurt. Not after nearly a full year spent starting his mornings with infirmary pain blockers.

  - - -

  "Mirk! Mirk, you must tell me which mage you hired to do these illusions! I didn't think the English could think up something so beautiful!"

  "I'll send along his guild card," Mirk replied, bowing to Yvette Feulaine as she swept into Madame Beaumont's ballroom. But his eyes strayed to the doorway behind her, where her parents and Seigneur d'Aumont were making their arrival. The Grand Master of Le Phare looked rather put out that there was no particular grand welcome laid out for him. Considering how long d'Aumont had known his godmother, Mirk thought that he really shouldn't have expected one, even if Madame Beaumont had been more accommodating than usual as of late.

  Yvette carried on enthusiastically, ignoring her fiance glowering around the room beside her. Instead she reached out and took both of Mirk's hands so that she could get a better look at his new suit. "And this! Delightful! You almost have me convinced to switch over to the Nasiris from Marcel."

  "Monsieur Raynaud did do an excellent job with your gown, though," Mirk said, admiring the way that the stitching on Yvette's long scarlet gown flashed in the comfortably dim light of the floating lanterns overhead. He wasn't flattering her, not in the slightest — the gown was expertly fitted, and had enchantments sewn onto it to make the fabric throw off a subtle glow by drawing on Yvette's overabundance of potential. Though it was rather low cut in comparison to those of the other French noblewomen, not to even touch on how it compared to those of the English ladies. It was even catching the eyes of Fatima's women as they flitted around the room with that night's first trays of amuse bouches.

  "Oh, this old thing?" Yvette laughed, letting go of Mirk's hands in favor of whipping a lace fan out of a pocket secreted away in the folds of her dress. "From last season, though I suppose you wouldn't know, since you missed most of it. It's not that I mean you any disrespect, Seigneur, it's only that I didn't want to have to spend a fortune having it cleaned if more of your beastly acquaintances decide to burden us with their presence tonight."

  "I don't see any of them," Laurent commented from Yvette's side. He stepped up and put a protective hand on her elbow nevertheless. "Though that doesn't mean they can't be hiding somewhere. The light's rather dim."

  "But don't you think it makes it so much more romantic, dear?" Yvette turned to look at her fiance, treating him to a broad and pointed grin that made Laurent scowl and abruptly look away. "Really, I think all the debut balls should be more like this. It really benefits us ladies, not having some ghastly chandelier making us all look like ghosts."

  "I thought the same thing," Mirk said with an agreeable nod. "The English are even worse."

  He hadn't been thinking of what the bright white magelights the majority of the English mages favored did to the ladies' complexions when arranging the ballroom. Primarily, he'd been thinking of the strengths of his friends, what they'd need to defend any of his guests against the ensuing chaos when Alice let the Destroyer's arrow fly. Most of the Easterners and Fatima's ladies weren't strong mages, but they were accustomed to working in the shadows. Since their strongest mage, perhaps with the exception of K'aekniv, was most at home in them.

  Genesis hadn't arrived yet, and he hadn't mentioned to Mirk that morning when he was planning on making an appearance. But Mirk knew him; he trusted him. Genesis always arrived exactly on time, right when needed. He'd come eventually. Even if Mirk would have felt better with him lurking around the periphery of the room.

  "And what is this?" Yvette asked, as she accosted one of Fatima's ladies who was carrying around trays of tood. The lady curtseyed and held it out to her, so that Yvette could better see the offerings. Something on toast, a bit less artful than usual, but not overly offensive, considering how Yvette didn't hesitate to pluck one off the tray and take a delicate bite. The bottom of the toast, Mirk noticed, was perhaps a bit blacker than it should have been.

  But rather than complaining, Yvette made an exaggerated sound of delight, popping the rest into her mouth in a decidedly un-ladylike fashion that made Laurent blanch. "Amazing! I've never had fish this flavorful! I'd tell you that you need to try it, Mirk, but I know you'd refuse. You must give me the name of your cook. So bold! I'll send my cook across the channel if I have to."

  Mirk laughed again, shrugging. Thankfully, Yvette usually forgot about her requests the second they were out of her mouth, unless they were particularly needful. He didn't think she'd appreciate having her cook dragged into the basement of the infantry dormitory to find out how K'aekniv had managed to teach himself to cook on a sparking hotplate in the common bathroom. "He's...euh, a bit eccentric, yes. But I'm glad you like it."

  "So! Tell me Mirk, who's all coming? All the usual people from back home, of course, but what about these English? Will it be the same ones who attended the last ball?" A certain focused look came onto both their faces at the question that Mirk didn't like the looks of.

  "Not everyone, of course. I haven't made nearly as many friends as I would have liked among the English yet. But I invited all the ladies making their debut this year, along with anyone who mentioned they were interested in reconnecting with the French mages after all the trouble that's passed between us. The ladies and their particular suitors will make up most of it, most likely."

  "You really do have an inventive streak, Mirk," Yvette said, snatching a glass of wine off another passing servant's tray, that one an Easterner who looked particularly sullen over being crammed into a waistcoat and tight breeches and stockings. "To think, a debut ball for a man! Then again, most men fit to marry aren't quite as young as you, unfortunately. I just happened to be lucky."

  "Luck had no part in it," Laurent grumbled. But he managed a tight-lipped smile when Yvette turned his way.

  "I see potential," Yvette countered with a grin. "Regardless of family situation. I hope the Lord will bless you the same, Mirk."

  Mirk didn't feel particularly blessed at the moment. Mostly, he just felt worried.

  There weren't to be any formal introductions that night. Yet a decided ripple of turned heads still moved across the room when Madame Beautmont chose that moment to appear, Am-Hazek at her side, though she refused to lean on the arm that he had at the ready for her. She'd outdone herself that time with her hat. It added nearly a foot to her short frame, laden with flowers and feathers that matched the ballroom's decor, her gown voluminous and deep violet. Though it was impossible to tell from looking at it, Mirk knew the gown must have been padded to make up for all the flesh her illness had stolen from her.

  Seigneur d'Aumont wasted no time. He was across the room and bowing to her within a few minutes, having extricated himself rather rudely from the conversation he’d been having with a few of the older, sterner French and English mages Seigneur Feulaine had guided him over towards, the rest of the members of the Circle, the Comte excepted, among them. Seigneur Rouzet smirked at d’Aumont’s retreating back. Meanwhile, Madame Beaumont treated the Grand Master to a warm smile, holding out one hand.

  It was a spectacle more befitting a young, unmarried mage who lacked the experience to maintain the proper social graces in the face of his desires. But Mirk supposed that Seigneur d'Aumont was accustomed to getting what he wanted. There was no reason for him to play the game of feigned disinterest and casual warmth. Although Am-Hazek bowed to the Grand Master and let him escort Madame Beaumont in, Mirk noticed that his gaze lingered on her, just for a moment. Then it shifted to the periphery of the ballroom, near the servants' door back into the kitchen.

  He hadn't entered alongside his master, but Seigneur d'Aumont had brought Er-Izat with him like he had the last time he'd come to England. The djinn was stationed near the door, his arms behind his back, waiting to be called upon. And Mirk noticed that Er-Izat was studiously avoiding looking at either him or Am-Hazek.

  A few of the other better off French nobles, the more senior ones, had brought their djinn with them too. Mirk had made silent note of each tall, well-dressed figure skirting around the edge of the room, moving with silence and grace between the front and the back of the house, seeing to the needs of those who held their souls without order or complaint. He wondered what would happen to them all once everything fell apart. But as Genesis said, it wasn't up to any of them what the djinn would do. The Destroyer's arrow could free only one of them. Everything else was in their own hands.

  Yvette had kept talking at him while he watched the exchange between Madame Beaumont and Seigneur d'Aumont, but all Mirk could manage to do was not appear rude, smiling and ducking his head in all the right places. Off in the corner of the ballroom, the string quartet kept humming pleasant, indistinct songs. They'd be looking to him for the signal to start that night's dancing soon. The ballroom was filling up; everyone who wanted had a glass in hand, and the trays of food had made the rounds.

  And yet, no one from the K'maneda had arrived. No one other than the ones who'd been hiding there all along. The tension among the masquerading servants was palpable, especially among the ladies from Fatima, a thrumming undercurrent of anxiety and malaise that Mirk could only just feel through his mental shielding underneath the varied emotions of the other guests. He couldn't wait forever. He had to do something.

  "Well, I suppose it's time I got things started," Mirk said to Yvette, when she paused to snatch yet another delicacy off a passing tray. "Not everyone I hoped for has come, but the K'maneda do tend to arrive on their own time..."

  "Oh, yes!" Yvette said, just before she could take a bite of another piece of toast, her eyes lighting up. "Are you going to do a speech like the English? Otherwise I'd be delighted to show you over to Mademoiselle Tricot once you give the order to the quartet. She's been asking around about you, you know. She’s a good alternative, since that Englishwoman you came with last time doesn't seem to have come. The only English mage worth socializing with, if you ask me."

  "I think I'd better say a little something," Mirk said, though he felt sick at the thought of it. "Since the occasion is so odd. I'll be sure to speak with Mademoiselle Tricot once I'm through, though."

  He had no idea which of the bright, cheerful young ladies Mademoiselle Tricot was. There wasn't any room left in his mind to keep track of distant friends of friends. Everything was only worry, worry that all their planning and preparation had been for nothing, that he'd failed at the one thing he'd been asked to do: get Ravensdale to the ball, along with one of the djinn. But there was nothing for it. The ball needed to proceed. It was up to him to manage things.

  And so he did, bowing to Yvette and Laurent before making his way across the ballroom, warding off polite inquiries and cheerful greetings with smiles and half-bows, until he made it to the corner where the quartet was still humming along. Mirk caught the violinist's attention with a wave of his hand, nodding and making a lowering expression. He only had half a minute to collect his thoughts, to think of what to say as the quartet's song trailed off and everyone in the ballroom turned expectantly toward him.

  Mirk couldn't bear to look, the blankness in his mind overwhelming him. Instead, he stared down at his waistcoat. Sapphire blue, stitched with that pattern he'd traced over and over again as a boy with his finger while he waited for his mother to come up and dress for whatever outing she'd asked him to accompany her on. He tried to remember her words, her voice, the way she would take his arm before entering a parlor or ballroom and remind him of what they'd set out to accomplish.

  It's as easy as breathing, mon petit, she always said when he wavered, pinching his cheeks one by one to put some color into them. People are simple. Just show them what they want to see, and God will cover the rest.

  The quartet lowered their bows; a hush fell over the ballroom. Mirk straightened up as he drew all the air he could into his lungs and let the mental shielding around his mind fade away, to better gauge what his guests were expecting.

  Curiosity. Boredom. The push and pull of a dozen petty slights and satisfactions, lingering on even though the conversations that had sparked them had paused. A few quiet, cool spots where the strongest mages had clustered, those who had no empathy but had learned ways to shroud their emotions with their magic, well aware of how much could be gleaned from their minds by an empath if they left themselves open. The deepest well of that silence was along the far wall, by the door to the servant's hall, where all the djinn were clustered. Most of them were only half-watching him, accustomed to keeping a constant eye on their masters. The only one who was looking his way was Am-Hazek, who nodded when their eyes met, offering him one of his barely-there smiles.

  He'd promised all his guests a worthwhile evening. A spectacle, a parade of oddities, a chance to forge new connections in a place that was just a bit unexpected for everyone involved. Now it was time to fulfill that promise.

  "Bonsoir, tout le monde," he began, with the bow that felt the most right to him in that moment, one lower than was called for but cultivated exactly the impression he wanted to make -- more than their host, he was their servant, ever grateful for their presence. "Thank you all for joining me. It's more than a few weeks overdue, but I'm glad you all chose to come all this way to celebrate the season and my birthday. More than ever this year, I know what a dear thing it is to be surrounded by good friends and pleasant company."

  Mirk let his words hang for a moment as he studied the crowd, less with his eyes and more with his senses. A tinge of pity flitted through the crowd, mostly from those who knew him. Or rather knew Jean-Luc, and his mother — those guests knew that his words were more than platitudes. With that feeling pressing at the front of his mind, Mirk continued.

  "Life is so very short, isn't it? Even for those of us who've been blessed with more years than most. So it'd be better to make the most of the ones we have, and the best way to do that, methinks, is by putting our differences aside and working together. How does it go in English...as iron sharpens iron, so one friend sharpens another? Methinks that's what the point of this whole season is. We're all better together, non? And what better way to be together than to dance?"

  Mirk hadn't planned on doing anything flashy. But the mood struck him then, spurred on by the quiet expectation of his guests, as those who had come to the ball to enjoy themselves more than play politics searched out the eyes of the first partner of the night across the room. He was standing at the very edge of the part of the ballroom that had been spelled for mage dancing.

  It was a small thing to feed the boundaries of the spell some of his potential, making the runes that marked it flare up bright and golden green in the dim light cast by the floating lanterns and by the illusion of a full moon past the ballroom's windows. At the same time, he let his potential flow upwards as well, into the bits of true greenery strung up among the vines and blooms that were wholly an illusion. Those living parts descended, drawing on his magical potential to find the will to grow instead of reaching for the roots secreted away in handfuls of dirt crammed in among the rafters. Tendrils of vine and flat leaves stretching outward, great purple and white blossoms unfurled, just as the delight, both silent and spoken, of the guests who chose to watch filtered into Mirk's mind.

  And at that same moment, before Mirk could pull the walls back up around his mind, two more feelings reached him. The first was the sharp sting of disapproval. A coincidence of either unfortunate or perfect timing had brought Ravensdale to the ballroom doorway at that very moment, just when everyone was distracted by the quartet raising their bows and flowers unfurling overhead. No one had a glance to spare for Ravensdale. Or for the djinn a step behind him and to his right, a man who was much smaller and paler than Am-Gulat, with a wincing demeanor at odds with Am-Gulat’s characteristic stubborn defiance.

  The second was more subtle. And it wasn't an emotion. It was a faint hissing in Mirk's mind, something he felt more than heard, a familiar static. In that moment, Mirk felt his grin grow wider, more genuine, as he finished his speech and fed a bit more potential down into the spell encircling the dancefloor, its glow rising in a haze that cast shadows that were a bit darker than they rightly should have been.

  "On commence! Please, if there's anything I can do for anyone, I'm your servant, as always."

  With his speech finished and the first dancers of the night joining hands and laughing as they stepped past the fading glow encircling the dancefloor, Mirk adjusted the hang of his justacorps on his shoulders and went to greet his final guests.