"Good evening, Comrade Commander Margaret. It's such a pleasure to finally meet you outside the City."

  Margaret did not return his smile as he bowed low to both her and Catherine. They'd been at the rear of the mob of K'maneda officers and commanders who'd rushed into the ballroom after Ravensdale. Mirk had no doubt that if Casyn had been accompanying Catherine alone that night, Ravensdale would already be escorting her by the hand to the dance floor. Instead, Ravensdale was sulking over in the corner of the ballroom at the center of a cluster of his followers, having a hushed conversation with his commanders while the lower-ranking officers fetched drinks for them from the still-circulating servants. As far as Mirk could tell, none of them had been recognized as Fatima's ladies rather than common domestics.

  "The ballroom looks lovely," Catherine offered, when her mother refused to break the stony silence that had fallen between them. She matched Mirk’s bow with an equally low curtsey. An unspoken apology for her mother's refusal to so much as nod to him. "Are all the balls on the Continent this elaborate?"

  "No, not usually. Methinks I might have gotten a little, euh, carried away with all the plants. You couldn't convince Miss Kali to attend?" Mirk asked Catherine, hoping to provoke Margaret into saying something. Anything to break the ice. Both he and Catherine already knew Kali was needed to help Fatima oversee things at the bordello. But Mirk had no doubt that Margaret would have attempted to pester her older daughter into attending along with Catherine now that she was back from Bordeaux.

  The ploy worked. "Of course I couldn't," Margaret said, refusing to meet Mirk's wan smile. Instead, she scanned the ballroom behind him. "A pity that the only man who could tolerate her appears to be as disinterested in marriage as she is."

  Mirk hazarded a glance over his shoulder. Henri had been helping mind the ballroom while Mirk had been receiving the guests out on the front walk, after having spent all afternoon convincing his younger cousins that they wouldn't be missing out if they spent the evening upstairs instead of socializing with the adults. The last Mirk had seen of him, he had been at the edge of the group of serious older French mages, trying to get the attention of Seigneur Masson. Presently, he was still trailing after him on the other side of the ballroom.

  "We all have our own path to follow in life," Mirk said, with a contrite nod, turning back to Margaret. "I'm sure Miss Kali will find her own just like Miss Catherine."

  "Which one of them is Seigneur Rouzet?" Margret asked as she brushed past both Mirk and headed out into the ballroom. "I only met his father, once."

  "Euh..." Mirk surveyed the clusters of guests once more. Most of the older mages and the more serious young Englishmen hadn't yet taken to the dance floor. The two men that Mirk had planned on rotating Catherine between, to better tempt Ravesdale into making a show of force, were among the guests who as of yet hadn’t been asked to dance.

  Atticus Greene was with the young intellectuals who'd attended solely because that season's debutantes were all there, discussing a rather unremarkable potted tree in the corner opposite the one the K'maneda officers had claimed for themselves. Said tree was cleverly concealing the well of potential that the illusions filling the room were drawing upon. Doubtlessly the mages were critiquing the spellcraft involved.

  As for Seigneur Rouzet, he was still lingering by the other Circle mages, driving Seigneur d'Aumont via caustic asides and quiet chuckles into a state of open annoyance that even Madame Beaumont's presence at his side couldn't dispel. He'd pass Catherine off to him first, then. If Seigneur d'Aumont got provoked into leaving the ballroom in disgust, Er-Izat would go with him. "The man with the dark hair over there, near my godmother. The lady in the violet dress and the tall hat."

  "I see the propensity for theatrics is a family trait," Margaret commented. Though her dour words were softened by the looks of Rouzet. He cut a dashing figure in his dark suit and had attracted the attention of several unattached ladies with elemental magic similar to his, both French and English. Apparently Rouzet found needling Seigneur d’Aumont more entertaining.

  "Mother, please," Catherine said with a sigh, tugging at Margaret's elbow. "The seigneur has been so kind to us these past few months."

  Mirk shrugged. "She does have a point, though. If you'll come with us, Comrade Commander, maybe I can introduce you to some of the French ladies? Comrade Commander Casyn...euh..."

  Had been fast on Ravensdale's heels when he'd entered, competing for his attention along with Richard and Paul, abandoning his wife and daughter without a second thought. At the moment, Casyn was cackling at something Ravensdale had said, bullying two glasses of wine at once out of one of the low-born officers who'd been dispatched to get the commanders refreshments. It was enough to make Percival and his meekly miserable fiancée Esther abandon Ravensdale for the dance floor. But only after Percival had whispered something in Ravensdale's ear with a jerk of his head toward where Mirk and the ladies were still lingering in the doorway.

  "Is forever useless," Margaret said, smoothing her hands over the voluminous black skirts of the ladies' dress uniform. "As he will be disinclined to do anything productive this evening, I think you have the right of it, seigneur. The French would be a welcome relief."

  "Follow me, then." Mirk took Catherine's arm. He knew better than to offend Margaret's pride by offering one out to her. She was accustomed to standing alone, just as much as Madame Beaumont was, even though Margaret's husband was still very much alive. Mirk decided that she'd be the first person he'd introduce Margaret to, despite her comment about his godmother's taste in hats. Like recognized like, after all. And perhaps having a comrade in arms nearby would keep Madame Beaumont from getting too cross with Seigneur d'Aumont.

  It was all wearing on Mirk, not even fifteen minutes after the first dance had begun. Maneuvering so many people into just the right places, drawing them into productive conversations, balancing personalities and quieting nerves. He could feel the tension biting at the back of his neck. But this was his part to play in their plan, the one thing he could do that no one else could. And judging by the way Ravensdale's scowl deepened as Mirk led Catherine in the direction of the French mages rather than toward him, it was working.

  Aware of Margaret a few steps behind him, Mirk chose his words carefully. "Methinks this should be a good night for you, Miss Catherine. Seigneur Rouzet has already mentioned you, as has Master Greene over in the corner. And there are a few other French mages I could introduce you to, if you're willing."

  Catherine didn't reply. Her gaze was locked on a figure across the room, surrounded on all sides by young ladies with few prospects, both English and French. Orest, sheepishly trying to balance being proper with being himself, catching himself again and again before he could snatch his hat off his head and toss it around for the sake of having something to do with his hands. "And what of that man over there?" Catherine asked, pointing with her chin and disregarding the huff of distaste from her mother behind them.

  "Oh? Yes, that gentleman's been causing quite a stir too. One of my friends from the Seventh, Monsieur Orest. Though methinks that might not be the right title or part of his name."

  Margaret's voice radiated skepticism and distaste that was mirrored by the faint press of similar emotions against the walls around Mirk's mind. "Since when has the Seventh been recruiting its own nobles? The Scots have always suited it just fine, ever since that do-nothing from the far east passed."

  "Monsieur Orest has magic that’s good for training horses. And I'm sure you know how much Comrade Commander Dauid values his collection."

  "Men and their horses," Margaret muttered under her breath. "Wasteful."

  "I think I'd very much like to speak with him as well," Catherine said, firmly, still paying her mother no heed.

  "Of course, Miss Catherine. The dancing's only just started. Though methinks it might be better if you saw to the more eager gentlemen first," Mirk said, lowering his shields just far enough to project a feeling of patience at her, of calm, that he hoped she'd catch the meaning of. Catherine's unabashed desire to rescue Orest from his current social predicament might be more useful later on in the night, if Ravensdale proved to be harder to provoke than anticipated.

  Mirk's efforts at introducing Margaret and her daughter to the French mages produced mixed results. As he'd expected, Seigneur Rouzet had been disappointed that Catherine was the daughter who'd decided to attend rather than Kali. His disinterest had been so open that it didn't take a shred of empathy for any of the mages standing in that circle at the edge of the dance floor to pick up on it. Margaret had been dismayed, both by Rouzet's frankness and Catherine's indifference to the slight, but Catherine had still been gracious enough to take his hand and entertain his questions about her sister. Thankfully, Mirk had a fitting distraction on hand for Margaret.

  Both Madame Beaumont and the Marquise, who had arrived on the scene as soon as Margaret joined the group, were eager to speak with her. Mirk got the feeling his godmother was interested in her mainly because she was as good an opportunity as any to have a break from Seigneur d'Aumont. The Marquise, on the other hand, thought she'd have better luck arranging protection for her fleet from the K'maneda's sole lady commander than continuing to try to press herself on the menfolk. She even said as much as she swooped in and took hold of Margaret's arm to catch her attention, drawing Madame Beaumont into the conversation as well due to her knowledge of the reasons why Black Banner was sorely lacking through her nephew the rake.

  Which left Mirk in the uncomfortable position of being alone with Seigneur d'Aumont. Seigneur Feulaine had left the group soon after Mirk had headed over, summoned by his daughter to attend to some irresistible bit of drama on the other side of the dance floor. Mirk bowed to the Grand Master of Le Phare as deeply as he dared, fixing a warm smile on his face. "Thank you for coming all this way again, Seigneur d'Aumont. I know it can be a trial teleporting such a long distance," Mirk said, slipping back into the comfort of his native tongue. A small blessing, being able to return to the language he found it easiest to soothe and negotiate in.

  Seigneur d'Aumont returned his bow, albeit perfunctorily. He was mostly looking at Mirk, though he sensed that some portion of Seigneur d'Aumont's attention was still fixed on Madame Beaumont as she obliged the two other senior ladies in giving them a tour of the enchantments and illusions that'd been cast on the ballroom and the hall connecting it to the front door. "You are taking your responsibilities as ambassador seriously. And have been more successful than the others the Circle sent out."

  "I'm honored to hear you say that, seigneur. I think the task suits me better than the sort of work that my grandfather did for the Circle, God bless him."

  He hadn't yet drawn Jean-Luc's staff out of his justacorps pocket that night. The whole point of the evening was to make his own first impression on the magical community, as a man in his own right rather than the person who'd taken on the task of settling Jean-Luc's final affairs. Having the staff in hand would only serve to remind everyone of Jean-Luc and what he'd done rather than him and what he could do in the future. Mirk had no intention of drawing it out unless he needed it to defend himself.

  "I assume you had no difficulty retrieving his portrait from my djinn? He was much later in returning from the guild hall than I'd been expecting."

  "Oh, not at all. Monsieur Er-Izat was very helpful. And the portrait was in perfect condition."

  "This country is miserable for djinn," Seigneur d'Aumont said, his voice taking on a cross slant as he frowned across the room at Ravensdale. The djinn he'd brought, the one Mirk assumed had to be Am-Gulat wearing the shape of one of his comrades, was the only one not clustered with the rest against the wall near the door to the servants' hallway and the kitchens. "An extension of the Calvinist mindset, I can only assume. A lack of appreciation for their place. A mere walk through London is enough to corrupt, if my djinn's condition after his last visit is anything to judge by."

  Mirk made a non-committal noise, not knowing what else to say or do in response to such a cold, dismissive statement. He was spared from having to reply directly by the arrival of one of the people he least wished to talk to that night.

  "You're half right, seigneur. The English serving djinn aren't well off, especially the ones wasted on fools like Ravensdale. But that's because the best of them are in the workhouses, doing what they're better suited to. Making. Being industrious. Which might be Calvinist, depending on how you look at things."

  Pivoting on his heel, Mirk turned to bow toward Lord Kinross, who'd strolled over to them both with his usual jolly grin still affixed. He couldn't tell if that same warmth was lost from his tone due to the vocal translator nestled in the folds of his cravat, or if he really was that appalled by both of them. "Lord Kinross," Mirk murmured. "Thank you for coming."

  Kinross followed his lead, shifting back into English, which earned them both a frown from Seigneur d'Aumont. "Wouldn't have missed it for the world. I haven't been to a French ball in almost a century. I'd almost forgotten how much better you all are at entertaining."

  "Did Miss Martha accompany you?"

  "Unfortunately, no. Spring cold. Don't you think it's strange how healers these days can fix almost anything but still can't do a damn thing for the sniffles?"

  Lord Kinross grinned at him. Mirk couldn't feel a thing from him beyond the lord’s amusement at his own observation. He suspected that was intentional. Nagging at the back of Mirk's mind the whole while was the reason he'd been caught off-guard by Kinross's sudden appearance in the first place: Ra-Darat was not among the djinn servants clustered against the far wall of the ballroom.

  "It is a little strange, methinks. But I don't do much of that kind of healing."

  "Yes, I imagine it's mostly hacked off limbs and broken bones for you all in the K'maneda. Though I've heard around the way that you've taken a particular interest in the concerns of the womenfolk. About time someone gave them more than a passing thought. We're all happier when the ladies are happy, wouldn't you agree, Seigneur d'Aumont?"

  Seigneur d'Aumont gave a non-committal shrug. An art among the French mages, the one thing that Mirk could do as well as anyone else in the high circles his grandfather and mother had moved in. "It is better when no one is ill, yes."

  "Speaking of the ladies," Kinross said, turning back to Mirk. "What are you doing standing around with us, seigneur? Isn't this your debut ball too? I'm sure there's much more pleasant people you could be passing your night with instead of two of the oldest men in the house."

  Mirk knew when he was being told to leave. He laughed politely, bowing to both of them once more, ignoring the heat rising on the sides of his face. "Of course, you're right. Methinks I should make sure all the guests are being seen to. Thank you both again for coming, Seigneur d'Aumont, Lord Kinross."

  Lord Kinross made a sweeping gesture, some half-hearted imitation of the usual K'maneda salute. Seigneur d'Aumont only nodded. And Mirk beat a hasty retreat. Not to circulate among that season's debutantes, but to find Genesis.

  It took Mirk longer than he'd expected. Although he could sense the commander's presence, the faint hissing of his shadowy magic there in the back of his mind if he focused and tried not to listen to the sound of the string quartet, Genesis was making it a point to not make his presence obvious to the other guests. Mirk didn't know if that was because he wanted to avoid Ravensdale for the time being, or if it was an attempt to keep any of the more chaotically inclined ladies from asking him to dance like they had at the last ball.

  He found him near where the young English mages, the intellectually inclined ones who were still debating about the ballroom's illusions as a more pleasant diversion between dances, were standing. Deep in the corner to the right of the potted tree that served as a potential well to generate the illusions. "I'm sure if you wanted to join the conversation, none of them would object, messire ," Mirk said into the corner, in attempt to lighten the mood. And to calm himself some after the unsettling exchange between Kinross and d’Aumont.

  Grudgingly, Genesis eased fully into existence, stepping out of the shadows shifting restlessly in the corner. He was wearing the same thing he always did when forced to attend a formal gathering, that well-tailored uniform that always made a shiver run down Mirk’s spine. "I have...no interest in educating the royalists on the proper...application of illusion magic."

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Mirk edged closer to Genesis, lowering his voice to a whisper he was certain no one other than the commander would be able to hear. "Kinross is here."

  "I am aware."

  "Ra-Darat isn't."

  "He is not...essential to this portion of the maneuver."

  "Yes, but..."

  But he'd done so much for them, for his kin already. And there was no telling whether his absence was due to some canniness on Lord Kinross's part, or because he'd already paid the ultimate price for his disobedience.

  "This is a matter best left to the...djinn themselves. I am certain they are already aware of his absence."

  "Can you hear what they're talking about?" Mirk asked, inclining his head in the direction of the djinn near the door to the servants' hallway.

  "Djinn have...methods of communication that only they can perceive. If something has been noticed, then they are discussing things that way."

  "What about that djinn Ravensdale brought? Is it...?"

  "Yes. It is."

  Mirk wondered how Genesis could be so sure of it, that Am-Gulat was wearing another djinn's form and that Ravensdale hadn't just chosen a different djinn from his prison to accompany him. But the tone of Genesis’s voice, flat and unwavering, left no room for doubt. "We need to get them both out onto the dance floor," Mirk said, watching Ravensdale out of the corner of his eye rather than staring like Genesis was. As far as Mirk could tell, Ravensdale hadn't noticed Genesis's presence yet. "Or at least out of that corner, nearer..."

  "I would prefer to avoid...the use of force. Immediately."

  Mirk nodded. "Bien s?r, messire. But I do have an idea about that."

  "...yes?"

  Flashing him a wan smile, Mirk gestured back at the ballroom, inviting him in. "You won't like it, I'm sure. But everything for a good cause, non ? And I know you skipped your dancing lessons, just like Monsieur Orest."

  Genesis sighed. "This was inevitable, I assume."

  "There are worse things, messire."

  Like the way that Ravensdale stiffened as Genesis took a few tentative steps out into the light cast by the floating lanterns overhead. The shadows all leaned in his direction, so slightly as to be almost imperceptible. But not if one was always watching and waiting for Genesis to seize on an opportunity to strike.

  "Tell me of this...plan."

  - - -

  Things were proceeding apace. But as the clock on the wall, hidden among the flowering vines, crept closer to midnight, Mirk knew they were running out of time.

  Some combination of Genesis's presence and Catherine's circulation among the other eligible men in attendance had forced Ravensdale from his own corner, out onto the dance floor and into the grudging hands of a few obliging ladies. Catherine included, despite Mirk’s best efforts to keep her away from him. But Ravensdale hadn't yet felt the need to bring Am-Gulat out along with him.

  The djinn was still back by the other K'maneda who weren't interested in dancing, watched over by Casyn and Richard. The latter was too afraid of being recognized by the French, Mirk thought, to be willing to stray out onto the dance floor. Richard was making it a point to stay secreted in among the curtains that'd been pulled aside from the windows, which, in Mirk's opinion, only made him stick out even more.

  "We're not supposed to kill him," K'aekniv hissed at Mirk from behind the open door to the servants’ hall, noticing who Mirk was staring at. "Lina said."

  "Did, euh, Miss Fatima and the others agree to that?"

  "No," K'aekniv replied with a shrug. Or, at least, he tried to. A group of three ladies had forced him into a wing corset at the start of the evening, for reasons that were unclear to Mirk. There was no hiding who K'aekniv was, even if his wings were kept out of sight.

  They wouldn't be for long regardless if things went poorly. The instant he needed to draw his swords, K’aekniv would snap the corset. Mirk had seen his father ruin at least a dozen of them during various trips he'd taken with them into Nantes over the years in response to the slightest threat, much to his mother's dismay. "I said we're not,” K’aekniv said. “So we're not."

  Mirk let the matter drop, instead shifting his gaze to the dance floor. The quartet was taking a break and most of the mages were taking advantage of the gap in the dancing to sample the fresh array of items on toast and bits of cake that K'aekniv had just sent out on trays carried by all the masquerading servants. From the look and feel of things, his guests were as delighted by them as they were the illusions, despite the fact that they were far less ornate-looking than the usual dishes served at a ball.

  "Methinks we'll have to do something more drastic," Mirk sighed, worrying at the cuffs of his justacorps, checking to make sure he still had all his crystal buttons. "Ravensdale has danced with Miss Catherine twice already."

  "Can I come out?" The hopefulness in K'aekniv's tone was unmistakable, even if his eagerness to drive a fist into Ravensdale's face hadn't been battering against Mirk's mental shielding.

  "Not yet. I think maybe..."

  He did a quick survey of his options, scattered all around the ballroom, pursuing their own interests. His godmother had returned to Seigneur d'Aumont's side and they were chatting with Seigneur Masson and Rory, along with Uncle Henri and their new English artificer friends. Kinross had a glass of wine in hand and was guffawing at something Yvette had said, a remark so off-color that her father and Laurent had gone red and white respectively. Percival and Ravensdale were circling Catherine like vultures as she patiently endured some lecture on dark magic delivered by Master Atticus Greene, who'd been the one to win her hand for the last dance of the set.

  She was a convenient focal point for the pair, both of them alone at the moment, their prior partners banished to the periphery of the ballroom. Orest was nearby, entertaining a pair of older but as of yet unmarried English ladies with his odd mannerisms. But his eyes were locked on Catherine, who he hadn't yet managed to capture for a dance that night.

  And then there was Genesis, also standing near Catherine. Mirk thought Greene might have maneuvered Catherine near him so that the commander might eavesdrop on whatever arcane topic he was pontificating on and decide to speak to him. The young intellectuals had identified Genesis as a magical oddity from the moment he stepped out onto the floor and were all itching to poke and prod at him.

  Mirk was unsure which crowd Genesis was trying to avoid the most — them, the curious ladies of chaotic orientation that had assailed him at the last ball, or the Marquise, who had unabashedly strongarmed him into dancing with her for the last set with the sort of self-confidence that only a widow with few appearances to keep up could manage. She was the one who had his ear at present, doubtlessly haranguing him about why he hadn't yet responded to her requests for mercenary assistance.

  Genesis was ignoring her. All his attention was focused on Ravensdale. Anyone else would have found it unnerving. But Ravensdale had yet to engage him. Possibly because he knew that Genesis could do nothing to his ambulatory well of magical potential back in the corner, Am-Gulat masquerading as a different djinn. Or because he considered Catherine to be his true conquest that night. The same couldn't be said for Percival, who Mirk suspected was reaching a terminal degree of annoyance at seeing Genesis walking around a noble ballroom like he belonged there.

  It was a delicate situation. Any one of his guests had the potential to light the spark to their plan, or to make things spiral out of control. But Mirk had a good idea about how he could draw things to a head. The only question was whether or not Ravensdale would call out Am-Gulat in order to impress on Catherine that he was the strongest mage in the ballroom that night, the only man suitable for her hand.

  "Go tell everyone back in the kitchen to be ready," Mirk whispered to K'aekniv as he straightened the shoulders of his justacorps. "Alice is up on the platform?"

  K'aekniv nodded. "For hours already."

  Which meant that there was nothing left to be done but for Mirk to nudge everyone into position.

  He started off across the ballroom, smiling around warmly at his guests but keeping his pace brisk to make it clear he wasn't in the mood for entertaining offers for the first dance of the next set. The quartet in the corner was warming up again, rocking their bows softly, drawing people back to the floor. Mirk found Catherine's eyes across the floor and lowered his shields a hair, projecting just enough concern to draw her attention.

  Mirk wasn't the only one who had eyes on her as she gave an enthusiastic nod and a chuckle in response to something Master Green had said, dropping into a low curtsey of combined thanks and dismissal before he could launch into another rant. Margaret had designs on her daughter's attention as well, shepherding a disinterested Seigneur Rouzet in Catherine's direction for a second try. But Mirk reached her first, clearing his throat as he bowed beside her and held out his hand.

  "Miss Catherine," Mirk said, doing his best to put some stone into his voice, to keep Greene from cutting in. "I have a friend I'd like to introduce you to. If you're free?"

  "Of course, seigneur. This has been a lovely discussion, Master Greene. If we could continue it some other time? Perhaps at the next break?"

  Greene grudgingly submitted. Less because he was intimidated by him, Mirk thought, but he must have been able to sense Margaret bristling at the edge of the dance floor. Despite her insistence on propriety, on knowing her place, Margaret's magic was quite strong. Stronger than her daughter's even. Greene took advantage of the interruption to go assault Rouzet with his theories, who was just as trapped as Margaret was, in his own way.

  "Are you enjoying the ball, Miss Catherine?" Mirk asked her, as he took her elbow.

  "Very much, seigneur."

  "I couldn't help but notice that very few men seem to be able to draw out the best aspects of your potential," Mirk said, making it a point to speak loudly, as he guided her in the direction of where Genesis was still being accosted by the Marquise. "But methinks there might be someone new here tonight who's very well suited to it."

  Ravensdale had to have some sort of listening charm. Or was using his stolen djinn magic to enhance his senses. But Mirk was firm, and there were too many couples circulating at the edge of the ring of spells that separated the part of the ballroom enchanted for mage dancing from the mundane half for Ravensdale to get there in time. Mirk cleared his throat as he approached Genesis and the Marquise, bowing first to her, and then to him. " Madame la Marquise , if I could borrow the commander? For just once dance? I'd be glad to dance the first number of the next set with you instead if you're willing."

  The Marquise took it all in with a quick sweep of her narrowed, dark eyes. Catherine at his side, Ravensdale trying to get to them, both of them in K'maneda black. She gave an elegant shrug and stepped back with a curtsey. "I had been meaning to have another word with your godmother, seigneur. Think about what I said, Commander Genesis," she added, as she swept away across the ballroom.

  Mirk could feel Ravensdale's ire rising at her use of the incorrect title. And at Genesis's unwillingness to correct her. Mirk dismissed it, turning a pleasant smile on Genesis, who looked down his nose at Catherine with a slight frown. Not of distaste, but of concentration. He was attempting to sort out what Mirk meant to do by bringing her to his side.

  Both Catherine and Genesis knew of each other, of the part each of them was to play in the plan. But their paths, as far as Mirk knew, had never truly crossed. Genesis never ventured into high-born circles and Catherine never strayed into the places the low-born officers went, the taverns and the bordello. "Miss Catherine, this is Comrade Major Genesis of the Seventh. Maybe you know of him?"

  "A little," Catherine said as she lowered herself into a polite curtsey. Genesis, of course, refused to bow. But at least he nodded. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, comrade major."

  It was a wonder the Marquise hadn't resorted to beating Genesis, if he'd been as rude to her as he was to Catherine. But needing something from a person made it easier to overlook their faults, Mirk supposed. Rather than returning the proper greeting, Genesis nodded again, warily.

  "I couldn't help but notice, comrade major, that no one has convinced you to try out the mage dancing enchantments tonight. Maybe Miss Catherine could be first? Methinks your elements and orientation are well suited to each other."

  "Chaotic dark," Catherine added, by way of explanation.

  "I...see."

  Mirk wasn't sure whether Genesis did. So he made sure, as he felt Ravensdale continue to stew back behind him. "It's custom in high-born circles for the debutantes to mage dance with the eligible menfolk," he explained. "To test the compatibility of their magic. Methinks Miss Catherine hasn't yet found someone this season whose magic is strong enough to rival hers."

  "No, I haven't," Catherine agreed. Ravensdale's anger spiked. Mirk hoped that once he saw a sampling of the way Genesis's and Catherine's magic mingled, it might be enough to force him to call out Am-Gulat to better draw on his potential to increase his own.

  "Why don't you give it a try, hmm? Methinks the first number is about to start," Mirk said, giving Genesis a pointed look.

  As the hum of the quartet's music lowered, dwindling to the pause that signalled the dancers to move into position for the first song of the next set, Genesis reluctantly offered out his hand. He was already cringing against having to join hands with yet another strange woman that night. But at least he was making an effort.

  He must have caught on to the ruse Mirk had in mind for the both of them. It wasn't as if Mirk could feel Genesis’s emotions to be certain. The hiss of his magic was a low counterpoint to the silence that fell over the ballroom as everyone gathered in it anticipated the start of the next song. And to the steady drumbeat of Ravensdale's anger.

  "I'd be delighted," Catherine said smoothly in response to the direct offer to dance that Genesis had failed to make. She reached out and took his hand. To both their benefit, neither of them cringed too badly, either Genesis at having his hand seized or Catherine at how deathly cold Genesis always was.

  "Let the enchantments take your magic. And remember you need to lead, messire," Mirk said in a whisper only Genesis had good enough hearing to pick up on, as he retreated toward the edge of the ballroom, to keep an eye on Ravensdale.

  It was a recipe for disaster. Which was exactly the point. What remained to be seen was how Ravensdale would react to it, if he'd finally call Am-Gulat out to take back the woman he'd had designs on since she was a girl.

  Genesis was doing a poor job leading. But Mirk thought only an astute observer would be able to tell, since Catherine handled every one of his missteps with grace honed on dozens of other men who thought the dance of polite society to be beneath them, starting first with her father. When they reached the line of spells encircling the half of the ballroom floor dedicated to mage dancing, Catherine summoned her magic in advance, letting it curl out of herself in fanciful ribbons of darkness that were entirely within her control.

  The commander didn't have the same knack. Or faith in the enchantments that'd been cast onto the floor. Genesis came to an abrupt halt, everything else in the room forgotten as he studied the magic on the floor. There was a tenseness across his shoulders, reluctance brought on not by the dozens of intrigued gazes turned in his direction but because of what he saw in the runes glimmering faintly against the light grain of the wood. But he let that hesitation go and crossed the line of runes. Either because he had no choice, or because he trusted Mirk. This was not his half of the plan.

  The effect was immediate and vicious. Genesis's magic didn't escape him in delicate spirals or curious curls. It was like a wave of black serpents swarming over one another as they coiled up to strike, all of them focused on Catherine's similar magic. On consuming it.

  Mirk had seen foolhardy young mages with mismatched potentials have similar mishaps before when crossing the threshold without proper care, but he'd never seen an instance so violent, so alarming. So full of genuine threat. Mirk's hand flew to the inside pocket of his justacorps, reaching for his grandfather's staff. Catherine yelped as the leading tendrils of her own magic were seized by Genesis's shadows.

  But he was too late. And so was Ravensdale, who got within ten paces of her before a man Mirk hadn't accounted for stepped in with a reflexive bark of a command to protect Catherine. Orest. Even though he was new among the Easterners, he was already as unafraid of Genesis's magic as the rest of the commander's men. He crossed the line of enchantments just long enough to grab hold of Catherine's wrist and pull her back to safety, sidestepping Genesis's magic with an annoyed curse in his native tongue that his translation stone couldn't manage.

  As Catherine coughed and pressed her free hand to her chest to quiet her fear, Orest rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck. But he didn't let go of her hand. "Ah, I'm sorry, Miss Catherine. Comrade. I'm being rude."

  Mirk closed the gap between them, wincing a little at the strength of Catherine's reaction. Not fear at what might have happened, not anger at Genesis or him for putting her in such a situation. Relief at having the one man she actually wanted to dance with that evening finally beside her, a feeling like sinking into a warm bed at the end of a long day. That feeling didn't last long. It was replaced by a tingling, electric tenseness that Mirk was all too familiar with, caused by Orest still gripping her hand in his.

  He added his apology to Orest's, letting go of Jean-Luc's staff without pulling it out of his pocket, bending into a low bow instead. "I'm so sorry, Miss Catherine. This is all my fault. Are you all right?"

  "Yes, of course, seigneur. I'm fine," she mumbled. The quartet had stopped at the commotion, and so had all the other dancers. All eyes were fixed on the four of them, waiting to see how Mirk would proceed.

  Genesis had slipped back across the line of runes as well, his magic vanished. For the most part. Mirk could still see it in how the shadows of the couples nearest them leaned uncannily in the commander's direction, regardless of how they should have been cast by the lanterns overhead. "I am...in your debt," Genesis said, flatly. His discomfort at it all couldn't be seen in his equally flat expression. It was in how he picked at some non-existent bit of lint on the cuff of his uniform jacket.

  "In your debt?" Catherine asked, though she didn't look over at him. At the moment, she only had eyes for Orest.

  "That's his way of saying sorry," Orest explained, staring down at Catherine's hand in his, torn on what to do about it. That same tenseness was in him too, flaring against Mirk's shields.

  They were still near enough to the part of the ballroom enchanted for mage dancing for its spells to tug on the magic of those nearby. Orest and Catherine didn't have similar magicks, not in the slightest — he was ordered earth, she chaotic dark. And yet, their magicks didn’t clash with one another. They flowed together. Intertwined. Catherine's was more powerful, backed by more potential, but Orest's was more grounded. More stable. Dependable, just like the man himself.

  "Methinks maybe this is for the best," Mirk said, smiling encouragingly at the couple. "Monsieur Orest told me earlier that he wanted to learn how to mage dance. And you really are an expert, Miss Catherine. I'm sure he couldn't find a better teacher than you."

  Both of them hesitated. But the grant of permission was too much for either of them to bear, for them to resist what they'd both been after from the outset. Orest made a vague gesture in the direction of the half of the ballroom enchanted for mage dancing, leading her reflexively with the same confident, gentle strength Mirk had seen him use with Dauid’s horses. Catherine dipped to him slightly and let herself be led along. Not because he had more power than she did, not because she was yielding to the command in his gestures. She followed only because she respected him.

  Mirk was well aware that the stress of the situation was making him vague, a little whimsical. He allowed his intuition to guide him nevertheless. Over all the confusion and the hushed gossiping, pinpricks of amusement and scorn bouncing off his shields, he could still feel Ravensdale's anger smoldering behind him. The sight of Catherine being passed off to what he considered to be a lesser man, a foreigner with no great magical potential, was somehow even worse than seeing her with Genesis. The only problem was that Mirk knew Ravensdale would see no need to call on Am-Gulat to bolster his own strength to force Orest to give Catherine over to him once the first dance of the set ended.

  But he had a solution in mind to that. One that a gracious host would have turned to anyway as a matter of course, to save one of his guests from the humiliation of being recoiled away from after attempting to dance and being rejected for his strange magic.

  After signaling the quartet to start the song up again, Mirk approached Genesis with practiced ease and bowed to him, holding out one hand. At the same time he spoke, not making any effort to raise his voice to be heard over the music. "You didn't do anything wrong, messire. Methinks maybe you just need a partner who’s used to fighting with your magic."

  Genesis didn't seem to pick up on the humor in his words. But he took Mirk’s hand nevertheless.