Chapter Text
"What a delightful garden! Laurent, dear, we absolutely must ask the lady of the house what enchantment she used to make those trees blossom again and again. They're even better than the trees Marie and Denis had at their reception!"
Mirk was glad that the host for that evening's ball had a more cheerful approach to decor than Lord Emerson. But that was about the only thing that he was glad for that night.
He'd been hoping that Yvette would decide to bring along one of her cousins as a companion rather than her fiancé, but Laurent had insisted on coming with. Or so Yvette had told him in a whisper just before the man had hopped down out of Yvette's new pumpkin-orange coach and glowered at him. Mirk hadn't had a moment alone with her since. At least she was keeping herself between him and Laurent instead of forcing him to march up the front walk alongside him.
Attempting to avoid the awkwardness of the last ball had only been half of Mirk's motivation behind inviting Yvette and Seigneur Feulaine to the next ball of the English debutante season. In his capacity as the Circle's ambassador to the English guilds, it was imperative that he at least make a token attempt at coaxing the two societies together. And he could think of no pair better suited to the task than Seigneur Feulaine — polite, knowledgeable in many forms of magic, the sort of man that the guild masters and higher-ranking journeymen would recognize as an industrious and serious man who would talk with them rather than at — and Yvette, who, though she'd doubtlessly overwhelm the restrained sensibilities of the English mages, was capable of holding a spirited conversation with absolutely anyone. Their respective spouses left a bit to be desired, but Madame Feulaine, a refined air mage who was as quiet and proper as her daughter was loud and unconventional, would fit in well among the English, at least.
Mirk hadn't made any plans for how to compensate for Laurent's blustery and domineering personality. He hadn't anticipated his attendance at all. But at the very least, keeping Laurent from dueling anyone would be as good of an excuse as any for him to escape any uncomfortable conversations he might get drawn into.
He'd have a good while to mull over his plans, from the looks of things. Lord Kinross, the host for that evening, had been charitable enough to have a mage coax a spell of fine weather over his estate, further driving away the early spring chill with great braziers that'd been set out on either side of the path to his manor's front steps. The mages had begun their queuing outside rather than indoors, the better to admire the gold the lord had invested in his gardens while they waited to be announced into the ballroom.
"Are there a great many ladies up for the season this year?" Yvette asked him, tugging on Mirk’s arm to draw his attention back to her. "There's such a crowd! Or is there some delay? We're early yet, I suppose. As you insisted."
"This is just how the English do things," Mirk replied. "All the guests are introduced one by one into the ballroom instead of arriving as they please."
"All of them?" Yvette's thin, meticulously plucked eyebrows — blackened with kohl, shaped into high arches, very much in fashion that spring — shot up. "How strange. Terrible for the people who get here at the very start, I'd say. What would be the point if there's no one to see you come in?"
"No point to any of it to begin with," Laurnet grumbled, from somewhere behind Yvette's towering coiffure. Another turn in the fashion, opposed to the natural look that had dominated the winter and fall.
Yvette elected to ignore her fiancé. "Well, I'm happy to see that you haven't subjected yourself to all the English habits, Mirk," she said, rubbing the sleeve of his new justacorps between her fingers, admiring its quality. "This color suits your features so well. And so bold! I wish I could get a certain someone to be a bit more adventurous."
That Yvette of all people would call the second of his new summer suits bold troubled Mirk more than it reassured him. Although she used the word in the positive, Mirk suspected the English might view things differently. He'd always been fond of shades of blue and violet, the better to bring out the color of his eyes, but he'd never before decided to go with a shade so vibrant. Darker than his usual light lavenders and lilacs, but brighter than a sober navy, not as reddish as the shade favored by those of truly noble blood.
It didn't match his eyes perfectly, but it was the closest a suit had ever come to it. The elder of the two Nasiri brothers had returned his extra tip for having done such fine dye work on the silk with the insistence that his offering, though greatly appreciated, would pale in comparison to the orders they'd get for further pieces in the shade if Mirk took care to wear the suit in the right places.
An English ball, Mirk was beginning to suspect, was not the right place, if the cool backwards glances of the somber guild mages ahead of him were anything to go by. Or perhaps they were more bothered by Yvette's characteristic unwillingness to moderate the volume of her voice unless strictly necessary.
Catherine and Casyn were not among the mages coolly judging the dress and posturing of that night's foreign contingent. Casyn had managed to be on time that evening, and less disheveled, though his uniform still had a frumpy, second-hand hang to it. He'd been in a foul mood when he'd picked him and Catherine up from the plaza before the East Gate, disgruntled over having been strong-armed into going to another ball when there were more enjoyable activities afoot that evening. Especially considering how his role as chaperone was purely ceremonial. Catherine had borne up under his bluster and criticism with her characteristic even temper and tight-lipped smile. But there was an impatient edge to it that'd been missing before, an open air of resentment that would have been more at home on her sister's lips than on hers.
Hopefully, having Yvette along would make things easier on Catherine too, even if they made things harder for him. Mirk got the distinct impression that Catherine was even less interested in that season's offering of young guildsmen than she'd been at the outset. An impression that was bolstered by all the insults he'd heard the Easterners hurling at Orest as of late for having adopted such a “fancy” taste in women.
The line began to move then; Yvette was stepping on down the garden path instantly, itching to see more of Lord Kinross's manor and the English nobles ahead of them. Her mingled curiosity and frustration was pressing hard against his shields, making it hard to pick up anything beyond it, aside from Laurent's simmering resentment. For once, Mirk didn't get the impression that it was directed at him. Laurent flicked at one of the braziers as they passed, grumbling to himself about how using ordered fire after sunset for such a task was a waste of potential.
"Where's her mother?" Yvette asked, bobbing her head slightly in Catherine's direction. She made a token attempt at lowering her voice too, though anyone within twenty feet still could have heard everything she said. But as she was sticking to French for the moment, it did the job well enough. "Or do English mothers not go with their daughters to the debutante balls?"
Mirk sighed. "Comrade Catherine's mother and father are not on the best terms as of late."
"That bad?"
"That bad," Mirk confirmed. Comrade Commander Margaret had only been by the infirmary to check in with him once since they'd made their initial agreement. She'd accepted the potion he'd prepared for her like he'd handed her a poison rather than a fertility tincture. No one had tried to initiate contact with her or Casyn after the first ball other than a handful of K'maneda officers. And in response to that disappointing news, all Casyn had said to her on the matter was that he didn't particularly care which of them his younger daughter ended up with, as long as it was a K'maneda man rather than an English mage. Since his future son would be the one to carry on his line's glory among the K’maneda rather than Catherine. He hadn't bothered to ask after Kali’s well-being once ever since she'd left for France, Margaret had informed him with a frown of distaste.
"The poor dear," Yvette murmured, leaning forward with interest to see if she could eavesdrop on Casyn and Catherine, dragging both Mirk and Laurent along with. "I'll help you keep an eye on her. Us ladies need to stick together."
Behind them, he heard Seigneur Feulaine give a polite cough. Though Yvette pretended not to hear, Mirk turned to glance at him, shrugging helplessly and offering him a wan smile, to impress on Seigneur Feulaine and his wife that he took no offense. Madame Feulaine, if she noticed the exchange, gave no indication of it. Her attention was turned skyward, fixed on the magic keeping the night from turning cold and overcast. Judging by the furrow in her well-powdered brow, she had as much skepticism about the English air mages' handiwork as Laurent had about the fire mages'.
Lord Kinross, unlike Lord Emerson, took great delight in playing the gracious host. He'd stationed himself at the door to his country estate, exchanging pleasantries with each pair of guests as they stepped past the threshold. He was a portly older man, as tall and broad in the shoulders as Slava. He'd opted to wear a bright red waistcoat underneath his more formal charcoal coat, complete with a watch chain strung with diamonds. Diamonds that matched those dangling from the ears and wrist of the young lady at his side, Miss Martha. Mirk couldn’t recall whether she was the lord's granddaughter or some other relation.
Though he felt a bit chagrined about it, Mirk made a note to himself to remember those diamonds. As they approached the door, he could see that all the gems were flawless, oversized. And if the chip of diamond in Seigneur d'Aumont's cane was sound enough to house Er-Izat's soul, ones that big had to be good enough for the souls of the djinn under Ravensdale's control. Or maybe they could even be split to accommodate more than one.
Lord Kinross was a jolly, jovial host. But that good humor died when it came to Casyn. When he and Catherine reached the threshold, the warmth in his eyes vanished, though his smile remained firmly affixed. He skipped over Casyn completely, instead bowing slightly to Catherine, who responded in kind with a low curtsey. Miss Martha's greeting had a bit more life to it but, much like her relative, whatever goodwill she had for the pair was directed solely at Catherine.
Part of him had been expecting Casyn to take offense to such an open snubbing. But nothing happened. Casyn walked onward without dignifying that night's host and the lady of honor with so much as a glance. As if they were no more important than the potted evergreens on either side of the front door. It surprised Mirk to see Casyn return like with like for once instead of rising to the provocation. Which made him wonder just how powerful and well-connected Lord Kinross had to be.
The warmth returned to the lord as Mirk advanced alongside Yvette and Laurent, accompanied by an open curiosity that was much more welcome than the skepticism and vague disdain Mirk was accustomed to receiving from high-born English mages. "Hello! Merry met and good tidings and all that," Lord Kinross said, as he performed a flourishing bow, one that made Miss Martha curtseying beside him blanch. Mirk wasn't sure whether it was an attempt to mirror the French custom, or a subtle mockery of it. "You must be the foreign contingent, yes? Dear Martha said that there was a half-blood at the head of it..."
"Mirk Dishoael d'Avignon. Your servant, Lord Kinross," Mirk said, returning the bow. "You're very perceptive. Most people can't tell that from looking at me."
"The eyes are a dead giveaway," the lord replied, tapping a notably calloused finger beside his own. "Don't get such a bright violet in full humans."
"Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Yvette Feulaine," Mirk said, gesturing to her. She was mostly ignoring the lord in favor of eyeing up Miss Martha's earrings. "And her fiancé, Monsieur Laurent Montigny."
"A propitious match!" Lord Kinross crowed, leaning back a little to take stock of Laurent, who was still hidden behind Yvette's gown and coiffure. "The two greatest names in French fire magic under one roof. I can only hope that dear Martha is as lucky as you are, Miss Yvette."
Like Laurent, Yvette had a vocal translator hidden in a garnet brooch pinned to the front of her dress. But she elected not to use it, doing her best in her own imperfect English instead. "Yes, I am so lucky, seigneur. I hope the same for your daughter? Niece?"
The lord gave a laugh from deep in his belly as he squeezed Miss Martha's arm affectionately. "You French really are flatterers! Great-granddaughter."
"Then perhaps you have had the chance to meet Seigneur Feulaine before?" Mirk asked, before Laurent got the opportunity to mutter anything cross about the lord's comment. "He and Madame Feulaine are right behind us."
The lord squinted off over the crowd, smiling to himself. "No, but I've written him a letter or two. Seigneur Feulaine!" he called out. Though Mirk didn't see it, he felt Seigneur Feulaine startle, the faint touch of his surprise brushing against his mental shielding. It was hard to feel over Yvette’s intense fascination with the decor of the foyer ahead.
Mirk knew well enough that it was his cue to move along. He tugged gently on Yvette's arm, leading her along into the manor's foyer. She didn't bother to lower her voice as she spoke to him, but he did notice that she brushed at the gold embellishments on her translator, making sure it was off before speaking to him in French. "That was better than I expected from an Englishman! But he must be a man of the world, to know all the ways a half-angel can look."
He nodded his agreement. "A very good sign. You would have been bored to tears at the last ball. Lord Emerson is the strictest kind of Calvinist."
Yvette covered a theatrical gasp, though it was shot through with a giggle. "Oh no! But at least we won't have to suffer him paying us a visit, then. And look at this foyer! Laurent, we must find out who does the lord’s decorating for him. To make such an ugly, square place look so graceful! Those tapestries have the best enchantments on them, making the fish jump in the river like so..."
Mirk stopped listening to Yvette's raving about the lord's choice in decor, though he was largely in agreement with her. Kinross's country estate was built along the same blocky lines as Lord Emerson's, but rather than leaving them cold and bare, there were ample rugs and tapestries and mirrors to distract from them. The ballroom at the end of the wide hall that connected the foyer to the rear of the manor was a grand and glamorous affair, full of windows that overlooked the lord's gardens, enchanted to be in full bloom despite it only being early spring. All the colors were light, airy. And it was lit by an elaborate flock of floating magelights that drifted around the room in time with the tune being played by the string quartet in the corner. The work of whichever one of the lord's relations was an air rather than a fire mage, no doubt.
Whereas only the bare minimum had attended the last ball, the families of the ladies making their debut and the men who wished to court them, the crowd at the second ball of the season was much thicker and more varied. The young intellectuals were still there, hovering around the room's harpsichord like they had at the last ball. And so was the small group of K'maneda, which Casyn was making a beeline for after abandoning Catherine at the door.
But there were others there too, men and women whose tastes were closer to those in fashion back at home. Though none of the ladies showed quite as much collar as Yvette, Mirk noticed. And the men, without exception, were wearing the same grim coats in various shades of gray, navy, and brown, short in the skirts and tight at the sleeves. At least a few of them favored flashier accessories, so he didn’t feel entirely out of place. Lord Kinross wasn't the only man in attendance who'd chosen to represent his guild colors with a bright or heavily embroidered waistcoat.
As Yvette marveled to Laurent over the floating magelights, Mirk let go of her arm with a polite excuse that went completely ignored. He drifted over to Catherine, calling out to her in English. "Miss Catherine? Is everything all right?"
She sighed, but a relieved smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she turned to greet him. "It's always to be expected with some people. But that never makes it any easier, does it?"
Mirk shook his head. "But this is a much nicer atmosphere than the last ball, non ? There's more people to talk with too," he said, gesturing around the ballroom with the end of his grandfather's staff. There were still couples left to be introduced, so the crowd was still subdued, though even good manners couldn't keep the chattier noble mages from getting spirited. "And a few more men, methinks? I recognize the, euh, young masters from the last time, but I didn't get a chance to take note of everyone else who'd attended beside them..."
Catherine surveyed the crowd, her smile fading. "Yes, a few more have come out tonight. That's not surprising, considering."
"Considering?"
"Lord Kinross is a much more approachable man than Lord Emerson. Even if a man has no intention of asking a lady to dance, there's utility in attending one of Lord Kinross's balls."
"He’s an interesting man," Mirk said, turning to glance back at the doorway to the ballroom. Not the least because, Mirk now noticed, Lord Kinross was making no effort at all to shield his emotions, to protect his magic from interference by meddling outsiders. It was easier to sense it now without either Yvette and Laurent's loud emotions or interference from the natural world to distract him. Mirk didn't sense any other empaths in attendance that night, but it seemed almost like Kinross's good mood was infectious. There was much more open laughter echoing back in the foyer than Mirk would have expected from the usually subdued ranks of English magecraft. "Methinks he must be very old if Miss Martha is his great-grandaughter. That or he had children earlier than mages usually do."
Catherine lowered her voice, turning slightly away from the door. "No one knows for certain, of course, but I've heard rumors that he was in the room at the signing of Magna Carta. In 1215," she added, at the look of polite confusion on Mirk's face.
"Five hundred years, almost," Mirk mumbled, glancing back at the door as a hush fell over the ballroom. The last visiting couple had just been announced. Now all that remained was for Kinross's djinn — shorter and more slender than most he’d met, which made Mirk wonder which kinship line the man was from — to announce the lord of the manor.
Lord Kinross strode confidently into the doorway and grinned around at everyone, his great-grandaughter looking demurely downward as Kinross indulged in a bit of preening. Mirk couldn't think of any other human mages who'd lived that long. His grandfather was from the oldest living generation of human mages in France, the one shared he had shared with the likes of Seigneur d'Aumont and the Comte de Coudrey. Even then, Jean-Luc had been nearly two hundred years younger than Kinross when he'd been killed, if the rumors were true. And that was with the benefit of wielding a staff that could perform magic akin to miracles.
"Masters and Ladies," the djinn called out, bowing low and sweeping one arm out to the side. "Lord Barclay Kinross, Grand Master of the Eternal Flame. And his great-granddaughter, Miss Martha Hastings."
A more enthusiastic smattering of applause than Mirk had been expecting circulated around the ballroom as the lord and his great-granddaughter bowed and curtseyed, though Kinross was quick to straighten up and chuckle to himself, making a show of modestly waving off all the other mages' approval. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yvette flick out her fan, concealing the lower half of her face. But he could still feel her mingled amusement and disbelief well enough. Once the other guests began to circulate and the quartet started the next song, Yvette darted over to his side, leaving Laurent alone to go sulk in one of the ballroom's less populated corners.
"These English!" she hissed at Mirk, not yet bothering with her translator brooch. "Can you believe it? Making such a show of yourself at your own party! Even the mortal kings don't kick up such a fuss about themselves!"
"Their customs can be a little strange at times, I'll admit. Yv—"
"So dramatic! You'd think we were at the theater! And they have the nerve to call us flashy!"
Mirk cleared his throat, switching into English for the benefit of Catherine. She didn't look put out by Yvette's gushing, at least. If anything, she seemed delighted to have something to focus on beside her own troubles. Though it was hard to feel anything from her over Yvette. "Yvette, this is my friend from the K'maneda, Comrade Catherine Rak'sen. Catherine, this is Mademoiselle Yvette Feulaine."
Yvette finally caved and flicked on her translator with the edge of her fan as she dipped into a cursory curtsey. "Oh! I'm sorry if I was rude. It's only that most of the K'maneda I've met have been so depressing you can't ignore them for all the gloom hanging around! I'm so happy to see that Mirk has finally found civilized company among the English. We were all so worried about him, you know, being up here alone."
"It's a pleasure to meet you as well, mademoiselle," Catherine replied, returning the curtsey, her smile growing.
"Please! Among us ladies, there's no need for titles. We don't need to puff ourselves up all the time like the men, do we? Or is that too rude for the English?"
"I'd prefer to leave them, actually. Have you known Mirk for some time?"
"Since we were children! We were all so glad when he came back from that dusty old church his mother put him in, God bless her. Not that it's a bad thing to want to serve the Lord, not at all, very noble, but even among us French, a man who's so much fun is rare. Are any of them any fun?" Yvette asked, once again making an attempt at lowering her voice as she sidled over closer to Catherine, flicking her fan at the group of young masters by the harpsichord as she went. "They all look a little...hmm...serious?"
"Those ones in particular are a bit serious, yes," Catherine said. Just barely, Mirk caught a hint of her relief underneath the thrum of Yvette's insatiable need to gossip. "The gentlemen by the windows might be a bit more to your liking, if you're interested in meeting more of the English."
The group Catherine mentioned was a mixed bag — a few younger men who were still toiling away as journeymen, judging by their reluctance to proudly display their guild colors in their accessories, and some older ones who were more invested in the business side of their guilds, judging by their especially somber clothes, popular among the industrious set. There were a few others who fell somewhere in between, masters or journeymen from the more practical guilds, the Artificers and Potionmasters and Teleporters, the personalized touches to their attire putting unique craftsmanship on display rather than elemental colors.
Yvette surveyed them coolly, but apparently found them tolerable, at least when compared to the young masters and the K'maneda in the furthest corner of the room. The K’maneda had been first in line to avail themselves of the trays of drinks the servants were circulating. Most of them had taken a glass for both hands rather than settling for just the one.
"I'm more worried about you ," Yvette concluded after she'd passed judgment on the men, taking hold of Catherine's arm. "I've already found a good husband. But dear Laurent proves looks can be deceiving, no? Though it'd be so much easier on us all if more men chose to be bold and wear something a little more exciting to show that they're not a terrible bore, don't you think? Like dear Mirk! Anyway, let's go see..."
Catherine didn't object to being hauled off, instead giving in, like he so often did in the most taxing social situations, to the ease of being towed around by a woman who knew exactly what she wanted out of life and never hesitated to pursue it. Mirk spun Jean-Luc's staff against his palm, debating whether it'd be better to follow after them or strike out on his own.
Having Yvette present to help him watch over Catherine left him with more room to maneuver than he'd had at Lord Emerson's ball. He recognized a few of the men at the fringes of the group the ladies were approaching, ones he'd spoken with at the last ball who were more open-minded to conversing with a foreigner and a K'maneda, though he didn't fit neatly into either category.
However, there was still the matter of Laurent to deal with — though Yvette had implied in her letters that there was no need for him to seek Laurent out and apologize for what had happened at Madame Beaumont's, he still felt that it'd be the right thing to do. And Mirk suspected it'd be a good idea to head in his direction nevertheless, to try to find Laurent an acceptable conversation partner before the young K'ameneda officers spotted an easy target and went to goad him into dropping his glove.
The decision was made for him when the djinn watching the door made a late announcement over the hum of the quartet. More guests had arrived. Though none of them were exactly welcome, judging by how no one stopped their conversations to pay them any attention.
"Masters and Ladies, Lord Percival Owens, Lieutenant Comrade Commander of the K'maneda's Third Mage Division. And Lady Elanor Emerson and Miss Esther Emerson."
Mirk wanted to dash across the ballroom and hide himself in the thickest part of the crowd. Instead, all he did was shift Jean-Luc's staff to his right hand, watching as Percival scanned the ballroom with a frown of distaste, refusing to bow, while both Miss Esther and her mother curtseyed primly on either side of him. Percial’s eyes met his, just for a moment, and a frown crossed the former mage's face, mirrored by a flare of disgust. Then he was moving on, striding into the room without comment, the two ladies following a step behind.
Catherine was right about Lord Emerson not being willing to attend any of the other balls that season. But judging by the pinched and sad expression on Esther's face and the prim, cold one on her mother's, the lord had already found his daughter a suitable match. Mirk's heart ached for the poor woman, though he wasn't surprised that a man as devout as Lord Emerson would choose a fellow member of his sect to be his daughter's husband. What he was surprised by, however, was the fact that the Grand Master of the ordered light mages was willing to give her away to a man who'd lost all his magical potential.
As delicately as possible, Mirk lowered his shields and cast out his senses in the direction of Percival's retreating back. Though he could feel his emotions — frustration at having to put up with the nonsense of a ball, annoyance at how sloppy his fellow K'maneda looked — he couldn't feel a bit of magic coming from him. There was only the ordered light magic of the two ladies, mirrored faintly in the subdued silver stitchwork on the long, plain black mage robes he wore.
"Masters and Ladies, Lord Alistair Ravensdale, Grand Master of the K'maneda."
Mirk wished he could use the staff to wedge the floorboards apart and crawl underneath them. Ravensdale had put even more work into his outfit and his glamors that night than he had at the last ball. He'd bumped his height up a full extra hand and had added some bulk to his shoulders, further squaring off his jaw until he was nearly a caricature of himself. And rather than letting his magical aura tell the whole room about his power that time, Ravensdale had added a sword into the mix, worn openly on his back. The hilt was nothing but carved enchantments. And it had a black opal the size of a goose egg set into its pommel.
Rather than letting himself be cowed by the appearance of two of the worst men the K'maneda had to offer, Mirk sucked in a deep breath and tried to be rational about things. Tried to put every piece in order, rationally, without giving in to the tension in his shoulders and the worry gnawing at his stomach, considering the situation the way someone like Genesis would have.
Neither man would try anything at a public ball, surely. And though Percival had reason to despise him for having been one of the healers who'd tended to him during his illness, he'd only been doing his job. Percival had no reason to suspect that the staff in his right hand had been responsible for ripping away his magic. Just like Ravensdale had no reason to suspect that he'd been plotting to free his djinn, aside from guilt by association. Provided Ravensdale had even bothered to look into who he chose to associate with other than his fellow healers and Catherine.
Ravensdale had decided to bring a sword with him that time, true. But despite its enchantments and gemstone, how detailed and expensive they both had to be, it had probably never seen real battle, Mirk thought. Genesis would have scowled at it and made some comment about impracticality. And the commander knew a thing or two about weapons. Compared to the cold, staticky aura that always hovered around Genesis's sword, charged with destructive potential, Ravensdale's sword wasn't all that impressive. It was closer to a piece of jewelry than a weapon. And it wasn't as if he'd come to the ball unarmed himself, though Mirk was determined to do nearly anything to avoid a repeat of the duel that'd happened at Madame Beaumont's.
The thought made him glance back over at Laurent. Without a conversation partner or Yvette to distract him, Laurent had nothing to do other than size up the two mages who'd just entered. From the looks of things, Ravensdale's sword had caught Laurent’s attention as well. But what made him square his shoulders and stalk away from where he'd been lurking since he'd first came in was that, rather than joining the other K'maneda, Ravensdale was heading right for Catherine. And, by extension, Yvette, who was in the middle of trying to talk a journeyman mage from one of the dark magicians' guilds into asking Catherine to dance. Mirk rushed after both Ravensdale and Laurent, the staff clacking against the ballroom floor, hoping he could get to the ladies in time to avert disaster.
Fortunately, he had a clever ally in Yvette. And there was nothing that she disdained more than a man who resorted to glamors to impress rather than taking up a bold choice in fashion or learning to carry himself with grace. She'd never pass along a friend, no matter how new, to a man who wore glamors. Both he and Laurent arrived just in time to hear her give her apologies to Ravensdale.
"Ah, I am so sorry, monsieur," Yvette said. She'd flicked off her translator, the better to make use of her inexpert English to cover any overt rudeness. "Miss Catherine, she has already been asked to dance by Monsieur Jerry, non ?"
Said Jerry, the blood draining from his face as he caught sight of the three oncoming mages, nodded reflexively before he could think better of it.
"Has she?" Ravensdale asked, a brittle grin creeping across his face as he ignored Catherine in favor of staring down the journeyman mage.
Catherine dipped into a curtsey of apology, though she held her ground. "It would be rude of me to go back on my word, Comrade Ravensdale," she said, her tone still light and pleasant despite the situation. "Perhaps we could dance the second number instead?"
For a moment, Ravensdale looked like he was going to object. Then he noticed Laurent, shouldering his way in between him and Yvette, and Mirk, circling around to Catherine's other side. "The second number, then. In the meantime, why don't you introduce me to the friends you've decided to bring along with you this time, Comrade d'Avignon?"
Mirk saw the slight in Ravensdale's decision to address him by his K'maneda title rather than the one he held among the French mages. But he didn't rise to the provocation, nodding agreeably as the journeyman mage took hold of Catherine's elbow and hurried off with her toward the part of the ballroom that'd been spelled for mage dancing. "Of course, Comrade Ravensdale. This is Monsieur Laurent Montigny of the fire mages' guild. And his fiancée, Yvette Feulaine. Her father the seigneur is over there," he said, nodding to Seigneur Feulaine across the room, who looked as if he'd been on the brink of joining the fray himself, his face scrunched up in alarm. "He's the Grand Master."
"I never knew that you had such influential friends," Ravensdale remarked, giving both Laurent and Yvette a slow, deliberate once-over. More in the manner of a fighter surveying an opponent before taking a swing at them rather than a high-born mage politely expressing his indifference to a rival.
"But of course, monsieur," Yvette said, before either Mirk or Laurent could get a word in edgewise, flicking her fan slowly. "Seigneur d'Avignon is with one of the greatest houses in all of France! And he is such a kind, beautiful man too. How could we not be his friend?"
Ravensdale didn't respond to her, looking to Laurent instead for confirmation. Luckily for him, Ravensdale's coldness toward his fiancée forced Laurent's hand. Laurent might not have liked Mirk, or his family, but anyone who would look askance at Yvette was the greater foe. "The d'Avignons have performed many grand services in duty to France," he said, slowly. He refused to use his translator either, lest Ravensdale think him a lesser man for not being able to speak English.
"And he is doing the same," Yvette added with a firm nod. "He is our ambassador to you English."
Ravensdale considered this for a moment, turning his attention back to Mirk. He seemed to be looking at him for the first time, not just at the staff. "And you have chosen to work in the K'maneda's infirmary when you're not performing your duties as ambassador, comrade?"
The words flowed out of him on instinct, just as he reflexively ducked his head. "I live to serve, Comrade Ravensdale. If I was not with the healers, I would be with the Church. But the Church has much greater resources than the infirmary. I can help best in the City."
"How charitable of you," Ravensdale said, his smile growing even more wan. It was clear from his tone that he didn't mean it as a compliment, though Ravensdale’s mind was too well-shielded by stolen djinn potential for Mirk to feel a thing from him.
It was as if Ravensdale had thrown up a signal beacon. The shift in his mood summoned his fellow officers, with the exception of Percival, who was occupied by dancing with Esther. Thankfully. They arrived in a mob, the same as the low-born officers Mirk knew better, with the same swagger and squared shoulders. Though Richard looked as if he wanted nothing more than to vanish, but he wa hurried along by both Paul and Casyn.
None of them were true high-born mages, Mirk suspected, though they played at being nobles. They were invited to attend the English balls by grace of being close with Ravensdale. "Anything wrong, Comrade Ravensdale?" one of the officers Mirk didn't recognize asked, as he drew up alongside Ravensdale and shot a nasty look at Laurent.
"Nothing important, Hugh."
"Frogs giving you trouble?" another officer asked, coming up on Ravensdale's other side. They were both younger, lower ranking, eager to prove themselves. The ones who knew better hung back, though Paul and Casyn shot each other troubled looks behind Richard's back.
"Look at these cretins," Yvette said to Laurent, shifting back to French. "These little boys shouldn't be playing a man's game."
"Not unless they want to have their honor taken from them," Laurent replied.
Mirk tore his eyes away from Ravensdale just long enough to find Seigneur Feulaine in the crowd, locking eyes with him. He decided to risk projecting to him, lowering his shields just far enough to convey his discomfort. Though Yvette was hardly ever troubled by insults directed at her, she couldn't stand having Laurent threatened, especially by those she considered to be beneath her. And when two fire mages' ire was spiked, the situation could easily get out of hand.
"Don't you have a translator charm in all your big stones?" the officer on Ravensdale's right, Hugh, asked, jerking his chin pointedly at Yvette's chest.
"Too bad you never had a tutor to teach you French," Yvette countered, with a deliberate flick of her fan. An insult to the man's lack of familial wealth, one he was probably not familiar enough with the customs of high-born mages to understand. But he was sharp enough to catch the pitying slant to her tone.
Seigneur Feulaine quickly excused himself from the conversation he was having, making a fast break across the ballroom. But it wasn't fast enough. The officer to Ravensdale's left decided to take things a step further, feigning a cough and flicking the contents of his glass of wine at Yvette's pale blue dress.
Mirk always thought of himself as slow and clumsy, graceless and easily stunned. But apparently something from all his hours in the infirmary handling unruly patients and Genesis's defensive training had stuck. He managed to sidestep in front of Yvette just in time. The wine splashed all over the front of his new suit rather than hitting Yvette's dress. Mirk made it a point to keep his grip on his grandfather's staff loose, in the manner of a simple walking stick rather than a quarterstaff.
Behind him, he heard Laurent fumbling in his waistcoat pocket for his gloves. " Incroyable !" he growled.
"Quel toupet!" Yvette hissed. Mirk could feel the heat rising off of her against his back.
"Alistair!" a booming voice rang out from across the ballroom, over the sprightly sound of the string quartet. In an instant, as if he'd teleported rather than walked, Lord Kinross arrived on the scene. All of the officers behind Ravensdale froze — Richard in particular looked like he was about to faint. Ravensdale himself, on the other hand, only seemed annoyed. "Is something the matter?" Lord Kinross asked.
Mirk thought fast. Here was a chance to both appear as an ally to Ravensdale and make a good impression on the English mages. Rather than letting his dismay over his ruined suit show, Mirk fixed a smile on his face, holding his free hand up in a gesture of concession. And just in case Lord Kinross was a better judge of expressions than the others surrounding him, he let his shields slip lower for an instant, projecting genuine good humor and cheer. An infirmary trick he'd been taught by Sheila, thinking hard about a cherished memory, just for a second, to make his emotions ring true to a wary patient. When he needed cheerfulness, laughter, he always thought of Genesis's strained attempts at mimicking a normal human smile.
"Nothing at all, Lord Kinross. Just an accident," Mirk said, bowing slightly to both Kinross and Ravensdale. "No harm done."
Kinross shot Laurent and Yvette, who were still seething away behind Mirk, a skeptical look. Yvette got a hold of herself faster than her fiancé, waving her fan a few times to clear the heat from her face. "Yes! No harm. That little one has a cold, he sneezed," she said, indicating the officer who'd hurled his wine at her. The officer bristled at the veiled insult, but knew better than to say anything to the contrary with Kinross looming off to the side.
For a moment, the lord's displeasure eclipsed his jovial facade, in the form of a narrow-eyed glare at Ravensdale. One that Mirk recognized from the countless disagreements among young noblemen he'd borne witness to: Ravensdale needed to know his place. Then Kinross was giving one of his snorting laughs, whipping a handkerchief out of his waistcoat and offering it out to Mirk. "Oh no! That's a shame! To have such a brilliant coat all mucked up."
Again, Mirk didn't know whether to accept the lord's words as genuine or a mockery, despite the goodwill he could sense pressing against his mental shielding. "It's only a coat, Lord Kinross. I'm sure it can be cleaned."
"You know, that's a splendid idea, seigneur," Lord Kinross said, lifting a hand up to the level of his head and snapping his fingers as he took a quick look around the ballroom. The djinn servant standing guard beside the door came instantly at his summons, striding across the room with his hands clasped primly behind his back. "Renly, take Seigneur d'Avignon to the powder room and help him with his coat. He's a genius with stains," Kinross added to Mirk, as the djinn bowed his agreement.
"As you wish, Lord Kinross."
"In the meantime, I had a matter I wished to discuss with you, Alistair. So if you happen to have a moment..."
Mirk exchanged another meaningful look with Seigneur Feulaine after bowing once more to Lord Kinross and nodding to the djinn. All Seigneur Feulaine could do was give a helpless shrug as he took his daughter by the arm and guided her away from the mob of K'maneda, Laurent grudgingly shuffling along with. But only after giving the officer who'd thrown his drink at Yvette a final glare, slapping his gloves meaningfully against his palm.
"The powder room is through the side door, seigneur," the djinn said, with a sweep of his arm to show the way.
Mirk let himself lean on Jean-Luc's staff only a little as he hurried off, letting a long, tired sigh sneak through his teeth. French magecraft hadn't made the best first impression on the English. But it could have gone much worse.
