The carriage rolled down the winding road that curved around the slope of Colle Alto. The evening sun painted the villa walls in honeyed gold and set the terracotta roof tiles glowing like embers. Jean pushed the leather shade aside, letting in warm air heavy with cypress and distant sea.
From this height Ardentia spread beneath them like a jewelled mosaic. To the right, on the opposite hill, the Regia rose. Marble colonnades of the imperial quarter blazed in the sunset. Further left, along the coast, the strip of Riva di Marmo glittered with its grand houses. Beyond that, the masts of ships in Porto Basso and the arcaded dwarven trading quarter, warehouse roofs dissolving into the evening haze.
And directly ahead, sprawling across the slope between the hills and the shore, lay the maze of narrow lanes, academic towers, and library domes of Quatre della Sapienza. Even from here the gilded observatory of the College of Magisters was visible, throwing back the last of the sunlight.
Kali studied the panorama with frank curiosity, her elbow propped on the carriage window frame. Her bare, appetising feet rested on the velvet upholstery of the opposite seat.
The carriage passed a colonnaded villa whose garden servants in light tunics were watering the flower beds, and began the steeper descent toward the quarter gates.
Two War Mages of the City Watch and their familiars guarded the tall arched gates. They recognised the crest on the carriage door and stepped aside with a respectful bow.
The streets here were wider than in the Sapienza, paved in pale stone. The smooth surface, not a single crack in sight, seemed a single seamless sheet on which carriages rolled almost without sound. The air above the pavement shimmered from the wards running ceaselessly underfoot. Even at the height of the day it was pleasantly cool here.
High walls flanked the road on both sides, wrapped in ivy and jasmine. Through wrought-iron gates, shaded gardens showed fountains and marble statues.
The carriage turned onto Via dell'Ambra, named for the honey-coloured stone of its pavement. It was quieter here. Only the clip of hooves, the murmur of water behind walls, and the evening song of birds in the gardens.
The Lexin estate occupied the corner, its facade facing two streets. Three storeys of pale sandstone, rows of tall arched windows framed in refined moulding. The second-floor balconies wore wrought-iron railings worked in a vine pattern.
The coachman gave the signal. Massive gates inlaid with copper and mother-of-pearl swung open without a sound.
Felix watched from the balcony as the carriage rolled into the courtyard. He stood in a loose linen shirt unbuttoned to nearly the waist. A short embroidered waistcoat framed his chest like a painting. A gold chain with a ruby flashed at his throat.
At Felix's back, stiff with uneasy attention, stood Astarte. A tall, thin demon. His goatee quivered. He kneaded the empty air. The gold collar, the vambraces, the chain at his hips filled with sudden lead, dragging at him, and through the bond they dragged at Felix too.
Jean stepped onto the courtyard's white marble, veined with black basalt in a geometric pattern.
"You're late," Felix boomed from the balcony, smoothing the full beard of an old-school aristocrat stepped straight out of a portrait gallery.
Jean took in the dark patinated bronze at the centre of the yard. A nymph rising from foam-crested waves. This fountain had not been here on his last visit. The nymph held a massive shell above her head, from which a powerful jet of water shot skyward. At her feet, children, dolphins, fish, and octopuses tangled in a complex baroque knot of bodies and spray. Water cascaded down the bronze figures into an octagonal basin of pale stone, filling the courtyard with the sound of falling water. Spray caught the last sunlight and exploded into diamonds, and the mist made the air noticeably cooler than the street outside.
He looked up and smiled.
"A handsome fountain, Felix. Maestro Gardelli, if I'm not mistaken? I'm glad I managed to bring him into fashion in the capital."
Felix snorted and went inside, tall soft-leather boots creaking.
Grooms in ivory liveries with gold embroidery ran out to take the horses. One held the carriage door and unfolded the steps.
From the shadow of the colonnade a massive old dog the size of a small pony lumbered toward the carriage, tail wagging when it recognised Sophie.
But when Kali set foot on the marble, the dog froze mid-stride, ears flattening against its skull.
"Hector!" Sophie called. "Come here, boy."
Hector backed up a step, tail dropping. Then another. With a pitiful whine he turned and fled into the house.
Sophie frowned, watching the dog go. Jean noticed the grooms exchange glances and look away, pretending nothing had happened.
"What's wrong with him?" Sophie wondered.
"Kali," Jean murmured to her.
He held the demoness's gaze.
"This isn't the jungle," he said, for her alone. "Nor my house. Too many eyes here. Dim the radiance."
Kali huffed, and in the next instant the pressure dropped away so sharply that the air rushed into Jean's lungs on its own, giddy and flushed with want.
"I shall be modesty itself, mas-ter," she purred. "Until you command otherwise."
Dark foliage of orange trees in terracotta amphorae lined the courtyard walls, sharp against the white stone. The air was thick with citrus, jasmine, and the wet cool of the fountain. Along the colonnade ringing the atrium, magelights had already come on, casting soft gold across the painted walls.
Heavy doors of dark wood were framed by a marble arch with columns wrapped in gilded bronze vine.
On the threshold appeared the old butler, Maurice, in a light silk doublet with gold stitching.
Maurice inclined his head.
"Welcome home, my lady." And to Jean. "Your Grace."
"I haven't held that title in many years, Maurice," Jean corrected him wearily.
"Forgive me, sir. Old habit," the old man replied, but his eyes held a stubborn respect that no ducal decree could revoke.
The butler stepped back, and they walked into the hall.
Felix had poured a fortune into this place. Polished marble columns rose to vaulted ceilings where painted nymphs cavorted amid gilt. Their naked bodies twined with grapevines and garlands of flowers. Frescoes on the walls depicted the triumphs of ancestors, his and Izabella's alike. Warriors in armour, kneeling demons, emperors bestowing honours. Felix had bought these frescoes along with the bride, as though he could purchase his way into someone else's history. Jean had always considered the marriage a mésalliance, and it had nothing to do with titles. It had everything to do with Felix himself.
Jean and Sophie walked in arm in arm. In the centre of the hall the hosts stood waiting.
Izabella moved to meet them, and her dress came alive. The thinnest silk the colour of flamingo slid across her skin, revealing what a moment ago it had concealed. The side slit showed the curve of a hip, the deep neckline bared her chest nearly to the navel. Magic preserved her youthful body even at thirty-nine, but the youthful uncertainty was long gone. Sophie had inherited her features but had not yet learned to wear them with the same cold elegance.
"Jean." She extended both hands, a smile touching her lips. "Sophie, darling. You're alive. When the rumours reached us about the temple... about the professor... we feared the worst."
She faltered, looking past their shoulders now.
A spill of molten gold, Naama poured herself from the divan behind Izabella’s shoulder.
In a dress that was at once luxurious and insolent in its exposure, Kali walked in behind Jean and Sophie.
Astarte froze like a hunting hound that has scented something in the forest. Tense, alert, ready to lunge or to bolt.
Naama smiled and dipped her head in greeting. Kali returned the gesture with an equally small tilt of her own.
Felix and Izabella felt it too, that presence hitting them through the bond like someone stealing the breath from their lungs. Izabella grabbed for her fan, darting looks from Jean to his companion, trying to locate the source.
No one found an answer. Izabella recovered first. She reached for her daughter and took her arm.
"Sophie, shall we go upstairs? We need to talk. In private."
Sophie tried to pull free, but her mother only squeezed her elbow tighter.
"Mama, I don't want..."
"This is not up for discussion, darling." Izabella bit the words off. "Now."
Jean stepped forward.
"Izabella, perhaps you should hear..."
"This is a family matter, brother." She looked past him, fixed on her daughter. "Sophie. At once."
Sophie wrenched free. She stepped back, pressing against Jean.
"No!"
Izabella stood with her hand still extended.
Felix turned toward his daughter.
"You're forgetting who you are speaking to, girl."
"I am not a girl!" Sophie cried, and the marble hall rang with it. "Enough! Stop treating me like a child!"
"Sophie!" Izabella stepped forward. "What has got into you?"
"You have!" Sophie advanced on her mother. "Do you hear yourselves? 'Let's go upstairs in private,' 'This is not up for discussion'! I am of age! I have the right..."
"No, you do not have rights," Felix cut her off, "while you live under this roof!"
"As always!" Her hands balled into fists. "You only see your own plans, never me!"
She spun, seized Jean's hand and raised it high, their fingers laced together. The gold of their rings caught the lamplight.
"See this?!" She was shaking, but she went forth. "We are husband and wife! Jean and I! Bound by marriage! Bound by pact! No one has the right to tell me what to do!"
Izabella was staring at the ring on her daughter's finger. At their clasped hands. And the colour was draining from her face.
"Marriage?" she whispered. "...how? How is this..."
Felix, going crimson, stepped forward.
"What pact?! Dantes doesn't have a demon!"
"Apparently, Dantes does," Jean said calmly.
Astarte's confusion leaked into Felix. He narrowed his eyes. Peered into the magical auras. And saw. A strong, pulsing bond running from the demoness to Jean, and from her to Sophie.
"That's..." he rasped. "That's impossible."
Kali walked past the arguing family toward the staircase. Settling on the third step, she crossed her legs, admiring her elegant toes.
Izabella was staring now too. Her fan trembled in her hands.
"Both of you? With one demoness?"
"Yep," Sophie offered.
Izabella sank onto the divan, dropping her fan with a dull clack against the marble.
"Sophia... what have you done?"
Sophie went and sat beside her taking her mother's trembling hands.
"Mama, I chose my own future."
"This is impossible." The gold on Astarte's wrists clanked with a sudden movement. "A union without the family's blessing. Without the father's consent."
"Felix." Jean shook his head with a smirk. "I haven't needed family blessings in seventeen years."
"But Sophie does!" Izabella leapt up, seizing her daughter by the hands. "You've ruined her! Stripped her of her future! Of her position at court!"
"Your approval is the last thing I was thinking about," Sophie said tiredly. "I wanted your love. But hell will freeze over first."
She rose, freed herself, and returned to Jean's side.
"Listen, girl." Felix bore down on her. "We are deeply distressed by this recklessness of yours. And by your union with a man of no lineage."
He threw Jean a look of poorly disguised contempt, pointedly declining to notice the third guest.
"Felix." Jean's lips twitched. "I am touched by your fatherly concern. But are you quite sure you want to compare pedigrees with me?"
Izabella hastily stepped between them, gripping her fan until the ribs creaked.
"Brother, please! We simply want to understand. You've finally made a pact with a demon." Desperate hope rang in her voice. "This is splendid news!"
Felix was still staring at the double bond, trying to make sense of the impossible made real. The hall fell into a heavy silence, broken only by Izabella’s quick, uneven breathing. Finally, the Baron exhaled and slowly unclenched his fists.
"I suggest we move to the table. There we can... discuss the circumstances."
Maurice appeared in the doorway as if waiting for the cue.
"My Lord. Dinner is served."