The carriage bucked only once coming up the stone pathway--Good Christ, Fox thought; they'd forgotten to replace the loose flagstone; we're all going to die-- But the wheel set back down onto the path, the carriage righted; the movement didn't even upset Falco's cigarillo.

Falco wasn't talking to him; his mind was on politics, on the matters going on across the channel, in the gay streets of Venom, where blood was spilling. Falco always had something of the soldier in him, though politics had sailed far from the gentlemen warrior's realm a long time ago. Maybe some men are made for war, Fox mused; maybe some men, like Falco, like the Venomisan Leon, like Mr. Wolf, were just made for physical combat, the crushing of bones. He had seen Falco look longingly towards one of the rougher pubs; he played a lot of sport, and hunted like he had been born a rural gentlemen. Fox, a city man, never understood the appeal; the country was a lot of nonsense, a lot of fields, a lot of forests, a lot of country-folk; the pastoral myth made manifest in the form of a lot of muddy roads.

Falco held his cigar close to him; as the light outside got darker and darker, his features began to lose themselves in the shadows, so that only his beak and the cloud of smoke revealed his presence. He was thinking, over and over, about what he could do, if he was over in the Venom capital; how he could make the people listen to reason, to stop the riots, reinstate the Church, reinstate order.

Once, while they had been drinking in Fox's apartments in Corneria City, Falco had said he wished it were the old days, back in the day when you could collect a bunch of boys together and sail across the channel and beat some sense into the Catholic fools. Fox wanted to tell him that he didn't think any such "old day" existed; at any rate, he himself wanted the riots to end so he could go over and visit. Corneria City was a dark, dreary city on a dark, dreary island. Venom had the romantic blood in its foundations; its archiecture was lovely, and south, along the coast, there could be found sun; actual sun, not the pale, pallid thing that shone above Corneria City, trying to bleed through the fog.

"Krystal will have returned from her trip," Falco said suddenly, returning Fox's attention to the present. "She will want to see you."

"That's not the end of the world."

"Some bachelors think so." He looked out the window. "Interesting; our country's obsession with the Cult of Domesticity tells us to send our women out to be educated. I guess, so they can come back and be domestic."

"A husband and wife should be equal in intellect."

"A topic that doesn't interest me in the slightest, thank God." Rather, Falco was thinking about locating a house in the city, feeling more and more uncomfortable that hiding away in his country estate was a display of cowardice. The continent was, after all, in turmoil -- scratch that, Venom was in turmoil, but what was more a symbol of continental influence than Venom? Corneria would soon feel the influence; if they didn't act fast, the city's streets would run as red as their cousins'.

As the carriage stopped in front of his estate, he muttered, "I should have enlisted." Fox pretended not to have heard.

The house was a large shadow in the dark-blue light of dusk; a servant took the horses, and Fox fumbled for his hat in the dark in the carriage, finding it in time to get out and meet with Mrs. Caroso, formerly Katt Monroe, who was a surprise to see. He shot a glance at Falco, and asked her if she was staying, if her husband was staying.

"Panther is in the capital," she said, smiling. "With the summer months coming on, I thought, why not spend a holiday in the country? Falco was always been such a good friend."

"Of course," Fox said, wondering what the hell Falco was up to here. "It's always an honour to see you."

"Krystal is also staying, which gives me plenty of feminine company, something a woman always need." Another grin from the woman. "I think she's excited to see you."

I don't intend to become bethrothed on my holiday, Fox wanted to say, but instead he just smiled and made small talk on the way up to the house. Mrs. Caruso spoke rapidly; about how it was just a short ride to the lake, how nice the villagers were, how good the pastor was--why, he had visited just yesterday.

"Yes," Fox said, smiling. "I know Reverend Hare; he was a close friend of my family. I--"

As they came into the house, Falco's man took their coats and their hats; at the foot of the stairs they could see Krystal, dressed in a long thin dress with embroideries that looked foreign; obviously a gift from her continental education.

"Evening, Miss Krystal," Fox said.

"Evening, Mr. McCloud," she replied, her voice edged with bitterness. "If you're here, I'm afraid I've found myself unwell, and shall retire. Good night, all."

As she vanished into the upstairs halls, Mrs. Caruso sucked her breath in, and giggled. "She's not usually so rude," she said. "I wonder why the poor girl has it in for you?"

Fox had no idea; the encounter left him a little shaken, but a little relieved. If Krystal, for whatever reason, found his company unbearable, then no one would think of romance between them. He would be able to work in comfort.

"So what do you think is in store for Corneria, Mr. Lombardi?" Mrs. Caruso asked, her own interest being politics.

"We have a regent, and Corneria will prevail," Falco replied sternly.

"Three more executions in Vemon City yesterday."

"Corneria will prevail," Falco said quietly.

Fox had little interest; he walked the length of the hall into the drawing room and found a window, with which he could find a good view of the lawn. He already missed the city, something he hadn't thought possible. There was little to miss; yes, there were plays, and exhibitions, and pamphlet wars, and the intelligentsia, but out here in the country you were either a gentlemen, with gentlemen interests, or a vulgar (how he detested that word). Fox was neither, son of a soldier, an orphan raised by the Church, placed in a position of professor in the university. He was bourgeoise, then, and his world was dissertation, not land-owning or war. His father had been a war hero; Fox had his own problems--his religion, his perculiar sexual interests, the women back home who kept showing up on his doorstep. Krystal had been a childhood friend; he had hated the assumption they were to end up married. She would bring a considerable sum, and she was certainly intelligent, but--

No, no country gentlewoman for him. He had decided this. But even as he stood there, fiddling in his pocket for his reading glasses, he could feel it. The ghosts of his father and his father's enemy had followed him, even here. How we bring our nerosises with us, even into the lap and luxury and the Cornerian countryside. God in heaven.