Melisande had long since stopped pretending to pick at her needlepoint and instead closed her eyes, resting her cheek against the plush seat cushion of the airship. She'd surprised herself with her English agoraphobia, nearly suffering a dizzy spell when first stepped out into surface air. Even with the recommended break in the adaptation chamber to adjust from the pressurized environment of the Glass City, she'd found herself light-headed breathing surface air. The dizzying blue vault of sky above seemed terrifyingly vast. And that was only a year. For someone born in the sunken city, who'd potentially gone years, decades even, without seeing the sky as anything but an illustration in a book, the transition must have been mind-boggling.

The changing angle of the light from the viewport told her the ship was shifting course again and she opened her eyes. "Is it much farther?"

"Another hour or so." Baba Anya was knitting what looked suspiciously like a baby blanket. "I thought you were sleeping."

"A bit." Outside, the sun was still shining, but the airship was high enough she could only see clouds. "It's been a long time since I've traveled anywhere. It's strange, but I almost forgot what sunlight feels like. When James is older we'll have to go to the northern islands. He needs to learn what normal sky looks like."

Baba Anya lowered her knitting. "That can be made substantially easier, you know."

Melisande turned to look out the porthole again. "I knew this was coming."

"I'm obligated to ask." Baba Anya sounded as if she already knew the answer. "You can come back. Your uncle can be persuaded, as Alexei Nicolaiovich is inclined in your favor. And you are still family."

Melisande gave a sighing, soft laugh. "Provided that's true, you notice my son remains safely within her Majesty's territory. I wouldn't leave him behind."

"His extraction could be arranged–"

"No, it couldn't." Melisande smiled a bit sadly. "I've lived there. An operation like that would not be possible and given Ardsley's situation means they want his wife and son where they can keep an eye on them, even your persuasive influence with Lord M_ won't work."

"If it is a question of your husband, his situation might also be rectified."

Melisande felt an odd professional pride. "You don't know exactly where he is, do you?"

"And you're not going to tell me."

"No." She knew her smile was a trifle smug, but couldn't help it. "Suffice to say it's in all of our interests his mission proceed. Even if I thought we could get James away, I wouldn't put Ardsley at risk to do it."

"I suppose I should expect nothing less," Baba Anya sighed. "Are you happy, at least, Melichka?"

She'd asked herself the same thing often enough. "Perfectly happy? No. Content enough? Yes."

"Happier when your husband was home?" Odd, how her godmother preferred to simply call Ardsley "your husband." Not unlike Lord M_'s chronic need to address her only as Adsley's wife.

"Of course. Then it's about as close to perfect as I could hope." She didn't like to think of that too much. "Not that it makes any of their strange customs any more comprehensible, but when he's there they're bearable." Or their language. She realized with a start she'd been speaking Russian since they'd left England for Paris and a quick shopping stop before the airship to the coast. "You know they have Christmas a week early?"

"And goose instead of fish," Baba Anya agreed. "Have you at least managed to teach them how to make proper tea?"

"I'd have better luck teaching the fish to sing." Without a samovar, there was no way to make the heated water and dark, intense concentrate that made a proper Russian tea. "I did make the mistake of pointing out the lack of a samovar to Delilah. One should never say things like that to a Spark, I know, but so far, there haven't been any explosions of tea. Perhaps she hasn't gotten to it yet."

"One can hope." Baba Anya seemed to relax now that business was out of the way. Or at least, unofficial business. "You're prepared for when we arrive?"

"I've looked at the maps of the island and the . . .compound? Hotel? I can't even decide what to call it." She'd memorized as much as possible and read the dossiers in Paris. "It all seems rather typical for nobility–ornate, overstated, far too much of everything. And a casino designed to make sure people lose as much money as possible, but then why else would you build one? I don't see anything that warrants the sort of secrecy Count Vercordi wants."

"He's never shown any inclination towards the kind of games the Families like to play," Baba Anya said. "Hence both our office and Lord M_'s being so intrigued with these invitations. Our job is to find out what he's selling that's so interesting."

"And buy, if it's that good?" Melisande knew her expression could best be described as sly, but they were in a private cabin.

"Between the two agencies, we ought to be a high bidder." Baba Anya's expression was a mirror of her own. "Unless someone has an excellent day at the casino. You're prepared for your role?"

"Dutiful goddaughter accompanying her godmother," Melisande said primly. "I'm quite prepared."

"I hope so." Baba Anya frowned. "I wish you'd take off that locket. It's quite distinctive."

"The only people who would recognize it are Ardsley, myself, and Gil Holzfäller," Melisande said, her fingers closing around the glass locket. It now contained, along with Ardsley's picture, her silver wedding band, which she obviously couldn't wear as part of her cover. "And as it looks transparent, even if did take it of, which I never do, it isn't as if anyone will think about looking in it."

Baba Anya looked less than convinced, but dropped the line of conversation. "We'll be expected to attend a reception this evening. Apparently it's a must for all his invited guests."

"Will there be anyone at the casino who isn't on the guest list?"

"Not that we've determined. It appears this is an intimate private affair for a dozen or so of the count's friends."

"And by friends," Melisande said, turning to enjoy the clear view of the sky again, "he means the ones with the deepest pockets."

The airship docked on a pier reaching out into the bluest seas Melisande had seen in what felt like forever. From beneath through the glass, the waters around England were dark shades of wavering greens. The air on the Cote d'Azur was warm, though the breeze off the water made her shiver a bit as she and Baba Anya were escorted to a horse-drawn omnibus while their luggage was brought along on a dray cart. "Surprisingly low-tech," she observed.

The liveried driver, decked in what she assumed were the count's colors of green and gold, heard the remark. "Count Vercordi prefers as much as possible be attended to by . . . non-Sparkish means. After the late unpleasantness he thought his visitors would prefer a destination without the reminders of the . . . Other and its war machines."

"A very reasonable assumption," Baba Anya said. She knew, as well as Melisande did, the casino also barred guests from bringing clanks as servants and severely restricted any constructs, especially those that might have received enhancements related to throwing dice or counting cards. "I suppose people coming to such a place would most like to get away."

"This seems like the perfect place, Baba Anya." Melisande was only partly acting. The island was rocky, but covered in parasol pines and eucalyptus trees that gave it a peaceful aspect. Though, she also noted, it made memorizing landmarks along the lazily-traversing path difficult. "Are there no villagers on the island?"

"A small settlement, on the opposite end from Count Vercordi's compound," their driver said. "A few fishing families, and a small harbor for trade with the monks on the Ile de Saint-Honorat."

"There's a monastery?" Melisande had noticed that on the maps, but the dossier had seemed fairly indifferent, which struck her as odd. Best to hear what the official line was.

"They're a cloistered order of some sort, Miss," the driver said. "Nothing to be concerned about, they're not militants or Sparkish or any such. But they do trade with us for supplies. I doubt you'll see any, they never come over to this side of the island and rarely leave their monastery at all."

Melisande nodded, though she hadn't been especially concerned. It was possible, of course, they were one of the more excitable orders who had very strong (strongly negative) feelings about the Gifted, but considering the oddly-specific nature of Count Vercordi's invitations that didn't sound like it would be a problem even if it were the case. "Perhaps I'll have to look around the village during our visit."

"Oh, there's nothing there of much interest, Miss," which was naturally the wrong thing to say to a spy. "I'm sure once you see your accommodations you won't be at all worried about ways to spend your time."

"And when will we see it?" Baba Anya asked. Melisande was sure her aunt had been doing the same thing she was-noting the scenery, trying to remember switchback turns, and keeping a general idea of the way they'd come. She wondered if there were multiple paths and people could be brought across the island by different routes.

"Right about now." They came out of the trees, and Melisande couldn't help a gasp.

The Count's . . . resort? Compound? Fortress? Loomed over them. She thought the latter might be the best descriptor, as it had clearly been a fort at some point in its existence. The stone face rose up over the end of the path, and she could see the opposite side looked out over the sea. The windows, though, instead of being narrow and barred, had in many cases been widened and all were ablaze with lights. The stone had clearly been scrubbed, and as they passed through the gates into the courtyard she noted the chains holding the portcullis up were no longer attached and in fact cemented in place so the massive gates remained up. The courtyard had also been turned into a garden worthy of Versailles, but suited to the rocky Mediterranean climate. There were flowers, but smaller blossoms than roses in temperate gardens, and there were more of the pines and eucalyptus that were miniaturized versions of the trees they'd driven through, only these were decked out with fairy lights. Melisande didn't have to feign the astonishment or charm. "It's lovely!"

"And guests are, of course, welcome to visit the gardens as often as they like," the driver said. "There are some lovely little benches and fountains, though I think the grotto is the nicest part."

Melisande made a mental note to casually wander through the gardens and map those paths later. For now, though, her attention turned to the stone steps and massive doors to which the carriage had just drawn up. Two more liveried servants were waiting to swing them wide, and as she let their driver hand her down, she realized that not only was she anxious for the mission to really begin, she hadn't thought of Ardsley or James since they'd landed on the island. The guilt was almost enough to drown out some of the excitement.

Almost.

The black velvet dress laced up the back, and that and her corset were uncomfortably snug. Melisande wondered guiltily if she hadn't quite lost all the baby weight she'd thought she had. The opera gloves with their heavy bracelets of Q branch's finest work matched nicely, at least, as did the glass locket and its black-velvet ribbon. Baba Anya had given her ivory-and-gold hair combs and the dress itself revealed just enough of her decolletage to avoid being matronly, so the impression was not quite so funereal, but she still felt something like a short , black pudding. "You're sure this is all right?" she murmured.

"You look lovely, my dear, and just understated enough." Baba Anya was in dark blue, with a neckline suitable to her age and a color that perfectly complimented her blonde hair and green eyes. As was appropriate to their cover of a Countess and her goddaughter her jewelry was finer than Melisande's: a sapphire pendant with pearls, with her coronet of gems in her hair. Whether any of it could be converted into a weapon, Melisande didn't know, but it wouldn't have surprised her in the least. "Now, remember, reserved and polite, and if it seems flirting will help, do try to remember you're my unmarried niece."

"I'll try." What worried her was how easy it would be.

They descended the right side of the sweeping double staircase leading down to the casino floor. The place was a converted fortress, and as the upper levels were too narrow and low-ceilinged for a large gathering space, the gaming floor was in what she thought, from the vaulted ceilings, was an old cellar. Certainly not a dungeon. No. Definitely not a dungeon. At least she was going to keep telling herself that, and blazing chandeliers with more fairy lights helped maintain the illusion.

And of course instead of racks, iron maiden, electric grids and whatever other torture devices Sparks favored, there were far more creative instruments of self-destruction. The riffling of cards, muted thud of dice on velvet, clattering mah jong tiles, voices calling as the coins for two-up spun in the gaslight . . . any way you turned there was a chance to gamble away a Storm King's ransom. The croupiers, dealers, and what she was fairly sure were guards all wore the same green and gold livery as all the servants seemed to. "See anyone you recognize?" she murmured low to Baba Anya.

"Sir William Franklin," she murmured back, pointing discretely to a whippet-like man dressed incongruously in a well-cut suit made of patchwork broadcloth and a ratty fur hat who was occupying a place at the two-up table. "Claims to be American–can you imagine? A con artist, but a very wealthy one. The lady across from him? Baroness de la Mothe. The title's her first husband's–she's on her third."

Melisande studied the baroness, noting the too-too fashionable gems and gown and the hair that was just slightly too auburn. "At the baccarat table?"

"Two dukes, or rather dukes' bastard sons," Baba Anya said, pointing with a discrete flick of her ivory fan. "Fathers both made the mistake of crossing the Baron." There might be many barons and baronesses, but only one who needed no name attached. "The dark man is Adrastos Malamakis. Self-made wealth," and she heard the faint tinge of aristocratic disapproval, "olives and oils and that foul fish sauce that's so popular. The Asian woman in the pretty brocade is calling herself Lady Oyone, though as that means-

"Lady Wealth," Melisande said, "yes, the sort of alias one might use for a casino."

Baba Anya's smile was tinged with professional pride. "Across from her, dark hair, blue eyes–we don't know who he is, but they say he's Roman and very old money. Keeps to himself, except for that little brunette standing behind him trying to distract his opponents with her decolletage, but they don't seem to be operating for anyone. Beside him, the distinguished-looking man with the tailored African robes and the pince-nez–that's Gosego seboko Bataung. Educated in Paris, and pays for most things in gold. Alleges he's a prince of some sort, but . . . . " She shrugged delicately. "There are a few more on the lists we acquired, whom I'm sure we'll see later. Most people here, from what we know, are little more than they appear–wealthy, from one source or another, and some still with hopes for power."

Melisande nodded. "Like most of us, really. Except I note there is no one from the Ice Kingdoms . . . ."

"What would they gamble with? Or pay Count Vercordi? Coal and whale oil?"

Given the fact stories of Albia's mind-control powers had proven to be exaggerated Melisande wondered if stories of the wild Northerners using fire as currency were just as extreme, but opted not to debate it. "And, of course, within the Baron's territories, who's left who'd dare?"

"Quite true." Baba Anya smiled and fanned herself just a trace too ostentatiously. "I don't see our host anywhere yet. Shall we try our luck until he puts in an appearance?"

"It would look odd if we didn't." Melisande understood the rules of games of chance, including several methods for cheating when the games were played in an informal setting. Trying any of those here seemed like an unwise plan. "Baccarat?"

"We'll see." Baba Anya made her way towards the cashier's cage, leaving Melisande to casually drift, doing her best wide-eyed innocent expression. She wandered towards the baccarat table, careful to keep her arms decorously low and her gaze polite, but she also kept gazing. The two dilettante sons didn't bother to hide their appraising gazes, one almost missing the shoe of cards being passed to him. She gave a vague smile and looked away. The African prince, if that was what he was (he certainly had a regal bearing), looked straight at her, and gave her a gracious nod before turning his attention back to his cards. The Roman, if that was what he was with those blue eyes, studied her briefly and she saw what might have been a flicker of interest, but the cool gaze from the dark-haired woman behind him told her to leave that avenue alone, even if she was a respectably-married spy and had nothing in mind other than information.

Now, the Greek shipping magnate did not appear to be encumbered by any hangers-on. In fact, from the look in his eyes, he was more than happy for her to join the table. Or elsewhere, for that matter. "You will join us, Mademoiselle?" He smiled, showing an impressive set of white teeth in the dark face. "You play baccarat?"

"I'm afraid not well," and she was surprised how well the demure tones and lowered eyes came back, though the timing of each just seemed off. It had been so easy, that first time in the Paris café with Ardsley. All her training had come naturally then. Of course, there was probably a reason for that . . . . "May I just observe? My godmother is the real expert, I'm simply attending her while she's here."

"Please, stand by me." Malmakis rose politely as she approached the table, and the other gentlemen followed suit. "Perhaps you'll bring me luck."

Melisande smiled, and moved to stand behind his chair. The Roman glanced her way again, this time appraising, and she saw the same look in Gosego's eyes–they were wondering if she was a shill or a distraction for the Greek millionaire. Let them wonder. She watched as Malmakis took a card from the wooden box called the 'shoe' or sabot, and glanced at it before placing it face-down beside the other beside it. He turned the sabot to face Gosego, who drew two cards, looked and them, and then nodded, indicating he would not take a third. Melisande realized they were playing the French version, chemin-de-fer, meaning that as dealer for this round Malmakis was backing any losses by the others with his own money. No wonder he'd take any luck he could get.

The Count's liveried croupier, there as a supervisor in this sort of game, flipped both sets of cards over. "A natural nine. Monsieur wins."

"You see? Luck." Malmakis smiled at her as he collected the gambling chips. Melisande smiled graciously–it was as plausible as any other explanation. Baccarat was almost as entirely up to chance as a roulette wheel. The house won by taking a percentage of the winnings, and the players won by betting amongst themselves, as evinced by the stack of chips the younger bastard son was pushing across to the Roman. "Now, Mademoiselle Fortune, shall I stay as banco, or pass?"

"I always find it best to quit while one is ahead."

"Well then, I shall take your advice." He passed the sabot down to the Roman. "You are here with your godmother, you say?"

"The Countess Dragomirov," which was of course no secret, but she watched the others at the table. The croupier did not appear to notice anything but the cards, the Roman and the two young men kept their attention on the sabot , but the Roman's woman glanced briefly in Melisande's direction, and she caught Gosego looking away in the quick manner of someone caught looking. "She thought accompanying her would be educational for me."

"You're Russian." The Roman's accent was only vaguely Italian when speaking the French that appeared to be the order of the casino..

"On my mother's side." No need to give excess detail.

"A cold place, the Duchy of Moscow." Gosego had a warm, cultured accent, mostly Parisian French but with a lilting undertone. "But capable of producing great beauty."

Melisande smiled demurely. "You have visited the Duchy, sir?"

"Once, several years ago, I was fortunate enough to see St. Petersburg in the spring." Casually, he tossed two red gambling chips onto the table and tapped for a card, as if he couldn't be bothered to interrupt his conversation to think about how much he was going to bet. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle, I am discourteous. I am Prince Gosego seboko Bataung."

"And I," said the Greek, obviously slightly irked at being upstaged in the manners department, "am Adrastos Malmakis, and am charmed to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle . . . ."

"La Capere," she supplied. "Melisande La Capere."

The Roman, finally, glanced up at her, and said, "Do you speak Latin, by chance, Mademoiselle?"

It was starting to get very strange to hear herself called "miss", after being a "missus" for so long in England. "A bit. I did attend the University in Paris for languages."

"Then you realize how your name might make the prudent man a bit wary." He looked back at the sabot and slipped out a card.

"Pardon?" Malmakis looked slightly puzzled.

To her surprise, it was the woman behind the Roman who spoke, and though her accent had a studied neutrality, Melisande thought she caught a faint trace . . . home. Not England-home, but Moscow-home. "He means," the woman said quietly, "that in Latin, capere means to ensnare. I hope you aren't out to entrap anyone."

"No one so far." She tried to look suitably vapid and amused, but she had the uneasy feeling the Roman, his woman, and Gosego at least had some idea there was more to it than that.

To her surprise, though, it was the Lady Oyone, who until now had been a silent ivory statue at the far end of the table, who spoke. "I am sure we all have our secrets, Mademoiselle Entrapment included." Like the others, her accent was faint, her diction perfect. But Melisande noted that, pale makeup, elegant brocade, and jade-tipped hair sticks aside, Lady Wealth did not keep her nails in the elongate style fashionable among the wealthiest Asian women, but filed functionally short. And who knew what was on the other end of those hair sticks, or how sharp they were?

"I, for one, have no secrets." Despite the Greek's jovial tone, Melisande somehow doubted that. "I simply wish to play cards, and see what our host has planned for us."

As if in response to Malmakis's wish, an unseen gong loud enough to be heard over the chattering noise of the casino rang, bringing everyone to attention. Melisande turned towards what she thought was the source of the noise, the opposite end of the room from which they'd entered. She didn't see a gong or anyone ringing it, but at the top of a much less-dramatic flight of stairs than the front, one she would bet was designed precisely to be inconspicuous, was a man. He was dressed almost simply, compared to the liveried servants and the ostentatious guests, but the simple jacket and trousers were deceptive–it had taken fine tailoring and expensive cloth (the jacket in the same soft green as the livery) to make clothing that looked so simple. The man's bearing was not quite regal, but there was no question he felt in total command of the room, and was happy to be so. As far as looks, Melisande estimated he was perhaps fifty, perhaps older and well-preserved. Given he was completely bald, it was difficult to estimate. The smile, though showing no teeth, seemed beatific.

A movement beside her drew her attention, and she realized Baba Anya had rejoined her. "So this is our host," she murmured. Melisande nodded.

Count Benevolo Vercordi surveyed the room, giving the impression he was looking to see if everyone was happy. More likely, the professional part of Melisande's mind thought, he was making sure he had everyone's attention. Once assured he did, the smile broadened, and he spoke:

"Welcome, guests." His voice was deeper than she'd expected, and supremely cultured. "I am pleased to see so many of you have chosen to accept my invitation. While you are on my island, I do hope you consider it your home, and avail yourself of all the luxuries we are so pleased to offer you. Tonight, I hope you will all be my guests at a banquet to begin your visit in style. And, of course, you are welcome to visit the gaming hall as much as you like, though I do suggest," and he gave a sly wink that elicited indulgent chuckles from many of the guests, though not from Melisande and Baba Anya, "you do not loosen your purses too much just yet. Tomorrow, I will be explaining the offer which I alluded to in your invitations, but tonight–"

One of the liveried footmen hurried up, and for the first time the beatific smile on Count Vercordi's face flickered. The footman was whispering frantically, and the Count's expression veered from mildly annoyed to a brief flash of genuine alarm. Melisande heard the murmurs from the other guests, and glanced at her godmother. "Something gone wrong?"

Baba Anya shook her head imperceptibly, as in the dark as Melisande. "Be ready."

The Count was visibly struggling to recover the air of bonhomie, and it seemed to be a losing battle. "I apologize, ladies, gentlemen, I have just received word . . . it would appear we have an unexpected guest–"

The main doors above the grand guests' staircase opened with a resounding crash, drawing everyone's attention to the group that had appeared on the landing. The man at the front was clearly, if not a construct, a very modified human, if the extra set of arms was any indication. His expression clearly said he found all of this highly undignified. Behind him, looking somewhat annoyed at the whole business and dressed as suited the heir to the tyrant of Europe, was the young man Melisande had known in Paris as Gil Holzfäller. To the point, whom she knew now from what little Ardsley had told her on his one visit home was in fact Gilgamesh Wulfenbach. Everyone recognized the uniforms of the six soldiers flanking him, weapons held across their chests, not aimed but ready to be so–one of Wulfenbach's crack units.

"Count Vercordi?" The construct's voice carried clearly across the room. Of course given you could have heard a pin drop, that wasn't as impressive as it might otherwise have been. "Baron Wulfenbach sends–"

"Oh, they know who we are, Boris," Gil interrupted, and at least his voice sounded more or less the same. "We've made your grand entrance. Let's try not to disrupt things any more, shall we? After all, the Count was just telling his guests, they're here to enjoy themselves." He brushed past Boris, who managed somehow to look even more displeased, and started down the stairs. The guests nearest the bottom of the steps all moved hastily backwards as the group descended, while trying very hard not to look nervous.

Melisande was dimly aware of the others around her, Baba Anya's murmured "Bozehemoi," the Roman and the African prince both rising from their chairs while Malmakis nervously turned a gambling chip over and over in his fingers, the rustle of silk as Lady Oyone turned in her chair, but she couldn't focus on any of it. The room was suddenly far too warm, the velvet ribbon of her locket suddenly a strangling tightness around her neck. Her gaze was locked on the man shadowing Gil down the steps, surveying the room as subtly as the Count had been obvious.

Ardsley's gaze finally turned to the baccarat table and its occupants, slid over her, and she saw his entire body jerk as he looked back and froze. Even from a distance, fighting the sudden weakness in her own legs, she saw nothing but the blue eyes and the color draining from his face.