nemophilist (n.) a haunter of woods.

"I thought I might find you here." The warmth that was not in his voice was clear in his eyes; after all, he was among his favourite people. The hallowed, hollowed space of the chapel felt protective, in some strange and fragile way – he might have compared it to an egg, in that sense, a thin veneer of shelter. The way the light streamed through the opaque amber glass at the top of the western wall lent itself to this particular metaphor, stained like yolk, dripping down across the altar and steps on the far side of the holy ground. He had paused on the flagstones, each intricately carved with a mark of the Alliette tarot: one foot on the Tower and one on the Radiance. "I knew I would find you here."

A sharp bark of laughter. "Age lends itself less towards wisdom than towards predictability, it would seem."

"He speaks for himself," Asenath said, feigning insult, "and himself alone."

"Indeed," Priscus agreed, "for you are neither wise nor predictable."

They were a most incongruous pair: on the right, a book of hymns hanging from her hand – his sister, arranged within a half-inch of perfection, as though she were half-afraid of being petrified to stone where she sat and thought it best to ensure she looked good when she was; on the left, hands smeared with a red castor-and-azalea paste – his grandfather, dark bags carved beneath his eyes as though with a knife, hair as wild as his waistcoat was bright, a pipe clenched between his teeth left unlit only according to the watchful, warning gaze of the princess beside him.

She would not tolerate any besmirchment of this place most sacrosant.

"You'll invite accusations of conspiracy," Silas said, "meeting so."

"Oh, they would accuse us regardless." Priscus smiled. He looked like a much older man when he smiled; his tan face cracked into the lines of one with far more years to his name than his usual blithe demeanour might suggest. "So why change?"

Priscus seemed at peace, Asenath slightly less so, and Silas decidedly less so, if the crisp and stilted manner in which he folded his handkerchief and pushed it back into his breast pocket could be any good indication. It was red, the better to disguise the blood which so frequently marked it; it matched, perfectly, the rubies which adorned his thumb and ring finger, the red of the signet crest hanging from his smallest knuckle. Silas liked the colour red: there was a simple vibrancy to it. He was still slightly unsteady after so long abed; he took his seat in the pew following theirs, turning to face his sister and grandfather with a vaguely expectant expression marking his cold face. "How goes the Selection?"

"I think that's my line to you," Priscus said, faintly amused. "Or has your sister commandeered the operation?"

Asenath successfully resisted the urge to express her dry disdain with a roll of her eyes or a sigh; instead, she smiled and patted her dear brother's hand gently, as though she feared bruising him with a touch alone, more motherly than sororal. "You cannot court from your deathbed, Si."

"Nor from the grave." Priscus bowed his head. "Listen to your sister, you dour bastard. Rest is sensible."

Silas smiled faintly. "I'll bear that in mind." They all knew him better than that; he consumed books voraciously, no matter the circumstances. Rest was to Silas Schreave, as to all of his ilk, anathema. Set deeply into the jewel-rich stained-glass overhead, the first king of Illéa smiled down at them beatifically, as though the royals below were the Walls newly discovered; Alliette was at his right hand and Szymańska at his left, though years of sunlight had left their faces a blighted, bleached confusion of colour-that-was-no-longer-colour. "Shall I take it there are no front-runners, then, Sena?"

"They're a lovely battalion," said Asenath. He would take her word for it. He hadn't seen a single member of the Selection; he wasn't particularly sure that he cared to see them. "I'm ruling no one out just yet. I simply don't know them well enough yet – but that will come with time."

They were already down to just thirteen, but Silas did not point this out. Priscus's eyes were the palest shade of blue that they had ever been before.

"Shall you be well enough for this palaver tonight?" The old man's hands shone with the scarlet ink that had sank in along the lines of his hands, the callouses on his knuckles, the beds of his nails. The scent of azalea wafted from him, utterly overpowering. "The dancing, the drinking, the dare I, must I?"

"It wouldn't matter if you weren't," Asenath cut in, swiftly. "I would much rather you well. If you still need time to rest, to recover, then you mustn't feel pressured at all to..."

"You picked a fine time," Silas said, his voice somewhat distant, "to busy yourself with such trivialities. I suppose if I were to depart now, the agenda would continue apace to more interesting grounds."

Sister and grandfather looked at him; they could have not looked more different, Asenath delicate and fine-featured with inky dark hair and silvery skin, Priscus weather-worn and brutish with a burnished tan and snowy white hair. But they so often had the same expressions, one having learned from the other as a more dull student learns arithmetic by rote at their desk.

Priscus broke the silence first, looked amused. He was an eccentric looking man at the best of times, all white hair and white suit. He usually didn't show his teeth when he smiled; it made the expression seem somehow more sardonic, like he formed it only because he thought that he ought. "Cynicism will be the end of you, my boy."

And Silas returned the smile, slightly. If he was to be a cynic, then he would, inevitably, be the best at it.

"Come, Sena," Priscus said, "let your brother conspire with us."

It wasn't clear where he had been hiding his ardoa, but it appeared in his hand now; he was using a beautiful antique chalice, made of the finest Nawia crystal, to drink the very cheapest of wines, Silas noted with an affectionate roll of his eyes.

He was surprised his sister did not count such frivolities as a contamination of this holy place, but a quick glance at her hands confirmed a fine ancient vintage, as dark as sin, in a beautiful diamond flute, designed like the calyx of a delicate flower. Asenath took a deep sip of her wine, and said, "he's in need of practice, it's true."

"I blame your mother." Priscus smiled into his wine. "Our Kasi does love to keep a monopoly on conspiracy."

Asenath smiled mutedly as she offered Silas her cup; he accepted it gingerly, and drank, as his sister said, "I do sometimes question your grasp on matters of economy, avus."

"Thank god the kingdom never has." Priscus glanced at Silas. His shoes were dyed black at the heels, where he had stood in ink or in ichor; it was impossible to say for definite. "What colour is the sky today?"

"Grey," Silas said. "Grey enough. Quasi-grey."

"Ah." He whistled low. "Bad day for a hunt, Sena."

"There does not seem to be a good day," Asenath said. "Not sure what we are celebrating, if our beloved tagma cannot even wrangle a single..."

She paused, and retrieved her cup from her brother, and drank deeply. Silas sympathised, though less with his sister than whatever would sustain her irritation at how matters were proceeding. When she was frustrated so, she barely betrayed a hint of her emotions on her face, but she would while away many a long night in her study below the palace, venting her vexation with some kind of vengeful vivisection. She would barely sleep this week, he knew; she might not even make it to that night's ball, unless some new good news made its way to her lap in the meanwhile.

Her grandfather nodded. "Still. Men with swords must be kept sweet."

Silas looked at his sister. "You seem alright." His voice did not betray the warmth in his eyes. Asenath was more a second mother to him than a sister; he had not even thought to worry about her, so utterly impossible did an Illéa without her seem. "Given yesterday."

"Given yesterday," Asenath said, droll. "I'm not sure Morozova could have moved slower if she tried. I nearly had to take that poor woman's fingers." She sighed. "Si, we must sort you with a personal guard; I don't trust those boys from the inner ring to hold fast if the time comes."

"Poor Björn," Silas said, rather mildly, though his voice was so cold that it seemed rather inevitable to conclude he didn't find them particularly poor at all. "Poor Agnar."

"Björn is Kelch," Priscus reminded his granddaughter – as though she needed reminding. Kelch. It seemed such a faraway land; certainly, Silas had never seen it. Silas had never breached the Wall of Schreave, let alone her two sisters.

"He's been too long away," Asenath said shortly. "Everyone in this place becomes Ganzir eventually. The colour leaks from them like dye – the bravery too." She shook her head. "There is discontent in all ranks, on every level of society. It was inevitable, in that sense."

"Can you blame them? It rather feels as though the kingdom is falling inwards on itself..."

"Yes," Asenath said, "well. Hence the Selection, I suppose."

"Hence the Selection," Priscus said, "hence me."

He patted his granddaughter gently on the arm.

"It will be alright. It always is."

The enormous oak door of the chapel creaked open; the tall, thin silhouette of Kasimira Schreave hovered on the threshold. The jacket she had thrown over her shoulders had wrinkled cuffs; the new maid was learning slowly, it would seem. "Asenath, kuv ntxhais, your father summons you." Silas didn't know in what language his mother called them so; it was not the tongue in which she had been raised. "Silas, might you have time for a walk with me before dinner?"

Silas glanced at Priscus with eyebrow raised. "Have I?"

The old man's mouth quirked. "Go. I'll be here when you come back."

"Will you?"

"Oh." Priscus Schreave sighed deeply. "I find that I always am."

The prince of druj smiled, and stood. Overhead, whatever pale light was left to the day sank slowly through the window and painted the historical tableaux of the chapel in light that seemed almost holy in a space so hallowed. Retrieving his handkerchief from his pocket, Silas dabbed gently at the red stain on his mouth. He wasn't sure if it was blood or wine. He wasn't sure if it mattered.