In Human Skin

by Akemi Homura-san

In January, a.t.b. 2010, Empress Marianne vi Britannia, Knight of Two and His Majesty's favoured consort, was assassinated at her residence in the Imperial Villa at Aries. But for Justine and Juliette vi Britannia, her daughters, this proves to be a blessing in disguise... Surrounded by old foes and sheltered by new and unexpected allies, their tale heralds the dawn of a new era.

4. Helena

Ashfordshire, July, a.t.b. 2010

The late Cassiopeia, Duchess Ashford, was afforded exactly as lavish a funeral as the peerage's sense of propriety demanded, and not a shilling more. Her internment into her graven gaol was observed, but largely unmourned, beyond the appearances that, once again, highborn standards of decency (such as they were) made compulsory. Scorpions were known to be solitary creatures, and in this, perhaps it could be said that Cassiopeia had embodied her derisive moniker until the very last. Her coffin was a lacquered mahogany thing, oblong and embossed with the heraldry of House Ashford, wrought of purest silver, and the casket was as closed during the wake as it was when finally it was interred in the Ashford family mausoleum, where generations of her line lay in cold, still repose, sheltered in the shadow of the nearby Adirondack Mountains.

Good-bye, Mother. May we never meet again.

The new Duchess Ashford and Marchioness Tremaine looked away from the box that held the corpse of the woman who birthed her, cold as the stone that now surrounded it and the woman who had once breathed a semblance of life into its shell, and considered that perhaps the only member of the funeral party who was even attempting to look convincing in his mourning of perhaps one of the most infamous social climbers in the Imperial Court was none other than Elend, her father. Then she considered that it was just as likely that he was deep in his cups even at eleven in the morning—unconscionably early by highborn standards—and was simply maudlin as a result. Then she looked to the other side of her, where her grandfather Reuben stood in a three-piece black suit and frock coat, staring at the mausoleum that now held his only daughter as if unsure on a fundamental level of his feelings on the matter. Milly couldn't relate to his conflict, but she couldn't help but understand it—whatever else she had been, after all, and Cassiopeia had been many unsavoury things in her time, she remained his daughter, sired from his loins, and birthed from his late wife's womb. It could be said, and not untruthfully, that with Cassiopeia went the last remnants of Lady Irina, Milly's maternal grandmother, from the world.

Next, her eyes drifted to Princesses Cornelia and Euphemia, with both the newly-minted Captain Darlton and Ser Gilbert of Guilford by their side as capable watchdogs. In Cornelia's lavender eyes, condolence was a sole bloom amidst a barren field of distrust; she was in dress uniform, and not for the first time, Milly thought that it made her seem quite dashing. Euphemia, in contrast, was garbed in a dress very much like the one she was known for, though blacks and greys supplanted pinks and pastels to represent an image of an altogether different sort of butterfly, her pink hair done in a manner that was at once sensible and beautiful, but her lavender gaze, so unlike Cornelia's for all that they were the same hue, was unreadable; try as she might, Milly could not perceive so much as a single layer beneath the inscrutable surface of Euphemia's most intimate being.

This brought Milly's gaze at last to her guests of honour.

Juliette's ensemble was exactly appropriate for this sort of gathering, a relatively understated black gown, devoid of the frills the late Empress Marianne favoured for Juliette and quietly mature as a result, that seemed practically sacred in how it accentuated the natural innocence of her features, making of her petite, slender form an immaculate flower of virtue, one that far eclipsed Princess Euphemia's attempt to fill the same role. Her ash brown hair was done up in such a way as to put the softness of her features into full and remarkable flourish, her gentle beauty bolstered in every choice she had made.

Justine, however, was practically an icon of sin; her propriety was only technical, and in the sepulchral setting of the mausoleum and the grounds of the main Ashford Estate upon which it stood, it danced practically on a knife's edge of indecency. It wasn't lewd, per se; the black dress she wore covered her body as completely as Juliette's did hers. In fact, it was in many respects practically the same dress. But flourishes of spidery lace evocative of the cruel, hooked thorns of a rose, delicate latticework of what looked to be golden thread, and the shimmering multihued black of corvian feathers all came together to adorn the silk of Justine's. They gathered at the shoulders and her neck as a mantle, and then danced their way down her form, to lend it an altogether distinct character from the original. It was sharp, stark, and fervently unapologetic. But this was no act of rebellion; it was not defiance that the dress brought forth from Justine, but rather dominion.

Her raven hair was arranged, in contrast to Juliette's, to bring into sharp relief the stark, terrifying beauty of the planes, curves, and angles of Justine's face. Her eyes were harsher, framed in such a way that their violet hue pierced and cut, accused and judged—icy and remote, graven and burnished to a brilliant shine. Altogether, though perhaps it fulfilled all the basic requirements of the garb one might wear to the funeral of a noblewoman, it was a flagrant defiance of the spirit of such a gathering. The image unified into a single moment when Justine's violet eyes met hers, her lips curving up into a sharp-edged smirk that softened as it reached her eyes; in that moment, Milly felt her blood begin to boil as her heart hammered against her ribs, thudding out of time.

And in that moment, the reality of the situation crashed into Milly: that Cassiopeia was well and truly dead. With Elend in no position to approve or deny any betrothal offers she might have received due to the matrilineal arrangement of the union of Houses Tremaine and Ashford, that left only her grandfather, the current grand duke, as the single person who could even think of stopping her from laying claim to what was hers, out in the open and in view of the whole world. Her victory was within her grasp. She had to but reach out and claim it.

A wave of something approaching illness swept over Milly, so heady was the realisation. It occurred to her then, like a puzzle finally finding its missing piece, a final thread to make all the rest fall into place, that when Juliette had asked her that question back in January, in the aftermath of the emperor's disavowal of her beloved, his denouncement of them in all but name, perhaps in that moment, the eye of her mind was fixed on this very day, this exact instant. Since that day, this had been Juliette's plan. She had known, of course, that Juliette had been behind the death of Duchess Cassiopeia, but to know she had decided upon it that day? Perhaps she had been a touch too harsh in her view of Justine's younger sister, had misjudged her and thus done her a disservice.

To speak of her feelings in such a setting would be unseemly, but she could not help but try and force into her eyes a fraction of the emotions Justine inspired in her—and by how Justine's pale cheeks flushed crimson, it appeared she had succeeded. Instead of dwelling on this as her composure began to fracture, as it always did around the younger girl, Milly moved to her grandfather's side in a rush and a flourish of maudlin skirts. The service was over, and while what she was about to do would be a faux pas, it would not be in any way a defiance of the principles that kept the nobility from killing each other, tyrannical emperor or no.

"Grandfather."

Reuben, Grand Duke Ashford, tore his eyes away from the stone mausoleum within which his only child's remains were now interred, and blinked as if shaken from a moment of dissociation as they took in Milly's frame before him. "Oh, Milly! I apologise. I just lost my daughter, but you just lost your mother. I suppose I'm being terrible company…"

"We both know what Mother was, Grandfather," Milly replied by way of explanation.

A dark furrow creased Grand Duke Reuben's brow. "Y-yes, I… I suppose we do. Forgive me, Milly. I suppose that it was… It was blind of me, and insensitive to boot, to expect anything different from you on that score."

Milly favoured her grandfather with a smile, but there was no mirth in it; and neither was there any mirth in his own smile as he returned the gesture. "You have always tried to do right by me, Grandfather. Words cannot express how grateful I am for the opportunities you've given me over the years."

This time, there was some real warmth behind Grand Duke Reuben's smile. "Nonsense, Milly. Nothing has given me quite as much joy as watching you grow up into the fine young woman you are today. Capable, resourceful, passionate… It was my greatest shame as a parent, that my own daughter could not see in hers the woman I see when I look at you."

Milly matched his warmth; she didn't find it particularly difficult to do so, given that her storgic feelings towards her grandfather were quite genuine indeed. More than that, she was emboldened; she had supposed that Reuben would assent to her decision, and now she was more sure of that than ever. It was galvanising, in a way. "Thank you, Grandfather. You have indeed given me much, but now I must ask more of you."

Reuben blinked. "Well, you have to but name it, and of course I'll be sure to see it done. You can ask me for anything. You know this, Milly."

Milly favoured him with another smile, but this one was quite thin-lipped. "I think you'll find that I'm asking more of you than I ever have before, Grandfather. It's… What I want to ask of you… This is very important to me, you understand."

Reuben's gaze turned severe. "Perhaps we would be better served discussing this inside, Carmilla, well away from prying ears."

Milly shook her head. "I think you know what I want by now, Grandfather, and I think you know why I can't do that."

Her grandfather's answering smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, an expression that was every bit as joyous as it was lachrymose. "You're growing up so fast, Milly. Please, excuse this old man for wanting to preserve even a little bit of the tyke I remember. Ask me, then. Have your moment. And remember that no matter what, I am so proud of you."

The double entendre almost made Milly freeze; but when at last her mind managed to process it in its entirety, she looked to her grandfather, the Grand Duke of Ashford, and saw at once a man that was more than a blood relative, but an ally, an evergreen friend. Nodding, then, she set her feet, cleared her throat, and filled her lungs.

"Grandfather, I, Carmilla Elizabeth Ashford, humbly request your blessing to pledge my troth to Her Royal Highness, Princess Justine vi Britannia."

The question, asked in a clear tone, yet no louder than any other part of the exchange that she had had with Grand Duke Reuben, nevertheless rendered the lichyard as silent as the abundance of idiom to which it gave rise; and for an errant moment, Milly wondered if this was how Justine felt whenever she silenced the room without even changing her tone to any degree of extremity. Those who had come to witness the funeral of the Lady Scorpion, infamous though she was, and had elected to linger, lent a terse atmosphere of shock to the moment of silence.

Reuben, Grand Duke Ashford sighed, and perhaps those were tears brimming in his eyes that now made them so cloudy, as he blinked them away without shedding them. His smile was even more joyous, and even more sad. "Well, I suppose it's a lesson any parent must learn some day, that one day, their children will grow up. Do not mistake my meaning! You are not there yet, young lady, no matter how it might seem. But I would be a poor father indeed, if I were to refuse to acknowledge these first steps you are taking down that long and winding road. Very well. If it is your wish, and provided the princess, or any regent she might have, give consent to the match, then you have my full blessing, and my most heartfelt wish of good fortune. You have leave to offer your troth to Her Highness; and should she accept it, you may formally consider yourselves engaged to be married. I'll take the liberty of having my man draw up the papers now, if you'd like, and we can have this signed and sealed by sundown."

Milly grinned, her chest swelling with elation; in the next moment, half the wind was knocked out of her lungs. She looked down, and a mass of black had wrapped itself around her waist and shoulders as if seeking to merge with her completely; and from this mass of black came a breathless barrage of words. "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, of course I consent!"

Justine.

Demure, reserved, composed Justine…

The princess seemed to suddenly realise where she was, and beat a hasty retreat, folding herself into a prim posture even as her cheeks flushed crimson in recognition of what she had done. "I mean…"

Milly could not help herself. Euphoria suffused her every limb, every cell, every pore and follicle of hair, an ambrosia so heady and intoxicating that her arms lashed out around her new betrothed to crush her back into the same proximity, heedless of any sort of discomfort Justine, delightful, beautiful, wonderful, adorable Justine, might have felt over her own effusive display of enthusiasm. "You meant exactly what you said, my love. Don't you dare pretend otherwise…"

"Well then," remarked Reuben, astonished but ever accommodating. "I suppose that's about as clear of an answer one can give. Wouldn't you agree, my fellow lords and ladies?"

A polite chuckle went up from the assembled peerage; yet, when Milly looked around, she saw that Cornelia and Euphemia were retreating towards their vehicle in the distance, one of their guards on each flank. For once, a conflict seized Milly. On the one hand, she had in no way intended to hurt Euphy, and had told her the complete truth a few weeks ago at what was now her personal residence, that she held no ill will at all towards the girl, her future sister-in-law, who was once something of a friend to her.

Yet, on the other hand…

And so, freed of any reason to feel even the slightest bit of guilt about it, Milly claimed her first kiss from the woman who would one day be her bride.

---

Hours later, as morning weaned into early afternoon, after ever-faithful, capable Sayoko had brought the two sisters vi Britannia deeper into the manor, citing the need for a change of clothes, Milly sat in the salon attached to her childhood chambers in this place, alone with the trappings of her past and thoughts of her future. Her maid—a hardened shinobi and heir to her clan, and with it, their traditions and their standing in the murky, subtle, secretive world of the ninja—had hied herself off to somewhere in this very room, she did not for a moment doubt; for all that she could not spot the woman, she could sense her presence to an extent, the chill of it similar enough to Justine that the sense she had developed for one could be applied to the other, albeit loosely. Jeremiah Gottwald attended to Juliette and Justine, and while she had not been pleased to have been kept ignorant of the strike against the Office of Secret Intelligence (to put it mildly), he had proven himself dependable and loyal beyond the wild doubts of even her most paranoid suspicions; as such, she had no issue whatsoever with allowing him to guard that which was most precious to her in all the heavens and earth.

Thus, when the door to her chamber creaked open, the hinges left with only the absolute bare minimum of lubrication required to make sure they still worked at all so that their squealing would always alert her to new entries, she remained calm and composed, and did not even look away from the sip of tea she was taking. The demeanour she adopted wasn't particularly difficult to maintain—whenever Justine was within reach, or Milly was consumed by thoughts of her, her passions ran wild, well past the bounds of obsession; in the absence of her presence, however, a drab grey pall surrounded her, and indeed all the world. It was not despair that brought about this pall, nor even the most commonplace of melancholies; it was boredom, crushing boredom and a profound, all-devouring ennui, that mired itself within every nook and cranny of her mind and soul. Were she in a mood for poetry, she supposed she might think upon Justine as a brilliant, blazing star, bright as the dawn, her radiant golden light shining its rays of aurum in magnificent, burning defiance of the featureless, smothering pitch-black expanse that comprised the whole of the rest of Milly's existence. She was celestial, and she was immaculate; all the other lights in the night sky burned in pale imitation of her, and she presided in pitiless dominion over all of them, purely by virtue that that same dominion was hers and hers alone to claim.

And why shouldn't Milly want for nothing more than to claim that fallen star for her own?

It was the only sensible conclusion, really.

Not that she would be particularly bothered if it wasn't.

After all, what use was sense or sanity in a world where Justine existed?

"Carmilla."

This time, she did look away from her repast, her brow furrowing in mild irritation as the vibrant warmth that suffused her paused in its spread. She recognised the voice, for all that she heard it so very rarely that she could be forgiven for failing to recognise it.

Taking a deep inhale, she favoured the man who had sired her with the same ersatz smile that had fooled her mother, all the way until her end. "Father. This is a pleasant surprise."

To say that Elend, Duke-Consort Ashford—or was that Dowager Duke-Consort?—was a pretty man would be a feat of understatement. House Tremaine had once claimed descent from the line of Emperor Ricardo, just as the current emperor and the entire Imperial Family did, and given Lord Elend's striking resemblance to an older, more matured Prince Clovis, who was in many ways his spitting image, such a connection certainly seemed likely. He was a beautiful man, tall and slender, with long, wavy blond hair (which she had had the good fortune to inherit), delicate fey features, and bright, startlingly clear emerald eyes, for which his line was known; his lavish lifestyle of indulgence had done very little to take that from him over the years. Indeed, even with how comparatively haggard he seemed, his eyes bloodshot, his bearing slouched, and his face wan, he seemed to already be much-improved from how he had been the last time she saw her father. In fact, she noted with some surprise, that it seemed as though his wife's murder had agreed with him.

He had attended the funeral attired in mourning clothes, as was custom; he now appeared before her so garbed, yet absent his frock and waistcoat, leaving him in a steel-grey blouse and a jabot that was only slightly lighter in hue. His black trousers and knee-high boots were streaked with traces of dried mud from the grounds, and she supposed that perhaps he had been roaming, gathering what few thoughts fluttered through his flighty head. Though, the steady emerald gaze with which he regarded her hardly seemed as frivolous as the man's reputation might suggest.

The nobleman from whose loins she had sprung alighted upon a settee across the table from her, upon which were piled the few leavings of her midday meal, and crossed his legs over his lap, folding his hands upon them. Yet, it seemed the flippancy of his posture was habitual, and not specific, and that quelled her drive to see him rebuffed as swiftly as she could manage, if only slightly. When he took a breath, it was somehow tense, and she sensed that whatever matter he meant to address was of uncommon gravity. "I suppose congratulations are in order!"

"Thank you," she replied cordially, quietly uncertain of how to interpret his clearly false exuberance. "To pledge one's troth to a member of the Imperial Family is, of course, a great honour, regardless of—"

"That…wasn't what I meant, Carmilla," Elend interjected, his awkward expression a clear betrayal of his unease, his gaze firm. He sighed heavily. "Though I suppose I can hardly blame you for thinking such idle frivolity encompasses the sum total of my ken. Cassiopeia had quite the ill opinion of me, and I wasn't exactly around to defend myself, or even give any sort of demonstration of their untruth. Which, in fairness, she wasn't entirely wrong."

"There were quite a few things she wasn't entirely wrong about," Milly remarked. "And yet, she perished all the same."

"Yes. One does not need to be entirely wrong to bring peril upon themselves," said Elend. "In fact, it is far more perilous to not be entirely wrong. Cassiopeia was a clever woman, and much like many other clever people throughout history, she failed to consider that though she might not have been entirely wrong, she could well have been just wrong enough. Which is, of course, what ultimately happened."

"How very insightful," said Milly, her eyes somewhat wider than they had been.

Elend snorted. "Hardly. It was a supremely milquetoast insight that all but the lowliest of commoners might discover, given sufficient time. I have had fifteen years, and not a day less, to accomplish that paltry feat. I know you think me an idiot, Carmilla, a foppish dandy with naught betwixt his ears save what might be in fashion next season—and to an extent that's true—but I would thank you not to patronise me all the same."

Milly blinked, taken aback. The fact that this was not only far and away the most she'd spoken to her father in one sitting, but also more words than she'd spoken to him in the rest of the totality of her twelve years of life (by a small margin, but still), only added to the oddity that so astounded her.

Elend settled back into the settee, his gaze growing sharper and even more aquiline. "I am an idiot. That much is not, and certainly has never been, in doubt, Carmilla. But I am an idiot who is well aware of his own idiocy. As a consequence, I notice many things that people who are themselves much cleverer than I, who are enamoured of their own intellect and ignorant of their own ignorance, never do. You are cleverer than your mother by far, and were it not for the hue of your hair, I do not doubt that there are many who would speculate that Cassiopeia gave me the horns and had her father do my duty in the bridal bed.

"Now as it happens, she did give me the horns, and on more than one occasion, such that the hue of your hair is my only assurance that it was my seed that quickened in the end, but that is besides the point. You are clever, Carmilla. Brilliant, even. There is not a doubt in my mind, such as it is, that you are every bit as formidable as your grandfather; and further, that you will find that you have surpassed him somewhat sooner than you might expect yourself to." Elend adjusted his posture, and it was clear that as he continued to speak his piece, the more comfort he felt in speaking more of it. "I may be among the worst sorts of fathers, one among a great mire, a seething mass, of failed paternity. That, I shall freely grant. But, Carmilla, even had you need of the throne in order to assume control of the world, which I know you do not, I know you would have sought the hand of your intended purely for the sake of the love you feel for her. It is a precious thing that many among the peerage consistently fail to value, to their detriment. Swaddled in their power, they have forgotten how to love, I believe. They have forgotten above all that they are but men, one and all—that they are fallible, delicate, and intrinsically mortal. Cassiopeia was one such aristocrat, a bastion and shining exemplar of their peculiar hubris. And so to see that you understand the value of the love you bear, that you understand it so much more profoundly than I ever could…it gives me no end of joy to know that while I may not have contributed to the grandeur of who you are, I have also managed not to detract from it, either."

"I…" Milly wracked her brain for something, anything, to say. She had to find something to say that would in some way respond to the sincerity that buoyed up every word out of Elend's mouth, did not want to think of how mortifying it would be were she to fail, but it was as though the clockwork mechanisms that comprised her mind had seized up, its axles rusted, the teeth of the cogs screeching to a grinding halt. All she could think to do was to respond to his sincerity with as sincere of a statement as she could think to make at the moment. "I don't know what to say, I'm afraid."

Elend favoured her with a smile that was cutting even in its kindness, its sanguinity, as effortless as breathing, morphing it into something more akin to a smirk. In a flash, Milly saw that same expression on her own face, and knew it for another inheritance. Her false smile was Cassiopeia—her true smile, Elend. "My dear Carmilla, you needn't be afraid. I do not come here to seek your clemency or beg your indulgence. I believe that you and I both know that would be wasted breath, and that the time for me to gird my loins and be a proper father to you has come and gone. Indeed, it will never come again. Your grandfather did not aid Cassiopeia in granting me the horns I wore during the days of her life, but he has nevertheless assumed the role I was meant to fill, and in my absence, he has done so with surpassing splendour, far more than I could ever really muster. You have gained in him a father who in his surrogacy outstrips any paternal contribution than I could offer, even under the auspices of my most profuse and resolute of child rearing efforts. I would have to be every bit the fool Cassiopeia dismissed me as to think that even in the full span of a man's life, I could ever usurp that."

"Then why have you come?" Milly asked, her voice harsher than she intended—she did not like being this off-guard, and it provoked some instinctive inclination towards aggression that made its lair within her.

To his credit, Elend did not seem to pay her tone any mind. "Closure, Carmilla. I wish to open a door, should you allow it. I cannot be your father, as we both know. That time has long since gone and past. I spent fifteen years of mummery in bondage to Cassiopeia, and I am in no hurry to commit to another folly. But more than that, Carmilla, I would be doing you an immense disservice. You deserve better than what I can give you. Better than an imitation. But that does not mean I intend to abdicate my responsibility to you simply because time has forced it into a different shape entirely.

"Simply put, Carmilla, I wish to be a part of your life. There are no pretty words or noble declarations that can erase the scar of the time we have lost, the time I have forsaken. But all the same, I refuse to be a source of anguish in your life, however small or insignificant." Elend paused, mulling over his next words with a contemplative cast to his features that was yet another in the growing litany of things of which she had been ignorant concerning the man who had sired her. "I care not for whichever role or post you would have me fill towards that end. It is your life, and it is up to you what shape our relationship may take to fit within it. I will be content with merely a bit part in the grand production that is to be your time upon this stage which is the world. Or, you may wish me gone, and I shall leave without complaint. If I am to be in your life, it will be on your terms, and by your will. Yours, and yours alone."

With that, Elend unfolded his posture, and stood at once to his full, towering height. "By your leave, I shall continue to dwell within this house a while longer. I understand full well the magnitude of the decision I have dropped into your lap—or perhaps I do not; after all, I am here in part because I do not know you as well as I feel I ought, and truly wish to amend that—and so I do not wish for you to feel any social obligation to furnish me with any sort of pleasantry of a reply. You may take your time, confer amidst your circle of loved ones, and give me whatever answer you deem appropriate, whenever you deem it appropriate. I have missed twelve years of your life, Carmilla. I owe it to you to await your reply for at least that long. Perhaps then, I will have begun to atone, in some small way, to my rambling litany of failures as a man, and as a father. As your father."

Milly nodded mutely to the last of the Tremaines, and stared at him as he swept out of her chambers as suddenly as he had entered. Rallying her composure, she raised the tea cup, still in her grasp for all that it was so easily forgotten, to her lips, and took one final mouthful of what remained of the draught within.

It was cold.

---

For almost a decade now, Desiderata li Britannia, one of the One Hundred Eight Imperial Consorts and mother of Princesses Cornelia and Euphemia, resided far away from Pendragon as well as her lord husband. The townhouse on St. Darwin Street had since counted only the two princesses as its residents, while their mother seemed more than content to while away her days in a palatial estate nestled in the drab, rainy forests of the Pacific Northwest, near the border of Area Two; and it was to this estate that the sisters travelled immediately after leaving the rugged natural beauty of the demesne of House Ashford.

The limousine ride from the manor grounds of Ashfordshire, Milly's ancestral home and thus capital of the duchy, had been spent in tense yet total silence, and on that account, Princess Euphemia saw fit to count her blessings. She prayed for that silence to continue indefinitely, but even as the thoughts percolated in her mind, she knew that such an entreaty would be utterly in vain. Her older sister was wonderful most of the time, and indeed, most of the time Euphemia would concede that she could not have asked for a better caretaker than Nelly; but there were times when her sister would see something that stuck in her jaw, a wound to her pride that would corrupt and fester as her ire roused, until she was livid and all but incapable of listening to any reason save her own. Those times, Cornelia's worst traits became magnified, and she became in virtually every way their father's daughter. She was mulish, domineering, overbearing, quick to anger and slow to calm, brutish and dismissive in those moments, and in those same moments, Euphemia, much to her immediate and profound chagrin, found she could not help but loathe her elder sister.

And as the hour drew on, the air growing ever thicker the closer the car drew to New York City, its airport, and the aeroplane that awaited them there, Euphemia knew this to be one of those times.

Ever since Milly's display with Justine at Lady Cassiopeia's funeral, the rosette princess could only watch as, much like an old clockwork toy soldier, the tension in Cornelia's form wound tighter and tighter by the moment, and every time Euphemia considered the next moment to be the one in which her sister would snap, she watched with astonishment and dawning horror as that same tension only continued to wind. The tighter Nelly wound herself, the greater the spectacle there would be to her inevitable eruption, and this one was shaping up to be a tirade of legendary proportions, the equal of any their father might give—the equal of the very same one he had levied against Justine, in fact.

Euphemia had watched the recording in the days since they had visited the pair at the villa, and she had learned that Milly had won her sister's hand, much to her sinking dismay. She had seen Justine's composure crack on that recording, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that in that moment, their father had provoked the ire of his favoured bride's children. Given that, she was at least glad that Cornelia had not vented her own fury in front of Justine. She did not know what she would do were her two favourite sisters to become enemies. And yet, worse than that, she felt as though she had only delayed the inevitable in that regard, that there was little and less she could do to avert that eventuality.

The car's wheels slowed to a halt, and the partition that separated the four-person party of Cornelia, Euphemia, Captain Darlton, and Guilford from the driver's pit was pulled aside. The driver, one of House Ashford's many lowborn valets, was a kind-looking, genuine sort of man, somewhere in the middle of his thirties, and it was for this reason she winced as he spoke. "Your highnesses, we have arrived at Elizabeth III Memorial International Airport. Safe travels, and on behalf of House Ashford, it has been a pleasure to serve you both."

Guilford took his cue, the too-serious bespectacled man opening the door, climbing out of his window seat, and extending his hand to Nelly to help her out, and Darlton seemed to deem it wise to follow suit for Euphemia's sake. Yet the tension did not diffuse as Euphemia had dared to hope it might once they left the enclosed, if spacious, quarters of the luxurious vehicle, and it put the princess ill at ease, awash with the fear that Cornelia would be unable to contain herself and make a scene before they made it to their plane. Such tensions lingered as they swept their way through reserved lanes and sections of the civilian airport, passing by the seething throngs of commoners, gentry both landed and unlanded, and lower nobility that mingled in the large open halls built for accommodation and not exclusivity, and it wound to an almost delirious intensity once they reached the Imperial Family's private airfield, named for Empress Marianne, in that peculiar way that having one's goal in sight can significantly escalate their stress as it pertained to its achievement.

Thankfully, they were well and truly aboard Britannia-3, the private jet of the li Britannia family, sleek and silver and angular in a way indicative of Britannian design, without any sort of significant incident. The pilot, an old friend of Captain Darlton's from the aeronautics program at Imperial Colchester, was one of Nelly's creatures, and he saluted her as she came aboard in spite of his civilian status and low birth. Euphemia had a moment to consider how fortuitous her elder sister was to have the sense and opportunity to surround herself with those who believed in her, and her merit; yet her attention was irrevocably fixed on Cornelia as the other princess slowly approached the champagne in crystalline glassware, positioned on the lacquered cherry table that separated the cabin's luxurious leather seats. The Third Princess picked up the delicately figured flute, swirling the light amber sparkling liquid around in it, cold enough to frost the glass, and in a single moment of rancour, dashed it against the carpeting.

The shattering of glass provoked a flinch from Euphemia, but Guilford, to his credit, did not hesitate to make for the cleaning supplies to pick up the mess. These outbursts were rare for Cornelia, but they were by no means unheard of; thankfully, the destructive portion of her rage was usually satisfied with a single act, and this time was no different, the elder princess crashing into her aisle seat with a sort of boneless, exhausted exasperation. Well-practised at handling Nelly's temper as she was, Euphemia waited for Darlton to take his window seat, and then took her own aisle perch, arranging her skirts with hands and fingers made deft with repetition.

"That little tart…" Cornelia hissed venomously, her lavender eyes flashing in fury very similar to their father's. "To indulge in such a blatant, flagrant, flippant display, and at her own mother's funeral, no less! Treacherous, duplicitous, scheming… Has she no shame?! No sense of decency, or propriety?!"

Euphemia considered her dainty hands in her lap, pale and yet ruddier with life than the porcelain pallor of Justine's long, delicate, dextrous digits, against the backdrop of the black and grey fabrics of the dress that was otherwise identical to the floral, lepidopteran design of garment that she wore to practically every other occasion, and saw only Cornelia's seeming obsession with protecting her innocence, made manifest in those saccharine accents and themes. It seemed almost ridiculous, in a way, to be the same age as the sister she so desired, and yet in almost every way so far behind her, and at least some of the blame for this ludicrous state of affairs lay squarely at her twenty-year-old sister's feet. The nine years between them seemed to perhaps be quite enough time for Cornelia to forget what it was to be her age, and Justine's age. Guilford finally joined them, securing himself for take-off, and finally, Euphemi found the words that would willingly pass her lips. "Has it occurred to you that you seem more furious on my behalf than I am, Nelly?"

"Yes, and I attribute that directly to your lack of a significant presence at court, that you seem to have no appreciation for how deeply she slighted you," Cornelia replied, her voice harsh as her anger seemed to twist the mature beauty of her countenance into a rictus of animosity. "I may have held out hope that you would grow out of your infatuation with Justine, and I still do, but that infatuation is nevertheless well-known, and for her to insult you like that…"

It occurred to Euphemia, and not for the first time, that save for the hue of their hair, with her own pastel-pink ringlets against Cornelia's wavy magenta cascade, she and her sister were not so dissimilar in appearance. Perhaps the very same youthful softness had lurked in every line and curve of the Third Princess's face at her age as it currently did in that of the Seventh. Perhaps Cornelia was not driven by a need to protect Euphemia's innocence, she realised, so much as she saw Euphemia as a means to avenge the early loss of her own. It was not a particularly pleasant idea, and she supposed that just as her naivete in comparison to Justine could have its blame laid at Cornelia's feet, Euphemia herself could not honestly say that she, too, did not rightly bear the burden of wrongdoing herself. After all, Cornelia's overbearing nature might have been reigned in by this point, had Euphemia's indolence not been read as compliance.

Was it simply that she had never been worthy of Justine, then? For most assuredly, Milly had more than proven her willingness to fight for the hand of the Fourth Princess; the late Lady Cassiopeia's corpse, cold and still, was as decisive and unambiguous a testament to that as any that Euphemia's imagination could conceive of conjuring. It begged the question: she herself had never been particularly close with her mother, and the same was true of Cornelia, but if it was not Milly's existence, but instead Empress Desiderata's life, that stood between her and Justine, could she even comprehend finding the resolve and the willingness to see the woman dead?

What would spur Euphemia li Britannia, Seventh Princess of the Empire, into action?

And what, exactly, was she willing to sacrifice in pursuit of that goal?

As the nausea of the plane lifting off and beginning to climb came and went, Euphemia was forced to conclude that she was herself not possessed of many particularly noteworthy skills—or at least, skills that the Empire might consider particularly noteworthy. She didn't quite have Justine's genius or Juliette's cunning, nor even Nelly's sheer athleticism. What she did have was something of a way with reading people, with deciphering their natures and their intentions. There were impressions which she kept very much to herself—her impression of her father struck something of a rather dangerous contrast with Nelly's opinion of the man as someone cold of heart, but at least even of hand, almost fair in his own transactional way, and so that was one such example—and in such times, she would let her company speak their minds on that subject, and carefully word her reply so as neither to lie outright, nor provoke a conflict; yet she was nonetheless quite confident in her assessments, more often than not.

It was this sense that informed her that there was perhaps nothing that Carmilla Ashford would not sacrifice to have Justine, save perhaps Justine herself. And as Euphemia herself could think of nothing she desired quite so vehemently as Milly desired Justine, she considered that more than speaking what she believed to be true, Milly had instead spoken the truth when she said that Euphemia herself had never been a threat to the new duchess's desires. This time, there was perhaps no avoiding the validity of that assertion.

It was with this in mind that Euphemia found within herself a point from which to engage with Cornelia, to contest her instead of merely backing down. After all, what reason would Nelly have to cease monopolising her wellbeing if Euphemia was unwilling to seize it herself?

"Nelly, I can tell you with absolute certainty that the matter of my existence was not remotely a factor in determining Milly's behaviour, let alone my reputation at court," the Seventh Princess began, her voice gaining strength with each word that passed from between her natural pout. "In fact, I would be surprised if she even registered my presence for more than a moment in passing. And remember, sister, that she damaged her reputation at least as much as she damaged mine, and probably more. I sincerely doubt that she cares one way or another."

"I don't care about her reputation, Euphy, I care about yours," Cornelia all but snarled.

"Then perhaps it is past time that I take steps to manage my reputation at court myself," Euphemia replied coolly.

"Absolutely not," and this time, Cornelia did snarl. "I will not suffer to watch you throw yourself into that pit of vipers."

"Then you may avert your eyes, dear sister; it makes no difference to me." Euphemia felt a curious mantle of calm settle about her shoulders, prompting her to shift from the prim posture she was used to and into a much more languid state of repose.

"This isn't a game, Euphy!"

"Go and tell them that, Nelly. They're the ones who need to hear it. Your words and warnings are wasted on me," remarked Euphemia. "The fact of the matter, sister, is that Justine and Juliette are making to come into their own, Milly has a title of her own now, as well as a betrothal, and I was left behind. Or rather, I allowed myself to be left behind. Milly's point was not meant in malice, but it was well-taken."

"I will stand in your way if I must, Euphemia. You're too young!"

"'Too young,' is it?!" Euphemia exclaimed, scandalised. "His Majesty wasn't even my age when he started his ascension to the throne!"

"The answer is 'no,' Euphy, and that's final."

"I wasn't asking you, Nelly," Euphemia hissed venomously, leaning forth in her seat and finally losing her grip on the temper she only barely knew herself to have. "And if you insist on making yourself an obstacle for me here, you may rest assured that I have other sisters who are more than capable of removing your obstruction."

"Neither Justine nor Juliette would dare—!"

"Friederike, Cornelia," Euphemia spat out, and she then relaxed into her seat. "Even so, you will find, sooner or later, that there are a great many things the daughters of Marianne can, and will, dare to do."

"Friederike won't help you! She feels the same as I do."

"Are you certain of that, sister?" asked Euphemia, and it was a rhetorical question. "Are you so sure that Friede, perhaps the most ruthless, efficient, and mercurial of our royal siblings, the top contender to the throne, is so wedded to your sense of sentiment?"

Cornelia's face flushed with rage. "So help me, Euphemia, I will—"

"You'll what, disown me?" Euphemia scoffed. "Last I checked, you were neither our lady mother, nor His Majesty. That power is beyond you, Cornelia."

Guilford, at last, started into action. "Your highness, your sister has only ever had your best interests at…"

"I don't recall requesting your input, Ser Gilbert," she hissed, and there was a surge of satisfaction as the knight flinched in the face of her ire. "Nor, for that matter, have I heard such a request slip from between my sister's lips, either. Your ambition to the post of my sister's consort is well-known. You would do well to tread carefully, lest you find yourself one day choking on your aspirations."

Gilbert, bastard-born of the defunct noble houses Gaughan and Prendergast, and adopted scion of the staunch and steadfast House Guilford—a family that were themselves lesser nobility, bordering on landed gentry—had never dared to so much as raise his voice at the favoured sister of his beloved Princess Cornelia; and yet, as his own face flushed, and Cornelia's face soured in discomfort that served to quell some of her anger, Euphemia felt herself grow oddly giddy at the thought that he might actually breach that boundary this time.

And yet, it was the voice less often heard, yet always the voice of reason when the others failed to be, that put a stop to the mounting altercation. "Well, I, for one, am in full support of the idea, albeit with caveats."

Cornelia turned to her other subordinate, and past her obvious shock, Euphemia could not clearly discern the thoughts in her head. Guilford, on the other hand, was much more overt with his astonishment. "Andreas?!"

Andreas Darlton lifted his gaze to the other two, allowing Euphemia herself a glance that itself served to quench her own rising anger. The message in the stoic man's graven gaze was in that moment abundantly clear: watch and learn. "Your highness, with all due respect, seeking to keep your sister under your aegis indefinitely is a fool's errand. Were His Majesty to decide on a whim that the Princess Euphemia would be better served as a marriage prospect for some far-off title, there would be little and less you could do to stop him."

"He wouldn't risk my contributions to the Empire!" Cornelia protested.

"Aye, I will concede that it is highly unlikely that he will find a practical purpose that will justify such an act, and that your assessment on that point is therefore correct," Darlton nodded, and here he gestured, raising a finger to put a pause to interruption. "But His Majesty's power is at once singular and absolute. He is not beholden to concerns such as practicality, and they do not shackle him. He might call for a culling of half the peerage for no purpose beyond his own amusement, and the other half would call it divine ordainment and scramble over themselves to rip each other apart over recently-vacated lands, holdings, and titles. The status quo as we know it is maintained solely at his indulgence, and that includes things that he considers trivial, such as his children's right to arrange their own mother's burial and receive their lawful inheritance. You cannot honestly believe that he does not hold Princess Euphemia's current status to rest at the same level of triviality, Cornelia. You are grasping after a dream, scrambling to hold what little power and influence you may convince yourself that you wield. Just like every other highborn in all the realm.

"Euphemia is safe because it suits His Majesty. Were he to decide it suits him to revoke that safety, I daresay you know as well as I that you would quickly find yourself without those you once counted as friends, who now gaze upon your throat, waiting for their moment to lunge."

"You speak sedition," Guilford hissed, his eyes glancing to and fro in sudden fear.

"I speak the truth," Darlton countered. "After all, was it not for that duty, and my will to fulfil it, that I was granted a place in our liege lady's retinue?"

"You're right," said Cornelia, and it sounded as though the words strangled her from the inside as they passed through her throat. "Damn it, Darlton, but you're right. And yet, I know not what else to do…"

"I am no Princess Friederike, your highness—no peerless political genius by whose will and acts the tides of power ebb and flow," Darlton began. "And yet, what we witnessed today, more than your sister's seeming dishonour, was the gestation of a bloc. For all their differing goals, I believe Princess Euphemia here may attest that all members of that bloc share a fondness for her, which is more than can be said for His Majesty."

Euphemia saw this opening, and added her own testament, though it amounted to little more than an affirmation. "Milly said that she didn't want friction between us, since it would cause Justine discomfort for the fondness she holds, and Juliette seems to be of the same mind."

Cornelia nodded, though Euphemia knew it was more an acknowledgement of her input as a facet of Darlton's counsel.

"You cannot protect your sister forever, Cornelia, so to me, it seems wisest to give her at least a fighting chance at protecting herself," Darlton continued. "Let her make her entry into the world of court life, and trust that this bloc which is so fond of her, a bloc that through Princess Justine has the favour of the Prime Minister herself, will work to court her allegiance."

"You would have me place my sister's safety in their hands?!"

"Your sister's safety was never yours to place," said Darlton. "What I would have you do is accept that as the reality we occupy, and then allow her to place her trust in those she considers friends of hers. And she could do worse than Duchess Carmilla. That woman… she's every bit as vicious as her infamous mother, and twice as formidable.

"And if that is insufficient, I would have you put your trust in me, your highness. I can both perform my duties as your second-in-command, and place myself at Princess Euphemia's disposal whenever she should require my counsel."

Cornelia now scrutinised Darlton with a fair degree of suspicion. "Are you certain?"

Darlton shrugged. "I've already adopted a few boys. What's one more ward? And a few of them are aspiring to military service themselves, so it'll do them some good to get some experience as her bodyguards. Confidants, one could say, instead of a squad of faceless adults by whom she'll only feel suffocated."

Now Cornelia's attention swept to Euphemia, and her gaze was appraising, before her eyes slid closed, and she heaved a heavy sigh. "I suppose Darlton has a point. This absolutely cannot continue indefinitely. The question becomes, then: if I accept Darlton's suggestion, will you heed him and adhere to its terms?"

Euphemia smiled, and the feeling that came with it was equal parts relief and melancholy. When had this wall formed between them, she wondered, that they could no longer understand one another through it? "I will, Nelly."

Cornelia sighed again, and nodded. "Then I will allow it. But this will end the moment Darlton deems it necessary. Understood?"

It was better than Euphemia had any right to expect. "Absolutely."

---

Some hours after the final guests had left the grounds, as the shadows lengthened and at last dusk began to fall upon the manor at Ashfordshire, Justine stood before the grand dark doors of the main chambers of the estate, face-to-face with the imagery of the golden eagle that was the central figure of House Ashford's coat of arms. That coat of arms decorated the double-doors, the eagle in flight, challenging in its flippant pride, serving as its central focus; on one side of the eagle, enveloped by the beast's great wing, was a sword with its point down—and though it was commonly seen as an indicator of martial prowess, Justine instead read the Sword of Damocles—while on the eagle's other side was a rose, the flower's stem with all its hooked thorns gripped in the eagle's talons as its petals splayed in full bloom.

"Are you certain this is your desire?" Justine asked, for the very first time since this had been decided upon. Unused as she was to the prospect of hesitation or second-guessing, she felt it prudent to remind herself that to others, such concepts were not nearly so alien.

She did not need to look upon her fiancée to know her affirmation. Milly was as decisive on the subject of her desires as Justine knew herself to be on the subject of her actions. And yet she could not help herself; she looked upon Milly as though she had never seen her before. To look upon her was to wonder at the visage of the Valkyries of old, and wonder if perhaps they did not appear quite a bit like Milly. Her beauty was in its quintessence corporeal; it was solid and vivid and real in a way that Justine's was umbral and fantastical; she was tactile, and Justine was remote. She radiated her passions, did the older girl, her betrothed, and they presented an almost palpable heat that rose from her skin, which, while fair, was tanned in a manner indicative of one not wholly unacquainted with the light and heat of the outdoors and the wilds in which common children might frolic. Justine looked at Milly and saw that she was vitality itself and the sun. The whole of her being was athletic and vivacious even now, and like the moon to that distant star was Justine joyfully in her thrall. Her blue eyes sparkled as a burnished gem at the bed of a clear, transparent lake when she looked back, her smile confident and fierce in its ardour, and with a certainty that made her heart hurt, Justine knew that her future wife would only grow lovelier with time. She could only hope in time to prove herself worthy of such blinding, brilliant desire.

On the other side of Milly stood Juliette, who had apparently settled at last upon a means to style her hair to distance herself from their father, and Justine was beyond glad to have been of aid while holding the fact that Taliesin briefed her on such things from her notice. The thick single braid into which her sandy blonde hair was woven suited her and her softer features incredibly well, and her posture was that of a girl more fully comfortable in her own skin as a result of that distinction drawn at last. Her violet eyes, a mirror to Justine's own in hue if not in character, sparked with wry amusement, and the softly mocking curl of her lips warped her face, which was otherwise the mirror to a younger Marianne's features that the woman had attempted to tease out of Justine, into a countenance all its own. Teasing and coy in contrast to Marianne's Botticellian features, Juliette's visage held within its fine, soft details a wickedness that Justine was wont to liken to a white lily—a symbol associated with chastity and innocence, yet concealing a deadly poison all the same. She turned her head to meet her elder sister's eyes, and the mirth in her gaze almost seemed to multiply. "Why, dear sister, if I didn't know better, I'd hazard a guess that you doubt your beloved bride-to-be's assessment of her own grandfather."

Justine's smirk was a cruel expression, but it was nonetheless assured. "Hardly. I merely wish to assure that it is truly her desire to tangle up her grandfather with us as we descend into the long and shifting shadows of the dark and hidden places of the world. She may wish to spare him such things."

"That's not practical," Milly sighed. "He'd surely find out eventually, as I fully intend to use our house's resources to furnish these endeavours, and I would not deceive him on that score. This will be for the best."

"Very well," Justine nodded. She turned on her heel to regard their trio of allies that lined up behind them, silent until now. To look upon Taliesin's bearing, she could hardly avoid seeing the traces of his admitted former profession in him, his back ramrod-straight and his eyes dead ahead beneath his ever-present pince-nez, while his face he kept carefully blank in observance of the gravity and the severity of the situation. To his right, Jeremiah, Margrave Gottwald was at parade rest, and the intensity of his gold-hazel eyes was the equal of Taliesin's resolute scarlet gaze, his teal hair kept trimmed out of the low ponytail a member of the Royal Guard was expected to keep in mimicry of the powdered wigs of centuries past even now, months after the initial change, and its absence lent a maturity and assurance to his suave appearance that Justine found she could appreciate.

And finally, on the far left, Shinozaki Sayoko stood ready, her brown eyes nearly black and the maidservant's outfit she wore seeming suddenly very out of place on her frame. When the shinobi stood so, Justine could quite easily track the sinewy build of her limbs, the pounds upon pounds of coiled muscle akin to a viper rearing its head to strike, practically vibrating with unspent strength. It was a fascinating concept, that a subtle shift in bearing could either completely conceal or lay wholly bare the lean, trained form of one instructed practically since birth in all the ways one might deceive the senses, escape scenarios where there was no victory, and pluck the breath of life from a man's lungs. Though, she considered, perhaps it was not so different from what she herself did, adopting a posture, an aura of superiority, to cow and humble and rule unquestioned.

It was a curiosity Justine could well and truly afford to satisfy at a later time, however.

She gave them a brief nod, decisive without being curt, and turned once more to face the eagle-emblazoned door. "If we are all of us prepared, then let us proceed."

Milly stepped forward and rapped the back of her knuckles upon the wood and metal.

"Come in," bade the magnanimous, if tired, voice of Grand Duke Reuben.

Taliesin and Sayoko stepped forth, and together they threw wide the doors beyond which lay the study of the man who had been the head of House Ashford for well in excess of twenty years by this point. The two princesses and Milly swept into the room after their servants, and Jeremiah served as their rearguard as the doors slid shut behind them; and before them, with his back against a broad window that stretched to the ceiling and a large, rich desk between himself and them, was the man himself. The setting sun lit his office, with all its elegant dark woods and its lavish carpets, in a chiaroscuro that was at once gently threatening and heavily sad. Justine supposed she couldn't blame the man; whatever his daughter had been, burying her was likely not anywhere on the list of things he'd been prepared to do the day he became a father.

And yet, without fail, the man managed to lift his head and favour his heir with a kindly smile, and he gestured to a folio of moderate size off to the side of his desk. "Ah, Milly. You'll be pleased to know that my man spared no efforts in the execution of his task. The papers are all here and all in order. I've signed my name as your head of house, and once you and her highness sign your names upon it, it will be all but ratified. And please, give me a little credit. I know you all have a very different matter to discuss with me. What that matter is, I could not say. But whatever it is, I daresay we'd all be best served getting the business at hand sorted and out of the way first and foremost, no?"

"You have the right of it, Grandfather," said Milly, and even in light of her recent affirmations on the matter of her resolve to this course of action, she seemed unambiguously rather grateful. She swept forth with swift grace as Grand Duke Reuben smiled indulgently, opening the folio and turning it towards Milly.

Reuben Ashford had been by all accounts a rather dashing sort in his youth, and even as the long span that would mark the end of his life, from his sixties to his eighties, yawned before him, Justine saw that he retained much of the same charm about him. His iron-grey hair was kept at a short, manageable length, thick and healthy, and his sideburns extended down to the curve of his jaw, neatly trimmed and groomed. A prodigious moustache and less-prodigious goatee found their homes below his Roman nose and around the thin line of his mouth, and his cheeks were creased from laughter. His brow was firm, but not heavy, and Justine was certain that nothing could obscure the fact that he and Milly shared eyes, neither the crows' feet at the corners, nor even the hints of cataracts creeping in from the rim of the iris. With the monocle he wore to combat the deterioration of his eyesight, and his fine clothes—albeit much more relaxed than the garb he had worn to his only daughter's funeral—he cut quite an august figure, distinguished and stately, an unmarried widower by choice and not necessity. According to Milly, Grand Duke Reuben's heart had only ever belonged to his late wife, Grand Duchess Irina, who was born to House Weinberg, and when pressed on the matter of remarriage, the man apparently found it quite laughable.

To look upon him, Justine could see naught but a good man; and though that should by rights have put her on edge, Milly's vote of confidence smothered her reservations in the cradle.

Milly didn't hesitate for so much as a heartbeat, plucking her grandfather's fountain pen from the desk and signing her name in a simple, subtle flourish of script; and once she had done so, she turned around and offered the pen to Justine, a brilliant, confident smile on her face. Justine, in turn, stepped forth, taking the pen, and she signed her name onto the document in a sweep of slanting, narrow calligraphy, a bold slash of language upon the page.

And like that, it was official.

"Well then, now that that joyous bit of business is over and done with, shall we move to the presumably less-than-joyous matter you girls came to discuss with me?" asked Grand Duke Reuben, sweeping the legal folio away and templing his hands before his moustache, the dusky sunlight turning his monocle opaque with its reflection.

Milly opened her mouth to broach the subject, but then her jaw snapped closed, and she seemed to be mulling over how she wanted to phrase it; Justine, however, believed it was far past time she put her weight behind this partnership of theirs, and drew herself up, letting that sense of calm she had discovered that fateful night settle about and within her. I wear their flesh, but I am not of their number. I am a demon. I am a fiend.

I am a dragon.

"My lord, have you ever made the acquaintance of a certain Hadrian, Earl Deusericus?" Justine began, her soul cresting with frost as her blood boiled with icy green flame. And as with every time she had stepped into the calm's serene embrace, she could not remember a time when she had felt more immaculately herself. "If so, it may surprise you to learn that he held the post of Director of the Office of Secret Intelligence. He is dead now, and it was by my hand that he was ultimately slain."

Reuben's firm grey brows shot halfway towards his hairline; though, to his credit, it was the only indication of his shock. "Well! That is certainly a remarkable declaration. One might even consider it seditious, in the wrong company."

Justine shrugged. "My lord, with all due respect, if His Majesty possesses the means to pry information from the mouth of a dead man, I daresay our issues are far greater in magnitude than a princess of the realm being accused of sedition."

Grand Duke Reuben chortled, and leaned back in his high-backed chair. "I suppose you speak rightly on that score. But you must understand how utterly fantastical this sounds. I would be wholly incredulous were it not for the sorts of situations Marianne managed to get herself into with astonishing regularity, and even so, this seems to rival some of her more daring exploits. I mean, imagine, a girl of eleven years killing the head of the most extensive and widely feared intelligence organisation in the world!"

"Fanciful though the notion may seem, I am willing and able to put proof to my words, that you might know them for more than idle boasting," Justine replied. "I have witnesses—you know Margrave Jeremiah, I trust—and also more tactile forms of attestation, if those you prefer."

The ageing nobleman nodded once. "Alright, then. I'll take whatever proof you can give to me, so long as it isn't the man's severed head or somesuch nonsense."

Justine smiled, and it was a mirthless press of her lips; in truth, she had considered such a thing, albeit briefly. "You have no fear of that, my lord. As it happens, transporting and storing a severed head in such a way that its presence remains concealed throughout the duration is a bit of a logistical nightmare. And regardless, for a man such as he, the manner of his deathly visage is of little consequence. No, for a man such as he, the only sufficient proof of his demise is nothing less than the sum total of his life's work laid bare."

At this, Taliesin approached from Justine's flank, and over her shoulder, he passed a folio into her hand. She nodded to him, and he bowed, while she swept forth, and dashed the folio as artfully as she could onto the desk. She was pleased by the result, as it slid and left a few pages in its wake. "Contained within this folio is a printed list of every member of the Office of Secret Intelligence. Every agent, every analyst, every informant regardless of their individual level of allegiance or affiliation. Earl Deusericus had something of a trust issue, it seems; only he had access to the full breadth and scope of the OSI's resources and operations. With him dead, and the nerve centre of his entire organisation stripped of every last ream of paper or bit of data, the whole of its corpulent mass laid bare before our eyes, we are poised in something of a unique position."

Grand Duke Reuben remained reclined, but templed his hands once again. "I'm listening."

Justine's smile morphed into a smirk, cruel and pitiless. "Shinozaki Sayoko, Milly's maid by your decree, is the heir to the Shinozaki Clan of shinobi, and her loyalty to Milly is absolute beyond question. Through her, we stand poised to come into control of a vast pool of manpower and human resources, trained for generations and centuries in the enterprise of espionage and the art of assassination. And as it so happens, my sister the Third Princess has stipulated I should accompany her during the planned invasion of the Japanese archipelago in one month's time, where she and her battalion will be taking the front lines using the new RPI-11 Glasgow model of Knightmare Frame.

"What I am suggesting, Grand Duke Reuben, is the dawn of a new era for House Ashford. I may be as unable to trust Friede as she is unable to trust me, but as a result of that, I know her perhaps better than anyone; and she will see to it that House Ashford is granted oversight of the new Area once Japan is conquered if for no other reason than to thumb her nose at His Majesty. In view of the world, your house will take advantage of the fact that Japan possesses the largest amount of sakuradite the world over to produce Knightmare Frames, not for the use of the common soldier, but rather for the use of a higher class of killer. Stonehenge Industries and its compatriots may handle the rank and file; they will stumble and they will err, that we might learn from their follies. The Japanese people are themselves a vast pool of unique expertise and ingenuity; if we can make use of that, turn it towards our ends, treating the conquered with dignity and making them part of something greater than themselves, we will have all the talent and experimental perspectives we could ever hope for at our fingertips.

"And in the dark, furtive places of the world, where the shadows lengthen, we utilise that which we gained from the still-warm corpse of the Office of Secret Intelligence and synthesise it with the skill and personnel of the shinobi clans to erect a new intelligence organisation, to burrow its roots deep into the bowels of the earth, and thus to claim primacy over the scales of power, that currency of secrets which is the most coveted resource the world over.

"You hoped that Empress Marianne would make House Ashford the single most powerful noble house in all the realm. And she forgot you. She failed you. I, for one, am most certainly not of a mind to repeat her error."

Reuben sat in silence for a moment, and then he barked a laugh that sounded as though it had physically torn itself out of his lungs against his will. "Ha! I daresay you aren't. But pray, indulge an old man's curiosity, if you would be so kind, your highness. What, exactly, do you mean when you say 'Knightmare Frames for the use of a higher class of killer,' hmm?"

Justine straightened her posture. Here, then, was the part she had not had cause to reveal to anyone; and perhaps it would be every bit as surprising to her friends as it would to this new ally of theirs. "There are moments in history, Grand Duke Reuben, that are flash points. They are the fulcrum of a new age of warfare, the turning point between what was, and what now shall be. Alexander of Macedon and his phalanx. The legions of Rome. Genghis Khan's hordes of Mongol horse archers. The end of the Byzantine Empire with the fall of impregnable Constantinople, its legendary walls conquered by Ottoman ingenuity and ordinance in the form of the cannon. The destruction of the Spanish Armada in the English Channel. And, more recently, the invention of the aeroplane and the First Great War of the World.

"In the great writhing sea of inevitabilities that defines the preponderance of human existence, that banal, anodyne morass, these moments, these sparks, radically shift and morph the face of the battlefield; and in so doing, they give rise to an age of heroes—killers possessed of legendary ability. The Knightmare Frame promises to be one such turning point, my lord, and should the Ashford Foundation have well in hand the production of these legendary killers' weapons of slaughter—should we grant these aces the hardware to push past the limits of human capability, and blaze into the face of history a path that others might follow—then it shall be House Ashford who will have constructed great engines of war that turn the tide of the battlefield. That which was pioneered with the Ganymede shall be mastered with the Knightmare Frames to follow."

The ageing grand duke favoured the princess with a smirk of his own, but his was wry instead of cruel. "Ah, the passions of youth. What I would not give to once again be able to speak with such fervour—though I must confess, I believe I could well be at any age, and still be in awe of your presence, your highness. Given time and refinement, that air of yours, that profound aura that fills even an old man like me with determination and ambition, may well become a peerless weapon, able to move nations by the air through your lungs alone. Though I suppose it helps that I also can't say that you're wrong…

"Very well, then, your highness," he said at last, punctuating with an insouciant gesture of the hand. "You may consider me well and truly convinced. I don't believe it will be as simple as you make it seem—I daresay I am far too old for such youthful fancies and leaps of faith—but somehow, in spite of that, I find that I have the utmost confidence in your ability to find us a way around such adversities. But Carmilla. My beloved granddaughter and honoured heir, for whom I want nothing but the best, and who shall inherit whatever mess I've made of things when finally I pass from this mortal coil. Perhaps this is a silly question—and I hope you will forgive an old man for asking it of you—but you have faith in such an enterprise?"

Here, Justine faltered for a moment, a momentary crack in her icy composure, and turned to look at her fiancée; but when she met Milly's eyes, she saw an ironclad resolve, and the older girl beamed at her so brilliantly that Justine was dazzled in its wake. "I have faith in Justine. I have faith in my bride. That is quite enough for me."

Reuben nodded. "Then I suppose I have my answer."

---

C.C. imagined it had perhaps been decades since she last so much as set foot in or around the immediate vicinity of the Hudson River, let alone the ancient Adirondacks that birthed it, but after skulking around the outskirts of Pendragon, the imperial villa at Aries, the Mojave Desert, the Colorado River, and the Grand Canyon, she couldn't help but admit to herself that the change of scenery was perhaps more than merely welcome.

The immortal witch wasn't entirely certain when she'd decided to spend her time trailing in the shadows of Marianne's daughters and their growing coterie; and yet, she wasn't entirely bothered by it, either. It wasn't as though there was anything productive she could be doing with her time, with Marianne turning out to be a failure (though an oddly persistent one) and the Geass Directorate left in her wake accordingly. She'd be hiding anyways, which was every bit as vagrant as her current course. She was merely bemused, for it was not often that passions seized her anymore, and indeed it now had been so long since one had taken her up in its grip that she fancied she'd forgotten the sensation of it. She didn't know if it was a passion, per se, that set her upon the trail of Princess Justine vi Britannia, or one of the infinitely more common flights of whimsy with which other immortals found themselves afflicted. It was one such flight of whimsy that had brought about her contract with Marianne, and she had it on good authority that it was another such flight of whimsy that had inspired her predecessor, that nun in the modest church in rural Aquitaine, to form a contract with C.C. herself.

The Ashford Estate at Ashfordshire was a unique structure in this day and age, its design drawing from eras ranging from the tail end of the Tudor Dynasty through the disastrous Stuarts and to the approximate middle of the short-lived reign of the Hanovers, and in this it was unique amidst the stark, sterile futurism of much of modern Britannian architecture. The grounds were old, but they were well-kept and painstakingly maintained, and she found she had no difficulty in immersing herself within the shifting boughs and deep shadows of the thick forest that shrouded much of the estate in mist and fog, weather permitting. There was a liberation to pretending that she was some manner of fey creature, some banshee or phooka, a creature of caprice whose lack of knowledge of death made them in itself so vastly distinct from their iron-bearing once-allies, and it was a childish sort of delight that was as short-lived and ephemeral as the memories of that time themselves.

Around nightfall, she began to grow weary of her wanderings. She was in no danger, for of course she could not die even should she wish to (and she very much wished to); it was merely that the idleness had long since lost its lustre, and had become quite vexing in so doing. At last, she emerged from the darkening forest, the practical garb she had stocked at her nearest safehouse a far cry from the sort of gowns she might wear while hiding in plain sight at court, to come upon some sort of pavilion a fair walk's distance from the main manor, though in the other direction from the lichyard. Its lights were on, such that the building was a blazing beacon as the hour waned towards the turning of the new day, and she could see clearly into its many large and elegant windows the face of the man who, for some reason, knew who she had once been, back when she could still die.

And of course, it wasn't important that he did. The girl she had been, the abandoned child with a forename and a surname, a birth date and parents who had cast her aside, was, in a very real sense, several centuries dead, and so her desires and her experiences no longer mattered a whit, nor her incredibly petty and infantile wish that had so condemned her. But immortals were, to her knowledge, an incredibly insular group, a 'community' only in the very loosest of senses, such that she could count the number of other immortals she had run across by virtue of sheer happenstance on one hand with ample fingers left over, so to think that she had run across an immortal who not only knew of her and the previous bearer of her Code, but also had somehow managed to do so twice, was a sufficiently remarkable departure from the norm that she felt the need to investigate further. The fact that he had introduced himself as Justine's majordomo didn't so much as cross her mind; it was irrelevant, the passing fancy of someone who, like her, had only passing fancies left to him, and the gaping maw of ennui that yawned wide in their absence to swallow the immortal whole.

She walked up to the door of the pavilion, and seeing that his attention was very intently fixed upon something spread out upon the table before him, raised her fist to prepare to rap upon the metal frame of the glass door; yet, before she could do so, and without the slightest indication that he had noticed her presence, he bade her: "Don't bother knocking. You may enter."

C.C. froze for a moment, and then, with a huff, did as she was bidden, opening the door with a creak of barely-oiled hinges (a necessary measure for surviving the skulduggery inherent to the Imperial Court) and slipping into the pavilion proper, the door closing behind her on what appeared to be a rudimentary hydraulic mechanism. She approached the other immortal, dressed in a manner befitting his status, with the deep grey cravat and steel grey waistcoat over starched white shirt and black trousers, though divested of his black frock coat—immortality removed the ability to die of heat or of cold, but the discomfort of extreme climes remained very much a part of their everlasting existence—and looked down onto the black iron table between them, upon which were spread an array of cards.

At last, he looked up from his deliberations, sliding a card across the spread with a single sweep that somehow gathered up all the rest into a neat deck with an ease that must have been born of thousands of hours of repetition. He fixed her with a smile, but this was much more the sort of smile she might expect from another immortal, however alien it yet remained—an empty expression that offered neither comfort nor reassurance—and gestured with his still-gloved hand at the other cushioned iron chair, which was before her and would see her seated at the very same table. "I do hope your afternoon frolic was a soothing experience. Now, take a seat. Please. We need not be strangers to one another, C.C., let alone adversaries."

C.C. spent a heartbeat gazing upon the red-eyed man with blank suspicion, before once again doing as she was bidden, pulling out the chair and sitting herself upon the pale cushions. She imagined they looked almost domestic, the manservant at rest sat across from the young lady attired for a day full of equestrian diversions, what with her form-fitting tan riding breeches, high black boots, and sturdy white blouse. But of course, as was so often the case, the truth was far stranger than what the appearance of truth might suggest. Her companion met her golden gaze with a level stare, patient in the way of an ambush predator, safe away in their hiding-hole as their food so courteously came to them. "You seem…different."

Taliesin drew himself up, sliding back in his chair somewhat. "Yes, well, you didn't seem very at ease when I acted the part of the loyal caretaker with an extensive and sordid history. You have certain ideas about our kind, what we are and how we are, and so I elected to play into such ideas for the sake of your comfort, as a courtesy. Of course, it helps matters that such ideas are not entirely unfounded…"

"How very considerate," she said thinly.

His smile was without mirth. "I do my best."

"I assume you have business you would discuss with me?" C.C. prompted, feeling now much more in her element than last time despite herself. "You don't seem particularly territorial, so I would assume that the proposition of an arrangement is forthcoming?"

"Something like that, I suppose," Taliesin replied at length. He reached for the deck by his hand on the table, slipping it into his palm as he displayed the back of the cards to her. Upon it was a strange symbol, a series of concentric circles all in different shades of green, from the darkest at the rim to the lightest near the centre, before a circular patch of green so dark it was almost black in the correct light consumed what space remained; for some reason, the symbol seemed to be staring back at her, and it was profoundly unnerving, beyond that, to look upon, in a manner that defied simple articulation, much to her immediate chagrin. "Tell me, how familiar are you with Tarot?"

"I know they're the tools of many a charlatan, who claim that they are able to discern the future," she replied. "Generations of hapless fools over the centuries taken in and duped out of their money by vague prognostications."

"Hmph. An apt, if incomplete, assessment," Taliesin remarked. "I daresay many a simian might think the same of his fellow ape, should said ape produce a laptop computer and then go on to claim that said laptop can make sounds autonomously."

C.C.'s green brow furrowed at the opaque metaphor. "I'm afraid I don't understand…"

"No, I suppose you don't," Taliesin sighed heavily. "Children these days… No respect for ancient traditions. While the cards have found notoriety in the hands of tricksters with grand and unsubstantiated boasts as fortune-telling tools, the fact of the matter is that such nomenclature is a paltry and extraordinarily crude, if not wholly inaccurate, way of representing the purpose and the nature of the cards themselves.

"When the cards passed from our hands and into mortal knowledge some three centuries gone, none among their number possessed the aptitudes to employ such things to their fullest potential, much like the ape with the laptop. But the cards do not simply foretell things that shall be, they are not so artless as all that, no. The actual purpose of the Tarot lies in the revelation of hidden truths, of which that which may be is only one of many. The usefulness of the answers they give depends entirely upon one's knowledge of the question they have asked; and indeed, the vaguery of those answers is the true genius of the cards."

"And what is the relevance of all this?" C.C. asked, her patience beginning to fray.

"The cards are a method of divination devised by a woman of singular brilliance, who was herself well-acquainted with the dangers inherent to prescience and oracular insights. This woman was the very last of her kind. All others of her race had perished, leaving her alone to bear the weight of their legacy. And this race, this antediluvian nation, were by themselves undone, their combined acumen and efforts bent wholly towards the construction of the means of their annihilation. Of course, we know of such means today as 'Thought Elevators.'"

C.C. stilled further. She had no knowledge of any of this, and only the knowledge she had gained at the helm of the Geass Directorate, of the World of C in all its aloof obscura and extant esoterica, still such a mystery of which they were still so painfully ignorant, kept her from seeing him as mad outright. "How is it that you came upon this information?"

Taliesin smirked fiendishly, and with his other hand, he began to cut the cards and shuffle at last. "Caught your attention, have I? Well, if you must know, this was told to me by a woman I had the good fortune to encounter in my travels, who is herself the oldest living immortal. And she gained such insights through virtue of those immortals who were her contemporaries, and the many who came before her. I'm given to understand that we were quite the lively bunch, once upon a time, back when we still kept the secrets of the world and knew our place in it."

"You speak of her in the present tense," C.C. remarked curtly.

"Well, of course," said Taliesin, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, drawing three cards from the deck and laying them face-down on the table. "I daresay that even I am quite thoroughly her junior. If she does not desire to be found, well, both you and V.V. are several thousand years too young to have a chance of catching wind of her very existence."

"So how do I know that anything you say is true?"

He smiled at her once again, baring teeth in the process, and reached out to flip the first card. Upon it was a scene of domesticity, of an old man and presumably all the markers of joy and success at the end of a long life well-lived, with what appeared to be ten coins emblazoned upon it in a symmetrical pattern. Yet, it was upside-down. At its top, which was now its bottom, was an 'X', and at its bottom, which was now its top, was the phrase 'Of Crowns.' "Well, as it so happens, that is exactly what I wanted to discuss with you. Her highness will be under the watchful scrutiny of her older sister as they embark upon the invasion of Japan. Miss Shinozaki has her own task. I've seen fit, in light of this, to take advantage of these happenings and call upon an old friend. I was going to invite you to accompany me. Of course, I certainly wouldn't mind introducing you to her. Those such as we owe it to ourselves to learn from the eldest of our kind to still walk the earth.

"At least, such is my thought on the subject." To punctuate, he flipped the middle card, to reveal the deathly visage of a woman upon it, shrouded in robes of deepest black, her face sallow and pale in the manner of a corpse—though perplexingly, her belly seemed to swell in a manner evocative of child-bearing. At the top of the card, which was upright, was 'XIII,' and at the very bottom of the card, written in flowing, stately script, was simply the word 'DEATH.'

There remained but one more question which burned in C.C.'s mind, around which she found she could not possibly think. "You seem to know a great many things about our kind. At least, you know many immortals like us. So why share this with me? What makes me so special, of all our fellows, that you deign to impart this knowledge unto me, if indeed it is knowledge and not a serpent's slithering lies or a madman's idle ravings?"

The other immortal's expression shifted from those easy, if false, smiles, into something grave and severe, but not particularly baleful or threatening. His scarlet eyes burrowed into her, but in a way that was oddly insistent instead of piercing, and his gloved hand rested upon the final card, prepared to reveal its face at a moment's notice. "I'm afraid there's not much I can say to you on that score that would not be incredibly dangerous to merely utter aloud. There is even less of it that I can say that might have even the slightest chance at comforting you, or allaying any of your admittedly very valid suspicions. To be sure, you have no reason to trust me beyond the fact that I have yet to betray you, and I daresay that you and I both know the ability to believe that lack of betrayal alone to be sufficient in gaining a modicum of trust is a privilege afforded to the mortals, and the mortals alone.

"And so it is with the utmost remorse that I have no choice but to tell you only that you have been chosen because you have a part to play in what is to come. This folly of ours must end, C.C. This future our kind has worked towards, this fulfilment of our centuries-long dream of an end to the suffering of our unending existence, this mockery of living, must be unwritten. And so we must let it be unwritten."

The hand that held the third card finally moved, flipping it over to reveal the visage of an inhuman figure, primordial and metaphysical, grotesque and hideous in its alien beauty, seated upon a black throne with a hand raised, palm out, ten motes of flame forming a crown. At the top of it were the numerals 'XV', and at the bottom was written 'THE ARCHFIEND.'

C.C. stared at it for a moment, then tore her eyes away, only to meet the man's hard gaze.

"So then, C.C.," quoth the serpent. "What shall your answer be?"