She caught his eye that evening. It was a coincidence when hers was the first gaze he saw upon entering the ballroom, he had not even known that she would be attending, but at every hint of deep blue he turned his head in hope of it being her gown. They had not seen each other in years, and oh how he found he missed her. Moving politely among the guests, the party was after all in his name and honour, the longer he stayed the more he desired to be in her company.

Etiquette dictated he should have taken another to dance but he did not wish anyone else on his arm. Instead spoke with fellow gentlemen about his studies and kept an eye open for the Lady Elizabeth Anne.

Conversation was spirited. Many among the noble houses were knowledgeable in the healing arts, and with the finishing of his medical degree the reason for this party there was much to discuss. He would have enjoyed it if other things were not on his mind.

“My lord principicule?”

“Hm?” He turned from her dark blonde curls, reluctantly moving to speak with another though taking note of the title. A duc by birth, he had been fostered by roi Edgard and some at court indulged him by calling him princeling.

“Yes, lord?”

“Who shall be given the honour of your care?”

“Whoever is ill,” he simply said. “I may not be able to open my own practice with the duties of my land taking precedent, but I will make the rounds at local hospitals and care for those in my own household.”

“If that is the case, then you are always welcome to the mountains Bastoni, with full privileges.”

“That is most kind, lord margrave.” Before he could say more her perfume caught his attention. Honeysuckles. Memories of summers spent at play filled his head. He turned again in search of her and found her smiling, aware of how they circled each other.

She hid behind the fan in her right hand—‘follow me.’ His heart fluttered, and breath hitched. He took a step towards her to ask her to dance but she was already being led away by another, her dance-card hanging full from her wrist. It seemed the comte’s daughter was occupied for the entire evening; it would not do to pursue her.

Yet the duc excused himself and did so, only paying enough attention to the others around him to seem as if following a certain woman was not his intention. If he was near enough when the dance-set changed he could ask for her.

Their eyes met again. She was ignoring her partner in his favour, keeping strict form and looking over the shoulder, not into the other’s eyes. Her fan was closed and when she was turned away it dropped open—‘ask me to dance.’

He cut in at her request, and the other noble graciously let his duc have the young woman’s attention.

“My, Lady Elizabeth,” he said, wrapping an arm around her, “do you fear we may not see each other again?” He was awash in the scent of summer though it was barely springtime.

She blushed, realising the situation she had put herself in and unable to look away. To flirt with the principicule from a distance was an entirely different matter than to be in his arms.

“Your graceful highness,” she replied. “It is a pleasure to catch your eye.”

“One as beautiful as yourself should be accustomed to catching the eyes of lords.” Her own smile now accompanied the blush, which reddened further. He squeezed her hand and began to lead her further away, going against the wave of dancers. His were not the only eyes on her; several were interested in who the duc had been so impatient for as to ignore protocol.

“Ah, you did not think so far as to what to do when you had my attention?”

“No, my lord. I have never quite had your full attention.”

“Oh? And when you and I were younger, the times I plaited flowers in your hair—at your request?” he tucked a loose curl behind her ear as he spoke. She felt the once familiar touch of a stem and leaves as he left a bloom that seemed to come from thin air.

“I was a child then, my lord,” she replied, reaching up to touch the flower and the tips of his fingers, “it was some time ago. And we were in a field, not your ballroom.”

“It is hardly my ballroom.”

“The gala is in your name, making it yours,” she pointed out, and when he could not dispute this she began to feel more at ease.

They danced with freedom, the crowd blending as the music took people to their fancy. The waltz was a dance between only those two who were partners, and not a choreography with everyone in the room. Pierre guided her throughout, one hand on her waist and the other holding her hand in the air, though a few of his steps were imperfect.

“And what do you think of my formal attention thus far, Elizabeth?”

The young woman repositioned her form, blue eyes moving away from his grey. He tightened his grip.

“You are taller than I remember,” she said, “and you know your steps well enough for someone who has had all of their time taken up with studies.”

“The next time we dance will not be after such a time that height becomes an issue. And thank you for saying I am aware of the current dances, I am quite in need of practice.”

Her eyes returned to his.

“You took me to dance outside of turn, Lord Pierre.”

“You asked.”

“After you had already begun pursuing me.”

“Ah, true,” he conceded. “Seeing you after all this time brought forth more feelings than I had expected. Your brother speaks of you often.”

“Only because he visited his lands between semesters. This is your first time home in four years.”

“And suddenly I regret never taking up Piers’s offers to accompany him.”

She was silent a moment before saying, “You did not write this past year.”

“It was a very busy final year. I apologise for not being in contact.” He squeezed her hand to accentuate the apology, guiding her into a twirl with a press to her waist.

She had first written him in his second semester away, and for a while their correspondence had been frequent. Then other matters had become more important.

“The flower, my lord,” she said after returning to his arms. She finally recognised it from scent and touch. “Do I seem fickle in your eyes that you give me larkspur?”

“It is the royal flower,” he reminded. “Deserving of a noble lady, to keep away things of dread. You have never been fickle, Lizzy. It was my fault entirely that our communication stopped. I do believe last summer you sent Piers to the dorms with so many baked goods solely to force him to share with me.”

She did not deny this, unable to hide a smile, though said, “Eglė helped as well,” referring to her brother’s wife. “Do things of dread follow me about?”

“Perhaps now they never shall.” Another spin, and a change in posture bringing them so close together it would be improper in any other context. They were to then step in unison, but he let her go entirely. He stepped back and stumbled as if about to fall.

“My lord-”

“Forgive me,” he said, trying to regain his balance while not interrupting the dancers around him. A hand in the air stalled those that would have rushed to him. “I seem to have forgotten those steps,” he mumbled as an explanation, not meeting Elizabeth’s eyes. He was pale, the little colour in his skin seeping away so that his cheeks matched his black-and-grey attire.

“My lord, Pierre, perhaps..” She reached out to him.

“Were you not born during Iovilios?” He caught her hand in the air. “The larkspur, if nothing else, is your flower, my lady.” Pulling her towards him, he whispered, “I have not forgotten about you.”

“My lord.” She broke their gaze. “If I may beg of you a drink.”

“Of course, Elizabeth.” Their hands stayed clasped, and he led her to the edges of the ballroom. Several tables around the perimeter had been laid out with food and drink.

“How long shall you be at court?” he asked, handing her a glass of watered-wine. He took none for himself.

“My mother thinks it best we return home soon. Eglė is due at any moment, and she wishes to meet her first grandchild.” Ah, yes, he had forgotten. No doubt this was why Elizabeth was here instead of her brother.

“And your thoughts?”

She took another sip. “You know it is rude to speak during a gala.”

He grinned. “Yet until this moment you forwent that rule yourself.”

“I do believe it would be even ruder to deny the guest of honour.”

“In that case—” He held out his hand to her, asking for another dance. She put the glass aside and placed her hand in his. They walked through the ballroom together as the orchestra changed sets.

They had not even returned to their previous spot when he tripped again, pulling her off balance as well. He caught her but landed hard on a knee. This time he did not straighten and ignore what had happened; for a moment he held her as they recovered. “Forgive me, Lizzy.” His pale cheeks were now flushed. Others around them began to watch; a few whispered.

“I did return just this afternoon,” he said, half to the young woman in his arms and half to everyone around them. “I must still be tired from my journey. Perhaps I took ill along the way.” He stood, and everyone was occupied again.

Pierre squeezed her hand once more before letting go. She stepped back, curtsied, and bowed to him as a means of goodbye.

“Oh no, my dear.” He lifted up her chin. “We’ve danced tonight as partners. You may not bow to me.” His thumb rested at the corner of her lips, and he was half-bent over her. Elizabeth felt the heat of his hand through his glove and for a fleeting moment wished that he would kiss her. Instead he stroked her cheek and took back his hand.

She curtsied again and inclined her head, but did no more. He in turn bowed from the waist. “Good evening, my lady.” Without waiting for her reply he slipped through the crowd and out of the ballroom.

It was only after he left that she pulled the flower down to see its colour, and remembered the meaning of purple larkspur: first love.

***

He walked down the hall with purpose, waving a hand to send away the guards. His smile helped keep up appearances as long as eyes were on him, and when finally alone Pierre leaned against the stone wall in pain.

He tried to take deep breaths despite his throat closing and only managed to wheeze. His heart beat almost painfully, and every moment on his feet was uncertain. He held out his hands and saw that they shook.

Letting his head fall back against the wall he grinned at the ceiling.

If he had not known better he would have blamed much of this on Lizzy, and the rest on truly being tired. But the burning in his mouth, the rash underneath his gloves, and the desire to vomit made this far more than just his body’s reaction to infatuation.

“Pluta,” he called. He began to walk toward his room, one hand to the wall to keep himself up, but his legs gave way. He fell to the floor upsetting his body further and retched upon the carpet.

Death filled the corridor. She pressed upon him like a heavy sleep.

“Pluta!” he called again. It hurt to speak, but he could not move without great pain, and dared not call anyone else.

A meowing from down the hall announced that his Familiar had heard him. She was never far away. He sighed, and then inhaled deeply, desperately as if there was not enough air in the realm for him.

The black cat rounded the corner, and seeing him on the ground she ran to him. She looked him over, to where he had come from, and nudged his hand. “Did someone do this to you?”

“Find Uncle,” he said. “This is my own doing, I need to get to my quarters—” His hand clamped to his mouth, his body jerking with the cough, but he did not vomit a second time.

The cat sprinted off to the ballroom.

Pierre rested his head against the wall. This was to have been done discreetly, but his time had been occupied and he had left later than planned. That he had gone at all had been a risk, but perhaps for that dance it had been worth the trouble.

Death cupped his cheek with her hand, and for the moment the form of a woman knelt beside him. Her skin and attire were like mist, with a blue larkspur tucked behind her ear.

“Mora,” he whispered. The Lady of Death kissed him and laid her head on his chest.

“Pierre! What have you done?” Between one blink of the eye and the next she vanished.

He looked up to his uncle and wondered if several minutes already passed.

“I need help to get to my room.” He began to stand, and Lord Ophion moved to aid him. Pluta meowed and paced around their feet.

“What have you done, Pierre?”

“That is not your business. Now help me to my—” Another fit of coughing took him.

The royal physician hoisted up the lord, taking most of his weight, and the two stumbled to his rooms. The heavy doors were not locked and after repositioning Pierre, Ophion opened them and brought his nephew inside. Pluta ran in as he closed the door.

He placed Pierre on the edge of the bed, and the duc fell back onto the large mattress gasping instead of breathing. The physician leaned over him, but Pierre nodded the way they had come. “The door.”

“First you.” He lifted his nephew’s legs and moved him into bed. Only then, after checking to see if there were medical supplies in the room, did he pick up the key to lock them in.

“Pierre, what happened?” Ophion spoke again, softer now, lighting candles around the room. When his eyes were not on Pierre, Death, Mora, hung over him, clothes so transparent that she was all but nude.

“Larkspur,” Pierre admitted, brushing back Mora’s hair. A glance around the lighter room showed that the royal flower was decorating desks and bookshelves. A row of pots near a window had sprouts. “I have taken enough to end my life.”

Ophion left the candle on the desk, striding to the bed and taking out his knife. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing a large number of scars.

“No,” Pierre gasped out. He struggled to sit up. Ophion did not see Mora, and she stayed laying on Pierre; intimate and yet a hindrance. “I am doing this for a purpose.”

The physician glared at him. He sat on the edge of the bed, not letting go of the blade or moving it from where it rested against his forearm. “How long do you intend to suffer?”

“For a few more moments. I will die soon and—”

“Pierre!”

“Her last test,” the duc snapped.

“How dare you?” his uncle said, “You ingest a fatal dose and go dancing!”

“I wished to celebrate with death as my escort,” Pierre replied, and then grinned. “And I dare because I am her most favoured, Ophion. Observe if you must but do not save me.”

Mora’s appearance flickered, and Ophion saw her on his nephew’s heart.

“One generally has a tether,” he said.

She smiled and disappeared.

Pierre did not reply, settling back into the bed but not looking away. Ophion took this as permission to continue. He positioned his arm over a cup that had been beside the bed, and cut deeply. Blood, darkening the longer it flowed, filled what had before held the poison. Ophion wrapped his wound, and gave Pierre the blood to drink.

The young man coughed, and choked. Ophion brought him up to a sitting position so he could catch the little breath he still took, and held him.

Pierre only pulled away, motioning to the knife. “Hand,” he said. He wiped his lips with his kerchief, folded it, and kept it out to use as a bandage. “Give everything to Pluta after.” He pulled off his gloves, a bright red rash burning as it touched cool air.

Ophion cut into the other’s palm, near other scars made in the same manner as his own. Pierre’s blood was darker than his, becoming almost black after the first few moments of red. Smearing it would still reveal a muted colour, but after this even that would be grey.

Pierre drank his own blood from the source, then he laid back in bed and let Ophion tend the wound. Their blood should not be seen by others; it gave away too much of their cræft.

He coughed again, and this time shook his head when Ophion moved to help him sit. The duc became relatively silent, his body still trying to take in air but unable to. An entire minute passed while he choked and refused aid with all of his remaining energy. Then he fell still.

Ophion took a shuddering breath of his own. He pressed a finger to Pierre’s pulse, waited, and let go of the corpse.

***

The lord physician monitored his nephew’s soul, how it twisted and tangled with conflict. For a time he feared Pierre would not be able to return on his own, but soon realised the problem did not lie with magical ability. In the land of the dead the most favoured suitor of Death was within grasp of more power than on any operating table. In some ways that lure was more the test than the return.

His soul was closer to this world than the next when Mora appeared again. She sat on the edge of Pierre’s bed, flesh and tangible, the bed shifting with her weight. Her dress was opaque, though cut low in the back, and the ghost of great bat wings sprouted from her shoulders.

“You will leave,” she said to the physician, her gaze never wavering from the duc.

“My lady, he—”

“You believe your presence will make any difference?”

He did not. Pierre, while at first his protégé, was far more skilled now in the dark magic. He dared not continue because of what Mora wanted him to do, instead using his knowledge to heal and keep death away. Pierre embraced it.

But Ophion returned to his seat. The same position that meant he could not stop Mora also meant he could defy her. Maybe he would be of some use to Pierre, if only as he had suggested earlier—a tether to the living world. His hands moved in his lap, as if he was tying a string to his finger, luring the soul with a beacon.

Death ignored him, tilting Pierre’s head so that unblinking eyes met hers. The body was room temperature by now, feeling cool even to her touch. She straightened his collar and cravat, lying down beside him with a smile; he had come to her in his best. The only scent to permeate the room was that of the flowers, her duc must have fasted in anticipation. He lay her perfect corpse.

She stretched up to kiss him, to steal the last breath that a closed mouth might still hold. His soul then settled into flesh. She turned away like a demon from the holy.

A warmth spread throughout his body, becoming heat and then movement- circulation returning to limbs, muscles contracting, extremities flexing. His heart beat erratically, she felt his pulse against her cheek where she had hidden her gaze. The duc suddenly gasped for air, and moaned in pain. With a spasm his arms wrapped around the woman atop him, and he crushed her to his chest.

A whispered plea turned into a groan before he could form the words. He buried himself in her embrace as another moment of pain seized him, his nails digging into her back. He sought shelter in her arms.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t,” he managed to say. “I wanted to, I..” He loosened his hold, aware of how he had thrust himself upon her. She pulled back only enough to place her hands on either side of his face, her fingers tangling in his hair. The locks she touched whitened.

“No,” she said. There was no warmth in her voice. “You did not.” At this she vanished.

Pain shot through him. He curled up in a ball, composure failing as all of her favour was revoked. Ophion rushed to him, but dared not touch him until the tension left his body.

“I am sorry,” Pierre whispered. He was still curled up, voice strained. Slowly he sat. “Uncle, forgive me for-” He vomited black bile.

“Sh, be quiet Pierre. Let me help you.”

He moved Pierre to the cleaner side of the bed, leaving the bile for now. It could not expose them, though it would suggest Pierre being far more ill than he wanted made known.

“I can move my limbs, feel everything,” Pierre grit out, spitting. “I have not eaten, I do not—”

“I said quiet,” the physician ordered, and the patient obeyed. He began to undress Pierre.

The duc had planned tonight well. Neither eating nor drinking for a day and a half removed the possibility of soiling oneself in death. Aside from the issue of cleanliness, the stench would have raised alarm and inquiry. As it was in the strain of return he had only sweat through his clothes. His trousers were also stained with ejaculate- a Suitor who had undergone all tests by Death was no longer fertile.

The several hindering layers were thrown aside.

“What hurts?”

“Everything.”

Ophion opened the wound in his arm again, making Pierre take a few sips of blood. He coaxed the spirits of death and pain in the room, taking their attention so there could be some reprieve for the duc. He stayed until morning.

***

A small crowd gathered before the duc’s chambers. Some were there to wish him well, and others had not even known he had taken ill until seeing the commotion. Two guards stood by the door; merely a presence of power, not a force. No one was being allowed entry.

Lord Ophion came out of the room, and raised a hand to gain everyone’s attention. He wore the same clothes as the evening before.

“Ladies, gentlemen, I beg you to be quiet. I understand you are all worried about the duc, but this was not an uncommon occurrence when he resided at home as a young man. Many of you know others that suffer from similar headaches. Stimuli will aggravate his pain. Now please, a late breakfast is being served for all who stayed up the night before.” The intense headaches were often brought on by the use of necrocræft, though it was a common enough symptom among the ill in Clandestina as well. Those who called themselves Suitors of Death were quick to use this as part of their masquerade.

The doctor urged the guards forward and they began to usher away the guests that did not leave hastily enough. Elizabeth was among them, and tried to stay until she could get closer to Ophion and speak with him directly.

A guard placed his hand on her shoulder. “My lady—”

“No, please, I—Uncle!” They were not related by blood, Ophion and she, but his adopted daughter was her sister-in-law and perhaps that was enough.

“Please!” Slightly louder, but still under her breath, almost like a hiss. Her brother had occasionally suffered from similar headaches and she knew better than to raise her voice.

To her relief Ophion saw her and nodded to the guard, who let her go and returned to his duties. Elizabeth dashed to the physician. “Has the lord gotten worse? I know he took unwell, but that was last night. We danced, I thought he was only nervous. He should be better by now if it is not serious.”

“Lady Elizabeth. Yes, unfortunately he is still unwell. He will be fine soon, but the pain has not disappeared as of yet and I would prefer he still rest. He did desire I inform you that he will be well soon, should you come asking.”

“It is just the headache?”

“A cough as well, and slightly dizziness, but everything is under control. Stress from travel waking a dormant illness.”

Only then did she smile, glad Pierre was mostly well, and wished her informed so as not to worry.

“Thank you, lord physician, it is good to know that it is something which can be dealt with.”

“Mm. Now I shall go and check how he is doing, then perhaps join you at breakfast. You thought Pierre nervous, I wish to hear this. Have a good day, my lady.”

“I am feeling quite well, Ophion. You’ve frightened away those I have no interest in, but certainly Lizzy is allowed entrance.” Pierre was leaning heavily against the now-open doorframe, a cane helping keep him up. He was terribly pale, and his hands still shook, but he smiled.

“Oh, my lord.” Elizabeth forgot herself, embracing him. “I was so worried.”

“My, little Lizzy, there was no need of that.” And as if to then show his lie, he turned away to cough harshly. “Perhaps that is not entirely true. Ophion?”

The physician gently moved Elizabeth away and helped Pierre back into his room. She waited a moment, but walked through the entranceway. The guards did not stop her.

“I should be quite well by this evening,” Pierre continued to speak to her, now in bed but sitting up. He picked up a damp cloth and pressed it to his forehead. Pluta lay curled up in his lap watching Lizzy.

“The pain comes and goes, as long as I do not strain myself I should be fine.” He said it with a look at his uncle, and put the cloth aside.

“My lord—” Ophion said.

“She may stay.” He rubbed his forehead; another wave of pain was starting. “And you may go have your breakfast, and then depart. Sleep on the journey. I am fine now, I am sure the worst has passed. You are needed in Eichel.” The lord physician had had plans to leave and see to his daughter and son-in-law, that is before Pierre had done much worse than merely risk his life.

The duc spoke aside to Lizzy, “Ophion stayed up the whole night making certain I was managing with the pain. He does not believe I am almost well and is forcing me to stay in bed. Would you mind terribly keeping me company?”

“No, my lord, I would be delighted to.”

Pierre turned to his uncle and smiled. “See? And I promise that I will rest. Go on then.”

The physician sighed. “Send Pluta if you worsen.” He pulled over a chair for Elizabeth, scooting it next to the bed. “I shall still be here an hour or two.” He shut the door as he left.

As if understanding she had been mentioned the cat moved over to the edge of the bed. The young woman reached out and stroked her from head to tail. “She’s gorgeous! Why, hello there.” Pluta purred. “Is she not almost twenty years in age by now? I remember her from when we were young, you said she was a longtime pet even then. Assuming of course it is the same cat..”

“It is the same cat, I could not give her name to another.” To name the living exactly after the dead was full of meaning in several realms. “And she is almost twenty three,” Pierre continued. “Cats can live into their twenties, though rare. Do you remember the first spring we met? The fée rings we found, Pluta ate some of the mushrooms when I was there later. Time has not affected her since.”

“You went back alone? Did you make a wish?”

“No, actually, I did not. I wanted to see if there were any differences during the night. The moonlight was brighter than usual.. Springfinding will be here soon, perhaps we could look for another one to wish in? Leave milk and honey on your windowsill to appease them.”

“It is still too early for them to be venturing so close to human homes, they will only come once our midspring has passed. I think you are just setting this up as a treat for Pluta.” She scratched the cat behind her ears, and was patiently still as the animal looked her over and sniffed her. “Do not worry, I will leave enough for you and the fairies.”

“Cats should not actually be given milk,” Pierre said. He spoke as if he often corrected others, especially while only overhearing a conversation. Lizzy wondered if his professors had found it a nuisance. She smiled.

“She is an immortal fay-cat, I do not think a saucer of milk will do her harm.”

“Ah, well..” Pierre struggled for words, as if too he was very rarely himself corrected. “When stated that way I believe you are correct.”

She looked up to him, and though smiling he seemed now in more pain. Elizabeth stood and looked to the bowl of ice-water that served to re-dampen the cloth. She held up a finger to Pierre for patience. With the other hand she picked out a cube of ice and wrapped it in the cloth, then pressing this to his temple. He reached up to hold it himself, and placed his hand atop hers.

“Thank you, Lizzy.”

“Of course, my—”

“Pierre, my dear.”

“Of course, Pierre.” She stroked some of his bangs out of the way, then quickly retreated to where she had sat with Pluta.

“Is it from the pain?” she asked. “Your hair colour, there is quite a lot of grey amongst the black. I have heard fright or pain may cause it to whiten. You have had these headaches since you were young..”

“It seems to be the case. Even my poor moustache is greying.”

“I fear I am too far away to see that.” He had only begun to wear the thin moustache when he had left for school, now a neat goatee complemented it.

“Were you not paying attention last night?”

“Your eyes held my attention, my lord—Pierre.”

“Perhaps you would wish to again come closer?”

She looked down to Pluta, and then around the room. “My lord, the door is closed. I do not believe it would be proper.” It was enough that they were in this room alone.

“Of course.” The duc was not as pale as he had been at the beginning of their conversation. “Forgive my suggestions, Elizabeth. You were among my thoughts last night.”

“You were in mine,” she confessed, still looking away.

There was a knock on the door. Pierre bid them enter, but winced at his own raised voice.

Two servants entered with a small table held between them, filled with all manner of breakfast food sweet and savoury. Placing it down each took a large dish and filled it with an assortment, one plate given to Pierre on a legged tray and the other put down next to Elizabeth on the table.

“My lord, do you desire to be fed?” One of the servants asked the duc, not moving from beside his lord, “It is an unnecessary strain, given your illness.”

“No, thank you I am well enough. You are dismissed, please keep the door ajar.” The two bowed, though stayed where they were.

“Yes?”

“The comtesse Bethany wishes her daughter know that they will be leaving before lunchtime with the lord physician Ophion, to return to Eichel.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth answered. “The information has been heard.”

Elizabeth said nothing about her abruptly scheduled departure, taking a large bite of fruit (something that should not have been in season yet) and delighting in its taste. Glancing to Pierre she noticed that while he had refused to be fed, with one hand occupied keeping the cloth pressed to his head, it did not look a very comfortable task.

“May I?” she asked. She stood again, and shook a finger at Pluta (who was stretching over to sniff the dish), “This is mine, you may have your own share from the table.” Pluta looked to her master, the two dishes, and then jumped to the extra food. She began to eat a slice of ham.

“Elizabeth,” Pierre protested when she sat at the edge of his bed and took his fork. “I sent away the valets, you are a noble lady—”

“And too I have been taught healing arts. You are in pain. Therefore at the moment, my lord, I am a nurse and you a patient.”

Pierre had no reply to this, and was forced to accept the food as it was offered.

Pluta sneezed as if to laugh.

***

“I am fond of her,” Pierre said. He leaned back and sighed. Elizabeth had left a quarter hour ago and he already missed her. She had indeed fed him, and he in turn had then announced the pain had subsided and surely as was fair he would feed her. She had not been able to object. “Not love,” he continued, reflecting, “not yet. But my heart beats faster in her presence.”

“You are infatuated already?” Pluta replied. She looked up from the food she was nibbling on.

“I believe I have been in some way since we were children. She has taken quite a stronger hold on me this time..” His voice drifted off, and he turned to the larkspur around his room. Reaching out he grasped a stem and pulled one out.

“Look, my Familiar.” The cat jumped from the table to the bed, and sat dutifully beside her master. He placed a finger in his mouth and bit down. Black blood dripped from the wound, and it tasted bitter. He touched the purple flower with it and watched as the bloom shriveled up.

Pierre then snapped his fingers, smearing blood on his hand, and quite the opposite took place—a flower returned to life. New buds and leaves poked from the stem, and the roots grew long. He leaned over and replanted it.

“It is easier,” he said, letting Pluta lick his wound. It began to heal far faster than if he had left it be. “There is a general ease to it. When before the spirits had resisted, if only gently, they now trust my own judgment. And while I still feel unwell after last night, I assumed far more pain.”

“You are no longer merely a suitor of death, Pierre,” the cat said.

No, he was not. He had returned to life within the hour of his own volition. He would have lost all he had strived for if he had taken longer. Perhaps then he would have rather stayed dead.

“Mora asked me to stay.” Pluta paused in cleaning the blood from his hand. He stroked her behind the ear. “She asked I stay as her consort in the realms between lives.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I would not be her equal. I would rather a limited life as her equal than forever as her consort.” He sighed. “And there are those who would miss me.”

***

The insistences that he was fine ended by noon, and call for aid began soon after. What Pierre had taken as readjustment was just the beginning of a long process. But what else could be expected from a body that had died?

Though it was not the first time it had done so. The studies of necrocræft were extensive, and to become a suitor to the lady of death was to become intimately familiar with all she governed. At nineteen he had been killed so he could experience death firsthand. Ophion had then brought him back to life, and for a week Pierre slept before waking. Perhaps that had been Mora’s mercy, to keep him from the pain she now let befall him.

He screamed. Every inch of his skin burned, and he could barely stay conscious. Ophion had already gone, though several of his assistants were trying to do their best. Pierre refused as much of the treatment as possible. It would be no help, and might in fact expose him.

Two young men held him down. Bedding and covers from the winter were pulled out again, the fire stoked. The door was shut to keep in the air and smoke. His screams turned to moans but there was no dulling of pain.

One assistant rummaged through his bag and pulled out a scarificator. He exposed Pierre’s skin so he could cut into it.

The lord struggled against him and wrenched free his arm. “Out! Everyone out, this instance!”

“My lord, I can—”

“Out!”

The young man stayed, through everyone else fled. He stood his ground, “My lord, if I bleed you—”

“My cane,” Pierre demanded instead. He sat, and clutched his head as the room swam and darkened. He whimpered in pain. The boy looked around and saw a gentleman’s walking stick laying on the floor close by. He picked it up and handed it to the duc.

Pierre pressed a gem, the trigger to a spring lock, and pulled out a dagger from within. Then without even looking up he drove it into the boy’s heart.

The spirits of death rushed to the body. Pierre’s pain dissipated and his sight returned. He spent a moment breathing deeply.

“Mora,” he finally called. “Mora, my dear.”

She appeared on his bed, sitting where she had last night. Her wings, which had been smoke then, were now as true as the rest of her. The flames roared behind her.

“Why?” he asked.

“You did not stay with me,” she said. “I offered you eternity, but you returned to this mortal existence.”

“I am sorry,” he replied. “It was a very tempting offer, I still in some ways wish to take it,” he looked up at her, “but I am not yours.” As close as he was to the Lady of Death, the name of Suitor was used as a magical term, and did not denote affiliation.

She raised a hand to touch his cheek, a corsage of larkspur on her wrist, and for a moment every ache and pain was gone. His eyes closed, and he sighed.

“Pierre..”

With effort he continued, “I passed your last test, Mora.” He opened his eyes and sat up straighter. “I took my life and with my own control over the spirits I returned soul to body. It was your wish, not requirement, that I stay with you.”

Her nails dug into his face and the pain flowed over him stronger than before. He snatched her hand away. His blood, now indiscernible from black ink by sight, stained their hands.

She cried out in pain but he did not let go. He held out a hand to her face, to cup her cheek as she had done to him. Touching her pulse, stroking her throat, she gave a sigh and dropped her head onto his palm. He brushed a bloody thumb over her lips.

“You are a lady of death,” Pierre said through clenched teeth. “The lady of death in Triumphe. The spirits obey you. But you are not in and of yourself Death, as often as you are referred to as such in this realm. You gave me power over the spirits, first through you, and now of my own accord.”

Her eyes widened and her lips moved underneath his touch, but he snapped his fingers before she spoke. Mora collapsed. The pain throughout his body eased though the headache continued.

He forced himself from bed and over to where the young man lay. Pierre made certain the boy had some of his blood as well, and then pulled free his dagger.

A soul drifted near the body, unable to continue any further. The lord tied spirit to flesh in an elaborate knot, giving the boy a high chance of survival from future injury or infection. It was the least he could do after murdering him. The dagger wound began to heal, and after several moments showed no mark. Another snap of his fingers, and the boy took in the first breath of his second life, though he remained in a deep unaware sleep.

The scent of blood was heavy the room, his headache almost blinding him in response. Looking back to the bed— Mora had disappeared, and Pluta sat observing. He smiled weakly to the cat.

“Do you think you will be able to clean this before we’re caught?” He gestured to the stained ground.

“Of course. Now sleep, Pierre.” He climbed into bed and threw off several of the covers. His Familiar nudged his cheek with affection before jumping to the floor. He had killed her once too, to make her his magical confidant. In return she was given a lifespan far past usual, human speech, and other magical oddities to deal with whatever her master was up to. Most importantly she could consume evidence.

“Remind me to tell uncle I apologise for being so rude to his students,” he said, laying down, “and for killing his second favourite apprentice.” He was asleep before she agreed.

***

His dreams were a tangle. Greys and blacks with shimmers of gold and blue. A hand around his neck that became a caress from throat to abdomen; gentle nails sharpening to a blade’s point.

***

Pierre awoke to a chill permeating the room, the fire having died down to embers. Pluta lay asleep near his feet, curled in one of the extra blankets that he now regretted tossing aside. He sat slowly, and sighed; everything remained still. Throughout his whole body a residual throbbing synced with his heartbeat but there was no acute pain.

The moon declared with its phase that he had woken only hours later. Scratching Pluta behind her ears, he got out of bed, lit several candles, and threw a log on the embers.

Nothing seemed out of place. The room was organised and neat, the events of that day a memory with no evidence. His Familiar has cleaned up well; it should satisfy her cravings for a time. The boy was missing, presumably having woken and returned to his duties. He should not have any memory of the time around his death, just a vague recollection of fainting.

Digging through his school bags Pierre pulled out a notebook, along with a glass quill and ink bottle. He placed the latter two items on his desk and pulled out the chair with his foot while he searched for the last page he had been writing on.

The words shimmered.

There were still spirits of death in the room; the ‘ink’ would be clear otherwise. It was his own plasma that he had separated from blood cells with a centrifuge. Magic was most concentrated in the blood, taken from oxygen in the air; the very atmosphere of the realm. It was why certain magics only appeared in certain lands. In the case of his cræft blood turned grey and black, and plasma would pick up a silvery glow. Without death near it though, plasma would be clear, and so he used it as an invisible ink. The writings would be in plain sight only for the few who Death clung to.

Finding his spot he sat, never looking up from the diary, and dipped quill in plasma to begin writing about the last few days. The party had been a surprise to him, though he should have known something would come up. A week previously on the 8th he had turned twenty-four, and those travelling with him had been too quick to let their celebration be put aside until they reached home. He had needed that extra time if he wished to finish everything by the new deadline of tonight’s full moon. Previously he had estimated half a decade to finish his studies, but had finished university with a year to spare, and had just been in need of a few more days to fully know his cræft. The Ides of Martius came with a full moon that would soothe the spirits and hopefully quicken his recovery.

Now he had an entire year of leniency, as he had made a pact with his brother so that the prince would take the duties of Piques until Pierre turned twenty-five. He could return to traveling, perhaps outside of the realm this time. Italaviana seemed an interest, with their own variation of death spirits creating those called vampires.

And then of course there was Elizabeth. She had been nearing the end of thirteen years when he had left for University. He had just turned twenty. Pierre had had what at the time he thought a passing fancy for the girl, but had assumed she would be wed before his return. She was not, and it seemed the fancy had not passed for either of them.

He had not yet begun to write about his cræft, spending so much time gathering his thoughts about Elizabeth. Had she heard of what has transpired that evening, what dare she think? After wasting several lines worth of plasma he put it away and reached for true ink. He would write about Lizzy in a way that he could later reread without having to commit an atrocity.

Pluta meowed. She had woken and was looking pointedly to the unlocked door. There was a knocking.

“Your business?” Pierre called. Ophion had likely left instructions to the young doctor-assistants to take care of him, as much as Pierre would have liked to remind his uncle that he could very well take care of himself. With the candles lit and the light seen from the dark hallway, they would need to ask permission before entering, even if earlier they had come in while he slept. The lord closed the drawer that hid the plasma, and he shut his journal hoping it would not smudge.

“To visit, my lord.”

“Enter.”

The door opened and Elizabeth looked in.

“My lord, you’re out of bed,” she said, surprised. “I thought you might be up, I was going to wish you well and see how you were doing.” Hearing no command to leave she took this as allowance of entry. Pierre stayed sitting before the drawer, unable to think of anything to say.

“You wrote to me often at night,” Lizzy continued, explaining, “Remember? You said it was when you felt most well, even after a terrible bout of illness. I assumed this was still the case and came to see you. Is that alright?”

“Of course,” he finally said, coughing to clear his throat. “Lizzy, is it not far past evening, past midnight? You were leaving with Uncle and your mother this afternoon.”

“I refused,” she said, and seemed both shy and proud of the act. “You need someone to keep you company, and there were already whispers that you were feeling worse when we began to pack. Ophion could not stay, and I felt I could be of some use here. Mother was not entirely pleased, but Lord Ophion did mention that I had kept your spirits up, and that another few days would be of no issue.” She straightened the thick skirts she wore, not meeting his eyes. She was dressed for going outside: boots that laced up to her knees, a coat, and her hair was pulled back in a loose tail.

“The full moon is out tonight,” she continued, “and there are almost no clouds, the entire sky can be seen. Do you wish to perhaps go out for a walk? If you feel well, that is, my lord. The time outside should do you well, the clean air..”

“Certainly Lizzy, that sounds like a splendid idea. You’re quite right.” He was smiling again, the thought that someone both wanted his company after all that had happened, and that it was her in particular, a joy.

“May I have a moment to dress?” At her widening eyes he found himself smirking, covering a laugh as she (with a deep blush) stepped back into the corridor. The sleepwear was very much the same she had seen him in before, but at least then he had been covered by his duvet most of the time.

“Coming, Pluta?” he asked, going to his wardrobe. She did not reply; already asleep again. He picked out one of his less elaborate suits, and an overcoat for the night’s air. Heading to the door he picked up his cane as well; it was to him what a wand was to a wizard.

He opened the door quietly, and walked into the hallway without a sound. When one snuck out often for magical activities one became well versed in silence. To her credit Elizabeth did not flinch when he touched her shoulder. With a nod and motion he let her lead the way.

They snuck out a side door to the gardens. A certain thrill encaptured them both at this intimate hour, together away from society. She was no longer in the presence of a princeling, or even a duc, but with an old friend.

Their breath clouded before them, and the frost that covered the ground broke beneath their feet. The duc looked up to the sky and pointed out constellations that had meaning to both humans and fée. The moon hung low and full, almost too bright to believe.

“Shall we find a fée ring?” Elizabeth asked, moving to the few flowers that bloomed this early in the year. “The Ides, a full moon, Springfinding within the sen’night. Fée rings should be everywhere.”

“Since when are you so knowledgeable about magic?” he asked, following her. Many would know some of these, or acknowledge them, but perhaps without connecting everything all together.

“I learned,” she answered. “I was always curious, and when I heard your father was from Faery I began to study. I thought about being a magician.” She looked up to him, as if wanting to know his opinion on the matter. “But the magics in Clandestina are not as, well, magical as in other places. There is no making fire out of thin air for a human, or turning into an animal. The fée have some control of such things, but mostly in their own lands.”

“You could still..” He quieted and placed a hand on her shoulder, pointing with his cane. “Look, there in the moonlight.”

She turned, and saw several mushrooms growing from the ground at an alarming rate. They only formed half a circle for now- an open fée ring. Pierre’s hand slid down her arm, and their fingers entwined.

“Some fée shall come through it to greet this realm and help ready the forests for Springfinding,” he whispered into her ear, “but only after they depart and close the door will a full ring be left behind and allow for a wish.”

“Could you enter through it?”

“I.. I do not know.” His father had been raised in Faery, and his infant sister taken there by the late Lord Félicien after his wife, their mother, had died. It had been that that he was taken in by the roi. He knew his sister now walked between planes, but he had not had much time to learn of his fée heritage.

“Come,” he said, walking over to it and pulling Elizabeth along. “I will try.”

She stood along the outer rim, and he faced the concave opening. Putting his cloak and cane aside, he smiled to Lizzy from across the patch of field and moonlight. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and took three steps forward.

“Oh!” He had not entered Faery, but instead bumped into Elizabeth. His arms wrapped around her, though the force had not been so much that they would have fallen.

“Perhaps something is keeping me on this plane.” She was hiding her face in his vest, but after a moment braved a glance up at the remark. He kissed her forehead.

“Now, as I was saying of your endeavours,” he continued, without waiting for any reply, stepping over the mushrooms and heading towards one of the pathways. Lizzy’s hand stayed in the crook of his arms, and they began to walk towards the fountains. “There is healer’s magic in Clandestina. It is why we are so well adept with our physical care. Magic of life.”

“And of the opposite,” she said. Realising what she had done, her eyes widened and she put her hand over her mouth. “I mean, I know of it, in passing.”

Pierre stopped, then walked them over to a bench and they sat together. “So you believe in necrocræft?” Many did not believe in the magic, to them it was a rumour told throughout the realm. To acknowledge it openly was perhaps to associate with it, and that was a risk.

“I do,” she said, but her laughter was gone. “To be honest, I do not understand why it is forbidden. One can heal wounds that should be fatal, return the dead to life, strengthen immunity in a person—there is so much good.”

“And you are adorably focused on all the aspects of life that is in the art,” he said, resisting a desire to kiss her once more and this time properly, “but you forget it is a magic said to come from a keres.”

“A keres?” she asked. Curiosity won over fear and she looked up to meet his gaze, “How much do you know? Do the royals know more than—”

He raised a finger to her lips; she quieted. Oh, how soft her mouth felt even beneath gloves. “I have heard, in passing and through my station, that keres are responsible. Specifically one. All the others are gone, at least from this realm.”

“Only one?”

“She is a daimon, a spirit of another plane. In this case the land of the dead. Once upon a time the keres lived here in Clandestina, but when people settled, the fée went to their own plane and most of the keres disappeared or fled. We were healers, and so there was no more space for spirits of agony and suffering—of death.”

“Then why can you heal? Why can you bring back the dead if it is from a daimon of pain?” How very close she was in her accusation. It sent a thrill up his spine.

“She has become far more than just a keres that represents pain. Circumstances have forced her into other roles, and she sees the balance that is needed with life and death. That said, there is one explanation that she allows for it because then there is a higher chance of the one healed later dying a more gruesome death. There is also the rumour that those consorting with her are guaranteed a cruel death, and so reprieve for minor injuries in some, or the return of life from one that may have died peacefully is of no issue.”

“So she is not a blessed spirit?”

“No.”

She asked no more questions about it, not even how Pierre knew so much, likely attributing it to the royal status. Which was true, most of that he had learned not from Ophion but from Edgard. A part of him wanted her to continue though.

***

He did not have breakfast with company the next morning, Elizabeth did not come and he refused to let in anyone aside from a doctor (and only when he swore it was on Ophion’s order). At lunch though she returned.

The duc was sitting up in bed, unable to rest because of the headache that had returned. It seemed to flow throughout his whole body. Writing was impossible, but a distraction would be welcome and so he shuffled a deck of cards and laid out a game of solitaire on the bed.

Lizzy came in after knocking softly and being granted entry, going to sit in her chair at the head of the bed. Without even asking permission she raised the fork from his ignored lunch to his mouth.

“I slept in late after our adventures,” she said. They had still wandered the garden for a while after talking, then having to sneak in so as not to be caught. Pierre was almost certain the guards were well aware of what was going on, and had purposefully left them be.

“I worried perhaps I frightened you with all that talk of necrocræft,” he replied. Pluta’s head jerked up and she glared at her master.

Elizabeth did not reply, looking to the game being played.

“What funny cards,” she said. Tilting back his head she placed a cold cloth on his forehead.

He heeded his Familiar’s warning, taking the new route of conversation. “The comte de Eichel’s daughter does not recognise the symbols?”

“Of course I do,” she responded quickly. The cloth got a squeeze and water dripped down his face. “Triumphe has worked its lands out to reflect those of playing cards suits, and I am aware that different symbols are used in other lands. But I simply have never seen a set like this myself.”

“My sincere apologies for saying different.” He wiped at the stream of water, trying and failing to keep back a laugh. She looked at the cards more closely.

Instead of hearts and spades there were cups and swords, a fourth court card, and another fifth set that were not a clear suit. The cards did not simply show the symbol and what number the card was either, entire scenes were beautifully drawn out.

“Tell me then,” Pierre said, “are these symbols from the Italaviana set or Roseliande?”

“Italaviana,” she replied. “Swords, coins- but what are these? Wands? They are not in the standard deck.”

His game was forgotten as she picked up several of the cards to look at them closer.

“These are alternate symbols from Italaviana. And these cards,” he picked through the forgotten klondike setup, “are another whole suit, the atouts. They are used for different games than usual. They have the highest value, along with the kings.”

He handed her the cards and watched as she looked at all of them. At one she paused for a moment, and Pierre counted which place it would be in when she handed back the small deck.

“This fifth suit, is there any set up in the royal court to reflect it? It is a very interesting group of cards: the Emperor, the Moon.. Death.”

“No, there is not. The fifth suit is up to the maker of the cards, though some themes are common. Planets, concepts, those alongside nobility like a magician.”

He gathered all the cards up again, and seemed to shuffle them. When Elizabeth turned to get the fork again he glanced at the card that she had taken note of. He had thought it would be Death, as she had mentioned it softly before, but no, it was the Lovers.

There was a knock on the door. Before Pierre said anything it opened, and a man several years his senior entered the room. His eyes were a sky blue, and his hair so that it was almost white. Usually clean-shaven, it seemed as if he had not had time in several days.

“Brother!” Pierre grinned to the true prince, “What are you doing here? You are to be running my duchy.”

“Ah, that is the welcome I receive?” The prince walked over to the bed, and the two men hugged. He noticed Lizzy upon stepping back, who was still in a curtsy.

“Rise, dear lady,” he told her, extending a hand to help her. “It is already all about the castle that you are Pierre’s only permitted companion. Feel free to defer to me as his brother, not your prince, in private company.”

“Yes, my lord, thank you.”

“Mother sent me,” prince Aimé said to Pierre, sitting on the edge of the bed. “They cannot return from their travels just yet, and wanted to know how you were. With Ophion to see Eglė, they wished a close eye still on you.”

“Ophion surely told them I was well. Or at least getting better.”

“Well yes, but Mother worries. She wanted updates, and would not ask for you to write them yourself. Anyway, it was time I returned for a while, and this was a good reason for my departure.”

“My lords,” Lizzy interrupted. “I believe this is a conversation between brothers. I shall see you soon, Pierre, and prince Aimé.”

Pierre held out his hand to her and she placed hers atop. He bent and kissed her fingers. “Until we meet again.”

She nodded, her cheeks rosy. “Until then.”

“Brother, I am bereft of speech,” the prince said, watching Elizabeth leave. “Does Mother know about her? Has a wedding been planned?”

“She has been my companion while I have been ill. We are not yet betrothed.”

“Yet,” Aimé repeated. He then took pity and changed the subject, “What did take you so violently? Screams, Pierre, throwing out the staff?”

“Already wondering if my degree was well earned?”

“Truly, Brother.”

Pierre hesitated on the lie. He had come up with several excuses for when it had merely been the larkspur, but as it was there were more factors than just a small poison and headache. He had not thought of how intense the recovery from her last test would be.

“Or can you not say?” the prince continued. A chill settled in Pierre’s stomach.

“An illness circled the dorms this winter,” the duc said, “it was likely that, along with an imbalance in the humours brought on by long travel.” He suspected his brother had some idea of the truth. The royal house was well aware Mora was more than just a rumour; several were brought to sentence because of suspected affiliation in his time at court. Necrocræft was not a moral or lawful practise in the realm. Hiding it while being of the highest status at school had been rather easy. Here, while called principicule affectionately because of his fostering by the king, he was merely the orphaned son of a duc. Legally many outranked him.

Corruption existed on all levels, though. If the princeling, why not the prince? But Pierre would still not confirm anything for his brother, even if Aimé approved of Mora in some way. The risk was too great if he was wrong.

“Perhaps you should go take that last semester you’re skipping,” the prince said, and smiled. Pierre relaxed.

“What did you mean by good time to return?”

“Ah, well Father and I have been speaking,” he said. “Seeing as you finished classes a year early, but our deal is still in effect, perhaps there could be a transitional year.”

“Transitional?”

“I will return to court here more often, begin to move back over the visits and get caught up in business. Similarly once you are well you can go to Piques; begin understanding the land and the people. I have set up a council, those who have aided me, and I hope shall aid you as well.”

“Brother that is very generous, thank you.”

“You are welcome. Will you allow a few more guests now, Hélaïse and Ancel are here as well and would like to see you.”

***

Pierre lay awake that night, dismissing the student that Ophion sent to keep an eye on him—the very same he had earlier killed. His name was Wolfram, it seemed, and while only fifteen he was top of the private class that Ophion led. The duc noticed the boy was wearing gloves and did not take them off all the while he sat there, and vaguely wondered if his uncle had taken another apprentice. He could not remember if the boy had had gloves on when tending him last time.

The memory of what he had done to his lady returned to him.

“I am sorry,” he whispered. He reached out towards the larkspur that still decorated the room, but did not touch. With a sigh he closed his eyes. “Forgive me.” A phantom clasped her hand in his. “I was in pain,” he continued. His thumb stroked the back of the lady’s hand. He would not have seen her even if his eyes were open. “I should know how to deal through agony, but I felt betrayed.”

Mora settled on the bed more spirit than flesh.

“As did I.”

He pulled her into his arms and returned to sleep with death.

***

Elizabeth visited often. What had been a pleasant surprise the first few times was now routine and much appreciated. The illness continued to wax and wane with the times of day. Pierre finally realised that his body would finish adjusting the day after midspring—the last quarter moon. Death’s Moon. It was a long time to deal with this level of reoccurring pain; Lizzy’s company was welcome.

Tonight, there were still a few days left, and the pain had not stopped even at midnight. Pierre lay curled in his bed, having sent Lizzy away hours ago through she had desired to stay. Wolfram was helping him manage and the boy had just left to bring more cool water.

He needed to kill something. It would distract the spirits of pain that now grew restless being near him and unable to do more harm. He could channel their energy, or suffer, and there was no other magic to tame them as that full moon had. During other times they might leave him be, but this was still his final test. They would not accept a weak lord.

The cup beside his bed held watered wine, and after piecing his finger with a pin, a few drops of black blood. It would not be able to significantly change the taste, but it was enough for his magic to work.

His assistant returned. Pierre balled his fist to hide the blood and scars, not having time to pull on his glove.

“Please, you have worked hard, drink from my cup,” he told the boy. “I have not had the desire for it. Tea, perhaps, if you could get some.”

“Yes, my lord, thank you.” He first tended Pierre, replacing the cloth and covering him with another blanket. Taking the cup he seemed to want to refuse the offer, but could not. He drank it and then left for the kitchens.

Some of the spirits left with him, and there was a slight reprieve until he returned.

Wolfram set the tea down on the nightstand. “Shall I die again?”

“You know what I am doing?” The same boy that he had killed, the same one that had taken to wearing gloves. Ophion’s student.

“I have guessed,” the boy replied, allowing himself to look at the duc.

“Then no you shan’t. I assume you have an interest in this?” Pierre opened his hand, showing scars and smeared black blood.

“I do.”

“Then bring me another sacrifice. I cannot return this one.”

The boy was silent for a moment, unable to look away from the lord’s hand. “May it be an animal?” he asked.

“No. Bring a person. And I hold your soul already, do not attempt anything revealing or it will be you.”

He bowed, and left again.

“And how will you explain a missing person?” Pluta asked. She was almost always with Pierre, now lying on the pillow beside him. She took some of his pain.

“Fée.”

“Not entirely a lie either.”

Wolfram returned with a young woman. She curtsied deeply upon seeing the duc. The boy stood beside her, close enough for their hands to brush together.

“You fret so much you ask it to be a creature and you bring this lovely mademoiselle?” the Lord of Death asked. He sat up, and his eyes flicked over the girl. She wore a sleeping gown, and dark curls were caught up for bed. “Look at me,” he said. She retained her posture only raising her head. “Your linea?” he asked. There was more to her than human.

“My family hails from Cygnorum, your grace,” she said.

“Do you know why you are here?”

“You requested my presence.”

“Come, sit beside me.”

He motioned for Wolfram to give him the cup. In full view of both the boy and the girl, he took out his knife and cut into his hand. He bled into the cup. Pluta licked the wound until it was no longer so deep, and Wolfram bandaged it.

Pierre gave his full attention to the girl sitting on his bed. “You will drink this,” he said, “and you will die. It will be painless, and no marks shall appear anywhere on you. Nothing cruel shall be done to your body.”

She was pale, and now shaking, but stayed sitting beside him. He raised the cup to her lips. She looked to Wolfram, and seeing something that calmed her she closed her eyes and drank.

The lord put aside the cup, and hugged the girl. He held her, comforted her, stroked back her hair and watched as tears flowed down her cheeks.

“Un, deux—”

“Mercy.”

He snapped his fingers before finishing the count, and the girl died in his arms. He held her a moment longer, and then let her body slide to the floor.

“Rid the room of her waste,” he told Pluta, lying back down with a grateful sigh as his pain left. “Her corpse must stay intact, let it be hidden underneath the bed. As I promised her, do nothing harmful to her. She will be buried at a more convenient time.”

Turning his head to look at Wolfram out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy standing, a hand to his mouth, fascinated and abhorred.

“Death is not pretty,” the lord told him. “She was beloved to you, was she not?”

“She was dying,” the young suitor replied. He walked over to her body and knelt beside it. “Often in pain. I began to learn so I could heal her, but it did not work.. she asked to die.”

“Then I am glad it was her will.”

Wolfram touched her, stroking back her hair. Pluta sat beside him for the moment. It was a sick room, unpleasant scents were standard and it was well known the duc was still quite ill. She could give the boy his time.

“Can you not bring her back?” He sounded close to tears, as if just now understanding exactly what had taken place.

“No,” Pierre replied softly. “She was my sacrifice, to return her life would be to break a vow.”

“And.. if someone else brought her back?”

The duc turned on his side to he could see the boy and the girl. Clever young man, he could see why Ophion had chosen him. Why Mora had chosen him.

“If someone else did it, then I would break no vow.”

“May I return her?” the assistant looked up to his lord, pleading. “I can still learn, can I not?”

“Returning a person’s life will take quite a long time of studying Three years, perhaps four. You could just wait for Ophion’s return.”

“I want to. I mean.. is she well, where she is? Happy?”

“Yes.”

Wolfram nodded, then turned back to his dead love. He finished his inspection and hid the body, pushing it under the bed and pulling the sheets so that they covered the gap between the bed and the floor. Pluta snuck under after it.

“Thank you, my lord,” Wolfram said. He stood and poured the cool tea for Pierre, handing him the cup. It was then the lord understood— Ah, not ‘mercy.’

“You are welcome,” he replied to them both.

***

A touch, a slight of hand. He shuffled the deck in such a way that a card cut into his finger, and then he placed aside the whole pack. Gesturing for Lizzy to remain seated by the bed, he used the same hand to her tea, now with an extra drop of blood.

He folded his hands together to hide any black stain.

“Thank you, Pierre.”

“Of course, Lizzy.”

She took a drink and did not notice. He did nothing, but smiled as she complimented the tea and placed it on the saucer for a time. They resumed their conversation as if nothing amiss had happened.

“Now, my dear,” Pierre said. “I would like you to come with me to the feast.”

“Me, Pierre? I have earned no such spot at the royal table.”

He would be entirely well in three more days, if his estimate about the moon was correct, and by that point the roi and reine would be home as well. There was to be a royal family dinner staged for the return, and Pierre’s departure for Piques. He had insisted on the date, though some wished he would still stay a bed.

“I insist. It will be in two days. And this is not an order, my dear. Do think about it, please?”

“I shall; I will.”

She left shortly after this, and Pierre was allowed to give her a kiss on the cheek. This time when his heart fluttered he was sure it was because of her. Trying to be patient, he waited until moment the door closed and he snapped his fingers, capturing her soul.

If he wished with another movement he could place her in an unnatural sleep, never to wake by any medical procedure or prayer. He could end her life, forcing her into the land of the dead. He could take her to and bring her back from those edges.

He moved his fingers as if fiddling with a coin. Hers was a gentle soul, one of duty, but mischief was inherent in her person. Perhaps he was wrong that there was no fée in her linea.

He flicked his fingers to release his hold. Even so, for the next three days he could without being anywhere near her take control. In the back of his soul he felt the humming of her spirit, alongside the links that tied him to Pluta, Wolfram, and anyone else that had recently been made ingest his blood. Her spirit comforted him as much as her physical presence had, and he felt more at peace.

His headache began once more; the crescendo of throbbing almost blinding him. He hid his face in the pillow and whimpered. He had hoped that the pain would lessen when he used cræft from now on, but it did not seem the case. After a moment he picked up his cards—just to check one last thing. He flipped over the card he had cut his finger on.

He smiled and returned the Lovers to their place.

***

“You are leaving the day after tomorrow as well, yes?” he asked Elizabeth the day before Springfinding, placing down the seven of wands to lose against the knave of pentacles in a game of War. She was sitting on the far edge of his bed to better play the game, legs dangling near the corpse that still lay hidden.

“Yes. Brother is certain his child will be born by then, and as you are leaving yourself that day, Mother insists I return.”

“And if you were to have other plans?”

“Like?” She seemed curious, but unaware this was a suggestion. She won the next hand as well, picking up the ace of swords and his queen of cups.

“I am leaving for Piques, as you know, which my brother is in his last year of governing. I have finished my studies a year early, and he too wishes I know how to properly run ‘his’ duchy. I would like you to be there as well.”

She was already blushing. “My lord—”

“Elizabeth,” he interrupted. He placed his hand over hers, and squeezed when she looked down. “I wish the company of a friend, and neither of our brothers, nor Ophion, may come with me just yet. You have proven a dear companion. And perhaps you shall learn how to run a whole duchy?”

“I am the younger child, daughter, of a comte. I shall have no need to learn how to take care of an entire duchy.”

Pierre smiled gently. “You are the beloved companion of a duc,” he told her. He raised her hand to kiss it, and tugged her towards him, catching her in his arms. When she looked up he kissed her.

For a moment neither was certain of what to do, but his arms wrapped around her, a hand tangled in her hair, and she shivered in his arms and pressed herself ever closer.

They pulled apart after several moments, Lizzy sitting back and touching her kiss-swollen lips.

Pierre seemed almost surprised by his own actions. “My lady, I—”

“I accept your invitation to spend the start of spring with you, lord Pierre. Dear Pierre. Though I shall need to ask and be granted permission by my family.”

“Of course,” he replied. He brushed back some curls that had come loose from her hairstyle, and kissed her gently once more.

***

Her mother was delighted that she had been formally invited to stay with the duc at his estate. Such arrangements were not uncommon for ladies if the lordly men of their affection was of a more distant land. The household would know to treat the lady guest with respect, as a probable future mistress, and there would not be a lack of chaperones.

The pigeon with the lady comtesse’s message returned the morning of Springfinding, allowing for permission and also mentioning that Eglė’s time seemed to be upon her. With any luck another message would be sent soon about the child.

***

The royal family dinner was to begin at moonrise. The roi and reine returned to court in late afternoon, visiting Pierre for a short while so as to be assured of his improving health. He had taken to sitting at his desk, bored of lying in bed, but was still forced to nap at least during the hours of high sun. The spirits had dispersed enough so that his journal was unreadable except for the spots about daily life and his legal education.

“I am fine, Mama,” he assured the queen when she asked why he was up, hugging her. “Here, feel my forehead.”

Wolfram was keeping him company at that time, and Pierre introduced him as his own student. He had decided to bring Wolfram along to Piques as well, stealing him from Ophion.

“And Eichel’s daughter?” the roi prompted. He scratched at his auburn beard. “I do not see the girl who has become the topic of gossip and praise among my staff.”

“She will be my guest tonight, Father.”

“I look forward to meeting her.”

Pierre had himself not seen her all that day, but Wolfram assured him that the lady was merely busy with tonight, and the departure tomorrow.

“Well then, perhaps I should be busy as well. Help me pick out my attire.”

***

Washed, dressed, and feeling healthy for the first time in a week Pierre left his room without trying to hide from the guards or his doctors. Elizabeth had sent a note that she would be waiting by the east entrance to the dining hall, and he made his way there alone. Even Pluta stayed behind, with Wolfram, who wished to try and see if he could feel his love’s soul with the limited knowledge he had.

Turning the corner Pierre stopped and had to actually support himself with the cane. Lady Elizabeth Anne stood off to the side, wearing a very similar blue gown to what she had worn at the last party, but this time her sleeves were quite short and she wore long white gloves to compensate. Her hair was loose, with some of it over her shoulder, and sapphire earrings on display. A cream fan was being twisted nervously in her palms, but then she stopped and opened it to check whether she had damaged it. Pressed upon the parchment was the larkspur he had given her that night.

“Oh, Lizzy..” Seized with desire, he did not announce himself, striding over to her while she was still occupied with the fan, and kissing her before she could fully realize what was going on. One arm wrapped around her waist, and the other held her hand and the fan, so it would not fall and be damaged.

“You are the most beautiful creature,” he told her between a kiss to her lips and another to her cheek, and then brow. “Do not fret, for no one can feel ill will towards such a lovely being as you.”

They entered the dining hall several minutes later, after stealing several more kisses before composing themselves.

***

“News, my lords!” a courier entered the dining hall right before dessert, when everyone was seated more informally, some exchanging their glasses of wine for cups of tea. “From Eichel. Lady Eglė has born a boy this Springfinding, Gwythyr Été.”

“Named after summer,” Hélaïse said softly. “What a wonderful name. Though it is springtime.”

“But Summerfinding was exactly nine months ago,” Pierre replied, and there was quiet laughter at the understanding.

Aimé raised his glass. “To Gwythyr Été!”

Pierre’s glass touched Elizabeth’s, and he whispered to her a congratulations for the new addition to her family. He took a deep drink of his dessert wine, and immediately tasted something wrong. The wine was bitter and a familiar burning coated his throat.

Poison.

Whether deadly, and if so how quickly fatal, he had no idea. But the lord wasted no time, curious though he was about the effects. He tugged at Pluta’s soul to gain her attention from his rooms, and bid her hurry. As the courier left his cat entered, and with a wave he made it known it was alright.

“A family dinner without Pluta, whatever was I thinking,” he said. Elizabeth had not turned back to her food, and made to hold Pierre’s hand underneath the table.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, fine. Just a spell.”

Pluta dashed to her master, the tablecloth fluttering much to Ancel’s delight. Pierre bent as if to give her some food from the hand that Lizzy did not hold, and she bit him. He gasped, taking his left hand back and placing the gloved finger in his mouth. He could still taste the blood, and the colour would be masked by the dark satin.

“Pluta,” he scolded her aloud. “I give you the finest fish in the land and this is how you repay me?”

Before he could do anything else, Lizzy had leant over and pressed a handkerchief to the bite.

“I.. thank you.” he replied, and felt himself blushing. His right hand stayed in her lap, and their fingers twined together.

Conversation began again. The prince discussed the duchy and the kingdom, and the duc offered his opinions while manipulating the spirits. Playing with Lizzy’s fingers was just the motion that they responded to as well.

His unease slowly left. Whatever poison had started to attack his body became void. He did not drink or eat anything for the rest of the night, but not for a moment stopped thinking about what had happened.

***

It was not a coffin, but as she was not staying dead perhaps it was more fitting. Pierre lay the girl in an elaborate trunk, legs tucked up so that she would fit. Her nightgown was different than the one she had died in. That had, for good measure, been consumed by Pluta as well, but it was thought immodest to leave her without dress. Wolfram made certain his love’s body was well kept, her head even rested on a pillow, and he hid her underneath a pile of silk. She would not decay as long as Pierre willed it.

“Thank you again, my lord,” the young suitor said. The trunk was locked, and Wolfram given the key. “She really does seem just asleep.”

“We shall find you an animal to become your Familiar after we arrive. Lessons shall be sparse at first. You are certain you wish to be the one to bring her back?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Very well then.”

The servants were called in to gather up luggage, and Pierre made his way to the carriages. He had heard that Lizzy was already seated in hers and reading.

He found the one with elaborate gold acorns, and knocked on the door with his cane.

“May I be allowed in?” he asked. She smiled and opened the door, while he climbed in before a footman could move to help.

“Pierre,” she greeted informally, and he pulled the small curtain to the window before he kissed her.

“Lizzy, darling. I have something for you.” He took out a rectangular jewelry box from his coat pocket, and opened it so that she could see. A golden pendant in the shape of a larskpur flower, with amethysts to accentuate the petals.

“Pierre, I—” He silenced her with another quick kiss, and hooked the clasp behind her neck.

“I will finish monitoring everyone getting ready and return soon. Wolfram and Pluta shall be our company; I wished this to be done privately.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She fell back onto formal speech when unable to think of anything to say. He smiled to her, kissed her cheek, and went to finish checking the cortège.

Elizabeth was smiling so widely that her cheeks hurt. She tried to continue reading, but had to stop every few sentences to look again at the pendant. Then something caught in her throat and she pulled out a handkerchief, one of Pierre’s dark ones, and coughed, not seeing the drops of blood that were left behind.

Thank you for reading Larkspur! If you enjoyed the story, please leave a review on Amazon, I’d love to know what you think! Vol. 2 of The Courting of Life and Death is in the works, and for upcoming information, tidbits, and promotional days, please sign up for the Noctuinad mailing list. In addition to the current series, many other stories that take place in Clandestina (and in other realms of Noctuina) are planned and being written. You can also contact me through my blog, email, or twitter.