“Well well! If it isn’t Roly and my dear old mistress!” Duke Efflam said blithely, oblivious to the crown prince’s indignant expression. “I say! I don’t believe we’ve been introduced!” he then added cheerfully, nodding at the toy hippogriff in the crown prince’s palm.

Ignoring this last quip, Roland replied haughtily, “I’ll thank you, Uncle, to address the son of your sovereign liege with the respect he is due!” The boy glowered, drawing himself up to the fullest extent of his modest height.

Duke Efflam laughed easily, his genial manner indifferently at odds with the dreariness of the weather and the Cygnon’s mounting displeasure. “Very well, the Duke of Neustria it is. But Monsieur, surely you still aren’t vexed over my bit of sport? I had the best of intentions, I assure you!”

“I am not vexed but outraged, and forbid you from repeating your mischief!” Roland said commandingly, lacking only a scepter in his hand and a good decade to his lifespan to achieve an intimidating effect.

The young duke sighed. “My dear nephew, the season is well advanced and the parterres will be barren ere long; your mournful flowers will not mind over much, I think, if my boot expedites their return to the earth by a few trifling days. Besides, the purpose of flowers is to make women smile, and your precious buds know this; whether they do so crushed or plucked, therefore, must be a matter of supreme indifference to them. Why, hullo!” the duke suddenly said, raising his tone and an eyebrow as he appraised Zephyrin. “Who’s this strapping young lad?”

“This is Zephyrin dy Valensis, a student at Lyceum Rudolf VII,” supplied the governess on Zephyrin’s behalf. “He is here at Her Majesty’s request.”

“Hm. So you’re Addy’s latest pet, are you? Well, good for you, good for you.” The duke studied Zephyrin for a little while longer but spared him the need to reply, his gaze already sliding over him to settle on his former governess instead. “At least this one’s the right color,” he remarked to her. “But whatever inspired my lovely sister-in-law to add him to her collection? Is he the orphan of an Elysian relative?”

“Not in the least,” replied the governess again, perhaps presuming that Zephyrin would be too intimidated to respond cogently. “He is Gaulyrian. From the south,” she added with a look at Zephyrin, who nodded in confirmation, taking care to show no outward sign of his general dissatisfaction with his present situation.

“Gaulyrian, you say!” Turning to Zephyrin with renewed interest, the duke regarded him as if for the first time. “How curious. Judging by your appearance, I would have put down a healthy sum on Elysian heritage, or perhaps northeastern Fleurian…” Tapping his chin thoughtfully, he continued, “Ah, now everything explains itself! My sister-in-law’s infatuation with the gallant chevalier who spared a wayward rotblood brat from hoof and wheel is better understood, seeing his resplendent virtue mirrored by his mien.”

As the duke stood oddly still, a half-smile curling his full, pouty lips, Zephyrin realized after a moment’s delay that he was waiting to see if the slur casually dropped would provoke a reaction. That his intended target was of equally noble blood he of course could not know; more concerning to Zephyrin was the unpleasant surprise that knowledge of his humble origins had already trickled down from the queen to other members of the royal family.

Duke Efflam had been playing dumb, that was clear enough; there was no time, however, to work out the implications of this development. Instead, Zephyrin replied simply, “Monseigneur is too kind. And yet I cannot take credit for my feat, for the authoress of my virtue is the same who has so richly endowed His Serene Highness’s house with honor and glory.”

The duke’s expression didn’t alter one whit, but he allowed a minuscule, almost imperceptible interval to pass in that manner common to those who grow up in the midst of ever-present eyes and listening ears and weigh every word before it is uttered. “Well said. You may not be Elysian, young Valensis, but you have the silver tongue,” he said pleasantly, thoroughly annoying Zephyrin. “I believe you won’t have any trouble fitting in.”

Duke Efflam considered Zephyrin a moment longer, then shifted his gaze to the fidgeting princeling. “Cheer up, Monsieur! I won’t keep you any longer! Enjoy your outing, nephew! Or perhaps I should say, nephews?

“Zephyrin hasn’t yet decided if he wants to be Mama-Queen’s son,” stated Roland, a mildly anxious look coming over his face.

“Is that so?” Duke Efflam gave Zephyrin another look, before his features became wholly boyish as he grinned good-naturedly. “My word, if you’re willing to go against my sister-in-law’s wishes, then you’re a braver man than I!” He clasped Zephyrin on the shoulder in friendly fashion. His eye, however, was already wandering over to the panniered coterie pining for his return, his mind evidently weighing the merits of various practical jokes.

The duke then exchanged parting pleasantries with Madame Ehzvina and saluted the Cygnon. As he spun on his heel and recrossed the green sward, Roland stuck out his tongue at his retreating back before turning to Zephyrin eagerly. “At last! Now I can show you the—”

“That will have to wait, Monsieur,” broke in Madame Ehzvina, as the palace’s chapel bell rang to signal eleven o’clock. “Your hour of recreation has ended, and it is now time for your catechetical lesson of the day. Abbé Mercy is waiting.”

“Oh, there is no need to go—I know very well what he will say! The words ‘patience is a virtue’, are ever on his lips: well, I will give him the chance to display its fruits!”

A smile rose to Zephyrin’s lips as an exasperated Madame Ehzvina sought to reason with the prince, who stubbornly crossed his arms, refusing to cede an inch. In a bid to mollify the boy, Zephyrin promised him that they would resume the tour later in the day after Vespers.

Roland unfolded his arms slowly, his expression dubious. “Do you promise? You are my subject, and as such you must obey me!”

Zephyrin’s smile threatened to become a laugh. “Of course, Monsieur. Is there any greater joy for a subject than to obey their sovereign?”

The Cygnon stared fiercely at Zephyrin for a long moment, then finally nodded, appeased. As a maid came to gather up his toys in her arms, Madame Ehzvina inquired of Zephyrin if he had the intention of returning to the palace to rest.

“No, I will remain here for a little longer. I believe the fresh air is doing me good.”

“Very well, dy Valensis. Do be careful not to catch cold; it would be unfortunate if you suffered a setback in your recovery.” Madame Ehzvina’s face remained inscrutable, yet Zephyrin thought he perceived in her words the hint of an ally’s solicitude. Would she be willing to put in a word on his behalf with the queen? This subtle sign made him want to speak with the woman to probe her views; unfortunately, finding her alone would be no easy feat, occupied as she was by her duties.

Zephyrin acknowledged the crown prince’s departure with an inclination of the head as the boy waved in excited anticipation of that evening. Once he was out of sight, he straightened himself and stared at the debonair duke, animatedly conversing with his circle of admirers once more. Seeing Duke Efflam’s face in profile at this distance, he had the unpleasant impression of beholding his countenance as though stamped on coinage; all that was lacking to complete the image was a crown…

I’ll not begrudge you your craven opportunism in a world that no longer exists, Duke Efflam. Yet on this day, in this world, I vow that you will never rule.

“Sir, I beg your pardon…”

Glancing up and to the side, Zephyrin found himself addressed by a tanned footman, his demeanor apologetic. The Primævan servant deeply inclined his head, giving Zephyrin a glimpse of his long silver hair, tied back in a ponytail.

“Is it noon already? Does Her Majesty—”

“No, sir. I come on behalf of my mistress, whom you see seated yonder…”

Following the man’s indication, Zephyrin saw seated a ways off a second group of ladies in an octagonal white gazebo, half the number of those accosted by the duke earlier, but more lavishly—or to his modern eye, garishly—appareled. As he returned a questioning gaze to the servant, the man hastened to add, “My mistress would be most indebted to you if you were to join her party. You will be well compensated for your time.”

“Who is your mistress?”

“The Countess dy Coàntalle. Madame is an Exalted,” the man added, evidently expecting Zephyrin to appreciate the significance of this term. Though passingly familiar with it from his reading, he couldn’t recall more than that the Exalted were a sub-faction of the old nobility. As for the countess, Zephyrin had never heard her name, either in this life or in the previous.

Who could she be? Shortly after waking in the palace he had briefly entertained the thought that one or more of the various court factions would try to make contact with him, only to dismiss it on account of his age and the nature of his presence, which even if the adoption were to go through would remain strictly informal. Why a countess would seek him out of her own accord, therefore, he couldn’t guess.

Deciding that this opportunity to peek into the machinations of the ancient aristocracy was not to be passed on, Zephyrin consented with a nod to the invitation, following the footman to the snowflake-shaped pavilion, where the last generation of the old order awaited within.