The cloud-gray monuments of Lutesse had gradually receded, then vanished altogether in a mist as the carriage carrying Zephyrin whisked him away to the city’s outskirts. The morning was brumous courtesy of the humidity perpetually exhaled by the Seicwan river, and a drizzle pattered on the two-person coach’s roof as he and a valet were jostled and bumped on the fifteen leagues’ journey to Douàzile, the queen’s countryside retreat of choice and refuge from the double strictures of court protocol and dress. However fond she was of her regalia, the queen had once remarked, she liked breathing from time to time.

Onward the coach rolled. The mist lay too heavily on the land to offer any striking views; of the grand Porcelain Palace where Rudolf XI had reigned the passengers had seen nothing, nor had the elegant, tree-lined avenues of the wealthy town of Satournys made an appearance. It was a cheerless morning, marrying the dismalness of damp autumn and the coldness of winter’s encroachment to dreary and monotonous effect.

Until, in the blink of an eye, it no longer was. Zephyrin felt a peculiar tingling, such as that he had experienced when passing through the entryway into the lyceum’s enchanted training room; he had started a little; and then, perplexedly looking out the coach’s window, had seen red and golden fields unfold before his baffled gaze like the petals of an impossibly large, cornucopia-hued flower. To all appearances the clock had been turned back, and a summer that had long since succumbed to the declining year’s frigid clutches seemed to revive in every place.

Now, dismounting after their passage through the guarded front gate and following the valet who led him deeper into the exclusive domain, Zephyrin understood the phenomenon as he looked up. The sky was an ordinary blue, yet there was a faint hum in the air, one that could almost be mistaken for the buzzing of insects, but which was assuredly emitted by the extravagantly-sized mana warming dome that enveloped the estate. Shielded from the elements, the property had its own micro-climate, one completely opposite to the outside world’s.

Zephyrin took in the green, burgeoning pastoral scenes around him. He saw a mill, the sails of which made slow, graceful revolutions, like the languorous overhead arcs of a ballerina’s arm. It moved so slowly, in fact, that Zephyrin found himself questioning whether it was able to grind grain at all, so reduced was the turning rate comparing to that of the mills he had seen in Baras. If nothing else, it was undeniably successful as an aesthetic showpiece, as were the other colorful, picturesque buildings dotting the bucolic environs.

Past the mill and rectangular fields growing crops well out of season, a gently curving stream meandered its way through the estate before renouncing its indulgent course to feed a pristine blue pond, where white-winged boats in the guise of swans drifted from one end of it to the other. Around the lake rose cottages, aviaries, apiaries, and a barn such as he might have observed in his southern province growing up, only charmingly painted and brand-new, while crowning the fairytale-esque whole was a stone tower of suspiciously ancient aspect, as if to assure the onlooker that it had faithfully presided over the quaint pastoral picture for time immemorial.

Zephyrin knew that was far from the truth, however. Too harmonious and smooth in its design to be entirely natural, the living tableau gave an impression of effortless beauty that could only be the result of applied expertise. The landscape had been heavily modified and it was clear that a great deal of thought had been put into turning a royal’s flight of fancy into reality.

And an even greater amount of labor. Zephyrin looked round some more as he followed the liveried footman down a meticulously reproduced country road, down to the pebbles kicked aside by their shoes. Though unseen, he supposed that behind the scenes there were dozens if not hundreds of laborers dedicated to the maintenance and operation of the hamlet, ensuring that this parcel of paradise would be available to the queen and her entourage year-round.

Just as he was speculating as to the number of casters needed to maintain the warming dome, Zephyrin caught sight of two straw-hatted women conversing as they strolled down a fenced lane. They both wore simple, pollen white muslin dresses; at this distance their social position was ambiguous—perhaps they were domestics who lived on the estate. Nearly at the same moment, one of them turned and perceived his approach.

“Zephyrin!” Disengaging from her companion as she called his name, one of the women waved to him, then lifted a hand up to hold her hat in place as she crossed the distance between them with hurried grace. The scene could have been taken out of a painting, and as the woman approached close enough for Zephyrin to make out her features, he was stunned to see that he recognized them—recognized them very well, in fact.

“Y-Your Majesty…?!” Zephyrin stammered stupidly, while the queen giggled behind her gloveless hand as she came to a halt, obviously enjoying his loss of composure. “Come now, Zephyrin!” she scolded him with a smile. “Is my charming retreat a phantasmagoria, and I a ghost for you to react thus? Well, I will grant that this dress is somewhat reminiscent of a dame blanche,” she said, glancing down at its spectrally pale folds. “But few faeries, I think, would be caught dead wearing this!” Adelaide-Estelle tilted her straw hat’s shadow-casting brim to a jaunty angle, letting the sunlight illuminate a complexion that was already remarkable by its pallor. “Tell me, what do you think of my milkmaid hat?”

Zephyrin fished in his mind for praise that was not too effusive as the queen’s lady companion caught up to them. “It suits Madame admirably, as does her dress, which detracts in nowise from her queenly dignity.”

Adelaide-Estelle did not receive his praise as he expected. Pursing her lips and making a moue of displeasure, she reproached him light-heartedly, “'Queenly', is it? Could you have not at least said ‘a queenly shepherdess’? This is the dress I will wear when I play the country maiden on my private stage; I shall be very cross if all along it serves me no better in that role than a court dress!”

“No, it succeeds very well in that purpose; only, I can well imagine the words of the shepherdess about whom I recently told Madame, who would consider even this dress very regal indeed.”

The queen smiled sweetly, making a show of being appeased. “I suppose she would. Rose, was it? You will have to tell me more about the dear girl, and teach me all the rusticisms of your charming southern dialect—I want my next performance to be my best one yet. Ah, what a pity my brother-in-law the Duke of Ponthul could not come to-day! He does the lovesick swain to perfection, when we put on our little dramas. And though I’ve an equally talented replacement at hand,” she said, turning to her female companion, “How she vexes me by digging in her heels! One would think the Church had proscribed plays altogether, hearing her talk!”

“Madame, I have told you as often as you have sought out my services,” replied the lady, with an air of faint exasperation hinting that this was a debate of no recent origins. “It is not to plays that I object, but the subject matter of the pieces of your predilection.”

“Surely there is no harm in the pretend-courtships of swains and shepherdesses! Moreover, you will concede that all the plays I choose have tasteful endings.”

As the back and forth continued, Zephyrin took advantage of his proximity to the queen’s companion to commit her features to memory. She was of a similar age to the queen, possibly a little younger, in her late twenties. In respects other than character they seemed opposites; her hair was a brown to the queen’s powdered blond, her traits round where the queen’s where slender, and her complexion a hale, rougeless hue. Zephyrin supposed that the unwritten law of complementary opposites applied to their friendship, which otherwise did not seem to have much common ground on which to stand.

Suddenly remembering Zephyrin’s presence, the queen posed her lady-in-waiting a question. “Gweddlana, have you introduced yourself to our young friend?”

“No, Madame. I will now rectify my omission.” Turning to Zephyrin, she said simply, “My lord husband is His Majesty’s younger brother, the Count of Aurellis. Of my two sons Coradec and Corentin, I believe you are acquainted with the latter.”

Zephyrin felt distinctly ill at ease as the lady—the princess, he corrected himself with consternation—rested a pair of tranquil eyes upon him. What was going through her mind? Did she resent him for coming to blows with her youngest son?

Perceiving nothing of his apprehensions, the queen chose that moment to come to the important business of the hour. “How wonderful it is that you’ve met not only my son, but Gweddlana’s youngest as well! You will have to tell us all about it over a bowl of ice cream. Have you had ice cream before, Zephyrin? You have? That surprises me; but you have not tried the ice cream they make here at my demand. It’s simply heavenly!”

As Zephyrin tried to look appropriately enthused, the queen beckoned for him to approach and follow as she took him on a little tour of the rustic village and more fanciful buildings reserved for her private use.

Like mother like son, the thought occurred to him, and it inspired him to pose a question to the prince’s mother. “Princess Sophia told me that she would be here today. Has Monsieur the Cygnon come as well?”

“No,” sighed the queen, a shadow of genuine dissatisfaction clouding her brow for the first time since the conversation’s start. “Sophia is over there,”—she pointed—“seeing how the cows—lovely Fribourgeoise all, I had the herd imported last year—are milked, but Roland will not be joining us today. He was very naughty last night; throwing a tantrum over what, the Goddess only knows, and because of it he has been deprived of the pleasure of seeing his pet auroch. Why, speak of the wolf—or bull, as it were—there it is! Quadricornalius, come here!”

Zephyrin offered some feed to the red-coated animal as it approached with a ponderous, earth-shaking tread. He then dared to pat the beast between its spiraling horns as it ingested the hay, breathing like a bellows all the while. The queen looked on approvingly. “Good boy!” she said, and Zephyrin was unsure which of them was the recipient of her compliment until she added, “But how monstrous he has grown since my last visit! I know not whether Roland can still ride him. Perhaps you might be able to, even if somewhat bow-leggedly…”

“I would not presume to steal from Monsieur his royal mount,” Zephyrin quickly said, earning him a mirthful titter from the queen, who identified the cause of his reticence easily enough. “Very well, no bull riding. Oh, but how silly I am! We have but to fasten a harness to the beast and attach it to a sleigh! How much fun Roland will have, if the weather is obliging!”

“I believe it will be. The coming winter promises to be very harsh.” Zephyrin remembered reading that the old nobility had even run short on wine prior to the lowborn uprising in the capital; so precipitously low had the temperatures dropped that thousands of bottles had shattered in the cellars. Meanwhile, only giving thought to how winter’s icy grip tightening over the land might prove a source of diversion and amusement, Adelaide-Estelle rejoined gaily, “Is that your instinct as a farmer’s son talking? In any case, I do hope you’re right! I haven’t gone skating since my girlhood. The Seicwan is like a massive serpent; lethargic, it brumates through the winter but does not freeze, and my wish to skate from one bank to the other has never been realized since my arrival.”

“Madame should rather hope that it does not slow from a crawl to immobility,” observed her companion, “for that would stop the influx of river barges and terribly delay the shipments of dresses, jewelry, coffee, and correspondence. ”

“Practically minded as always, Gweddlana! I will own that losing the first two would be a terrible inconvenience, and I would expire due to the third; I cannot say, however, if the fourth would be such a loss. Perhaps I would be glad not to receive my relatives’ well-wishes until this spring,” the queen said mischievously, before returning her attention to Zephyrin. “Now, come along, dear child! While the sleigh-ride will have to wait until your next visit, in the meantime I want you to tell me what you think of the locales. How does the barn compare to those in your village? Is it as…”

Not only had the queen’s guards kept a respectful distance, but Princess d’Aurellis had also been discreet, saying very little during the queen’s tour. Protocol ensured that Gaulyria’s queen could not go on a stroll unaccompanied, but her sister-in-law seemed determined to offer as close an equivalent to privacy as circumstances permitted. As Zephyrin followed the queen in setting himself down on a red and white cloth (was it her intention to hold a picnic?), he felt as though it could just as well be the two of them enjoying the unseasonably warm sunshine.

Before long the queen began swinging her legs over the artificial stream, slowly dipping her feet in and out of the water. Her and Zephyrin’s gazes met as she raised her eyes from the water with a smile. “It’s cool.”

The look in her eyes plainly signaled her wish that he join her in the diversion; after all the walking they had done over the better part of an hour, Zephyrin did not require convincing of its merits. He scooted closer to the bank, but just as soon became conscious of an impediment. Imitate her as much as he might like, his childish legs would come no nearer the water’s mirror-smooth surface than a good foot above it.

“Oh dear!” Adelaide-Estelle giggled. “Well. I suppose you’ll just have to wait until you can join me. In five or six years, perhaps!”

“I’ll have a foot to spare by then,” said Zephyrin, thinking of the above average height he had attained in his first life. The thought then occurred to him that he might even hope to improve it by an inch or two—he had no way of knowing yet just how much his former body had been compromised by the poison.

“What confidence! I look forward to seeing that,” said the queen in the same light-hearted tone, before continuing teasingly, “May I hope to receive then a dance from a dashing, long-legged fellow?”

The world seemed to dim around him. Zephyrin felt a lump in his throat. “No, I’m afraid not, Madame.” The words came out of his mouth reflexively. The queen’s cheery expression turned to one of surprise, bordering on gentle reproach. “Whyever not?”

Zephyrin swallowed hard, staring at the flowing waters. What could he say? ‘Because in half a decade’s time, this brooklet will be filled in with dirt, the estate’s golden pastures burned, and of the manor, mill and tower sitting prettily on yonder hill, only a heap of stones will remain.’? And that of those currently enjoying them there would be even less—not enough even to fill a common grave?

“Zephyrin?” The queen delicately prodded, concern written on her face. Madame d’Aurellis shifted slightly on the queen’s opposite side; she also perceived the change in Zephyrin’s tone.

I’ve made a mistake. He had underestimated the ties of family, and the full force of the realization hit Zephyrin in concert with the persuasive appeal of his grand-aunt’s disarming gaze.

He felt a painful throbbing in his breast, and knew in that moment it was useless trying to deceive himself any longer. He didn’t want his grand-aunt and cousins to die; and yet, the restoration of Gaulyria called for their deaths…

What am I to do?