“Why did you not name yourself as a member of the nobility?” inquired the retired courtesan as she regarded Zephyrin with a steady gaze. Though sunken were her eyes, the light of intelligence within them burned brighter than at the outset of their meeting, like dying embers reanimated by new fuel. “You had no need to fear the viscount’s ire. Decades in Seaxland have contrived to eradicate the prejudices which run rampant on the mainland.”

“That the viscount would take poorly my appropriation of his name was indeed a cause of trepidation for me,” admitted Zephyrin. “Yet even if I had received mademoiselle’s assurances beforehand, I still would have given my name as a commoner. There is no shame in belonging to the class which will largely constitute the nobility of the next.” Though Mlle. Huron’s refined speech and manners could easily deceive one into thinking otherwise, Zephyrin was mindful of his hostess’s baseblood origins.

“Oh?” The former courtesan’s eyes became keen with interest. “So you are of the opinion that more souls are saved that are of base rather than noble extraction?”

“Such has always been the teaching of the Church. The Goddess herself tells us thus in the sacred texts.”

“I suppose then that you also lend credence to the teaching that more women than men are saved,” decided Mlle. Huron on his behalf. Zephyrin was about to concur and articulate the reason why, when the trap laid by the experienced conversationalist suddenly yawned before him like an abyss. The elderly woman watched him amusedly as, for once, his lightning-quick repartee failed to manifest itself. “The Church teaches that men are lost in greater numbers because they are more prone to follow their passions, does she not?” she continued pleasantly. “That does not seem to bode well for me and my hopes of gaining admittance to the celestial aristocracy of the afterlife.”

“I will not speculate as to the state of mademoiselle’s soul and her prospects of attaining salvation, but she should not be so quick to presume herself guilty in this manner,” said Zephyrin, recovering to some extent.

The curvature of the former courtesan’s lips broadened to a smile. “What defense do you have to offer, my little advocate?”

“Is it not so that Mademoiselle’s transactions bore no resemblance to affairs of the heart? Indeed, I would say they comprised a commerce founded upon reason rather than emotion. Thus, though she may be guilty of many things, indulging her passions is not one of them.”

The elderly woman chuckled lightly. “My, what delicacy.” Several moments passed without words as she considered Zephyrin. There was an unseeing quality to her gaze, and he supposed her thoughts had drifted from him to reminiscences. It was the sullen mutterings of the aggrieved parrot in its cage that roused her from her memories rather than Zephyrin, and coming back to herself she opened her mouth to address him in an inviting manner.

“Pray, call me Nydalie, or even Nini. I am not very particular about convention, as you may have guessed. Do not hesitate to apprise me of your needs during your stay; my one demand—and on this point I am most exacting—is that you set no limits on your conception of my generosity.” After Zephyrin assured her that he would let her know of his needs, if any should present themselves, she nodded and broached the practical details of his stay. “Foudris will not return until the day of the festival; he is taking the waters at Argouvel. Would you like to sleep in his room until then?”

“I must admit that if there is another room available, I should prefer to use that one,” Zephyrin answered politely, thinking it prudent to decline. Even if Foudris had turned over a new leaf, which a little voice inside him still stubbornly cautioned him against believing, upon his return the child might suspect him of rummaging in his belongings for revenge and come to resent him on that account.

Nydalie gave Zephyrin a mildly perplexed look. “Are you certain? The guest room is being renovated; the only other room I can offer is a disused garret…”

Zephyrin had thought the residence a three-floor apartment, but it seemed there was an attic as well. “So long as I have a roof over my head, I am indifferent as to the proximity between the two.”

Nydalie’s lips quirked upward. “I see.” Without consciously meaning to do so, Zephyrin was aware that he had amused the elderly courtesan once more, and with that thought came a heightened awareness of the curious nature of the situation in which he now found himself. He had been far from imagining himself in these circumstances when he had dreamed of seeing the capital and walking its streets, to say the least.

Yet, by however a winding path, the fact remained that he now found himself before a woman who for decades had acted as a bridge between the middle classes and the upper, freely mingling with intellectuals and men who had seen—and even fashioned—some of the most glorious years in Gaulyria’s history. Did the Goddess intend for her to serve now as a liaison between the old and new eras, passing on her knowledge to him before her departure from this world? Strange though it was, as he rose from his seat at his hostess’s motioned demand, Zephyrin resolved to make the most of this unexpected development.

After ringing a little bell close at hand to summon the valet and instruct him to carry Zephyrin’s luggage, but before he could turn to follow the servant, Nydalie addressed Zephyrin once more. “One last thing, child.” Zephyrin saw that the elderly woman’s gaze was keen; it seemed to promise that her next words would be of some significance, and he stood in place expectantly.

“It concerns the viscount,” she continued, emotion utterly absent from her tone. “You should know that he was stilled.”

Though Zephyrin’s eyes did not widen much, the change in his expression at that last word sufficed for the courtesan to draw an inference. “Since you are familiar with the term, I’ll limit my explanation to a few particulars. It happened after the truce was signed with Fleuria. Flush with successes, confident our army could win the campaign, Everard refused to lay down arms. The king had him seized, branded a traitor, and under pain of death had him channel mana past his core’s breaking point… House Valensis still has not obtained an apology for that shameful affair.” She paused. “That is why you did not perceive his approach. It is also why you have nothing to fear from him.”