“My dear Lady Diaphanousina, pray, what are those charming biscuits called?”

“Ladies’ fingers, monsieur. They’re all the rage at the palace.”

“How aptly named they are. I believe I shall gladly fall prey to this inescation and reinvent myself as a dactylophage…”

It was something of a mystery to Zephyrin how he managed to keep from rolling his eyes as the petty noble raised the dowager’s sausage-thick fingers to his crumb-covered mustache, but apparently he was made of sterner stuff than he supposed.

Averting his gaze from the nauseating sight offered by the sickly-sweet pair, Zephyrin allowed himself to take in the atmospheric picture of hundreds of swaying candlelights throwing shifting shadows on the portrait-laden walls and ornate carpet of the sitting room. More than symbolic of the promised restoration of humanity’s extinguished glory, the flickering flames assumed a practical role in staving off the bitterly cold gusts that rolled through the capital’s oversnowed streets. It had not taken long for Mlle. Huron to order her servants to keep the journeys between the apartment and outbuildings to a strict minimum.

Having positioned himself close enough to Mlle. Huron to overhear introductions and names but not so much as to unduly draw attention to himself, Zephyrin hung back and observed as the trickle of arriving nobles and intellectuals gradually grew to a steady stream, Lutesse’s finest coming out in full force to pay their respects to “their” salonnière. Memorizing them all was impossible, but he tried to at least take note of the most conspicuous and magically powerful individuals. As Zephyrin expected, the choreographed dance was soon underway; his hostess’s first verbal partner, however, took him rather by surprise.

“Marshal dy Cassade, I rejoice to see you have entirely recuperated after the fright you gave us early in the season,” said the reclining courtesan graciously to a well-built, familiar-looking uniformed man.

“And I doubly so, seeing that fate has seen fit to grant me a day with which to renew the bonds of our friendship,” replied the soldier with an unaffectedly gallant air.

Mlle. Huron smiled. “My dear marshal, indulge my curiosity: to what do you attribute your rejuvenation?” she asked pleasantly.

“That is a simple matter. The secret to a speedy recovery is to treat maladies as one would one’s guests: cordially but without overmuch warmness, lest they be tempted to extend their stay.”

The courtesan’s sign of approbation visibly broadened. “I will make a note of that: my physician is of a much more belligerent stripe, advocating uncompromising combat in the form of aggressive blood-letting. Contrariwise, there is the option of flight: recently I was apprised of your wife’s decision to betake herself to an Aonian country retreat in a bid to escape the rudeness of the season. Will you have recourse to her stratagem?”

The old general shook his head. “Though surprised to find our fair capital in the grip of weather more appropriate to a Rimphaean front, I do not envision crossing the Baléran to rejoin Aramanthaxina anytime soon. At my age I find myself beginning to grow fond of solitude; and, I think, solitude does not much begrudge my company either.”

Mlle. Huron’s lips turned upward in amusement once more. “That is indeed a companion who will spare you many quarrels. Yet I fear there are some who must call you simple…”

“I shall not complain if the world thinks me a fool, for it makes my part on the stage very easy to play.”

“You gladden me by your circumspection in choosing your company. I am sure your wife will have all the more motives for gratitude; pray remain steadfast in this resolution. Too old to bear children, a woman may yet be young enough to birth suspicions.”

An incipient smile slowly gained ground on the scarred veteran’s visage before fully securing the field. “You remind me to my acute satisfaction, dear Nydalie, that to plumb the fertile mine of your amity is ever to emerge with sparkling diamonds in hand. Now, may I trouble you to take a gander at these verses and make an old man’s happiness? Though the deformed offspring of a brain recently addled by an acute ague, I flatter myself to think there may yet be aught redeemable in them…”

At the moment he turned slightly to reach into his uniform’s pocket the marshal saw Zephyrin out of the corner of his steely gray eye, which flashed with recognition; Zephyrin briefly thought he might call him over; then the moment passed and his attention returned to their mutual hostess, nothing coming of his and Zephyrin’s mute interaction.

Meanwhile, in spite of her genuine appreciation of the marshal, Zephyrin noticed that Mlle. Huron’s eyes kept flickering over to the throng of guests—and with an uncharacteristic ember of irritation. Following her gaze, he soon discovered who it was that had drawn upon himself her displeased scrutiny.

In itself, the man’s appearance was nothing remarkable: middle-aged, of a slight build and unassuming stature, unremarkable in his attire of a floral-embroidered sleeveless waistcoat and silk knee-breeches—half the men in the room wore the same—and features were undeniably harmonious but far from striking. No, what stood out was how the wigged gentleman carried himself—with a naturally authoritative air, as if he were the only blueblood in a room full of peasants. Curiouser still, the gathered nobles seemed perfectly content to render him obeisance, hanging onto his every word.

Then Zephyrin and the man’s eyes briefly met, and unlike the marshal this individual was perfectly content to take it as his cue to beckon Zephyrin over. “Well met, damoiseau!” he called out in hearty greeting as Zephyrin approached. “The men of this century know me as Marquis Ragozik Cyriac T’sagoroi Koltizof Donweld Goëning Marbellius dy Veralys; you may call me ‘Marquis’, ‘Prince’, ‘Monseigneur,’, or ‘Your Perspicacity’, if it pleases you.”

Wonderful, another eccentric. Zephyrin inclined his head in a proper but perfunctory manner. “It is a pleasure, Marquis.”

Not noticing or caring that Zephyrin hadn’t specified to whom went the pleasure, the man began rattling off the account of his treasure-hunting, swashbuckling, bounty hunting, king-saving, emperor-crowning, dragon-taming adventurer’s existence as if Zephyrin had lived his whole life in anticipation of this very moment. The Marquis had made significant headway into his overview of the time he saved Rudolf IX and his flagship from an enraged kraken (wasn’t there something off about this chronology, Zephyrin thought?) before he was interrupted by an unabashedly awed youth. “Your Perspicacity, would you do me the honor of accepting this biscuit?”

The Marquis demurred with an upheld hand. “I do not eat; it imbalances the humors and by extension the flow of one’s mana. Forgotten truth though it be in this nescient age, aliments are cagastrical and indeed often prejudicial to the health of an organism.”

“But you will have wine, surely!”

“Never. I only make an exemption for water, deriving the majority of my sustenance from the aether. That is the key to my longevity.”

“And you do not find this monophagous mode of existence injurious to your happiness? I should think the want of variety most distressing…”

“Fret not on my account, for as an appetizer I partake of the peach-pale light of dawn, and for supper’s dessert I am in the habit of relishing deep draughts of pure moonlight.”

Fluffy-cuffed hand on hip, smiling at the disproportionately impressed expressions on the awestruck faces surrounding him, the literal legend-maker decided to reward his appreciative audience. “But enough about my lifespan. Within reach of ordinary mortals and undoubtedly of more interest,” he continued with a flourish, “is the once universal art of crystallogenesis, now nearly extinct in this benighted epoch. You are unfamiliar with the term?” A twirl of the hand with an opposite motion, like a swallow changing course mid-flight. “Worry not. A moment’s patience, and all will become clear.”

Walking a few paces over to the long table bearing wine-filled crystal decanters, he waited for a few sluggard individuals to belatedly disperse before rolling up his sleeve and adopting an air of intense concentration. A silvery glow began to steadily overtake his hand, and it was with a seemingly interminable exhalation that he cast his spell, if a spell it truly was. He inspected the contents of his hand intently, then turned to the spectators with a smile. "And...voila."

In his palm lay a highly convincing facsimile of a precious stone—a diamond, nearly flawless and only distinguishable from the real thing by a thin line running transversely down the artificial gem, from which only a few particles of magic could be observed to leak if a critic were to strain his vision.

“A poor imitation; but then, this bauble is the product of a mere minute’s worth of channeling. More worthy of your attention,” said the Marquis, reaching into his waistcoat to withdraw a five carat diamond, “is the result of a more strenuous use of magic. This one required a whole three days.” After toying with the gemstone and rolling it between his fingers for a few seconds, the Marquis casually lobbed it onto the table, as if to convey his total unconcern that the shock might destabilize the spell binding his mana into a scintillant whole.

Finely plucked brows shot up and a buzz began to grow as those in the immediate vicinity leaned in to examine the artificially generated gemstone. One lady’s eyes bugged out so far it seemed they would impact upon her spectacles like incautious birds against a windowpane; Mme. D’Alarch-Kondatis’s nostrils flared as she looked around in triumph. Aside from Zephyrin only two persons seemed unimpressed; Mlle. Huron, and a narrow-shouldered man more notable for his lack of a wig than any other identifying feature.

While the Marquis smoothly slipped the first gem in his pocket and began regaling the onlookers with a tale that situated him in the Predestined Lands as he fought side by side with Rudolf VII on crusade, providing copious details of the time he saved the Saint-King by fighting off three dozen Sinnites single-handedly, Zephyrin became aware of an ecclesiastic to his left. The bulky white-haired cleric was absentmindedly fiddling with the ivory-carved pectoral moon resting on his midnight-black cassock, eyes riveted on the remaining gemstone on the table as he listened to the distressed accents of one of his flock.

“Monsieur l’abbé, you must know that I am sorely grieved.”

“Unravel the thread of your miseries to me, dear child. A father’s ear is always open to the plaints of his little ones,” he said distractedly, visibly struggling to tear away his gaze from the precious stone.

“Well, Father…” The lady drew a deep breath, then said in one disjointed rush, “You see, there was a terrible storm not five days ago—you remember—and the thunder made such a ghastly noise. Well, it was too much for my poor darling—I found him paler than snow on the morrow—dead of shock by my side, he was! It was dreadful, simply dreadful!” Here the lady’s recital of woe devolved to a choked sob, eliciting murmured condolences from her introspective listener.

“And now,” sniffled the lady as she accepted a proffered handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, “And now that my beloved has left this mortal coil, only one thought consumes me: is there a place in Paradise for poodles? What say you, monsieur l’abbé? Is my Tartouflette in a better place?”

“A place in Paradise, no—but who is to say whether the little rascal isn’t frolicking in the verdant upper regions of Infernum, having a grand old time with the virtuous pagans and unlachrymated infants who call that fair sanctuary their abode?” said the secular clergyman vaguely. “It is a place of perfect natural happiness and no creature can ask for more. There, there, my darling; can you truly grieve to imagine the little fellow wagging his tail and capering about the souls of the—well, if not heaven’s blessèd—then at least the tolerably well-satisfied? Can you deny that the thought is a pleasant one?”

“N-No,” said the lady slowly, “It does console me; oh, but monsieur l’abbé, it would be such a relief to know that Toofie’s…”

“—barking mad, I tell you,” muttered a nearby noble wearing a spangled waistcoat to his similarly medallioned comrade, both men flanked by female companions. “He’s actually got the wife of the bâtard believing that he can make her immortal. And see how he tyrannizes the conversation!” An angry and non-too-subtle gesture in the Marquis’s direction. “Is there no end to the outrecuidance of that retromingent quadrumane?”

Tittering behind her silk glove, the indignant lord’s lady-friend replied, “Still, his idiosyncratic brand of absurdity affords some amusement, does it not? At least, I prefer it to those who dissect their heart and lay bare their emotions in pleasant society—that to my mind is the height of impropriety.”

“That may be so,” said the noble doubtfully, “yet every foodstuff eventually loses its savor, no matter how outlandish. Why does not our amiable hostess throw out the insufferable windbag and be done with it?”

Zephyrin wondered much the same but a glance in the elegantly gesticulating courtesan’s direction offered no answers. However well she maintained a front of easy conviviality and scrupulously avoided putting the sardonic streak in which she privately indulged on display, there was no doubt in his mind that Mlle. Huron thoroughly resented the presence of this recent arrival. He strained his ears as she spoke with one singularly distinguished lady and soon received a number of insights.

A waifish, practically insubstantial middle-aged woman bearing at least a fifth of her weight in pearls around her neck, Mlle. Huron’s current interlocutorice wore an animated expression. “Did I not tell you, Nini?” she said breathlessly, her airy tone nearly thinning out to an inaudible wisp. “The Marquis is simply a marvel. He recently celebrated his 500th birthday, you know. Is that not simply extraordinary? Retaining him in my household doesn’t come cheap, to be sure, but the gems he produces will more than compensate me in the long run.”

Mlle. Huron smiled blandly at this self-satisfied statement. “I certainly hope so, for your husband’s sake. How fares His Highness d’Alarch-Kondatis?”

“Oh, Gaius? Well enough, he’s doing well enough,” said the lady with a dismissive hand motion, as if discussing a poodle (alas, not the recently deceased Toofie, thought Zephyrin) in need of housebreaking.

“And your son Telephus? Is he of age to enroll in the lyceum?”

“In two years; he’s seven now. How quickly they grow up…!”

The retired courtesan continued to bide her time as pleasantries were exchanged; finally, she launched a more pointed inquiry. “Petronilla, am I mistaken in believing that we previously agreed your… interesting acquaintances would not need to make a repeat appearance in my home?” Though her amiable tone did nothing to betray her true sentiments, the week spent in Mlle. Huron’s company allowed Zephyrin to detect her mounting irritation.

Sadly not perspicacious to the same degree, a half-hearted acknowledgment by the noblewoman was given only to be followed by an enumeration of the immortal adventurer’s charms, abilities, and talents (there were many), culminating finally in the contents of their latest lessons. “He has been teaching me crystal-gazing and catoptromancy, you know. Between him and my dear mage, soon there is nothing I shan’t know about the lost arts!”

Mlle. Huron couldn’t help her brows rising in a rare avowal of her underlying sentiments. Foreseeing a development as unpleasant as fatally predetermined, she asked in some alarm, “Petra, please don’t tell me you’re referring to—”

“The spirits! I sense the spirits! Make way for Merlinus!”

A booming round voice; a bewildering array of colors; a dramatic flourish of a gnarled ash-tree wand; Zephyrin needed a good moment to reconcile these disparate elements into a whole as he turned round to be greeted by the sight of an eye-catching but comprehension-defying figure. Rotund and swathed in a fantastical, shimmering robe that gave the impression of being wrought from a rainbow cut out of the sky, the latest arrival made for a surreal spectacle as he penetrated into the heart of the salon with a mincing tread, his head nodding to imaginary huzzahs and ghostly shouts of acclamation in time with his steps.

An unexpectedly graceful pirouette, and he stopped before his ashen-faced hostess, performing a bow as if he would plunge his head in the earth’s bowels and lave his hair in its fires. Then he raised his head, and Zephyrin found himself staring into the wizard’s face.