Beatrice set both teacup and saucer down on the table, hands trembling. She forced herself to maintain eye contact, did her best to hold her voice steady.

“Whyever would they make such a demand?” Despite her efforts, her words came high and wavering.

“Because all magical threats to the crown are League business, Ms. Baraclough.”

Her blood ran icy-cold as the meaning of his words took hold. Beatrice shook her head, a few loose waves falling free of her hasty bun.

“No, they wouldn’t…I’m not a mage!”

Charles grimaced and set down his own drink—and by the scent, Beatrice suspected it was more than just tea. Outside the greenhouse walls, the much darker foliage of pine needles and ferns began to lash in the wind. Rain tapped at the glass, a soft rhythm at first that grew to a full and frantic beat.

“Miss. May I yet call you Beatrice?”

“I—I don’t…”

“I shall take that as a no. Ms. Baraclough, you must know it’s far too early to tell whether or not you possess magical ability. Just as you know that every Dustren citizen must have their place. Whether it be with their family pre-debut, or with a finishing school or pack or court or workhouse afterwards. I had thought we’d have more time, at least, before the eye of the crown turned so directly our way…” another sigh. “I’m proving wrong quite a lot, as of late.”

“My Lord?” Beatrice hoped that Charles would infer from her tone what she truly meant to ask, which was what exactly, sir, are you getting at?

“If, when they inquire into the matter formally, you are found to have no proper place, they will claim you as a ward of the crown.”

Beatrice shifted in her seat, surprised at the tangle of conflicted emotions that shot up in response to his words. To become a ward of the crown would mean returning to the provinces, to the known. And yet, as she entertained the thought of leaving Highreach, a queasy unease stirred in the pit of her stomach. Somehow, it felt important she not reveal this to Lord Stagston.

“That doesn’t sound so horrible,” she said. “I could live closer to my family, and your household would be freed of my unwelcome intrusion.”

“Bea—Ms. Baraclough. That is a notion which you may wish to reconsider.” The Suit had pushed aside its tea service and set itself to lantern-lighting as the sky darkened. Their glow washed the gentleman’s figure in their warmth just as he unfastened his cuffs and began, bafflingly, to roll back his sleeves.

“Lord Stagston…”

The question she’d meant to ask died on her lips as her gaze caught upon the freshly bared skin of Charles’ arms. A map of of silvery scars traced its way all along and around both forearms and disappeared past his rolled-back cuffs.

“I am one of the only people alive who knows what it would mean for you to become a ward of the crown,” he said. “And I will not allow it.”

Beatrice wished desperately for words to find her. Her lips worked, but nothing came.

“They will do anything they can, everything they can to force any magic you may posses to show itself. And only then, only when they have tried absolutely everything they can possibly think of and found not the slightest hint of magical inclination…only then will they stop. And indeed, even then they may not. I’m quite certain they held back with me only because of my parentage.” He scoffed. “Well, half of it.”

Pressure ringed about her chest and pain bit into her arms, and Beatrice realized belatedly that she was squeezing herself so hard that she had driven her nails into her own flesh. She was shaking her head, over and over again, her thoughts turned again to a whirlwind. Too much and not enough. Nothing to hold onto.

But then a new warmth pressed itself to her grip, pulling her nails free of the wounds they dug into her skin. Grasping both her hands in his, Charles stepped too close for their eyes to meet without his looking directly downward, which he did not. But for a moment his scent grew thick and heady in the air around her, flooding her senses with its delicious contrasts. Beatrice caught her breath and held it as her body and mind reacted.

It wasn’t the Call, not exactly. Not yet. But the beginnings were there. Like the light of the sun bleeding up over the horizon. It distracted her so that it was moments more before the full meaning of his words took hold.

“Lord Stagston, If they did this to you…does that not mean that you also have a fo—”

“You have my permission to call me Charles, if you’ve ever a mind to,” he interrupted, releasing hold of her. “And you know what it means, Ms. Baraclough. Do not make me say it.”

Beatrice stared at him, a thrill threading through all the shock and terror.

I’m not alone. Not entirely.

I can’t believe it.

There was comfort in that, even in the face of what she’d just learned. But his refusal to speak the truth of it outright struck an ill chord with Beatrice, and she was yet deciding how to respond when a caw issued from the far side of the greenhouse. At a sudden flapping, she turned her head in time to see something black and feathery launching itself from a towering palm. The crow landed with a squawk on the balcony rail, cocking its head just so to fix one glassy black eye on her face.

Charles frowned at the bird.

“Eavesdropping again, Gray?”

The crow cawed twice in a row, paused, and cawed again. At once, the Silver’s pupils contracted, his brows drawing down into a hard line.

“We have a guest,” said Charles, his low growl not unlike the thunder that nearly drowned it out. “An unwelcome one.” Then, turning, he stormed from the room, door held open in anticipation by one of their Suit attendants. Beatrice chased after, loud new sounds and scents already threading their way up from the foyer. The crow flapped its way after them, landing on the railing to peer down at the scene below.

“You have a gift of showing up exactly when and where you’re least wanted, did you know that?” Lord Jemison drawled as they spilled out onto the open walkway between the second-story corridors. He stood near the main entrance, arms crossed and leaning against a pillar facing the grand doors. Before him loomed an enormous, black-haired Silver whom Beatrice knew, instinctively and immediately, to be of close relation to Dame Darcy. At his side stood a slender woman who, if the delicate ornaments of bone draped about her neck and shoulders were any indication, was almost certainly a Hyena mage. Victoria was nowhere to be seen.

“Spare me, cat, and go fetch my sister,” replied the man, his eyes scanning the space and catching on Beatrice as she stepped into view.

“I’m afraid she’s quite busy at the moment,” replied Jemison. “But one of the Suits should be most pleased to take your calling card.”

“So it’s true,” breathed the stranger. “You’ve taken in the Fox.”

“Did you doubt me?” Snarled the Hyena woman at his side.

Jemison’s gaze followed the intruder’s, and as they lighted on Beatrice, his mouth snapped shut.

“I think it’s time you were going now,” called Charles, already halfway down the stairs as Beatrice hesitated on the upper level.

“Going? But we’ve only just arrived,” boomed Darcy’s apparent brother. “And the weather is foul.” He grinned, an expression which, on him, was most threatening. His eyes fixed on Beatrice. “Surely, we must be invited to stay for supper, and us, not yet introduced to your betrothed?”

“A shame that we may extend no such invitation,” said Charles, making no effort to sound as though he meant it. “But circumstances demand we eschew proper etiquette in favor of practicality.”

“Please, tell me of these circumstances, brother-in-law,” said the man, stepping up to Charles as the Hyena woman lingered behind with an expression of distaste twisting her fine features. He leered up over the smaller man’s shoulder as he leaned in close, eyes still fixed on Beatrice. “Does she have power?”

“Get out.” Growled Charles. “Now.”

The other Silver barked a laugh. He didn’t move, but he didn’t say anything either. For a moment the two just stood there, facing each other down—something passing between them that only their kind could experience. Within heartbeats even the broad, open space of the foyer was choked with their clashing scents. Beatrice’s nose stung with the horrid acidity of the stranger’s scent, and she took a few steps back from the stairs. Her Suit guardian hovered behind her, edging back so as not to block her way.

Then every one of the shadows in the room billowed upward, swallowing all the light.

“Best you leave before the shadows clear, brother,” said Darcy’s voice from everywhere and nowhere in particular. Down below in the inky black, the man snarled something unintelligible. Charles’ curse was followed immediately by the scuffling sounds and meaty impacts of a struggle. Then pounding, approaching footsteps. Someone was running up the stairs towards her. The acid burn in Beatrice’s nostrils intensified, and she shrieked.

A sudden gust of air blew her hair back, and there was a sense before her that she was used to—one of air being displaced. The aroma of roses and fresh-dug earth blossomed in her next breath.

The darkness cleared, slowly, slightly—and she saw that Darcy had appeared on the staircase, blocking her brother’s path as he charged his way upward. She held her sword by the blade in one leather-clad hand, striking out instead with its pommel. The fist-sized knob of bone took him across the jaw, sending the man sprawling backward.

Downstairs, the Hyena woman shrieked.

“Oathbreaker!”

The word echoed through the foyer.

Beatrice strained to see more clearly through the murk as the knight’s figure went rigid, all her attention fixing on the woman at the door. Not far off from her, Charles stood…one eyed blackened, jaw bruised, hair wilder even than usual.

There’s such a power in her presence, thought Beatrice turning her eye back to Darcy. Then, catching herself in the Call-addled thought, she straightened her stance. But I will not swoon for her.

Extending her free hand, Darcy signed another command into the ether. More Suits poured into the foyer from the downstairs corridors. Marching up the stairs, they hauled up Darcy’s unconscious brother and proceeded with him back downward.

“I swore I would not kill him, not that I would do him no harm.” She said, following the Suits down the stair as she tossed the sword over its railing. It whirled in the air, levitating in place as she approached the Hyena shifter. “Please, madame, oblige me with your professional opinion. Is he dead?”

The other woman scowled. “No.”

“Ah. Then perhaps, given your mistake, you will remember in the future to hold your poisonous tongue. Now take it back.”

The Hyena woman’s brows slammed together and the bones about her shoulders trembled and began to rise.

Darcy laughed.

Again the sound bolted Beatrice to the core with its chill, but this time…this time there was pleasure in it. She edged forward, all the way up to the railing, her hands curling around it as she observed through the clearing shadow.

“Bold. But no,” said Darcy. Her hand twisted at her side. The chained bones went rigid, pausing in mid-air, then in the blink of an eye they flew inward, clutching around the woman’s neck. Her eyes bulged and she clawed at the rogue necklaces, gasping for breath as they constricted further.

“Go on,” coaxed Darcy, taking another step closer.

“I…take…it…back,” wheezed the other Hyena between gasps.

“Good,” purred Dame Stagston. The bones fell back on their chains and the woman sagged, gulping at the air.

Beatrice clutched at the railing as her knees grew weak. I will not swoon. But though her legs threatened to give out, her will had at last begun to resolve…a foundation of stone forming beneath her feet.

She needed a pack. She needed protection. And this woman—this terrifying entity of shadow and bone and fury—if she would not be her savior, then surely she would be her downfall.

It was imperative that Beatrice do everything in her power to win her.