In the tightest grip of her fear, she wondered, desperately, who she could possibly go to. A priest of the Graces? They would damn her as a blasphemer, and worse, a deviant who lay with a wolf. Her mother? The very thought raised almost crippling shame in her. Silenio? He might well be able to kill Tacen, and she thought he would do so gladly, but under no scenario could she imagine her elder brother not informing their father of the situation, and the notion of the Emperor learning what she had done was simply horrifying, and that eliminated every courtier in the Palace, even the cunning Grand Chancellor. For the first time in her life she found herself hating her father for destroying the Academies. Deserving of their fate as they might have been, she had no doubt a cursewright would have been able to handle this beast, and even break whatever hold he had managed to acquire over her.

If such a hold actually existed, that was. Even during her worst moments during the day, Carala found herself craving what would come when night drank the city and the white moon rose high in the sky. That made her wonder sometimes -- most especially when she returned to her own bed in the purple hours before dawn -- if all of this was of her own free will. And the possibility that the wolf held no enchantment over her but his own charm; his own wildness, and her own desire for him, terrified her most of all.

She began to grow paranoid. She feared someone knew. Every curious glance from a handmaiden, every speculative look from a courtier, whether a lowly linkboy or Varallo Thray himself, made her wonder who knew she had become a wolf's lover and answered his every beck and call. As her nerves began to fray, her lessons suffered. Her tutors admonished her as they had not done since she had come of age. Her handmaidens repeatedly inquired after her health. Even the Empress-Consort cornered her one afternoon, laying a gentle hand on her daughter's cheek and asking if there was anything she needed from her.

"No, mama," she had murmured, feeling tears trembling against her eyes as she lied to her mother. "I am just nervous about the wedding, I think."

The Empress-Consort had smiled sadly, told her that every noble woman who had to marry as their father demanded felt the same way, but that she had nothing to worry about; that Denisius was the best of the Gallises, no matter what the courtiers in the Chalcedony Palace might think. Yvelle herself, after all, had been wed at fifteen, a full five years younger than Carala was now, and to a less even-tempered man (to put it kindly). They turned then to discussing the Madame Greythorne's upcoming salon, her mother offering encouragement for the slowly improving portrait of her husband-to-be.

Three days before that fateful night in the Curate's Tower, Carala found herself at dinner, once more agonizing over how to stop herself from descending into the city after the Palace had gone to sleep, barely touching her food. The assembly at the high table had been a trifle unusual that night. The Emperor, the Empress-Consort, and Carala herself were virtually always there, unless one of her parents was visiting some other corner of the Empire -- her mother in particular often took rest at the retreat at Leusenia down in Ismene.

Silenio was there, which was not so strange as he was Commander of Fort Shale, which stood only twenty miles from Talinara. He took dinner with his father at least once a week, openly currying favor with the Emperor since he was the eldest child who was anywhere near the capital. The Emperor's firstborn son Perseun had been serving as Imperial Ambassador to the Sultan's court for almost five years, and Silenio made little effort to hide the fact that he believed he should be named as heir instead of a son who practically served a foreign monarch amid his court of eunuchs.

Varallo Thray had been there as well, and that was more noteworthy, as he rarely dined with the Emperor unless there was some pressing court business to attend to or some important personage was a guest of the Palace. And most unusual of all, the Princess Sarai had been there, visiting from her tour of the Azure Sea, where her father hoped some petty lord might find her attractive enough to wed.

Carala felt an almost unspeakable sadness that Sarai was here under these circumstances. Her elder sister was the kindest of the Emperor's children and close to Carala in age, with only the peculiar Vetilius between them. They had always gotten along marvelously well. Before tutors had taken over, Sarai had helped teach Carala her letters and numbers, and they had spent endless hours playing with dolls in the solarium. She was tempted to take Sarai aside and confess everything to her; ask her what in the world she could do, but what would Sarai tell her? And kind though her sister might be, this was something she would never keep from the Emperor. If nothing else it would give their father something to praise her for rather than make cutting remarks about her weight, appearance, and growing unmarriageability. Whatever her own straits might be, Carala could hardly blame her for that.

"A messenger arrived from Marhollow today, your Majesty," Varallo Thray had said after the servants brought out the fish stew. "Denisius Lord Marhollow and two servants are due to arrive at Talinara by the end of the week, with your leave."

"Oh, yes, quite good, Varallo. I had already scheduled a concert in the Ivory Room. I believe you and Lord Marhollow quite enjoyed it last time, didn't you, Carala?"

Carala looked to the head of the table, smiling weakly. "Yes, father."

Sarai's smile was fuller and warmer, but there was something faintly disappointed in her eyes. When she smiled like that, the shadow of their mother could be seen in her thick features. "I heard you were marrying, Cara. I thought it was Lorith, though."

"The Lord Marhollow's eldest has been pursuing one of the Lord Nadak's many daughters for a few years now. He was most uninterested in any other match, no matter how high, and Erstan was unable to persuade him otherwise." The Emperor tsked softly. "A foolish boy, none of his father's wisdom. Carala is better off, even if Denisius knows more about the Coldspring Hall kitchens than about swordplay."

"He was always very nice to me," said Sarai, toying idly with her fish stew, looking down at the table. "I'm so happy for you, Cara. We'll have to celebrate."

When Carala met her sister's warm smile and sad eyes, her heart plummeted right down to her toes. For the first time she realized Sarai had been smitten with Denisius, probably for years. And why not? Neither of them was a satisfying match for most noble houses; it made perfect sense to pair them off and strengthen the bonds between Marhollow and the Malachite Throne just as Carala would do. Almost certainly the Emperor had offered Sarai to the Lord Marhollow first, and Denisius's father had managed to negotiate a more pleasing match. And Carala had taken what might well have been her sister's dearest wish and thrown it away to dally with a commoner -- to give her maidenhead to a werewolf -- to offer up every inch of her body and desires to a creature out of nightmares. She nearly fled the high table in tears.

Instead she cleared her throat, managed a forced smile of her own, and said, "I'd love that, Sarai. Maybe we can throw a salon of our own in the Gloaming Library." It had been their second favorite haunt after the solarium, and probably their favorite after Carala learned to read.

As Carala, Sarai, and the Empress-Consort went about making such plans -- Sarai contributing with an enthusiasm that only sharpened the painful guilt in Carala's belly -- Varallo Thray broached a discussion with the men of the high table that Carala found far more interesting.

"Do you know, your Majesty, I was in the Gloaming Library myself earlier today. And do you know what I found there?"

"A whore from the Blushing Hind?" Silenio chortled into his stew. "They're the best read girls in the capital, you know."

The Emperor smiled thinly at his secondborn son and Silenio desisted at once.

"Very droll, your highness. No. I found a survey of Imperial law that was exquisitely well-written, something even a layman with no knowledge of the courts might find entertaining. I had never come across it before."

"Indeed, Varallo? And what was the title of this work?"

"Nothing very imaginative, your Majesty. A Survey of the Later Imperial Courts or something of the like. But the writing was sharp, easy to follow, and well-informed."

"Who was the author?"

"That is the part I found interesting, your Majesty, for I was surprised to find something by him in the Palace. It was written by Senrich Mourthia."

"That traitorous sack of shit," Silenio snarled. The Emperor only grunted, but Carala knew from experience that her father's mood was always more dangerous when he didn't bother to insult, and even more so when he didn't even deign to speak. "I wish before the gods I'd been the one to burn him."

"He did not burn," the Emperor smiled, his piggy eyes gleaming with reminiscence. "Oh no, my dear son, he did not burn. He received a far more fitting end than that." His eyes flicked to the other end of the table. "It is not something we should discuss with my daughters present."

"My apologies, father."

"Oh no, my dear son, not at all, not at all. Your enthusiasm does you much credit."

"Traitorous or not, Senrich Mourthia was one of the most brilliant seer-magistrates ever to serve the Throne. Which of course made his treason all the more vile, your Majesty." The Emperor grunted again, but did not argue the Grand Chancellor's point. "I seem to recall, Silenio," Varallo Thray smiled, "that you had the honor of dealing with his brother."

"Gratham, yes." Silenio's chest swelled. Like Carala he had inherited his mother's midnight hair and her eyes as well, his build thick but well-defined. Perhaps in a few years' time when he was spending less time in the sparring yard and on military maneuvers he would have to engage a more difficult battle with his belly, but for now at least he was far more well proportioned than either his father or his younger brothers. He was already nearly twice Carala's age, though, and had so far won that battle. "I led the siege of Losris Nadak. I was the one who broke the gates of Shattercrown. And I put my sword right through Gratham Mourthia's heart. They said he was a great duelist, but that fight was over in minutes."

"So I have heard, your highness." Varallo Thray sipped his wine, glancing at the Emperor, who was regarding his son with an unreadable smile. "And the Lady Mourthia as well, I believe?"

"You think a traitor's wife deserved better?"

"And Jan Mourthia, too, if I remember right."

Silenio shifted uneasily in his seat. Gratham Mourthia's son had been five years old when he and his family had been slaughtered, and even Silenio knew that was nothing to boast about.

"Not that a traitor's son deserved better than a traitor's wife," Varallo Thray remarked. "I am sure sparing the boy was a risk not worth taking."

"It was a successful siege," retorted Silenio in a brittle voice.

"Oh yes, my son, it was, it was. Are you a student of military history, dear Varallo?"

"Not as much as I should be, your Majesty."

"Then you might find the siege of Losris Nadak during the dissolution most interesting. Like most islands off the Torchlight Coast, it is fiendishly difficult to invade. For centuries it was a pirate's cove, terrible pirates, harrying the vessels of the Dessinic Ocean, going into the Azure Sea itself, making trouble for the Malachite Throne for years and years. The Mourthias were the ones who finally broke them, and for this they were awarded the stature of a great house."

"Which they pissed away," Silenio muttered.

"To be sure, my dear Silenio, they did at that. But that came hundreds of years later. The point for our friend Varallo here is that Losris Nadak was famously difficult to breach, as it possesses but a single harbor and high cliffs well suited to pouring fire on any who dared to invade. That was the true challenge of breaking the Mourthias, Varallo. Shattercrown, despite its fearsome name, is little more than a manor house."

"I wouldn't know, your Majesty. I've never had the pleasure of visiting."

"You must, oh you must, Varallo! The Kerrells are a most accommodating house, far more faithful to the Malachite Throne than the Mourthias ever were, and Losris Nadak is quite beautiful. Beautiful, but a terrible place to invade, an enigma that stymied generations of the admiralty." He turned his gentle smile on Silenio. "Remind me, my son, what was your role in the naval invasion?"

Silenio flushed. Before he could manage a reply, his father answered for him.

"Ah, I recall now. You were first mate on Captain Urall's vessel. Very solicitous of your safety, Captain Urall was. Remind me, did she permit you to join in when her forces stormed the cove?"

"That -- father -- "

"Oh! No, it returns to me now. You reminded the good captain that you were the second son of the Emperor and that your person could not be risked until the cove was secure. Our losses were quite terrible, oh quite terrible, over a hundred fifty able seamen and Captain Urall herself. But she was a military genius; the Mourthias always liked to say it would take no less than that to seize their port. Had she lived I would have granted Losris Nadak to her instead of the Kerrells. But there is a statue to her before the gates of Shattercrown, Varallo. She was very beautiful, and the likeness is exquisite."

"Indeed, your Majesty? I must see it sometime."

"Just so, Varallo, just so." The Emperor took a long sip of his wine as Silenio glowered in silent shame at his father's right hand. "How very good for the Throne that you avenged one of the lights of our navy when you put Gratham's babe to the sword, my dear son. You have surely earned your command of Fort Shale, and more besides."

Carala, momentarily forgetting her own troubles, exchanged a glance with Sarai before the both of them returned to their meals, doing everything they could to give the appearance of having heard none of this. Later, Sarai would whisper to Carala that there were times she was grateful the worst thing their father could mock about her was her figure.