The butler's shoes clicked like a metronome along the marble corridor. Lucian kept pace half a step behind, hands folded neatly behind his back, the posture of an obedient guest. Their polite talk, weather, renovations, minor gossip, thinned as they neared the entrance hall.

At the corridor junction, Lucian slowed. "Excuse me," he said mildly. "Where might the privy be?"

The butler blinked, thrown by the interruption. "Left wing, third door past the staircase."

"Thank you." Lucian inclined his head. "I'll find my way out after refreshing myself." His smile was courteous, and enough to dismiss the man.

The butler nodded and retreated, footsteps fading into the next corridor.

Lucian walked until the corridor bent toward the rear veranda. The muffled hum of servants faded behind him. He pushed open a side door, stepping into a smaller courtyard lined with trimmed hedges and a dry fountain.

The air felt quieter here, cut off from the rest of the manor. He looked around once, ensuring the windows above were empty.

Silence folded over the space. Then a shimmer bled through the air beside him, soft light bending like heat over stone.

Quenya appeared.

Quenya tilted her head. "So, think you can still land that job?"

Lucian's mouth quirked. "Let's be honest. We can forget about getting that job."

"Tragic," she said, holding back a giggle. "All that charm wasted."

"At least I learned one thing."

"That you should stop volunteering for humiliation?"

"That I need to find out who this Mr. Gundal is."

Her expression cooled at the name. "You plan to chase him?"

"Call it curiosity."

Lucian murmured, "You know the signal."

Quenya arched one brow. "Same as always?"

"If you think the visitor deserves a closer look."

She exhaled through her nose, faint irritation masking concern. "You and your signals."

"Habit keeps us alive."

Her mouth twitched, half smile, half scoff. "Fine."

With a faint flick of her pale hair, she blurred again, body dissolving into ripples of pale blue light. The air folded around her as she slipped through the left-hand corridor toward the drawing room.

Lucian turned right, walking as though he truly meant to find the privy, then angled toward the rear exit and the carriage court.

The open yard was quiet, the carriages lined in neat rows under the afternoon light.

A shape caught his eye — a dark carriage he hadn't seen when entering. Polished, unfamiliar.

Lucian crossed the gravel, tone easy. "Long waits. I know the feeling."

The driver glanced up, not unfriendly, but with the air of someone who preferred to be left alone.

Lucian nodded at the carriage. "I can't see a crest. Which house are you with?"

The driver's jaw shifted. "A servant shouldn't ask that of another man's employer."

Lucian gave a mild shrug. "You're a servant too. Thought we could spare each other the guessing."

That earned him a narrow look, something closer to firmness than hostility. "I answer to the man who pays me. Not to every fellow strolling through a courtyard."

Lucian kept his smile. "Fair. Then who's the gentleman you brought in?"

The driver hesitated, about to answer—

-- -- --

Quenya moved through the corridors, tracing the sound of voices. The doors ahead were guarded and closed, so she turned back, rising through the atrium.

Cutting behind a line of stone pillars, she slipped through an open window and into the room beyond.

Lavish but muted. Pale velvet on the furniture, mirrored columns reflecting gilt edges. A decanter of untouched wine gleamed on the table like bait.

By the hearth, Seris Valemont stood motionless.

Her posture was regal, but tension bled through her stillness. The man facing her stayed half shrouded by a dark coat and gloves, head slightly inclined. His voice, when it came, was smooth, faintly amused, too measured to be comfortable.

Quenya perched on the chandelier frame above them, shrinking her light to a dim pulse.

"You knew it would come to this," the man said. "The schedule isn't mine to change."

Seris's tone cut through the room like glass underfoot. "And yet you expect me to clean your masters' impatience."

"You're more suited for it than you pretend."

"Don't flatter me with necessity."

The man's laugh carried no warmth. "You have something none of us possess, Lady Valemont. That makes you the rarest material on the board."

"Material breaks when overused."

A pause. The sort that lives between a threat and a confession. Quenya's eye twitched, sensing faint ripples of arc light, thin, pale threads flaring along Seris's forearms before vanishing.

The man withdrew a small box from his coat and set it on the table. Its lid caught the firelight in three sharp flashes.

"Master send this for you. You'll need it," he said. "Keep it close until the day of ancestors. It will open then, if you're still willing."

Seris tilted her head. "And if I'm not?"

"Then someone else's ancestors will answer first."

For several seconds, nothing moved. The fire whispered, and a clock murmured in the wall.

Then Seris reached out and took the box. Her gaze didn't waver. "Tell your masters," she said, "the canopy doesn't open without weather."

The man inclined his head, the gesture more mockery than respect.

Quenya's chest tightened. The phrase carried a double edge, signal and warning both.

She pressed two fingers against her sternum. The pact thread inside her pulsed in response, bright and quick. She sent the agreed signal back through the bond.

A faint echo of warmth would now spread across Lucian's palm.

Meaning: Worth digging.

Below her, the man fastened his gloves again, voice smooth once more. "Then we'll pray for rain."

He bowed slightly and turned for the door.

The man paused mid-stride. "Did you hear what happened in Coriel a few weeks ago?"

Seris frowned. "I did. Why?"

"Jerenir told me he met someone unexpected there that night. Vencian Vicorra."

He shrugged. "Small world."

Seris didn't watch him go. Her focus stayed fixed on the box, thumb brushing its lid, expression unreadable.

Quenya stayed where she was, watching. Seris's hand fell from the box; her shoulders sagged. She sank into the couch and pressed fingers to her forehead.

"I hate that man," she muttered.

Quenya couldn't tell which one she meant.

-- -- --

Mr. Gundal stepped into the courtyard, his coat settling over one arm.

"Market Square," he told the driver.

"Aye, sir," the man said, then shifted uneasily. "Would you mind if I visit the privy first? Urgent."

Gundal's eyes narrowed. "You had all the time before."

"I was thirsty, sir. The servant's water sat wrong."

Gundal waved him off, displeased. "Go. Make it quick."

The driver nodded and turned away.

"What happened to your voice?" Gundal asked suddenly.

"That drink's to blame," the man replied, rough-voiced.

When his back fully turned, a faint smirk curved his lips.

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