Idly fiddling with the rapier at his belt, the aged noble’s lips curled back to reveal a remarkably sound set of teeth. “Viscount… Nini, you shouldn’t mislead the boy,” he began, still smiling broadly. “I lost my claim to that title a lifetime ago, when my services were no longer deemed necessary by his late majesty’s predecessor.” Turning his head slightly, he revealed a jagged scar that ran down his cheek, marring his distinguished features. Touching it gingerly as if it was still raw he exclaimed, “How chagrined I was by this souvenir of the Fleurian campaign, little suspecting that a more grievous injury lay in store after the cessation of hostilities!”

“Yet if time ultimately undoes all things, still it heals others in the process,” said the former courtesan mildly. “Consider the wise ordinances of nature, which in allowing beauty and intelligence to fail, allows vision and memory to come under the dominion of age also, that we may not suffer so acutely from the alteration.”

The noble laughed as he let his hand fall, the sound like a listless breeze stirring the eaves of a desolate forest. “Indeed, the sting of my fall from grace faded long ago. In any case, ‘twoud be to the height of churlishness to begrudge fate’s vicissitudes when decades of literary success are beholden to a solitary military disgrace.” He then sat at his hostess’s invitation, as did Zephyrin. Not long after the valet made a reappearance bearing a silver platter with three steaming teacups, the saucers clattering gently as he proffered one to the viscount, then to Zephyrin.

Zephyrin took a sip of his smoked western tea, wondering what the noble had done to merit banishment from the court before his change of profession. “Then, monsieur is an essayist?” he ventured with reasonable certitude. The noble seemed pleased by his perspicacity. “That I am. I have the good fortune to dwell in a country less hostile to men of letters. Though the Seaxlandish climate agrees more with beasts than men, still there are advantages to making one’s home in a place that lies beyond the grasping and overly fond reach of the Inquisition. But let us not linger overlong on a subject more tedious to recount than to live; tell us of yourself, lad. Your name, ‘Calon’… you hail from the south, do you not?”

“I do, monsieur.”

“Splendid. A commoner come to conquer the capital, eh? Nini, here’s one who’s following in your footsteps,” remarked the noble with a meaningful glance toward his companion, before addressing Zephyrin once more to inquire pleasantly, “May I ask what brings you to the temple of the Goddess of Love?”

Zephyrin wondered at this comment. Though no apparent change came over the elderly baseblood woman’s shadow-swathed expression, he thought the allusion to her vanished youth more likely to displease her than not. But, reasoning that he perhaps did not grasp the nature of the pair’s amity, he merely replied, “I have the good fortune of attending Lyceum Rudolf VII. There I met Mlle. Huron’s ward, who proposed to me that I spend the holidays here rather than at the academy.”

“How very obliging of him. Are your studies progressing to your satisfaction?”

“They are indeed, monsieur. I’m the Emperor of my class.”

“Emperor! So it isn’t merely a pretty head that sits on your shoulders.”

“I no longer wonder that you and my ward struck up a friendship,” interposed the aged baseblood, taking a sip of her own tea.

Friendship? That’s one way to put it…

“Foudris had been complaining of dull company,” his guardian continued. “I am glad to know he has a companion to enliven his studies. I suppose you share his talent for versification; might we not have a taste of your ability?”

Zephyrin took a moment to ponder the request. Unlike at the palace, there was no reason to conceal his abilities; his departure was already planned, and in the meantime, impressing these great wits of a bygone era would only make them more likely to volunteer information about past and contemporary affairs. He cast about in his memory and came up with a suitable candidate, a piece that had gone over very well with the master teaching his Gaulyrian class. Zephyrin began to recite for an audience that had rubbed shoulders with the finest playwrights and poets of the century.

Maid, heed not those who’d rather speak

Of love than pair their words with deed.

Your soft downcast eyes and airs meek

Make men confound caprice for need.

Into the night husband will steal

Whilst your child trembles like a fawn

In your arms, then, thro’ th’ door he’ll reel,

A black figure blotting out th’ dawn.

Extend not your heart as a prize

For the brutish athlete to seize;

Await the stirring of the breeze,

Prelude to the soul’s true sunrise.

As he finished Zephyrin saw the Valensi noble stroke his pointed goatee thoughtfully, before turning to his companion of long-standing acquaintance. “… Nini, that first stanza…”

Her clouded eyes rested on Zephyrin pensively. “Yes,” the aged woman said slowly. “The first two lines are reminiscent of my own verses:

‘Whenever rash lovers on vows surfeit,

Words are debased t’ currency counterfeit.’

“I’m also reminded of that charming couplet you penned for Cardinal Sazarin’s silver jubilee,” remarked the viscount. “How did it go again?”

“‘When she’s in love, a woman’s first missive,

Grows wings despite downcast eyes submissive,’” she quoted from memory, her eyes intent on Zephyrin as she did so. The viscount nodded with satisfaction. “That’s the one.” Eyes gray like the overcast winter sky faintly visible through the curtained windows sharpened with interest as he considered Zephyrin. “You’ll jot down that poem for me, lad. I know several notables who will not disdain to hear your prosody. Do you have any other talents?”

“I’m a fair hand with a rapier and can sing, dance, ride, sketch, and play the clavichord and guitar passing well.” Zephyrin was aware of an ambiguous melange of emotions swirling within him. He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about the fact that his artistic upbringing in Elysian captivity would once again serve him in good stead in Gaulyrian high society. The notion that he should feel thankful to his gaolers was an irritant, a thorn in his side that at present defied extraction.

Suppressing his annoyance to the best of his ability, Zephyrin returned his attention to the viscount in time to see his hoary brows rise in faint astonishment. “All that, and you of humble birth? You have a benefactor, surely?”

“A benefactress,” replied Zephyrin, anticipating how the lord would interpret his words. “But she doesn’t reside in the capital.”

“I see. And who is that enviable lady, who must have had the pleasure of regularly hearing your precocious compositions?”

“The same who is the constant witness of monsieur’s virtuous actions.”

The viscount opened then closed his mouth as the cogs in his mind turned. Momentarily puzzled but still endowed with an active intelligence, within the space of a breath his leathery features refolded into their customary expression of good humor. “Ah. A pious streak, eh? Very good. Very good indeed. I will only caution you, young man, against an excess in that direction, which would be prejudicial to the unfolding of your talents just as much as unbridled license in the other. I speak from personal experience, having suffered from a bout of piety in my youth that almost saw me commit to a seminary, and for which I have been doing assiduous penance ever since.”

“Did any of monsieur’s family members persevere in that vocation?” inquired Zephyrin diffidently.

“Not to my knowledge. The men of Valens are like canines; we prefer to leap at the world and worry it in our teeth rather than flee with our tails tucked between our legs—yet hold a moment: you see me eat my own words. I seem to recall a nephew of mine shunning the battlefield to become a man of the cloth. He wielded a quill with much more dexterity than a blade; at one point it was thought he might carve out for himself something of a literary career. How curious; I’ve not thought of him in decades.”

Surely he doesn’t mean… A feather-light suspicion drifted across Zephyrin’s mind, but he held his tongue. It couldn’t be; and even if the connection existed, now was not the time to draw attention to it. Something told Zephyrin that the aristocrat’s demeanor would become far less amicable if apprised of the fact that the baseblood ostensibly before him was passing himself off as a Valensi blueblood. If Mlle. Huron spoke up now…

Zephyrin’s eyes flitted in her direction, but the elderly woman seemed content to listen as the viscount quizzed him about his school life. Satisfied at length, he then faced the ex-courtesan with something of a regretful air. “I must depart for Seaxland tonight. But before leaving, my dear, I would have you banish any morose thoughts which might cloud your happiness; my crossing of the strait will be quite spoiled otherwise. In my mind, what you stand in most need of is a juster appreciation of your own soul, which does but perfect itself day by day.”

“Your estimable counsel is duly noted. Yet you perhaps misjudge my sentiments, monsieur, as even the subtlest suggestion of a fresh pleasure or delight suffices to banish all somber reflections from my mind. Though the range of pleasures available to me has diminished, still I am ready to savor to the utmost those still on offer.”

“I rejoice to hear it. A woman of your elevated character deserves happiness; your grandeur of soul certainly merits it. Your peerless beauty and wit made you the talk of the capital for half a century; you outshone all your contemporaries; you were like unto a sun encircled by a thousand minor asters, whose radiant afterimage remains seared in my memory. Console yourself to remember, my dear, that you have already entered legend: in these days, when a woman is either fair of countenance or able to express herself with some cleverness, it is said that, ‘she is cast of the same mold as Nydalie.’”

“Though gallant and indeed very spirited, I cannot help but notice, monsieur, that all your praises are delivered in past tense. Of greater relevance to me seem your words from earlier, that wrinkles are marks of wisdom; and seeing that your exterior virtues in nowise grieve you, I will endeavor to follow your example.” The woman once adulated by the nobles of Rudolf XI’s glittering court as the Goddess of Love turned to Zephyrin to solicit his opinion. “What say you, child? When you look upon me, do you see a goddess?” she inquired wryly.

Though fully aware that he had thus far made a good impression on these two conversational dancers, Zephyrin knew that a stronger one still was needed to truly pique their interest and encourage their loquaciousness. If he faltered here, he would be relegated from a potential intellectual equal to a mere diversion, a child to admire and then dismiss. The moment to strike was now. “No, mademoiselle. Your visage is too crinkled for that.”

A significant pause ensued, followed by a subtle glance shared between the two beaux esprits, as if silently communicating to one another their mutual disappointment that this comely child was not quite so impressive as they had first supposed. Before either of them could attempt to smooth over his apparent gaffe and transition to another subject, Zephyrin continued: “Like a rose petal, mademoiselle’s youth is pressed between the luminous pages of history’s tome, and it is thus that I prefer to think of her beauty: as a flower preserved within time by she who reigns in eternity.”

A silence fell again, but it was a silence of a different order, transformed from an uncomfortable absence to a significant stillness, reflecting the cogitation of the room’s occupants. Zephyrin saw this clearly enough from the near-imperceptible widening of the viscount’s deep-set eyes and the way they flitted to Mlle. Huron, who now regarded him with an expression considerably more alert than earlier.

That got their attention. Zephyrin forbore from speaking further, merely waiting as the two epistolers weighed his words.

“You have a way with words that belies your age,” said the former courtesan at last. “Tell me: what is your definition of conversation?”

“The art of cultivating the soul of one’s interlocutor while pruning one’s own.”

Mlle. Huron’s brows rose, but not nearly so much as the viscount’s, who now posed a question to Zephyrin with a gaze keener than it had been during their introductions. “Lad, a riddle for you. To all on offer freely, yet bought by few and dearly: of what do I speak?”

“Wisdom.” That his answer was not only correct but instantaneous only served to magnify its effect, and Zephyrin knew that the shrewd eyes appraising him were no longer considering the child he was, but rather the man he would become.

The viscount seemed to be on the verge of testing Zephyrin yet again when the pendulum clock began to chime the hour. Reaching into the inner pocket of his unpretentious coat, he withdrew a sun-emblazoned pocket watch to examine its face. “Now I must doubly regret my departure for business, as it deprives me of deepening my acquaintanceship with a most interesting discovery.” A last look at Zephyrin, and then he spoke to the mistress of the household.

“Nini, I thank you for your gracious hospitality, regretting all the while that I have further indebted myself to your kindness. I depart wishing you neither good fortune nor health; the first you possess, the second comes from nature, who is beholden to you on account of your exercise of virtues that have ever glorified her gifts before the sight of men.” The viscount drained the dregs of his cup and then smoothly raised himself from his seat. “I must own that I could almost wish you less endowed in all the talents which makes your name bruit far and wide across the continent, for in admiring your glories, I am apt to forget the candor that constitutes your chiefest charm.”

Still enthroned in her sofa, Mlle. Huron replied sedately, “I then invite monsieur to contemplate my vices, for it is well-known that in the eyes of men, the fairer sex is rendered more pleasing by lovable defects than by essential virtues.”

The viscount grinned, his vulpine face becoming positively skull-like as he did so. “It was a pleasure, Nini. I will not say goodbye, for we shall assuredly meet again.”