The taste of Duchess Arinvale’s blood was still sharp on Beatrice’s tongue when a steward handed her the garnet knife.

Her oaths were made. She would protect the duchess’s secrets from all who did not share in them, just as all others present were sworn to. And of course, she would do everything within her power, with some caveats, towards seeing her crowned.

Now it was her turn to bleed.

But just as she placed the blade to the flesh of her left arm, a hand came over her own, stopping her. She looked up into Charles’ eyes, confused.

“My mother will make her oaths to me,” he said, voice low, even. Gently he pried the blade from Beatrice’s grip, and in one quick and practiced motion he drew a wet red line across the top of his forearm. Then, turning to the duchess, he proffered the wound.

“Should you choose to betray your promises, let it be me that you must kill,” he said.

The duchess’s face was a mask of composure as she took her son’s arm in her hands and pressed her lips to the cut. Within a heartbeat she’d stepped away, covering her mouth with a sleeve as she licked his blood from her lips.

“Now swear to me, with my blood on your tongue, that you will make the secret of Beatrice’s power your own, that it might be guarded as well by all those here who’ve sworn themselves to you. All who have witnessed.”

“I do so swear,” replied the Duchess.

“And swear to me, with my blood on your tongue, that you will, on the first day you take power, put into place protections for all citizens of Dustren—including Foxes—which prevent their wrongful torture and imprisonment, most particularly based on their Blessing or abilities. That you will, within the first week, end compulsory workhouse residence for non-shifters. And finally, that you will, within the first week, abolish all laws prohibiting mixed-Blessing packs and marriages.”

Ever so faintly, the Duchess pursed her lips.

“I do so swear.”

“Then by words and blood you are bound,” concluded Charles, a look of grim satisfaction set upon his features.

They adjourned shortly thereafter, much to Beatrice’s relief,and she retreated to her suite with an arm looped through D’artanien’s, utterly exhausted.

But as she stepped through her bedchamber door, something slid beneath her foot. Looking down, she found there a small slip of fabric—a faded silver brocade with a pattern of vines upon it. She exclaimed, as much in exasperation as surprise.

Whenever will people stop availing themselves of my chambers?

The silk was folded over and sewn loosely closed at the edges, and there were things tucked inside it. Pulling apart the already unraveling threads, Beatrice found within a small silver key and a scrap of paper. It looked to be torn from the page of a book, but just the very corner of it, so that only the page’s number could be seen. And bleeding through from the other side there were words scrawled in splotched ink.

Flipping the scrap over, she read the message out loud, D’artanien leaning over her shoulder.

“Find me through the looking glass,

at the heart of the hedge of roses.

The key will show the way.”

-A”

Beatrice stared at the scrap. Read it again. Then she turned to meet her guardian’s dark-socketed gaze, somehow able to read his reaction as clearly as though his face had flesh. He’d no idea what to make of it either.

Through the looking glass.

The image-memory of the portal she’d most recently conjured flashed to the forefront of her mind, and then another recent recollection—that of little Victoria, tucked into her bed for the night.

He visits sometimes using the mirror door.

“What in all the spirits’ names is going on here, D’artanien?”

But the thrall only shook his head.

“It’s signed ‘A’…” she brought the paper and fabric together and up to her nose and breathed in their scent, but there was no trace of Arron whatsoever about it. Instead, there was a hint of mint and raspberries, cool and sweet. It was familiar, and it took her only a moment to recognize why. Beneath the smells of dust and disuse, it was the aroma that lingered like a ghost in the chambers she occupied.

“you don’t suppose that could stand for Ali—”

There was a sudden rapid creaking and scraping as D’artanien shook his head and waved his free hand so violently that she stopped short.

Beatrice frowned. “Why not?”

But the Suit only continued to shake his bony head.

Yet another mystery. Beatrice sighed, and the exhalation became a yawn. But I’m too tired to wonder much about it now.

Going over to her bedside table, she tucked away the scrap of paper, meaning to leave the key with it. But as she went to wrap it back up in the fabric in which she’d found it, something gave her pause. Cupping the little bit of metal in her hands, it was as though there was a weight to it that was more than physical. A weight of power. And it was lovely, too…wrought in a filigree of roses and butterflies. So, digging from her box of notions, Beatrice withdrew a sage green ribbon and looped the key upon it. Thusly, she tied it about her neck so that it hung at the base of her throat, just above her foxstone.

Why she did this, she couldn’t be sure. Only that it felt strangely good to have it close to her, and entirely right, and she couldn’t particularly think of why she shouldn’t.

Then, going over to the mirror above her vanity, she examined herself. The key looked well on her, but it was the mirror itself she found herself studying. It appeared ordinary as ever, though she found herself eyeing its edges for a colorful blur. There was none. Reaching out, she touched one tentative finger to its surface. It was solid. Normal.

Leaning forward—and feeling quite foolish—she lifted up the key to tap its end to the glass.

Still, nothing happened.

Sighing in relief, Beatrice dithered on the spot. In light of all the strange things happening, most particularly in her own bedchamber, she longed to sleep somewhere else. Somewhere she might have the company of another living human being, in addition to her thrall guardian.

But there was none with whom she might share such company without making a display of impropriety to their guests, however innocent her intentions. And so, bidding D’artanien keep close, she washed her face, undressed, and curled herself into bed.

With guests in residence, breakfast the following morning was a group affair. But though the dining hall echoed with laughter, the only member of the household who shared in the celebratory air was Victoria. The little girl sat happily upon her grandmother’s knee and soaked up the merriment, not caring for its reasons or implications. Beatrice quite nearly envied her.

For her part, she could not stop dwelling on the parcel left just inside her doorstep the night before. She hadn’t yet had the chance to speak to any of her packmates about it, and it was driving her quite mad. Once more, she turned to food for solace.

Their morning feast consisted of cloudcakes with whipped cream and strawberry preserves, thick-cut bacon, blackberry pepper pork sausages, fried tomatoes, and fluffy scrambled eggs with generous helpings of goat cheese and mountain herbs. There was coffee too, of course, and blueberry froth—which many at the table mixed with a sparkling wine.

“Tell me, son,” called the duchess to Charles as Beatrice helped herself to more cloudcakes. “When is the wedding to be? You must know I shan’t leave until it’s done, for I intend to be here for it and I do so hate traveling back-and-forth in so short a time.”

“Your arrival rather interrupted our plans in the matter,” cut in Jemison, leaning forward in his seat across from her. “A definite date had not been set.”

“Well, then, why not hold the wedding upon the Wolf Moon, six days hence?”

Beatrice looked up from her food. Jemison scrunched his nose.

“I suppose…”

“If we’ve that much time, might I invite my family?” Beatrice interrupted in her excitement. She realized her mistake a heartbeat later, throwing a look of apology to Jemison before allowing hope to emblazon her features. “That would make me ever so—”

“Certainly not,” said Duchess Arinvale. “We cannot risk anyone outside of our circle of oaths witnessing anything they shouldn’t. In fact, let that be further motivation in your efforts to master your powers entirely—for you certainly cannot see your family again until you are in every way positive of your own self-control.”

Her words hit Beatrice like a leaden weight to the belly. Before she could do anything about it, her lip was trembling and her eyes had begun to water.

“Oh, come now, girl,” sniffed the duchess, turning from her and lifting her glass for a refill. But Victoria, who’d watched the exchange with wide eyes, slid off her grandmother’s lap and tripped over to Beatrice, pressing one warm little hand to hers.

“Don’t cry,” she said “I’ll invite mama and Papa Demitri, and you won’t have to be lonely,”

Beatrice forced a smile.

“That’s very kind of you Victoria.” Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, she dipped down to the little girl’s eye level. “But something tells me they wouldn’t be allowed, either.”

Her bond-daughter pouted. Then, reaching out with both hands, she made a gesture that Beatrice was long familiar with. Her smile weak but sincere this time, she lifted the girl into her lap.

“I think you’d like my mama,” said Victoria. “She’s very pretty, like you.”

“I think you mean pretty like you,” replied Beatrice, and her bond-daughter beamed with pride.

“Do you…do you see your mama often?” She then ventured in a quiet voice, flashing a glance to either side of them. All was clear, for Jemison was telling one of his stories again.

Victoria frowned a bit. “Oh. No…Papa Demitri says she’s too far away from the door, and that she cannot come. He says he’ll take me to her someday. But I keep asking anyways. I suppose I can’t invite her, after all.” Now it was Victoria who seemed about to cry. “I’m sorry, Lady Bea—“ she hiccuped, her shoulders heaving as large tears welled up at the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t meant to lie!”

“Oh no, darling, it’s all right. I’ll have you and your papas and—”

But there was nothing for it. The girl had given over to her sobs, and all eyes were on them now.

“Oh dearest, whatever is wrong?” Exclaimed the duchess, swooping up to drag the wailing child from Beatrice’s arms. “There, there, sweetling, all is well. All is well.”

Feeling again the unwelcome weight of many eyes upon her, Beatrice stood and excused herself. But she was only halfway to the door when a chair scraped at the floor and the sound of approaching footsteps hounded her. She knew by scent whom to expect, and slowed for Jemison to catch up with her.

“My lord?”

Jemison’s green eyes narrowed as she met them.

“There are very few things which make that child cry, my Lady Stagston,” he said, his words hard-edged as they were soft-spoken. “And one of them is the subject of her mother. I bid you not speak of it to her again.”

Beatrice gaped at him, feeling herself again at the edge of emotional outbreak.

“My lord, I am so sorry. I never meant to—”

“Just don’t,” said Jemison, and turned his back on her.

She retreated to her bedchamber after that, joined only by her guardian. Unsettled by Victoria’s words and shamed by Jemison’s, she sat on her balcony and took remedy in the fresh air and birdsong. The clouds were heavy but broken that day, and the morning sun shone through in places to cast itself upon the scattered precipitation. A rainbow had formed above the trees to the west, and the dissipating morning mists shone like golden glimmer wherever the sun touched them.

Beatrice had just begun to wonder if enough time had passed to finally seek out the counsel of her packmates when a crow landed on the balcony railing. Gleaming blue where it perched in a ray of sunlight, it held a bit of parchment in its beak.

“Oh! thank you.” She put out a hand to accept the message, and the crow dropped it in her palm. Then it gave a caw, and was off.

“Dear Lady Beatrice,” read the note in an elegant scrawl. “please come to see me in the library at your earliest convenience. -Gray”