On the far side of the city, in the Mercier estate, Countess Justine Mercier entertained her guests in a velvet-draped drawing room. Dinner had been cleared away, and the faint perfume of roasted herbs still lingered in the air.
A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing light across gilded frames and the polished surface of a pianoforte where Adeline sat poised, her fingers gliding across the keys with practiced grace. Celeste lounged nearby with a cup of spiced tea, the fragrant steam rising in soft curls.
Fenn had already returned to the Pit once the sponsorship papers were signed, promising to come back with Mars. But as the hours stretched, the promise felt increasingly hollow.
"You play quite lovely," Justine said at last, setting down her porcelain cup with a delicate clink.
"Thank you, countess," Adeline replied, smiling faintly as her hands continued to dance over the keys. "Do you play?"
Justine shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her. "Alas, no. Much to the dismay of my late husband. He always insisted music was the soul's proof of refinement."
"Sounds like a staunch man," Celeste interjected, her tone dry but amused.
"He was," Justine agreed, her lips curving into something between fondness and reproach. "A man who would rather break than bend, and for that he was widely hated. He carried his stubbornness like a crown." Her gaze drifted then, resting thoughtfully on Celeste. "You remind me of him. He was from Arken as well."
Celeste's brow arched. "You think I'm from Arken?"
Justine blinked, caught off guard. "You're not?" A flicker of embarrassment crossed the countess's face, and she inclined her head quickly. "Forgive me. Your… sun-kissed complexion led me to the assumption."
Celeste said nothing, only sipped her tea, her eyes unreadable above the rim of the cup.
Yet in truth, Justine was not far from the mark. Among certain scholars, whispers persisted that House Dehmohseni had traces of Arkenian heritage.
Adeline, still poised at the keys, filled the brief silence with a gentle flourish of notes, as though smoothing the edges of the conversation. Justine smiled gratefully in her direction, then folded her hands neatly in her lap.
In truth, the moment was nothing more than polite conversation, but there lingered a subtle intimacy in it, the countess, seeking to place her guests in the world she knew; Adeline, bridging the quiet with music; and Celeste, refusing to be placed anywhere she had not chosen for herself.
"The man back at the Pit," Justine began, her voice light but edged with curiosity as she toyed idly with the rim of her teacup. "Who is he to you? A lover, perhaps?"
The question hung in the air like perfume, calculated to shift the conversation into warmer, more personal waters.
Celeste's lips curved at that, a smile that reached her eyes as she cast a quick glance toward Adeline at the pianoforte. "Not mine," she said, finally.
"Oh," Justine breathed, and though she tried for composure, her delight slipped through. Her gaze sharpened ever so slightly, as if she were pleased to find another layer peeled back. "He seemed rather concerned for you, from what I observed."
"My cousin worries unnecessarily," Celeste replied, lowering her cup with unhurried grace. "It's what he does."
Adeline watched the exchange from her seat by the pianoforte, her fingers resting lightly on the keys though the last notes had faded. It wasn't hard to see what was unfolding. The countess, every gesture measured by years of etiquette and an unforgiving husband's shadow, was clearly taken with Celeste. And why not? Celeste was everything she was not: free, unashamed, quick to smile, untethered by propriety. The attraction, though subtle, was plain.
Adeline rose and crossed the room, her dress whispering softly against the carpet. She eased herself onto the sofa beside them, reaching for a scone from the silver plate at the table's center. Breaking it delicately, she took a bite, savoring it before speaking.
"What a chef you must have," she said, her tone light but sincere.
Justine's face brightened at the compliment. "Marvelous, aren't they? Her salary could buy another household, but it is never folly to pay for excellence. Service well-rendered is its own art."
Celeste smirked faintly over her teacup, while Adeline regarded the countess more directly. "I confess, I find it difficult to place a woman of your standing at the Pit."
The candor landed, but Justine did not bristle. Instead, she gave a small, almost conspiratorial smile. "That was a first for me, I assure you. My late husband would never have allowed it, he thought such places 'unwomanly affairs.'" Her voice softened, and she straightened in her chair, as though shaking free of his ghost. "But I wanted to see it for myself. And now I have."
Celeste leaned forward, resting her elbow on the arm of the sofa, her tea balanced loosely in her hand. "And? Did the Pit live up to expectation, countess?"
Justine gave a soft laugh, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease at the memory. "It was… louder than I imagined. Coarser, certainly." She paused, and her lips curved into a small smile. "Perhaps that is part of why I enjoyed it."
Adeline caught the note in her voice and tilted her head, studying her with curiosity. "So the countess enjoys rebellion, after all."
Justine looked between them, her composure wavering for a heartbeat under the weight of the two younger women's gazes. Then she folded her hands neatly in her lap, retreating into grace. "I enjoy… discovery. And freedom, in measured doses."
Celeste's smile sharpened, just a touch. "Freedom doesn't much care for doses. It's best taken whole."
The words lingered, bold and unapologetic, and Justine held her stare a moment longer than propriety allowed. A flush of color touched her cheeks before she turned her eyes back to the fire.
Adeline reached for another scone, breaking the tension with a quiet laugh. "Well, if freedom tastes half as fine as these, perhaps the countess will acquire a taste for it yet."
Celeste's remark about freedom hung in the air like smoke. Justine felt it settle in her chest, unsettling in a way she did not wish to show. She sipped her tea instead, the porcelain cup trembling just faintly against her lip.
"You speak as though freedom were so simple," she said, a touch softer now. "As though one could simply… take it."
Celeste's eyes glinted with amusement. "You can. It's only a matter of whether you're willing to pay the price."
The fire crackled, filling the silence that followed. Adeline, watching them both, noted the subtle tension, the way Justine's gaze lingered too long on Celeste's smile, the way her posture betrayed a woman unaccustomed to being challenged, yet unwilling to turn away.
Justine exhaled, setting her cup aside. "You remind me of a painting I once saw in Arken, of a huntress standing naked against the wind, bow in hand, with no care for civility. My husband hated. Called it vulgar."
"And you?" Celeste asked, leaning back, voice low and steady.
"I envied her," Justine admitted. The words slipped free before she could stop them.
Celeste tilted her head, as though studying a curiosity she'd half-expected to find.
Flustered now, the countess rose. "The night is late and I must retire to my chambers. Butler Henrik will escort you ladies to yours."
With that, their hostess took leave of them.
"That wasn't awkward at all," Adeline muttered as she dropped back into the sofa, exhaling through her nose with half a laugh.
"She's a doll," Celeste replied, sprawling across the armrest in a posture no finishing school would ever condone. Her dark eyes gleamed with a satisfaction that was equal parts amusement and provocation.
Adeline shifted, her gaze wandering to the tall window. Beyond the velvet curtains, night had deepened into something thicker, the streets below swallowed in shadow. "Where do you think Yvain is?" she asked quietly.
Celeste rolled her eyes, the movement lazy but deliberate. "Worried about your man?"
"He's not my man," Adeline shot back, too quickly, betraying her unease. Her fingers tightened slightly against the cushion. "And shouldn't you be? He's your cousin, your betrothed."
Celeste turned her head, studying Adeline with a slow smile that was all teeth. "That hasn't stopped you from trying to seduce him." Her tone was a purr, but her words struck sharp. Then, with a glint of mischief, she added, "Or is that just a side effect of your deepkin blood?"
"I'm a siren, not a deepkin," Adeline said flatly, meeting her gaze without flinching.
Celeste leaned forward, closing the distance between them. With a single swift motion, she drew her fingertip along Adeline's cheek, pressing just enough to raise a bead of crimson. Adeline stiffened but did not pull away. Celeste lifted her finger, watching the drop catch the firelight, then brought it to her lips.
She tasted it with an exaggerated slowness, her tongue darting across the pad of her finger. "Still tastes like fish," she whispered, her grin widening as if daring Adeline to strike back.
"I can see why he won't be coming," Adeline said with a scoff, folding her arms as though to shield herself from Celeste's taunting.
Celeste only shrugged, the gesture careless but her eyes sharp. "You're not wrong." She let the silence hang a moment before leaning forward, her voice dropping into something almost confessional. "Did you know there has never been more than fifteen of my line walking the world at one time? Fifteen, Adeline. The blood is thin, and it curls into itself. Most of us never make it, born deformed or stillborn, too fragile to carry the fire in our veins. And those who do survive…" She smiled faintly, without mirth. "We are bred like serpents. Whatever softness, whatever kindness might linger is pressed out of us until only venom remains. It's like sealing a jar with insects and waiting for them to tear each other apart. The one that survives is always the most poisonous."
Adeline's eyes narrowed. "Why are you telling me this?"
Celeste reclined again, as if the weight of the confession hadn't touched her at all. She idly traced the rim of her teacup with one finger. "Because my cousin is a liar, perhaps the greatest liar alive. He has deceived himself as much as anyone else. He tells himself he is different, that legacy binds him, that there is good in him to preserve." Her gaze cut to Adeline, sharp enough to sting. "But a lie, no matter how carefully tended, cannot hold forever. Sooner or later, it cracks."