"No," Saetan said mournfully. "We have typical afternoons, but I don't think anyone would consider them normal."

Her silvery, velvet-coated laugh filled the room. "Poor Papa. Well, since I don't have to dress up and simper, I'll try not to offend their delicate sensibilities." She handed him a vial of black powder. "Put a pinch of that in the bowl and stand back."

The butterflies in his stomach' were having a grand time. "What happens then?"

Jaenelle laced her fingers. "Well, if I mixed the powders in the right proportions to the spell, it'll create an impressive illusion."

Saetan looked from his nervously smiling daughter to the bowl on the table to the vial in his hand. "And if you didn't mix them in the right proportions?"

"It'll blow up the table."

An hour later, as he lay in a deep, hot bath, soaking the soreness out of his muscles, he had to give her full marks for her fast reflexes and the strength of her protective shields. Except for knocking them both to the floor, the

explosion hadn't damaged anything in the room—except the glass bowl and the table. And he had to admit that the shape that had started rising out of the bowl had been impressive.

Two days from now, the Dark Council would come to the Hall. He would show them courtesy and endure their presence because, in the end, it didn't matter what they thought. No one was going to take her away from him. If the Council had to learn that lesson twice, so be it.

He doubted it would come to that. Remembering the awe-filled moment between the shape starting to rise from the mist and the table exploding, he let out a moan that turned into a chuckle. The Dark Council wanted to spend a typical afternoon with Jaenelle?

The poor fools would never survive it.

Chapter eight

1 / Kaeleer

It started going wrong the moment the two members of the Dark Council walked through the front door, looked around, and shivered.

SaDiablo Hall was a dark-gray structure that rose above the land and cast a long shadow. He'd built it to be imposing, but hadn't planned on having a stony-faced, Red-Jeweled butler frightening his guests before they even crossed the threshold. As for the chill in the air ... Helene had let him know, with stiff courtesy, what she thought of the Council coming to poke and pry into her domain, and all of the servants had spent the day scurrying away from the kitchen and Mrs. Beale.

Dark-Jeweled houses always had Blood servants, but whenall the witches in a household decided to express their displeasure, the phrase "cold comfort" took on a whole new meaning.

"Good afternoon," Saetan said, coming forward to greet the two men.

The elder of the two bowed. "We appreciate your taking the time to see us, High Lord. I'm Lord Magstrom. This is Lord Friall."

Saetan liked Lord Magstrom. A man in his twilight years, he had a kind face framed by a cloud of white hair and blue eyes that probably twinkled most of the time. Those eyes were serious now but not condemning. Lord Mags-

trom, at least, would make his decision based on his own integrity and honor.

Lord Friall, on the other hand, had already decided. Weedy-looking for all the hair cream and finery, he kept glancing around with distaste and dabbing his lips with a scented, lace-edged handkerchief.

Saetan led them to the formal drawing room to the right of the great hall. It was a large room, but the furniture was arranged so that tall, painted screens could be placed across its width to divide it. The screens were in place, making this section appear cozy. The plastered walls were painted ivory. All the pictures were serene watercolors. The furniture was dark but not heavy and comfortably arranged over subtly patterned Dharo carpets. There was a bouquet of fresh flowers on a table near the windows. Saetan watched Lord Magstrom tactfully look over the room and knew the man was as pleased with the tasteful decorations as he was.

"It's a delightful room, High Lord," Lord Magstrom said as he accepted a seat. "Do you use it often?"

Saetan shoved his hands into his sweater pockets. "No," he said after a slight but noticeable hesitation. "We don't have many formal guests." He turned toward a movement in the doorway. "Ah, Beale."

The butler stood in the doorway, empty-handed.

Saetan raised an eyebrow. "Refreshments for our guests?"

"They'll be ready momentarily, High Lord." Beale bowed and retreated, leaving the door open.

Saetan was tempted to close the door but decided against it. No point forcing Beale to demean himself by listening at the keyhole.

"Have we come at an awkward time?" Lord Friall asked, looking pointedly at Saetan's casual attire while he continued to pat his lips with the scented handkerchief.

Perfume won't help what's troubling you, Lord Friall,Saetan thought coldly.My psychic scent permeates the very stones of the Hall. Saetan glanced down at the white cotton shirt unbuttoned low enough so that the Black Jewel around his neck wasn't completely hidden, the black cotton trousers that were already rumpled, and the sweater. "I

gather you were expecting a more formal meeting. However, since I had understood that the Council wanted some indication of our usual living arrangements, those two expectations are incompatible."

"Surely—" Friall began, but he was cut off by Beale bringing in the refreshment tray.

Saetan studied the tray. It was sparse by Mrs. Beale's usual standards. There were plenty of sandwiches but none of the nut cakes or spiced tarts. "I don't suppose Mrs. Beale would—"

Beale set the tray on a table with an almost-inaudible thump.

"No," Saetan said dryly, "I don't suppose she would." He poured the coffee and offered the sandwiches while he tried to ignore the twinkle in Lord Magstrom's eyes. Settling into a corner of the couch where he could keep an eye on the door, he smiled at Lord Friall and wondered if his clenched teeth would survive the .afternoon. "You were saying?"

"Surely—"

The front door slammed.

Catching the psychic scent and the emotional undercurrents, Saetan whistled a sharp command and resigned himself to disaster.

A moment later, Karla stuck her head around the corner. "Kiss kiss," she said, doing her best to look innocent.

Having already dealt with several of the coven's spells that had gone awry, Karla trying to look innocent scared him silly. But, if he was lucky, he might never have to know what she'd been up to.

Karla pointed toward the ceiling. "I'm late for my art lesson."

Saetan groaned softly and massaged his temple. Had he remembered to tell Dujae not to come today? "Please ask Jaenelle to come down. These gentlemen would like to see her."

Karla's ice-blue eyes swept over Magstrom and Friall. "Why?" She jerked her chin toward Lord Magstrom. "The grandfather looks harmless enough, but why would she want to talk to a fribble?"

Friall sputtered.

Lord Magstrom raised his cup to hide his smile.

Saetan was sure half his teeth were going to shatter. "Now."

"Oh, all right. Kiss kiss," Karla said, and was gone.

"Lady Karla is a friend of your ward?" Lord Magstrom asked mildly.

"Yes." Saetan's lips twitched. "She and Jaenelle's other friends are staying with us for the summer—if I survive it."

Lord Magstrom blinked.

"She's a little bitch," Friall sputtered, dabbing his lips with his handkerchief. "Hardly a suitable companion for your ward."

"Karla's a Queen and a natural Black Widow," Saetan said coldly, "as well as a Healer. She's an exuberant—but formidable—young lady. Like my daughter."

He caught Lord Magstrom's arrested look. Hadn't the Council checked the register at the Keep? As soon as Jaenelle had returned to them, he and Geoffrey had prepared the listing for her. They had agreed not to include the Territory—or Realm—where she had been born, or anything else that could lead someone back to her Chaillot relatives, but theyhad included that the Black was her Birthright Jewel. Didn't the Council know who, and what, they were dealing with? Or had the Tribunal chosen not to tell these men?

Lord Magstrom accepted another cup of coffee. "Your . . . daughter ... is a Black Widow Queen? And a Healer as well?"

"Yes," Saetan replied. "Didn't the Council mention it?"

Lord Magstrom looked troubled. "No, they didn't. Perhaps—"

A woman let out a screech that made all three men jump. As Lord Magstrom dabbed at the spilled coffee and murmured apologies, a young wolf leaped into the drawing room. Friall let out a screech of his own and leaped behind his chair. Veering away from the screeching human, the wolf bounded behind the couch, came around the other side, and finally pressed himself against Saetan's legs, his

head and one paw in Saetan's lap and a pleading expression in his eyes.

Saetan reminded himself that, compared to most days, they were having a quiet afternoon. He rubbed the young wolfs head and sighed. "Now what have you done?"

"I'll tell you what he's done." A red-faced woman filled the drawing room doorway.

Friall whimpered.

The wolf whined.

Lord Magstrom stared.

Mother Night, Mother Night, Mother Night. "Ah, Mrs. Beale," Saetan said calmly while he pressed a damp palm into the wolf's fur.

Mrs. Beale wasn't fat. She was just . . .large. And she didn't need to use Craft to lift a fifty-pound sack of flour with one hand.

Mrs. Beale pointed a finger at the wolf. "That walking muff just ate the chickens I was preparing for tonight's dinner."

Saetan looked down at the wolf. "Bad muff," he said mildly.

The wolf whined, but the tip of his tail dusted the floor.

Saetan sighed and turned his attention back to the huffing woman. "If there's no time to prepare more of our own, perhaps you could send someone to the butcher's in Halaway?"

Mrs. Beale huffed even more and said in a voice that rattled the windows, "Those chickens had been marinating in my special plum wine sauce since last night."