Zaethan’s eyes rolled as he squeezed between a nobleman and his wife, both too in their cups to care. The Unitarian Peerage would never agree to a bride from one of the outer Houses, but a foreign princess, as rich in trade as she was in gold, rang a different story in their greedy ears. A princess who had much more to gain, and even less to lose, than his optimistic friend, Dmitri Thoarne.

Wedging his hand past a pair of yancies, Zaethan caught hold of the delicate sleeve of the al’Haidren’s gown. The material fluttered off her bared shoulders, twinkling in the lanternlight, unlike anything she’d worn in the past.

“Maji’maia,” he said under his breath, adopting Kumo’s moniker for the witchling.

Striding to a nearby table alongside her and the princess, he bent to her level and whispered into her untamed hair, “Kumo reported Takoda’s transfer from your quarters. It’s done.”

Irregularly woven gemstones tickled his nose as he pulled away and departed, not caring to hear her response. He’d committed to having Takoda moved, and it had been done. No need for commentary, especially in the presence of foreigners.

Dmitri hadn’t exaggerated Bahira’Rasha’s odd obsession with the House of Boreal. The princess had practically lacquered herself to the al’Haidren since her arrival, constantly entwined, like those candied rods of twisted treacle in the market. Zaethan shrugged at the enigma of it all and tried to locate Dmitri in the crowd. Better Razôuel form friendships with the secluded highlanders than their more affluent and powerful neighbor, Pilar.

Sighting the bronze tail of Dmitri’s cane, Zaethan angled for the base of the platform beneath the throne. Then he winced, hearing the ear-splitting yelps of Gregor’s daughter. Under siege, Zaethan clenched his jaw, thoroughly defeated. As with all her attacks, the impact hit him from behind, bathing his coat in nauseatingly floral perfume.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Lord Zaethan!” Flourrette wagged her handkerchief, hanging onto his bicep like a thirsty sucker-bug in Hagarh.

“Making it impossible to get away,” he remarked, and swiftly snatched her hand before it could ensnare one of his locs, clustered and secured. “Let’s not, Flourette. Wouldn’t want to ruin the prince’s handiwork, would we?”

“The prince styles your hair?” Her brown eyes widened, lashes flapping incessantly.

“Oh, uni zà…exactly.” Zaethan seized the opportunity. It was less than Dmitri deserved for sending the squadron of barbers to his door. “It’s his newest passion. Can’t get enough of it.”

By then, they’d reached the huddle of councilmen surrounding the prince. From the sound of it, the Duke of Uriel was making an uncompelling case for higher tariffs on the provincial exports of his competitor, Hildur. Impartial to the rebuttal, Zaethan set his palm against the back of Flourette’s corseted waist and nudged her forward enthusiastically.

“Well go on, then.” He waved over her shoulder. “The prince has been waiting all evening for someone to notice!”

“Pardon me, gentlemen. Yes, you, sir!” Gregor’s daughter bumped the noblemen apart, carving a place for herself. “Prince Dmitri! It’s masterful, really, what you’ve done with Lord Zaethan’s glorious mane. Truly, you should be delighted with your craft!”

Flourette pocketed the handkerchief to applaud the prince, expecting the councilmen to do the same. They would, of course, as the Minister of their Peerage was her father. Zaethan stepped aside and suppressed a chuckle at the sight of Flourette conducting the circlet of yancies in a round of awkward applause.

“Should I, Lady Flourette?” Dmitri’s brows jumped into his hairline, and he shot a look to Zaethan, clamping his lips into a taut smile.

“Oh, Councilmen, by the Fates, he really is the best there is.” Zaethan backed away, pinched his fingertips, and kissed them. “Day or night, gentlemen!”

Picking up speed, he cut a path toward the eldest of Gregor’s progeny, philandering by the windows. Ira’s arms snaked around a shapely attendant, who tried to balance a tray of morsels. Her giggling ceased when Zaethan grabbed the tray, whipped Ira around by the lapel, and handed it back to the young woman.

“Your timing offends.” Ira straightened the cockeyed scarf tied around his collar. “It’s like you specifically target my happiness just to snuff it out. I’ll have you know,” he leaned in, pointing between them, “I could have negotiated something for you out of that. But it seems you’ve withered that, too.”

Zaethan shoved him against the windows, though not forcefully enough to attract attention from other guests. “Your sister is an absolute plague, Ira. Get her in line before she makes an even greater mockery of Wendylle than you already have.”

Ira dodged a glance beyond Zaethan’s cluster of locs, fanning them away, and blew out a breath. “You expect me to cure that pestilence? Better to accept it early on, Zaethan.” He rebuttoned his jacket, yanking the cuffs down. “Like warts on a whore, it could always be worse. Aren’t you relieved it’s me on the Quadren instead?”

Ira slapped him on the shoulders and tipped a flute of wine back when a fresh batch passed by.

“Ano. Zà.” Zeathan snatched a second glass out of Ira’s grasp, handing it off to an attendant. “Absolutely not.”

“Your loss, another’s gain.”

Drifting off, Ira meandered toward a flock of courtiers, preening themselves as they fawned over the sunset settling into the Drystan. Sauntering onto the platform, Zaethan cracked his neck, stretching it out. Even Owàa grew tired of the solstice, his longest flight of the year, abandoning Zaethan to endure the festivities alone.

As the dinner gong was struck, Dmitri slid into place at the middle of the table, beside the princess, and launched into spirited discussion.

“First the y’siti harlot, now this Zôueli shrew. Depths!” Sayuri pouted as she toyed with a string of pearls in her seat next to Zaethan at the end of the table. “When is she going back to her bloody beaches? That’s probably why they get along so well. The y’siti are drained of blood, and the Zôueli possess a coast of it.”

Zaethan ground his teeth. He wasn’t sure what irritated Sayuri more—the fact that Razôuel held the burgundy beaches or that they were famous for them, neither an asset Pilar could claim.

“I’m not in the mood to listen to your soured kakk piss, Sayuri.” Zaethan took a platter from the attendant approaching the table and thrust it under her chin. “Just shut up and eat something. You’re starting to look poor.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised when Sayuri instantly nicked a spiced teacake and ate it, the threat of appearing impoverished worse by court standard than actual malnourishment. As the sun vanished and ceded to his lover’s plight, Zaethan thanked Àla’maia that Zahra, his third, maintained a healthy appetite, equal to any man in the prydes.