Following dinner, the entourage of Hadowen were invited to the parlor for nightcaps, games, and renewed conversation. 

It was at this exit from the dining room, as I observed the clink and clamor of staff gathering the detritus of our feast that I realized one Hadowen’s absence persisted. In a quick half step I fell in beside Madame Elestren. 

“Did you not say that Master Hadowen had returned?” My words cloyed the air as more than Elestren’s attention curled toward me. “And that all current residents were in obligation to attend dinners?” 

A look from Madame Elestren sent the other Hadowens onward in their parade. She however paused to bar our following. 

“Master Hadowen has much to attend when he returns from his outings. He will join by tomorrow.” An electricity stronger than that which illuminated Elestren’s features rippled from behind her eyes. 

Her words struck us both mute as we both seemed to be waiting for her to say more. 

“He is aware of your presence, Mistress Magareen.” She revealed and signaled to proceed to the aforementioned parlor. 

A breath held my step before I caught the tail of the procession. 

Fiorello held the door on my approach, his smile as wide as the entry. His head and voice lowered as I passed below the archway. “It is unwise to ask after our current patriarch, most especially in your circumstance.”

Though my lips faltered, the question of my circumstance darted my eyes. Madame Elestren’s arrival at my back and Fiorello’s clearing of his throat pressed my entry to the parlor.

The others dappled the enclave of the room. Cheer struggled from the fire and sconces though a loam blanketed people and furnishings alike. A beckoning from Joram drew me to a far table set for chess. 

“Do you play?” His invitation met me as I lowered into the seat behind the ivory pieces. 

“Some.” Joram’s smile allowed me to reassess the depth of our budding connection. 

He hovered his closed fists between us. The apparent chagrin in my brow broadened my cousin’s smile. “Choose one.”

My gaze flit to the the board, void of one each of the pawns. I relaxed and tapped the back of Joram’s left hand. With a magician’s nuance he revealed the piece in his palm. 

“Looks like I will start.” He returned the pawns to their squares and rotated the board. 

A chatter like the dropping of beads accompanied his action, alluding to the bearings mechanism supporting the board. 

I turned a pawn in my fingers as I pondered the potential of Joram’s incursion. We were only a few moves into the play, yet I had claimed more than my cousin had anticipated. 

“Where in the Hart are your rooms located?” I endeavored to relax Joram’s furrowed brow with conversation.

Joram slid his remaining rook into an opening without response to my inquiry. After a moment of staring at the deepening crease in Joram’s brow a movement at his shoulder captured my attention.

“They are nearer to the wing where I reside. On the eastern wing of the Hart.” Jessamine’s slender fingers slipped into the ample ringlets of Joram’s tousled hair.  

“What now?” With a subtle start Joram brushed the woman’s touch with a gesture no more trouble than swatting an insect. 

Jessamine’s face fell into a scowl. “Your rooms, Joram. Our dear cousin, Mistress Magareen, asked their whereabouts.”

A snickering drew the attention of the three of us to a lounge at the far wall of the parlor. There, Sir Calix and Lady Azalea draped the cushions, and one another, as they sipped from glinting glassware. 

Lady Azalea expelled yet another light cackle. “Oh goodness. My darling, Lady Jessamine, jealousy is such an elegant color on you.”

“Green always brings out your eyes.” Sir Calix swirled the remains of a pool of rubescent brandy in the base of his bowled vessel. 

Lady Azalea swatted Sir Calix’s shoulder in playful antagonism. 

“As if you would know the color of jealousy.” Lady Jessamine swept from Joram’s side. 

“Nonsense Jessamine, dear, I would be frightfully put out if I thought Lady Azalea a dearer friend to you than I.” Calix tipped his forehead to Azalea’s as he burbled across the room. 

Jessamine harrumphed into a high backed chair plush with velveteen cushions.

“Ignore them.” Joram leaned in as if to assure the sanctity of his next move. 

The aura of the drama disturbed my better senses. “I am.” I forced my assiduity to the straightforward enterprise set between Joram and myself. A distance stretched from Joram’s gaze as I caught his eyes upon mine.

The wine glass resting beside the captured pieces had gone untouched for much of the game, yet I felt a sudden urge to relieve it of its contents and myself of better judgement. I upended the vessel to my lips. When I again regarded the board a stratagem ripened. Only a handful of executions would have Joram at my mercy.

Sir Calix’s laughter played as a concerto to my pondering. “The dear Mistress Magareen is an apt apprentice with each passing hour. This may serve to be an enjoyable season after all.”

“She is indeed a competent, and unanticipated, opponent to your games.” Master Fiorello had grown both jovial and enigmatic in his cups. “She is likely to add quite a fascinating depth to the time.”

Master Fiorello and Professeur Rhodes had claimed positions nearmost the looming fireplace. Though mere embers glowed in the vacancy of the hearth, a warmth wavered the air heated by an unseen fire. I failed to recall if the breath of the outdoors had been felt at all since after my experience on the balcony. Had the night grown so chilled to warrant a fire? Time too seemed to waver within the twisting halls of Yarrow Hart.

My focus returned to the game to clutch at order and hours. 

“Checkmate.” My queen claimed Joram’s knight.

With aid of a pawn turned secondary queen, my cousin was left with no choice but to topple his king.

At my triumph, Master Fiorello rose, with some effort, from his chair. Professeur Rhodes drew from his marshaun pipe to expel a plume of musky smoke. The bitter sweet vapors followed Fiorello’s wake as he appraised the board.

“Dear lad, have I taught you nothing in the years you have been in my counsel.” Master Fiorello’s jest still raised an ire behind Joram’s eyes, one I had not seen prior.

“We are even again sweet Joram.” Calix shadowed the board though I had not noticed him crossing the room or extricating himself from Azalea.

“That we are not.” Joram’s chair shrieked against the floor as he pushed from the table. 

So abrupt was his movement my instant response was to echo it. Our retreat rattled the narrow table, capsizing my glass. Thus we stood, crimson pooling the culmination of our enterprise. 

“Oh goodness.” Camellia appeared with a linen to blot the darkening stain. 

Azalea’s and Jessamine’s tittering laughter danced against the walls that seemed to be closing in. 

“You really should be less careless.” I was uncertain which of the women had cast the words at my back.

“My apologies.” Joram’s attrition fell the room into silence. 

“It wasn’t your fault.” Fiorello’s hand drummed the younger man’s shoulder.

The professeur’s cloud enveloped the table. “A mishap, nothing more.” 

The pipe drawled from Rhodes’s lips obscuring the true angle of his expression. His eyes though set a glint upon me in a way that exposed me alone in the crowding space.

With game at a close and alcohol weighing all in the room, Madame Elestren entered as if on cue. Her assessment of the muddle around the table etched a familiar line in her features. “The hour is late, and the Master expects everyone to be well rested.” 

The announcement carried commandment and an expectation to obedience.

Lady Azalea and Sir Calix, somewhat to my surprise, were first to acquiesce. With equaled grace they led one another to disappear into the dim glow of the waiting hall.

Lady Jessamine however lingered at Joram’s shoulder, a glare beseeching provocation as I held my own position. 

“Come, dear Magareen.” Master Foirello offered his arm. “My apartments are in the same wing as yours. It would be my honor to escort you and young Camellia.

Another cloud passed from Professuer Rhodes’s pipe to draw my eyes as I moved to accept Master Fiorello’s invitation. I noted quite well that Rhodes made no motion to obey Madame Elestren’s command. 

Fiorello and I passed to gather Camellia on her return from handing off the clutch of soiled linens to a passing maid.  

I caught the clutch and twitch of Madame Elestren’s hands as they hung at her waist and dared not catch the woman’s gaze.

Our trio left Joram to the whims of Lady Jessamine, Professeur Rhodes, and the dour Madame Elestren. Though I dispatched silent apology over my shoulder, I did not direct visual contact.

***

“It is not really all that dreadful of a prison, if it must be expressed as such.” Master Fiorello’s words confounded as he patted my hand in his arm. 

We ambled arm in arm along the halls as Camellia struggled to keep a dutiful pace, pausing now and again to allow my escort and I to catch up.

“Has someone referred to it as such? A prison, I mean?” By now I was well acquainted in the skill of observing emotions conveyed in minute rise of brow or clench in jaw.

A crooked smirk bemused the elder man’s expression. “If not yet in your presence, then soon enough.” 

I maintained a semblance of mirth at the commentary all the while willing the door to my rooms to draw closer by some means. 

When at last Camellia angled toward a passage to draw forth her circlet of keys my mind eased. 

“Until the morrow, young Mistress Magareen.” Master Foirello embraced my hands as he bowed. “Perhaps sooner than later we will have more time to converse. I am certain there is much we can share with one another. I sense you are yet unaware of the rarity and interest your presence here suggests.”

I did not desire to harbor the sudden wave of ill that washed over me at the man’s words, yet his typical jovial demeanor melted the invitation to speak.

“Yes.” Was all I could muster before fading into the apartments behind Camellia.

“He is a curious one.” My words were of a much more demure demeanor than the description that begged to raise from my lips. 

“Master Fiorello means less harm than others.” Camellia’s bluntness perked my attention. 

I matched my gaze upon the maid. “You would, as my aide, I mean, divulge any gossip or concern that I might cause my stay to be less, amicable.” It was not a request, though I maintained a conscientious tone.

“I can only speak that which I am duty bound.” It was all the answer her shimmering eyes allowed.

“Do you sense a chill this evening?” Camellia’s abrupt attendance to the fire in the small hearth occupying the suite turned her face from mine. 

I gripped my arms. “Indeed a chill of hearth and hearts.”

“Perhaps some tea?” The maid cut a path to the tiny stove and set match to tinder.

As if to punctuate the exchange the embers burst to flickering life. 

Camellia rose with the flames. “I will turn down your bed while the warmer coals prepare.” 

The glow behind the grated door of the little stove grew with my pondering of the strangeness of Yarrow Hart and her current inhabitants. In this I included myself as I watched the dance of flames and escape of smoke wafting into the floo.