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My eyes slide to the flute held between his fingers.

“It would seem the vulgarity to which you alluded earlier is not so distant from yourself after all.”

He smothers a laugh, his upper lip lifting just enough without betraying too much.

“You are not the sacred icon everyone so highly extolled.”

“If it is the sacred you were seeking, you have addressed the wrong person.” I gesture with a tilt of my chin toward Reverend Joseph Fallow, not far off, immersed in conversation with other guests. “You ought to speak with him.”

Before he can reply, I avert my gaze and call out with a firm voice to Reverend. He, standing nearby, turns and advances toward us, acknowledging first me and then Lord Dorian with a respectful nod.

“Viscount Rochefort,” he says calmly, coming to a halt at our side. “Lord Vasiliev Ashford,” he adds, and Dorian returns the greeting with a brief nod.

“Reverend,” I resume, “Lord Vasiliev Ashford here was desiring to know if it were possible to hold a conversation with you.”

I see him tighten his fingers around the flute, his jaw sets slightly while his gaze never leaves my profile.

You wanted the sacred, did you not?

The Reverend turns toward Lord Presumption.

“Certainly, Lord Vasiliev Ashford,” he says, “I was indeed wondering why I had not yet seen you at a service in the cathedral. Your presence would have lent distinction to the assembly.”

I place the flute I am holding onto a piece of furniture behind the aforementioned Lord.

“You ought to pray more, it would seem.”

I draw back with composure and offer a cordial smile to the Reverend.

“Forgive me, I must join other guests,” I say, taking a step toward the crowd.

I turn slightly to offer a respectful farewell to the other as well.

“Lord Vasiliev Ashford.”

Then I move away, leaving behind the slight tension our gazes had forged. While the hum of the ballroom resumes its flow around me, a presence persists at my back: a silent, concrete observation that pierces through the crowd. I do not need to turn, I feel it at the nape of my neck, precise and implacable.

Every step carries the awareness of that gaze, which does not release me even for an instant.

3

Insipid

Evander

Asweet flavor explodes upon my lips, viscous and cloying. A small pot boils, filled with amber liquid. Fingers offer it toward my mouth.

“Open,” that voice whispers.

The taste is excessive, sickeningly sweet, and the scent of cigar mingles with scalding sugar. A shiver courses through me, and my heart quickens.

I snap my eyes open.

The room is bathed in the dim light of the morning. The sweet taste has vanished, yet the memory remains vivid, still present upon my tongue and skin. I press a hand to my face, brushing my temples and pulling my hair back. My other hand rests upon my stomach.

A light knocking interrupts the silence.

“Viscount? Are you awake?”