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Then she shifts her gaze toward the man seated beside the Count, René Saint-Clair.

“Je ne comprends pas why you invited me as well, Duchess.” René leans forward slightly, hands closed around his fork and utters the sentence in a whisper.

Count Nádasdy barely suppresses a laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly beneath his dark suit.

I myself must hold back the smile threatening to curl my lips.

Duke narrows his gaze at René.

A voice that flows excessively slow makes itself heard. “I am sure the Duchess will wish to enlighten us on the matter.”

I shift my eyes just enough to meet the gaze of Elijah, seated across from René.

The fork between his fingers lifts peas from the plate without bringing them to his mouth. His eyes are distant, slow, and he carries the air of one who expects nothing from this luncheon.

The Duchess has gathered us all here. I assume it is because of what Elijah foretold, but then why is René here as well?

“I might have simply desired your company, Mr. Lirael.”

“I doubt it, Duchess.”

Her smile widens.

“I have gathered you all here because I wish for you all to perform during the Christmas celebration at our manor.”

“All of us?” My attention snaps to René, who stiffens.

“I am sorry, but I am no musician.” He shifts his gaze away in an attempt to hide his annoyance.

She lifts her glass and sips, unhurried.

“It will be a triumph, believe me. Mr. Lirael will be the voice, and the Viscount will play the violoncello.”

I lock my eyes with my mother. Her gaze is fixed on me.

Obviously, she already knew.

The Duchess continues, indicating René with a delicate gesture. “You will provide a composition.”

“A composition... what do you mean?” her husband asks.

“Mr. Saint-Clair, besides being a painter of remarkable talent, also creates human compositions.”

“Human compositions?”

René looks up.

“Instead of painting on canvas, I use people to create a scene.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin in a slow motion. “But, Duchess, I do not believe such entertainment is suited to a Christmas celebration.”

Count Nádasdy bursts into a short laugh, he turns and takes René’s hand with a spontaneous, warm gesture, almost too intimate to be performed at the table.

“On the contrary, it is exactly what is needed, kincsem.” His fingers squeeze René’s with almost childlike enthusiasm. “It will be an absolute novelty. The guests will be left breathless!”

I notice the way Duke Durant’s eyes settle on the two men’s intertwined hands. An imperceptible contraction of the jaw, a blink slower than necessary, his breath hitching for an instant.

It is a restrained, polite disgust, yet as alive as embers beneath the ash.

I swallow. It is a minimal gesture, but it burns in my throat as if I had swallowed something far too hot. For a fleeting instant, an image crosses my mind that should not be there.