False Covenant

The baron rose, and Madeleine successfully fought off the urge to find something on which to wipe her hand. “And what do you think of the marquise's party?” she asked, mostly to keep Doumerge from guiding the conversation himself.

“Eh.” The weasel twitched his fingers as though brushing off a length of cobweb. “Acceptable, I suppose, for one of her means, but she's clearly trying to rise above her station. I doubt she's fooling anyone with her pretensions to greater wealth and breeding. Or, well, she's certainly not fooling me. I suppose I oughtn't speak for those with less refined sensibilities.”

“Well,” Madeleine breathed, clearly hanging on Doumerge's every word (and trying not to cringe as said breath drew his attention, with alarming rapidity, to her neckline). “I certainly wouldn't even consider disagreeing with you, dear baron.” Mostly, she added silently, because if I did, I'd probably start by folding you in half like an envelope and shoving your heels up your nostrils.

She was just trying to think of some polite way to extricate herself from further conversation-which shouldn't have been that difficult, since the two of them weren't precisely good friends or even close acquaintances-but apparently Doumerge was feeling particularly gregarious. (That, or he believed he recognized, in Madeleine, a potentially captive audience for his great social insight.) Even as she drew breath to speak, the baron turned so that he might intertwine his arm in hers. “Come, my dear. I can tell you with complete confidence who's worth being seen with and who isn't. Perhaps I can even introduce you to a few new friends, hmm?”

When the woman who had three separate names, and until recently had made her living entirely through theft, responded with, “I'd be delighted,” it was perhaps the single greatest lie she'd ever uttered. She offered her unwanted companion a tight smile, mostly intended to keep her from gritting her teeth, and allowed him to half lead, half drag her through the packed multitudes of high society.

For endless minutes, he prattled on about this lord or that baroness, this marquis or that mistress. Everything from wealth to breeding, from the size of one person's estate to the size of another's debt, from the mismatched colors of one outfit to the fraying wig of another…If it could be commented on or gossiped about with any degree of disdain, Doumerge was ready with a wit that was about as pointed and razor-honed as a bowl of soup.

For her part, Madeleine pretended fascination with his droning, nodding or gasping or grumbling in all the right places, and otherwise continued listening for information regarding her actual interests. Information that, as before, was proving frustratingly elusive.

She was, however, paying enough attention to Doumerge to drag him abruptly to a halt in both midstep and midsentence.

“I'm sorry,” she said sweetly. “Introduce me to who, now?”

“Gurrerre Marguilles,” the baron repeated. “Lord of-”

“I know who Monsieur Marguilles is,” Madeleine told him, allowing a touch of frost to condense over her words. “I fear that I find the man rather frightfully boorish, and I've nothing I care to say to him.”

Which, while not entirely true, was far safer than saying, He's met me as someone else, and while I don't think he knows Widdershins well enough to see through the makeup, I'm not about to take the risk. Plus, if I have to talk to him, I'll either start crying over Genevieve, or punch him somewhere really rude.

“Oh. Uh…” The Baron d'Orreille, clearly unprepared for Madeleine to have found any fault in one of the few aristocrats whom he himself had deemed as worthy of their time, was plainly at a loss. “Well, I certainly shouldn't be so discourteous as to insist, but-”

“Splendid! I'm so delighted to hear it.” Again she cast about her, looking for any sort of distraction (and possibly an excuse to break away from Baron Weasel-face already). “Why don't you instead…”

Holy gods! Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt Olgun start, then slowly begin to simmer with a rapidly growing rage.

Here he was, right here! Standing beside one of the tables, a glimmering goblet of wine in one hand, he was currently laughing at some witticism or other offered by one of the many blue bloods gathered around him. He still wore mostly darker grays and blacks, though his tunic and his vest were both trimmed in gleaming silver. Here, at this formal affair, neither his traveler's coat nor his tricorne hat were present, but the chiseled, angular features and the black braid were more than enough.

To say nothing of the dark eyes, currently flashing with mirth but capable of such a deep, angry malevolence…

“Him!” This time it was Madeleine who dragged the baron through the sea of people, towing him, a captured ship in her wake. After a few steps, she held herself at an angle where she could point out her target without drawing his attention in turn. “Can you introduce me to him?”

“Ah…That is…” Doumerge flushed lightly, apparently embarrassed to be caught out by the young woman he was so hoping to impress. “I fear that I haven't been formally introduced to the young lord myself, so it would be improper for me-”

“Then just tell me who he is!” She found herself about to stamp a foot in emphasis and forced herself to relax, to remember where-and who-she was at this moment.

“Uh, his name is Evrard, I believe.”

Yes, I know that! She found herself about to scream. But what's his full-?

“Evrard,” the baron continued, “d'Arras.”

D'Arras? D'Arras? As in d'Arras Tower?!

Widdershins, who had taken at least some of her mentor Alexandre's lessons to heart, and thus hadn't uttered a single true profanity in about four years, said, “Oh, shit….”

Magali was a serving girl in the Lamarr household, just one of many. Perhaps thirteen years of age, she was round and pretty of face, with just a hint of the beauty that would be hers as an adult. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back in a simple tail, and her entire body was stuffed into a tightly laced gown and corset of formal pearls and golds, despite the fact that few of the partygoers would ever look upon her.

No, because tonight, Magali's duties were all upstairs, tucked away in a few large but secluded rooms about as far from the chatter and tumult as one could get while remaining within the manor proper. Here, a number of beds, sofas, chairs, and tables had been neatly and meticulously prepared, and had far more swiftly been ravaged beyond recognition.

Here is where the children played, and where Magali was officially (hah!) in charge.

Not many children ran and played through the suite of rooms. The bulk of the guests who were also parents had, of course, left their sons and daughters at home in the care of servants or relatives (and far more often the former than the latter). But some, for reasons ranging from the age of the child to simple affection to wanting to display their heirs to their fellow aristocrats, had brought their offspring along. And of course, there were the Marquise de Lamarr's own three children as well. In total, then, there were about nine of them, not counting Magali herself-Magali, who was somehow supposed to keep a rein on the little rampaging monsters when, as a simple servant (and a young girl at that), she couldn't really discipline, punish, or yell at them.

“Pierre! Ives!” She was trying desperately, and failing miserably, to keep her voice down to normal levels. “Stop that this instant!”

The two boys in question stuck out their tongues in perfect unison, and continued jumping on the sofa cushions and laughing hysterically at the goose-down blizzard spawned by their antics. In the interim, Marie was in the corner crying (again) over some imagined slight or other, while Chrestien and Alberi had already made an absolute disaster of their clothes, wrestling and punching under the table. (Magali couldn't tell, at this point, whether the boys were playing, or had progressed to an actual fight. She wasn't sure if they were sure, either.)

It was enough to try the patience of a saint, a god, or even a saintly god, let alone a thirteen-year-old girl. Magali was, herself, about to break down in tears-that, or start taking a belt to tiny rears, and to hell with the consequences! — when she thought she heard…

Yes! There it was again. Barely audible over the chaos, a faint rapping on the door to the main room. It was too much to hope that the party was over already, but maybe some of the parents were departing early? If they'd