It was hard to tell where, because the hall outside my bedroom was a long, claustrophobic cigar box, wood paneled and unornamented, except near the stairs at either end, where some uninspired silhouettes tried to gussy the place up. I headed toward the back stairs, where the sounds seemed to be coming from, and which opened onto a landing with a larger cigar box below. Unlike the marble foyer and grand reception rooms in front, this part of the court was rarely seen by outsiders. But it was impressive in its own way, all gleaming hardwood except for where a gorgeous old Persian rug covered part of it.

The sounds continued as I reached the landing, but they weren’t the rapid-fire snick snick snick of a rapier fight, or the crashing clang of metal on metal of the broadsword variety. There were thuds, yes, like of a body hitting a floor. But those were followed by strange cries, the ahhh… ahhhs of exclamations being cut off as people shifted, and then completed as they reappeared somewhere else.

It was the sound of a Pythian duel, which wouldn’t have been so bad, because the acolytes were always dueling, learning about their power by using it to beat the crap out of each other.

Only, this time, one of them was mine.

“Rhea!” I said, after catching sight of her off the landing.

She looked up, a dark-haired girl in another long, white gown. Only, instead of my usual variety of hot mess, she looked like she ought to be gracing a Victorian era painting of a woman embroidering in a garden, entitled “Sweet Gentility”. Or maybe not, I amended, catching sight of the half tumbled down chignon and the rent in her gown, which showed off a reddened shoulder.

But her eyes were bright, and her face was suffused with a combination of relief and happiness as she caught sight of me. Until the wild-haired bitch across the foyer leapt up and threw a spell, that is. And Rhea froze as if she’d turned into stone.

“Damn it!” I said.

Agnes, the bitch in question, cackled and looked up. She appeared to have washed all the pie off, although I thought I saw a few suspicious brown smears on her bodice. Was that why she was beating up my acolyte?

“What are you doing to Rhea?” I demanded.

“What she asked for.” She grinned. “She took exception to something I said.”

Yeah, probably about me. Agnes had decided that I was a disaster, and didn’t mind saying so. That would have been fine, since I mostly just ignored her. But Rhea was fiercely protective of me, and had a short fuse—especially where Agnes was concerned.

“She should have learned by now to avoid distractions,” the bitch continued.

“So should you,” I said, because Rhea’s hand—the one holding a wand—had just twitched.