Viktor noted the flash of animosity that briefly marred Calenne’s features and filed it away for the future. The bulk of his attention belonged to the seneschal, and the aura of power cloaking her like woven mist. His shadow hissed and uncurled, jealous and . . . fearful?

“Anastacia Psanneque, I presume,” he said evenly.

Black eyes bored into his, awakening a frisson of disquiet. Not quite fear, but a sensation born of instinctive understanding that the woman before him was not so ephemeral as she appeared. He’d known Josiri and Calenne shared their confinement, but official documentation had made no reference to Anastacia’s nature – whatever that truly was – and rumour was ever a poor guide.

“Just Anastacia. The rest is someone’s little joke. One that I don’t find amusing.”

Viktor nodded. He’d never met anyone born with the name “Psanneque”. It hailed from a dead language, itself sprung from half-forgotten stories – “exile”, denoting one without family and without a home. It hinted at failure and darkness; the disapproval of kin, or society as a whole. At least Psanneque held more sorrow than malice. Such was not always the case.

He inclined his head. “Then Anastacia it shall be. But I must see the duke. I’ve travelled a long way to do so.”

“Then you won’t mind waiting a while longer.”

Viktor’s temper slipped a notch. “And if I insist?”

“I might take offence.” Her aura darkened, golden light seeping into alabaster. “You wouldn’t like that, for all your . . . advantages.”

Alien unease rippled through Viktor’s thoughts. So she saw him as plainly as he saw her? A meeting of magics, open and unconcealed. The one consolation was that she seemed in no hurry to share that knowledge.

“I think I’d survive it,” he said.

She smiled without warmth. “Yes. Perhaps you would.”

“Hush, demon.” Calenne glared up at Anastacia, fists balled. “I’ve had my fill of your games.”

More proof, Viktor decided, that he alone was privy to Anastacia’s hidden might, and its danger. Or perhaps not. Whatever else Calenne Trelan lacked, she’d inherited her mother’s forthrightness. A fine waste of potential, keeping her locked up at Branghall. A modicum of honing would have made her invaluable to the Republic.

“Please, Miss Trelan . . .” he began.

“Please, nothing,” she snapped. “I’ve lived with this creature for half my life. In all that time, she’s only played at door warden after a quarrel with my brother. Let us through, demon.”

“So swiftly we change our tune.” Anastacia gave a bleak laugh. With a sudden flourish, she stepped aside. “Perhaps it will please Calenne to show you the Great Hall. It could be that she is right, I am wrong, and that you are welcome. I am not in favour just now, so I will bid you the joy of discovery.”