He offered a shallow bow and vanished towards the drawing room, his footsteps lost in the carpet’s thick pile. Unlike the Reveque household at Abbeyfields, where Viktor had spent much of the afternoon, there was no trace of the corn dollies or bright decorations traditional at Ascension. Doubtless Lady Kiradin believed them wasteful distractions.

“He gets worse,” muttered Malachi. “But I suppose every tyrant above-stairs needs another below.”

Viktor grunted and peered up at the stern portraits of Kiradins deceased. None offered resemblance to the current Lady Kiradin, who bore the name by marriage – her second marriage. The first had ended in disgrace when the husband had been exposed as a vranakin: loyal to the Crowmarket and its shadowy Parliament of Crows – a man steeped in the criminality that oozed from sunken Dregmeet and into the city proper. Ebigail had survived the scandal only by dint of being the first to level accusation.

Marek reappeared as silently as he’d departed. “Lady Kiradin will see you now.”

Subdued lighting granted the drawing room the illusion of intimacy. A low fire crackled in the hearth, a concession to the night’s unseasonal chill. Rich furnishings spoke of the legendary Kiradin wealth; the slight fading of the fabrics hinted at the thriftiness maintaining that wealth through difficult times.

Ebigail Kiradin rose from her armchair as they entered.

“Lady Kiradin.” Viktor offered a deep bow, and a rather shallower one to the man who stood beside the hearth. The fellow’s features were alive with suspicion. The loosened cravat and unbuttoned collar told of rare relaxation. As did the brandy glass in his hand. “Father.”

Lady Kiradin reclaimed her seat. “Ever so formal, young Viktor. Is it really so difficult to address me as Ebigail?”

“I’m more comfortable with formality.” It had not escaped Viktor’s notice that no offer of refreshment had been made, nor had leave to sit been granted. “Especially when discussing council business.”

“Yes.” Her eyes tightened, as if she sought to peer directly into Viktor’s thoughts and so save herself the trouble of heeding his words. “So Marek informed us. I firmly believe that matters for the Council should remain in council. Don’t you agree, Hadon?”

Lord Akadra’s heavy brows beetled. His cheek twitched in discomfort. “Viktor, what are you doing here? This is hardly appropriate.”

Viktor allowed himself a small smile. There was joy to be taken in seeing his father ill at ease, if only for a moment. In public, he and Lady Kiradin were staunch allies. In private, they were rather more. Though what affection could possibly lie between such bloodless souls, Viktor had ever been unsure.