“Good evening, Femme of Kendrick.” It was not Duval Rennington who awaited within the doors of the enormous manor. A swan-necked beauty curtsied ever so slightly, standing well inside the checkered foyer and wearing a stunning satin number. “I don’t believe we have had the pleasure of meeting before, though our ancestry would prove us to be cousins. Your mother and my father were sister and brother, as you may know. And so I am pleased to welcome you to Rennington Estate as an honored guest. I am Femme Isther Rennington. You may simply call me Isther.”

She waited. It was customary for me to curtsy in return and to introduce myself, showing gratitude for the kind welcome. I curtsied, but of course said nothing. After a moment, Isther placed a hand on her flat belly.

“Dear me, it is true then. That you cannot speak, Cousin Aurelie. It must be dreadful for you to suffer so. But perhaps we will find a cure for you here in comfort among your kin.” Isther turned, her blonde hair similar to mine but bone straight where I had waves. Her nose was more narrow, her head a few inches taller. “Follow me, and I will introduce you to your personal pyre. A fine pick for our new guest.”

The candles and chandeliers and lanterns all blazed with light. I wondered if the manor’s inhabitants never slept or if they had all been lit for my arrival. A single lantern might have done well enough, one would suppose.

A pyre stood at each light source, hands folded behind their backs, all muzzled with dark cloth over their mouths. Such muzzles, made only of linen, were not functional, but rather symbols of submission. General pyre etiquette. It was impolite for a pyre to bare fangs at a guest unsolicited, even if it was accidentally done.

“This is Willoughby.” Isther gestured to one pyre who stood apart from the rest. “He is a dependably knowledgeable pyre, despite his youthfulness, and will do well to show you around the grounds if ever you find yourself in danger of becoming lost. He comes when called, which is a benefit to most, but I see now that such a talent will be wasted on you, dear Cousin, as you cannot call for him in the first place.”

Gray-skinned with fair hair, Willoughby had the height and weight of a twelve-year-old boy. I thought back to the young pyre who Slept in our stable and wondered if Willoughby had been used to draw pyres out of the forest for slavers. Were the soles of his feet scarred? Did he still feel the pain of the burns when he wore his pyre-class shoes, coming when called and going when dismissed?

Willoughby bowed deeply, and I wished to throw my arms around him so he might know never to do such a thing on my behalf again. But I stood very still, for both of our sakes.