Fabrisse slowed his steps, gazing at the gaudy clutter of bird automata now lining the walls: bronze sparrows perched on sconces, crystal doves with glowing eyes, and pheasants mounted halfway through a strut, their tail feathers etched in whirring runes. Every few feet, a different species chirped, cawed, or gave off a mechanical trill, the chorus rising and falling like some deranged aviary.

"This is new," Severa muttered.

"It is . . . quite something," he murmured, stepping closer to a crystal dove. Its eyes blinked as if it were studying him back.

A bald man in a gleaming black-and-silver livery glided forward, wearing a perfectly neutral expression. "The Magister has requested that the entire corridor décor be replaced with avian automata," he intoned. "A reflection of ascension and foresight, according to his latest philosophical phase." Fabrisse could kind of recognize him: the Head Butler. The one who had another junior butler who did the butlering for him. In one hand, he held a small tuning key; with the other, he performed a sequence of twists so elaborate Fabrisse just knew he had been doing it thousands of times over. Its application remained unknown, at least until a younger man appeared from a side corridor as if summoned by sheer poshness, dressed in the exact same black-and-silver livery.

The butler's butler?

This one—silent and also perfectly neutral—was already approaching, as if drawn by invisible strings, to fine-tune the nearest automaton while the bald man continued his supervisory parade down the corridor.

Fabrisse couldn't decide what was more baffling: the precise choreography of hands, the network of subordinate staff, or the sheer ridiculousness of having a secondary butler in identical dress devoted entirely to adjusting mechanical birds.

One of the bronze sparrows chose that moment to flutter its wings and emit a shrill, triumphant whistle. The bald man did not so much as blink. He turned and glided down the corridor, still performing tiny, exacting hand movements. "Please follow me," he intoned.

Fabrisse craned his neck back and stared openly at the nearest bird that the young butler was tuning. "They respond to resonance signals," he murmured to himself. "Probably sound- or pulse-triggered." He took half a step toward one of the sconces. The bronze sparrow nearest him tilted its head in eerie imitation as the gears inside its chest gave a soft click. He reached out a cautious hand, fingers hovering inches from the metal plumage—

Severa smacked the back of his hand before he could make contact. The sound cracked through the corridor louder than it should have, and a few of the crystal doves along the wall turned their jeweled eyes toward them in silent judgment.

"Do not touch anything," Severa hissed. "They're decorative, expensive, and—"

"You said your secondary is a friend of yours, Miss Montreal?" Berrick asked without turning back.

Severa's tone changed so abruptly it could have cracked glass. "Oh, absolutely," she said, syrup-sweet. Then, to Kestovar, with a dazzling smile that did not reach her eyes, she said, "Dear friend, do be careful next time, won't you? These little treasures are ever so delicate."

Fabrisse winced.

The head butler inclined his head. "Very good, miss. The last visitor to touch one of the pheasants required medical attention, so your guidance is most timely."

Fabrisse winced harder.

The rhythmic click-click of the Aetheric Feline Detector suddenly escalated into an urgent clatter. Fabrisse's wince homogenized with his previous wince, transcended realms, and metamorphosed into a single, monumental wince capable of bending the will of the universe. It's screaming at me. The cat-thing must be—

"Turn it off!" Severa aggressively whispered at him.

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"I can't," Fabrisse said. "It has no such option."

"Then shove it somewhere! Deep in your satchel, under your rocks or something!"

Fine. You're the one paying 1000 Kohns.

Without a word, Kestovar obliged. He folded it as best as he could and tucked it beneath his collection of rock. The sound was still rather distracting, but it was muffled enough.

Fabrisse stepped into their dining hall for today, the Atrium of Oaths, and stopped as soon as he stepped through the door. What caught his eyes was not the giant crystal bowl or the perfectly symmetrical fruit pyramid in the middle of the table, but the woman standing beside it. She was tall, broad-shouldered, and radiated authority the way some buildings radiate cold; her fair skin and sharp features marked her as Northern, and a diagonal scar traced her chin. Definitely someone from the Army. Her hawkish eyes swept over him with the precision of a predator, and for a moment Fabrisse felt the odd, inexplicable pressure of being evaluated by someone who clearly would have no patience for nonsense.

Is there anyone in this household who doesn't look like they could unpick you with a glance?

She stood beside the table in her officer's uniform, posture as unyielding as her expression. Her eyes found Severa the moment she entered, and she said, "I did not come all the way from the Northern patrol to witness you being late, Severa." Then she caught sight of Fabrisse behind her. After a pause, she asked, "Is that a guest of ours?"

Severa straightened. "He's a friend."

"Good evening, madam," Kestovar called upon every iota of manners he could conjure. Severa nodded at him, pleased.

"Seems like a fair-mannered lad." Halveth's brow arched. "Did you hand-pick your friends, or does this one just happen to look like that dungeoneer you swooned over and plastered across your room when you turned fourteen?"

What? What does that mean? He could not even imagine Severa hanging a picture of anyone that wasn't herself in her room. He tried to picture Severa's room: probably neat stacks of theses on fire theory and diagrams of the most ridiculous reverent Ritual forms the Order could ever conjure. That would fit her more.

"That's different!" Severa sputtered. "They don't even look the same."

The older woman made a low, amused sound that might have been a laugh if it weren't so restrained. She stepped closer, looking at Fabrisse once before gesturing to Severa. "Come with me."

Severa hesitated, then moved toward the tall northern woman, speaking in low tones that Fabrisse couldn't catch. He stayed where he was when a sudden ball of fur in the corner caught his attention: the cat-thing, crouched on a shadowed ledge, had just started licking its hindquarters with that infuriating, oblivious concentration cats always seemed to display for no reason at all.

Perfect, he thought. Maybe I can complete both quests. He crouched slightly in his mind, calculating distances, sightlines, and timing. How can I move from here and catch the cat without anyone noticing? He traced the paths between the table, the chandelier, the various seated guests. Hold on. I have the cat treat. I've forgotten about it all along.

He dug a hand into his robe pocket. Maybe I won't need to move at all. I just need to lure the cat here—

Severa's hand suddenly grabbed his sleeve. Before he could even respond, she pulled him toward the long dining table.

He sat next to Severa and across from the older woman, body semi-slouched, eyes still fixed over his shoulder for the cat. The buried sound of the Aetheric Feline Detector beneath his Stupenstones erupted into his brain with sudden clarity. Every subtle click and vibration, magnified a hundredfold, hammering against his thoughts.

The moment they had arranged themselves, the double doors at the far end of the atrium swung open. Fabrisse flinched. The Magister of the house entered first, with the alleged brother of Severa following just a step behind, scanning the room as if he were already tallying points in an invisible game.

He replayed what Severa wanted him to say in his mind: We met during her first senior year. She helped me with my coursework. I bonded with the Eidralith under her guidance.

Then he found a fatal flaw with that logic. The Magister was literally in the same room as me the last time we talked. What if he asks us why she helped someone else bond with the artifact just to try taking it away from him?

She must have made a lapse of judgment during that single second of brainstorming. He would have to improvise if the question ever came up. But what exactly was he going to say? He had never been good at thinking on the spot.

The Magister took his seat at the center of the table, calm and imposing, and Berrick immediately glided forward to pour him wine.

"Nice to see you've made time to join us for your celebration, Prefect," the Magister said to the older woman before immediately turning to Severa. "Severa. Is this not the boy you begged I unbind the artifact for?"

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