Lord Seven Lacks went to the blacksmith and ordered a rush job for a sleigh bell. He was the youngest of seven, as everyone in Staria knew, thanks to his mother’s naming system, and had gained his wealth through no small amount of cunning.
The blacksmith raised her brows. “One bell? We usually do a strip at least.”
“Just one,” Seven said, “but it has to be perfect.”
The blacksmith braced her hands on her knees. “You could go to a jeweler.”
“No, no. You made the bells for Lady Metworth’s wedding. It has to be like hers.”
“Yeah, but I made those out of scraps.” The blacksmith shook her head. “All right. I guess I can manage it.”
“You must,” Seven said. He drew himself up with an air of tragic grace. “It’s a matter of love.”
The blacksmith looked him up and down. “Well,” she said at last, “it ain’t my business what you lords get up to, I’m sure.”
An hour later, Lord Yeltsey’s maid Pippa found him standing on the back of the couch with a knife in one hand. He was sawing fruitlessly at the bell-pull, and he turned to look at her with an edge of terror in his eyes.
“My lord!” Pippa cried. A number of other servants came stumbling behind her, carrying bowls of hot water, towels, and bandages. “Is that why the bell’s been going off? We thought you had a fall!”
Lord Yeltsey slumped his shoulders. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Pippa. It’s the bell.”
“Yes, my lord,” Pippa said, giving her fellow servants a worried glance. “I can see that.”
“It’s just that I need it,” Lord Yeltsey said, as yet another servant appeared to watch the show unfolding in the parlor, “for a man.”
“Yes, my lord,” Pippa said, in the conciliatory tone she used when her baby sister threw a tantrum over her favorite bowl. “For a man. Why don’t you step down off the couch, my lord, and we’ll get that bell for you?”
Lord Yeltsey looked down, wrapped a hand around the bellpull, and whispered, “I’m not entirely sure I can.”
“Not to worry, my lord,” Pippa said, and rolled up her sleeves. Really, the nobility were woefully helpless on their own. “I’ll get you down in no time.”
Lord Theobold Marteau, who liked to think of himself as fairly practical, knocked on the door to the House of Onyx that afternoon.
“I’d like a bell, please,” he said, when a young man opened the door.
“What?” The man twisted around to look over his shoulder. “Why?”
“It’s the contest,” Theobold said, and held out the card he’d received at breakfast. “It says,Present a bell from the most welcoming parlor in Staria.That’s here. This is the most welcoming parlor, because Yves is in it.”
“Oh!” a familiar voice cried from the depths of the house. “That’s clever! Percy, do you have a bell somewhere?”
A minute later, Theobold was pleased to find Yves himself at the door with a bell, looking impish and lovely in the morning light. “Have I won?” Theobold asked.
Yves looked down demurely, and Theobold felt a thrill of triumph. “You’ll see.”
In the garden of his rented house, Raul Vitrier was having a crisis.
“I couldn’t say a word about the marriage at the play.” He was sitting on a stone bench with his head in his hands. Charon stood a few steps away, arms crossed, trying not to resent the poor, dejected man slumping on the bench. “I meant to. The words simply wouldn’t come.”
“It probably wouldn’t be right to continue to give you an advantage,” Charon said.
“Oh, I know, especially since I can’t even say what I mean. Does he always do that?” He looked up at Charon—not into his eyes, but at a spot behind his shoulder. “He disarms you, and thenext thing you know, you’re agreeing with whatever he says to have another minute of his company.”
Charon made a noncommittal noise. It was unsettling how quickly Raul had picked up on Yves’ easy charm. Most people were too besotted by him to notice the work it took to appease his dominant clients.
“I’ve never met anyone who made me feel so…” Raul gestured helplessly, “warm. Surely you must know. He makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. I do wonder if his other suitors will be so accepting when he isn’t at work. Because itiswork. That’s why I stay in the workroom at home. I don’t have to be anyone other than myself.”
Charon thought of the Yves who lounged in his room when the night was done, clever and bright, with an acerbic tongue and a wit that his clients rarely saw. How many dominant clients would have accepted Yves calling them a liar, as he had to Charon the night before? Perhaps a submissive benefactor was still a viable option.
