Black Silk, White Rose

Rain needled the garden of the Purple Velvet Venue, turning the chessboard path into a slick, whispering mirror. Servant Ru stood beneath the arch of thorn-clotted wisteria, his indigo cloak soaked through. Water slid down his mask—a delicate thing of silver filigree and moth-wing lacquer—but he didn't shiver. The cold was nothing compared to the acid curl of anticipation in his gut.

Heise is coming.

The duchess's words had been a barbed hook in his ribs all evening. Now, as the distant clatter of hooves and wheels cut through the storm's hiss, Ru's fingers tightened around the handle of the lantern he carried. Its light was a sickly green, the glass etched with sigils that made the raindrops avoid it, sliding around the glow in unnatural arcs.

Then—the carriage.