Chapter 33

Parlour Full of Spiders

ené was in a suit, and Aix could tell it was clearly the one that made him feel he looked the best—it was certainly very flattering, fine wool as always, blue-black, a fall of dark blue lace flattering René’s beautiful hands, which were decorated with many more silver rings than he usually wore. The lapels were wider, and the jacket cut more generously, than a typical black tie suit, with actual turn-back cuffs on the sleeves that matched the lapels, and a pleated gore in the back that fishtailed out. René was also in higher heels, that snapped on hard floors in a way that made Aix bask in the sensory delight of the sound. His nails were done in one of the new cat-eye style colours (blue of course). His hair was loose, though, the curls enviable as they spiralled around his face, over his shoulders and down his back.

He was obviously peacocking, and Aix adored it.

Aix had been able to, several times in the two weeks leading up to the trip, go with Pinky or one of the other queens to thrift stores and other hole-in-the-wall shops only locals knew about, and get clothes his favourite way—with the added bonus of being able to get them tailored after. Pinky had even complimented Aix on his skill in putting an outfit together, which meant a lot, as Pinky had gone to FIT and Aix regarded him with awe for it.

So, he had a put-together suit now, and he’d let Pinky nudge him into wearing a dark brown over black, because brown looked better on him. He felt far more confident now, in a three-piece with a vivid teal shirt he knew looked amazing, and Mr Tailor had changed the collar for him to be the big-pointed one from the seventies that Aix liked so much. And, since he was in a chair, the jacket was something he had to simply have with him, not wear; but that’s what the waistcoat was for.

As his old shoes were worn out, Aix had been gifted, by the trolls in his building, with new shoes. They’d fussed and definitely shown Aix why Virginia hadn’t been sure if the ‘shoe thing’ was a kink or not, but Aix didn’t mind either way, and thanks to them he was wearing a pair of very comfortable, pointy-toed opera pumps with a high and shapely heel, and the brasswork exoskeleton that was padded on the inside with layers of soft cork and wool felt, that gently held his arches where they should be. They were the most comfortable shoes he’d ever worn in his life, and they were easy to slip on and off as he wished—important, because Aix didn’t like wearing shoes, and couldn’t actually walk safely in heels. Sitting in a chair, his shoes didn’t matter but to decorate his feet and show them off; and the only reason he would stand would be to sing or move a few steps to a seat. He’d already practised walking in them, and done the obligatory ankle-roll, so hopefully—hopefully—he wouldn’t embarrass himself by doing it again tonight.

Pippin, contrary to what Aix had assumed, did not come sit on Aix’s lap; after they’d put all her clothes within her reach, in the bottom drawer of the dresser, she picked out the fancy rainbow dress, and the matching rainbow striped tights, and the little soft sheepskin boots with the pompom on the toe. Now, she trotted beside the three of them, singing softly to herself. Aix was quiet, listening, trying to figure out why the tune was familiar, waiting for his brain’s constant analysis of musical patterns to kick on with lyrics.

Green finch and linnet bird,
Nightingale, blackbird—
How is it you sing?

How can you jubilate,
Sitting in cages,
Never taking wing?

During the past fortnight, Aix had tentatively put on some of his favourite Broadway albums for Pippin, playing them in order so Pippin could follow the story; he hadn’t been sure she’d enjoy it at first, but she had quickly started asking him to do it, which was deeply flattering. One of the albums she asked for over and over had been the original Sweeney Todd. She was a pierrot, so it made sense she would like a tragedy, but… Aix also recalled what Scarpa had said, about the castrati not liking to be compared to birds due to some kind of past trauma….

Pippin asked for one particular song a lot.

‘Hey, Pippin, sweetheart?’ Aix said, and Pippin stopped singing.

‘Uu?’

‘Do you…’ This was insane, surely? But how to ask, when Aix hadn’t even met them, and had no idea if their names would have been the same for Pippin?

Pippin was quiet, and Aix sensed her frustration with him, and tried not to be too heartbroken. What was wrong? Why was she frustrated?

‘Hey,’ Aix said, soft and low, patting his lap. ‘C’mere, bean.’

‘No,’ Pippin said, but then came over and climbed in Aix’s lap. Many big lots. Don’t know. Need to see.

It was jumbled, but Aix understood the frustration very well, and hugged her, his hurt at her rejection soothed by understanding she was just having very complicated ideas, as well as emotions, and it was hard to communicate the former through the latter.

‘How about,’ Aix said, ‘you show me what’s going on?’

‘No.’ Duckie say no share hurts.

‘I did say that, didn’t I—René, stop.’ When René did, Aix looked up at him And Cthulhu. ‘You two go on ahead, we’ll be just a little while.’

Alone in the corridor, Aix turned all his attention back to Pippin. ‘I did ask the other joeys not to share memories that hurt with me, that’s true. That’s because they are strangers, and sharing hurts is something that you do with troupe.’

Pippin was quiet, and hugged Aix. Duckie heavy so much lots. Is big heavy sadpain.

‘I need you to trust me, Pippin. And I’ll trust you too.’

Pippin was quiet for long moments, but Aix waited patiently, watching her Mask and her Flash go through furious, cuttlefish-like colour-changes as she had many thoughts.

Bad Miss Ana not frs bad dottie get eated up by Big Mommy, Pippin began, quietly, and with metaphors only. Aix saw her connect up the characters from Sweeney Todd to events she was referring to, masking the horror of reality with story. The opera singers she’d lived with had been like Joanna, locked away from the outside world; but too, they were like the songbirds humans used to catch and blind and keep for their pleasure. Pippin had been called Lacrimello, and her Friend had spoken to her the way humans always did their pets, confiding in Pippin all his fears, until Pippin determined she had to do something; but before she could, Friend had sent her away, afraid of what The Lady would do to someone as small as Pippin.

Pippin had not taken that lying down. She was no Harlequin, nor indeed a Brighella; but Pierrots were the most likely clown to mature into the most dangerously intelligent of the troupe: Columbina.

Where the rest of the troupe’s purpose was to cause problems—on purpose (Harlequin) or by bumbling (Padrone)—Columbina solved problems. That was her rôle. She fixed everybody’s problems, because she wasn’t silly. She waited, and she watched, and she had thoughts.

They were vampires, though Pippin hadn’t known the word at the time—they were Magic Dotties, that was all she knew them as. They drank magic, and did magic with it, and Pippin managed to get some, using her clown magic to call out for help. She hadn’t been quite so clear on what she wanted in detail, back then, just for her Friends to be safe and free, and a vague sense that The Lady had to go away forever for that to happen.

That was when she’d met Big Mommy Clown for the first time.

And Big Mommy ate her up.

But Pippin had been frightened by it, and had run away, and she couldn’t remember why anymore, but she was Lost by the time she thought about going back, and didn’t know how to go back. She’d known enough to drift toward other vampires again, finding other joeys and making known she liked to be around the Magic Dotties best.

She had been to this castle before—she knew Claudiu, and the King, and that’s what made her wonder—the moment she’d seen Claudiu she’d known she was right—she was Coming Back! But she didn’t know what to do, now. She didn’t want to leave Duckie alone, and she liked her new friends. Why did the world have to be so big? Why couldn’t they live next door neighbours?

Aix just held her, and listened.

Well, first of all, that was a very brave thing you did, especially for such a Small Animal. He booped her little nose with his, and got her to smile a little. Secondly—René told me Phrixus slew his Sire, so somebody is lying, and I don’t know how people are going to react about that, so how about you wait out here, and I will go get Phrixus and we can talk to him alone, okay?

‘Duckie,’ Pippin said, with the fond exasperation only a very small, cute person could manage. Magic people bees have good ears.

Are you… saying there’s no way we can have a private conversation? The thought was terrifying, triggering Aix’s background hum of distressed paranoia into a klaxon scream.

Pippin picked up on this, ‘we not talk in hall.’

‘Oh!’ and Aix laughed at himself. ‘Okay. Yes. Point. Well, if you’ve been here before, where could we go?’

Pippin got down and went further in the direction Aix was facing, stopped, and pointed.

‘Outside? Like to the garden?’

‘Ye.’

‘Okay, bean, I’ll be right back.’

She scampered back, tail high, as Aix carefully got to his feet, pulled the chair so it was out of the walkway, and opened the door, but didn’t quite go inside.

‘Hi,’ he said to the frankly enormous (well, to him) group of unfairly beautiful people in the room. ‘Could I talk to Maestro Phrixus alone for a moment?’

It wasn’t the first impression he wanted to make, but he consoled himself that it would likely be a better one, at least with Phrixus, because Aix had immense difficulty interacting with several people at once, let alone several new people. It was hard to keep details like names and personalities straight if he was getting all of them all at once.

Aix was faintly surprised at the rainbow hair of the tall vampire that rose from his seat by the fire and crossed the room. The colourful streaks were shown off by his hairstyle, and despite the sombre uniform of evening suit, his makeup and nails were just as vivid, almost neon. As he got closer, Aix realised the tuxedo wasn’t black, truly, but a deep aubergine.

Once the door closed, Aix got back in his chair, realising Pippin had disappeared, but feeling the sense, in the back of his mind, that she was in the garden waiting. ‘Walk with me,’ Aix said simply, trying to use the Witch Voice, that no-nonsense brisk authority, and started wheeling down the hall.

‘Is something wrong?’ Phrixus’ voice had the smooth and sonorous quality of someone rigorously trained, and sounded like it echoed from a deep well, though it was much higher than one expected from that timbre.

‘That’s a broad question,’ Aix said, ‘but I don’t think so, no. Not overall. It’s just something that needs, like, political acumen that I don’t have.’

‘And involves someone you have never met?’

‘Incidentally,’ Aix said, and Phrixus immediately caught the tone, in that; Phrixus opened the large, hobnailed door to the garden for Aix, not at all surprised they were going to the garden to speak—it was a summer night, warm enough to spend time outside, the forest alight with the noise of summer insects and frogs. In the distance, he heard a fox’s scream.

‘You might wanna sit down,’ Aix said, and then looked out into the leafy darkness. Pippin? Where are you, baby?

There was a glow of blue from a rosebush beside the bench Phrixus was sitting on, and a soft beep, before, slowly, Pippin peeked out from her hiding place.

Phrixus froze, the world feeling like it had frozen with him, time falling away. He didn’t register what exactly he said, only that little Lacrimello was here again, was alive and here and in his arms again, with his little tiny beeps and perpetual babyish smallness, and it was very important that Phrixus kiss him.

Aix sat back and didn’t exactly watch, but he listened, as Pippin was greeted with tearful Italian and disbelieving affection. And he waited, patiently, vaguely wishing he’d been able to learn Italian at any point, beyond what little he knew from sheet music.

‘René did not say it was our little Lacrimello,’ Phrixus finally said, switching to English again, and then giving a watery laugh. ‘I don’t know how he could have known, but—to have him so close, all this time…’

Aix was aware that clowns didn’t actually have genders—they were like snails, in that they were hermaphroditic as a species, and any gender was merely something they performed. Still, it was just slightly startling, to hear Pippin called ‘he’ on top of a different name. Lacrimello… ‘little sadness’? Rather traditional, for a pierrot.

‘Bees Pippin bees,’ Pippin was saying to Phrixus, with comical seriousness. ‘Pippinella.’

‘Ah,’ Phrixus said, finally letting her just sit on his lap, pulling out a handkerchief to dry his tears, which had made mess of his makeup. ‘Of course, yes.’

She nestled closer, clutching one side of his jacket opening.

‘Pippin, you wanna tell him what you told me, or do you want me to?’ Aix said.

‘Juju fori,’ Pippin said to Phrixus, who immediately lifted her down onto the ground again. She turned to look up at him, gathering herself, her Flash dimming with her seriousness. ‘I kill bad lady. Not Fixis. Me. I do. I call Big Mommy. Big Mommy eated her up.’ She gave the smallest little nod of emphasis, and then looked to Aix, who took the cue.

‘Pippin told me what happened with your Sire, in her way, and I can fill in the blanks,’ Aix said, and put up a hand when he heard Phrixus draw breath to interrupt, and went on, ‘but it occurs to me that this information might compromise your station as master of your household, and I don’t want to do that. On the other hand, the truth might be a positive thing too—Pippin and I don’t know enough to judge, which is why I pulled you out here alone, rather than dropping this in the middle of the council—and the King in particular. Okay, what’s your question?’

He actually looked at Pippin, ‘How long have you been able to speak full sentences?’

Pippin looked down at her hands, frowning, her little brow wrinkling as she puzzled on how to answer. She looked at Aix, who already knew the answer.

‘Joeys don’t talk to humans, because if humans knew they could talk, humans would make them work, and force them to either be people or slaves. They want neither of those things.’

Pippin nodded, her tail swishing back and forth as she thought on decisions she now had to make. Aix could guess at one—the classic one depicted by the Lovers card in Tarot: which path to take, between her past and her present, should she stay with Aix or go back to Phrixus? Aix couldn’t neutrally say what would be best for her, he had his own interests.

Eventually, she climbed back onto Aix’s lap, and cuddled him, curling her tail around herself, purring when Aix skritched her ruff.

‘Who is Big Mommy?’ Phrixus asked, after a time. ‘Jocosa?’

‘In a way, I suppose,’ Aix said thoughtfully. He’d been thinking a lot about that, and the discussion between him, Cthulhu, and his gods regarding exactly where the Starfolk fit into the cosmos was ongoing. He wasn’t quite ready to reveal that about clowns yet, though; that was for the clowns to know, and decide who to tell. Aix somewhat regretted telling Simon and the others, but the general consensus among the few clowns he’d been able to talk to about it was that Dotties¹ were Troupe, especially the keepers Aix had told. ‘It’s not really for me to say,’ he added.

Phrixus accepted that answer, studying the witch under the guise of watching Pippin enjoy herself in his lap. As he remembered her, she was very feline, wiggling around just like a cat beneath the witch’s gentle hands. It was so strange to see her in modern clothes, in colours other than blue and white and black….

The witch himself was in a chair that had once been Lady Blackstone’s, Phrixus remembered it; and from that, to the suit he wore, it was clear he was of humble origin and not ashamed of others knowing—something Phrixus respected more than others of the Council might, as he himself had also been only the seventh son of a humble baker. Phrixus’ fame and fortune, he had earned with the gift God had given him in return for his sacrifice, as any of the castrati did; and it seemed only right that a witch would be the same, particularly an American one.

‘René told you how succession works, then?’ Phrixus said, thinking on the situation at hand.

‘No,’ said the witch, and chuckled at Phrixus’ look of shock—a thrilling sound, low and wicked and perfectly villainous, hinting at a delicious singing voice, indeed. Despite the adulation given to him for his own stratospheric range, Phrixus himself, like most in his household, adored that which he heard most rarely: the baritones, the basses, and all their velvet and smoke.

‘I suppose,’ Phrixus said, and only his mastery of his own voice as an instrument overcame the shivering breathlessness that laugh instilled, ‘it is no surprise a witch is so perceptive. It is comforting,’ he added, softer, ‘to know that we were rescued by our little angel, and not…’ he trailed off, looking away. ‘Lady Blackstone tells us you worship Apollo.’

‘I’m pagan, yes,’ came the guarded response.

‘Do pagans have sin?’

‘We don’t have good and evil, no.’ Aix expected shock, and questions, and assumptions; Christians always had them. It was a little easier to bear with Christians that admitted to being Christian, and certainly easier when they were Catholics, which Aix knew all the vampires were, being that they were all older than Protestantism²—but it was still something that made Aix tired, if only from the repetition. How do you know how to behave? Echoed in his mind so loudly that it took a moment for him to realise Phrixus had not actually asked the question. ‘Sorry, um, could you repeat that?’

‘Is it as difficult to become pagan as it is to become Jewish?’ Phrixus repeated. ‘I have asked Lady Blackstone before.’

‘Are you… are you saying you want to convert?’

‘It is very tiring, after so many years, to exist knowing that you have no hope of forgiveness, and yet cannot simply find camaraderie among the Fallen. All these years I thought I had somehow summoned a demon, or become one, and to know that it was something else, something called for the sake of one small creature’s love for us… That there was not blood on my hands. Do you understand? Murder weighs heavily on the soul, even a damned one.’

Aix got the feeling there was a lot happening here below the surface; but, surprisingly, he could follow it all. ‘Yeah, I bet it does. I can’t imagine staying with a religion that hated my existence.’

‘What is it like?’ Phrixus asked, quietly. ‘To have gods that do not condemn you?’

Aix had never had anyone ask, and was extremely pleased to have someone understand. ‘It’s everything,’ he said. ‘It’s a family that never rejects you, or abandons you. That nobody can separate you from.’ That part was important—Aix had been rejected by his birth family immediately, and separated forcibly from the ones that hadn’t rejected him; he’d also been institutionalised, and forcibly cut off from even friends. ‘And they’re not perfect, so you don’t have to be either. And—’ he paused. The giddy possibility that this entire household of people, of castrati, might be interested in joining him? In worshipping his gods? Aix often stubbornly said that a group of pagans was called an argument, but he was still human, he still wanted brotherhood with other people like himself.

But he shouldn’t get ahead of himself.

‘And?’ Phrixus prompted gently.

‘And it’s just… I’m not sure how you view yourself, in terms of—of gender, or sacrificing… flesh. But um, when I got top surgery, I sacrificed that flesh to Apollo, and he—he honoured it. And Apollo made my body, so…’ so I know in Christianity altering your body is seen as insulting your god, but it isn’t for us. But Aix couldn’t quite summon the confidence to say that, having learned from years of interacting with Christians that they were contrary and no matter what you said, if it wasn’t praise, and if you weren’t Christian, you were automatically wrong even when you weren’t. Also, significantly, he didn’t know enough about the castrati to really know how any of them viewed their position theologically. ‘Should I explain what top surgery means,’ he added, realising.

‘No, no,’ Phrixus said, gently. ‘Eveline has had some, and I can infer that if you can give, you can also take away. She is the one of our number that is transsexual. And,’ he said, gently. ‘I am sorry if my questions have seemed… interrogative. It has been a long while I have wished to leave the church entirely, but I have never met anyone without good and evil, that was… far enough removed from a single God. Even Milady’s ancient ways have good and evil, light and dark.’

‘I’m only cagey because I’ve been stolen from before; but to be fair, he was a Protestant,’ Aix said. ‘Also, Catholics already have the framework to understand polytheism. I’ve… not really met a lot of Catholics, to be honest. Nonna left the church while my dad was still a kid, and neither of my parents raised me knowing anything about Christianity, and most of America is Protestant, so.’ He shrugged. ‘I met like some watered-down American Catholics ten years ago, but they weren’t shit. Everything I know is from history.’

Phrixus chuckled. ‘Protestants lack… almost everything.’

‘They do, I have opinions about that. But returning to the point… you… you want to convert?’ Aix needed to hear it in words.

‘If such a thing is allowed.’

‘Just… just you or… everyone in the house?’

‘All of us.’

Aix was reeling, at that; not because it was a shock, or unpleasant, but because of the opposite. This was… not at all the conversation he’d been prepared to have out here. ‘Um. I. Okay. I need a minute to process that.’

‘Take longer,’ Phrixus said softly, getting to his feet. ‘I think we should go back inside.’

‘Um, yeah, what about… what about the whole matter of your Sire’s fate?’

‘If a clown is not a person, then they cannot be responsible for anything, and it still falls to me.’ He smiled at Pippin. ‘She was our pet, after all. But I appreciate your wanting to tell me privately.’

‘Right. Okay. Cool. Um… is anyone gonna be in shock, seeing her again?’

‘Yes; and I thank you for the warning, poor Felice would have startled badly.’

‘Fissielissie?’ Pippin said, and sat up to reach for Phrixus, making grabby hands. Phrixus obliged her.

‘He misses you so much, mimma,’ he said softly, kissing her face, his lipstick leaving yet another mark to join all the others there from his initial flurry of kisses.

Aix was treated to Pippin’s wordless longing for Felice in response—he had been her favourite keeper. It made tears burn in Aix’s eyes to feel her heartbreak. ‘She, um, she missed him too. A lot.’

Aix started back inside, Phrixus walking beside him, carrying Pippin, who had started babbling cheerfully, a sound that always cheered Aix up. The shapes were more Italian, and Aix loved that Pippin seemed to babble in several languages. He bit back the urge to start trying to figure out just where Pippin was going to live, and who to live with. He wanted her to be happy, and if that meant she would go back to live across an ocean and leave him alone then he’d heal. He loved her, and love meant putting someone else’s well-being before your own.

Pippin stopped abruptly in her chatter, and frowned. ‘No Duckie! No!’ she said, distressed.

‘Why does she call you that?’ Phrixus said, hiding a laugh as he carefully adjusted to several pounds of wiggly clown suddenly intent on getting down in his arms. ‘Hush, piccinina.’

Duckie no bees sad no! I luv Duckie I stay! Duckie need Pippins!

‘She um, she’s picking up on my thoughts. Sorry,’ Aix said, but kept wheeling. ‘Pippin, let Maestro Phrixus hold you, baby, I can’t have you on my lap and wheel my chair this fast at the same time.’

She stilled, beeping. ‘Uu,’ she said, in the saddest tone imaginable. When Aix didn’t explain, Pippin’s blue Flash turned a little red in irritation. She beeped.

‘What thoughts?’ Phrixus asked.

‘Um, just—I was just thinking about how I didn’t—I didn’t know if she wanted to stay with me, or go home—she decided I need her and—I don’t disagree, but I can manage without her, she needs to be happy.’

‘Lyeen!’ Pippin said in a low growl, mimicked from one of the few jokes Aix had only minimally had to explain to her.³

‘I think she’s made her choice,’ Phrixus said, and noted how the witch’s lips pressed together, his expression tense and none too convinced.

‘He only sent her away for her safety—’ Aix began, sounding angry but only on the surface; and, for the first time in a long time, the bark did not fool the person hearing it.

‘That was centuries ago, tesoro,’ Phrixus took a sterner tone, and stopped walking, waiting until Aix also stopped, turned around to face him. ‘We will be happy to see her again, of course, but we have all changed since then. She has changed.’ The young had to be reminded that you could not simply go back, after long enough. ‘She chooses you, now, and it would be unwise to deny such a gift. There are none like her in the world, and there will never be again.’

Pippin beeped in punctuation, folding her arms. Aix couldn’t help laughing a little, at how cute that was; which was the point, he knew that was the point. He relented—and it didn’t feel like losing, either, it felt satisfying, because not once had Phrixus remarked on his tone, or how he needed to ‘calm down’, or anything; he’d simply responded like it was normal. Which it was.

He’d missed being around other Italians.

‘Come,’ Phrixus said, gently. ‘We’ve all been very eager to meet you—and hear you sing.’

Aix had prepared for that, and to his relief the hours of practise he’d put in over the past two weeks—helped along by acquiring a real piano to practise with, musical neighbours willing to sing with him, and a couple of trips to Marie’s Crisis to acclimate to singing around strangers again—helped him feel less scared. So, instead of scared, he actually felt flattered, and excited—he had a host of new evidence saying he had a nice voice, and could sing well, so he could focus on having fun, now.

Phrixus opened the door with one hand, the other holding Pippin to himself, and held it open for Aix, who took a breath.

‘Showtime,’ he said, in a low growl, and wheeled inside.

‘So, apparently Pippin is, in fact, Lacrimello,’ Aix said, getting the sense that Phrixus was hanging back slightly and waiting to have the news broken.

Phrixus wasn’t the only one of the castrati with colourful hair—they all did, and the one with a blue updo and wearing a little black dress that showed off a lot of leg gave a little scream, hand to his throat. The others were soon to follow with their own avian little gasps and twitters, a few starting to their feet. The whole effect of a flock of birds was only magnified by the surprised honking from the handful of clowns in the room.

‘René!’

‘You didn’t say so!’

‘How was I to know?’ René said, as the joeys did not hesitate at all to crowd the door, the castrati soon following. Phrixus parted them with laughter, the little pierrot sitting on his shoulders, throwing her hands up.

‘Ta da!’

Aix laughed, and he wasn’t the only one—Pippin briefly had the spotlight to herself, passed from embrace to embrace and covered in many shades of lipstick as they all kissed her over and over. Aix had time to watch them, and see that one of the clowns had albinism, which he’d never seen before.

All of the castrati had unnatural colours of hair—one was all shades of blue, one was the distinctive claret red that was the most unnatural colour you could get out of a box at a drugstore, one was a magnificent purple fading to pink, and another was a neon pink that Aix knew (from having dyed his own hair that colour) would glow under blacklight. All but two were in suits—red hair had a glittery olive-green evening dress that showed off a magnificent pair of tits, and blue hair was in a less showy black dress of sparkly velvet. From how Pippin seemed to be staying in the arms of blue hair, that must be Felice.

Milady was by the fire in a chair, assiduously not paying attention; everyone else, however, was paying attention to the colourful flock of joy—including the people Aix recognised. Heather was here, wearing a quite sexy black sweater dress with minimal engineering, which gave her comfortably low curves that Aix liked but knew would not normally be approved of by society; she was standing near a very handsome bear, his beard and long hair oiled into gorgeous curls, and another middle-eastern man—less bear and more twink, Aix thought, just as beautiful, especially with his long black curls in jewelled combs.

Michaela sitting on a sofa by the window on the other side of the fireplace—all made up and looking amazing, Aix had never seen her dressed up before—in a gorgeous red dress that was the opposite of Heather’s—there was a lot of corset going on under there, Aix’s expert eye could tell, and she had her considerable, freckly bosom up on a platter. This was being enjoyed, clearly, by the unassuming brunet with big green eyes standing near her. He seemed like he was flirting.

Dmitri, René, and Victoria were over by another blond and a rather tall someone else in a suit, that was actually masked, and was standing half in shadow. Where was Claudiu? Was this everyone, or would more people arrive over the next few nights?

Victoria looked beautiful in a Belle Epoque style gown of black chiffon ruched over purple shot black taffeta, her posture as perfect as Aix’s wasn’t. He’d been trying, but a lifetime of damage didn’t go away in two weeks, even if he had been working every day at it—which he hadn’t, really. Exercise for its own sake had always seemed discouragingly Sisyphean.

Not the time for that, not now, Aix thought, and turned attention to the room itself—but not before realising he’d nearly missed someone, who was half-hidden by the open lid of the grand piano. Other than rather intense blue eyes, there wasn’t anything terribly remarkable about that one, and Aix was already struggling to differentiate all the men in the same black suit with the same dark hair, so he turned his attention to the room itself.

The room was large as a hotel lobby, carpeted in dark red with an elegant pattern of acanthus leaves in a slightly darker red, and the furniture was all beautifully carved and upholstered in rich red velvet, the fireplace of black marble and the motif was more bats, and wolves, and speaking of wolves where was Hext? And Cthulhu? Aix had little time to wonder, before he was suddenly surrounded by colour.

‘Oh, hi,’ he said, to everyone collectively. ‘Um, hello—yes, hi, hello,’ he said, giggling as the clowns surrounded him with their signature style of affection, hugs and beeping nose-kisses. Joeys, he could handle—the kisses and petting from all the castrati—that was harder. Aix couldn’t understand most of the Italian, other than the repeated ‘grazie’; but Pippin, found her way to his lap again.

They say ‘detu detu Duckie. Duckie bes witch fix brokened heart for bring Pippins homesafe.’

‘All right my dears, come now, let the poor creature breathe!’ rang out a sprightly English voice, bubbly and seeming to call back at least two of the clowns—the pierrot with albinism and the cheerful mix that seemed equal parts drag queen and harlequin—a very odd and volatile mix of breeds, Aix thought to himself.

The blond that had been by Dmitri was the owner of that voice, which marked him as being Roseblade, had to be.

‘He is no delicate English flower,’ Phrixus said, looking down at Roseblade—not difficult, he was easily the tallest person in the room.

‘I’m half English flower, to be fair,’ Aix piped up. ‘But I do want introductions, because calling your by your hair colour feels rude.’

‘Better than calling us by range,’ quipped pink hair, to laughter.

‘This jester is Vincenzo,’ Phrixus said, and Pippin beeped several times for attention.

I tell Duckie! Peas.

Aix smiled. ‘Pippin wants to introduce me.’

Pippin made show of clearing her throat, sitting tidily on Aix’s lap. She gestured grandly. ‘Ena bu Fissielissie! Bu for Pippins!’

‘Nice to meet you, Felice. Pippin says you’re her favourite keeper she’s ever had,’ Aix added, knowing it would be nice to hear. Felice already had tear-streaks of eyeliner down his cheeks; but at that, more were freshly made, and he dabbed at the corners of his eyes.

‘I am ruining my makeup, I must look a mess.’

‘You look happy,’ Aix said, kindly, and Pippin nodded in agreement.

‘Ena purpur Wishes!’

‘Wishes?’ Aix said, raising his brows. ‘As in Aloysius?’

‘Oh! Yes,’ he said. ‘Have you met someone named that before?’

‘Um, no, but there’s only one name that nicknames to “Wishes”, isn’t there?’

‘Ena red Eveen!’

Eveline dropped a curtsey. ‘Eveline Starlight.’

‘Ena neon Venenezo.’

Vincenzo laughed. ‘Still can’t say my name, huh, mimma?’

‘It might be because we know a Lorenzo in Manhattan, actually, so “Zozo” is taken,’ Aix said, smiling.

‘Ena Fixis!’

‘Yes, I’ve met Phrixus already. What about this gentleman? Do you know him too?’

‘Ye!’ Pippin said. ‘Rosy!’

Roseblade laughed. ‘How did you get all the way to America, little one?’

‘Peppoh.’

‘Wait, really? You knew Pepper already?’ Aix said.

The two drag queens fluffed, and the one Roseblade had called away laughed a harlequin’s wicked laugh.

Everyone is to be knowing Old Bastard. Was so intensely English-flavoured that Aix knew immediately it came from her.

‘Okay, interesting, noted. Apparently everyone knows Pepper.’

‘It is remarkable how well you have rapport with them,’ Felice said.

‘Yeah, telepathy’s a helluva thing,’ Aix said lightly, ‘speaking of, where’s Cthulhu?’

‘He expressed interest in the kitchen, when Claudiu and Mr Hext went to check on dinner.’

‘One should always have a werewolf in the kitchen,’ Eveline said sagely.

‘You should meet everyone else, my dear!’ Roseblade said, intent on pulling Aix away and getting at least a few moments with him.

‘Well, yeah, I want to meet the joeys,’ Aix said, purposely obtuse, and turned to the two still nearby, ‘What are your names? I’m Duckie.’

The Clown—and she was a Clown, of the old-fashioned breed all the specialist Circus and Rodeo and Party lines had come from—presented her drag queen companion with a deferent and clumsy bow, her shapeless little hat falling off.

Said drag queen was also the old school—matronly and nearly a Signora, she offered her hand to kiss, which Aix obligingly did.

‘Tanti,’ she said, in a stentorian, syrupy voice that perfectly went with how she looked. Aix inferred it simply meant ‘Auntie’, which was a completely unsurprising name for such an old drag queen. Her very lush plumage was bronze and dark red, though that was a generous description; one would never dare to say a drag queen was a colour so pedestrian as brown, however. Even if it was a very pretty brown.

‘Enchanté, madame,’ Aix said, very gravely. This seemed to be acceptable amounts of respect, to her. Her companion, all in the warm-toned Mask of older types of clown, gave a springy-yet-clumsy bow, her little hat falling off for the nth time.

‘Varăvăr.’ But there were layers there that could not be translated and preserve the pun—so it was lucky Aix could see the translation as something other than words. He laughed, as much in delight at the clever wordplay as amusement.

‘Oh, I love it! I love puns. That’s very clever.’

This pleased her as much as it surprised her, and she fell over herself bowing and fluffing her plumage happily, her Flash bright and cheerful reds.

‘Well, darlings, go on,’ Roseblade said, gesturing his pair toward Aix. Breaking from the usual hierarchy, the harlequin insisted her pierrot go first.

Young Master Ban.

‘Oh! Like Pangur Bán?’

This seemed to bewilder both English clowns a little. Luckily, the allusion was from something that Aix had happened to show Pippin, in the past two weeks, while he’d been trying to explain that singing was a form of magic. She hummed the haunting little song, and to Aix’s surprise the wispy outline of a white cat appeared, just like in the animation, made of magical light. It wasn’t unknown for clowns to somehow manipulate their Flash outside their bodies for effect, but Aix had never seen it before—it was one of those things they just didn’t do anymore, but had allegedly done in centuries past, and seemed to need a whole troupe to do. Five was an uncommonly large group, in this day and age of singles and pairs.

From the excited rush of query Aix got back, none of the clowns other than Pippin had ever seen animation before.

‘Ohh, you need to show them cartoons,’ he said to the room generally, trying not to sound too admonishing. ‘The Secret of Kells has a little cat with your name, sir,’ Aix said to Young Master Ban, who smiled delightedly. ‘And what about you, madam harlequeen?’ Aix asked her, surprised when she laughed.

‘Harlequeen!’ she repeated, in a harlequin’s raven-like voice. ‘Harlequeen! Harlequeen!’ She fluffed proudly, cackling so loudly it shook her skirts, the four-colour Flash marking her as quite old, despite her sprightly looks.

‘Oh, she’ll be insufferable now,’ Roseblade murmured. ‘And her name is Miss Motley.’

‘How am I the first person to make that connection?’ Aix asked him on half a laugh, ‘I’m not even good at puns!’

‘I beg to differ, darling,’ Victoria said as Aix joined her; he’d warned her that he tended to cling to someone at parties, and she didn’t mind. Pippin started wiggling her little hips, and Victoria met her eyes. ‘And what are you doing, young lady?’

She stopped. ‘Uu,’ she said in a descending tone, knowing by now that the big baby eyes charm wouldn’t work on Auntie Victoria.

‘Your older brothers may spoil you, but in a witch’s house we have manners,’ Victoria said, knowing that Aix was like her in how disciplined his animals were trained to be.

‘Yes, baby, ask please,’ Aix said softly, skritching her ruff.

‘Peas?’ Pippin said to Victoria. ‘Peas lap?’

‘No,’ Victoria said. ‘Because I know what you’re up to—you just want to use my chair to climb up and see the strange gentleman behind me.’

‘Speaking of,’ Dmitri said, glancing at said stranger with a wicked smile. ‘You really should introduce yourself, Gaz.’

Gaz? Aix could only think of a little cartoon character, who bore absolutely no resemblance to the man before him. And why was Dmitri so intent on it; Aix narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Dmitri.

‘He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to, Dmitri.’

‘He really should, though,’ Dmitri insisted, grinning so wide it showed his fangs. ‘Gaz is famous.’

‘Not anymore,’ came the first words from Gaz himself. ‘And you should meet the King, first. Protocol dictates.’

‘Okay, Batman,’ Aix teased, but let him alone, turning away and glancing around the room, trying to figure out exactly which one of these people was the King. ‘But I think Pippin’s big return kind of borked introducing me in ranking order…’

‘The one flirting with Ms Van Helsing,’ René said helpfully, in a low voice.

‘Rank is hardly clear-cut, with us,’ Phrixus added. ‘He may be King of vampires, but he isn’t the eldest here, nor is the company entirely vampiric.’

‘Artists are always outside rank,’ Eveline added. ‘As are zanni.’

Varăvăr came up to Aix’s side, silently getting his attention and asking if Pippin could come play with them. Aix was happy to grant his permission, wanting Pippin to have friends of her own species. Pippin looked at Aix, and silently asked for his chocophone⁴—he’d shown her you could, among its many different magics, watch cartoons on it.

Baby, we can’t have chocophone up here, it hurts the King’s ears, and it’s his house, so he gets to make the rules.

This upset Pippin; she quite liked the modern world, Aix wasn’t the first to show her the wonder of things like cartoons and recorded music. She climbed into Varăvăr’s arms even so, and the troupe moved off to their own end of the room. She shared with Aix, however, that she would still be available if he needed her; Aix was learning that she took her job as Emotional Support Animal very seriously.

Like usual, Aix was so focussed on the interaction in front of him that he completely didn’t register that he was being observed openly by most of the people that had never met him before. Most of them were not the type to draw attention until they wanted to, ambush predators as most of them were, and there were many silent conversations, dominance displays, and feints that tested just how bonded to René—and how protected—the witch was. Some, like Milady, were uninterested in acquiring Aix at all; some, like Heather, were only interested in keeping him safe; and some, like the eldritch but very earthly being engaged in conversation with Heather, were only testing the waters because of their contrary and mischievous nature, not out of any genuine desire to have him for themselves.

But René did have competition; he was yet new, and most of his peers knew him as subordinate and able to be pushed aside. Like many social animals, vampires tested their hierarchy, every gathering turning into a lekking ground—however subtle.

When the King reached out to Aix’s mind, assuming he had his usual room to manoeuvre on the subtle plane of the consciousness, he found himself suddenly and violently slammed into a high-speed collision of several trains of thought, though the trains were operating upside-down and using five-dimensional track, one of which was actively on fire. The madness almost sucked him down with it, and he pulled back only just in time.

‘I told you, you shouldn’t do that,’ Van Helsing said, with a smug curl of her painted lips. She was much, much more perceptive than either of her predecessors, likely because she was a woman. He was not too modern a royal to think glaring at her was uncouth.

He, also, wasn’t so inexperienced as to think the mind was always expressed outwardly—though this level of disconnect was very new, and the whole of the witch’s mind was alien, almost as much as Vlad imagined Cthulhu’s to be. It wasn’t even that he was only marginally human—the vampire king had seen Garnet’s mind, he knew what the fae were like—and it wasn’t sheer madness either—he had known his share of madmen. There was something uniquely odd about it, some unique combination of things. Was it his age? He was yet the youngest and newest, the first of his generation that Vlad had met. Yet that would imply his mind should be more ordered, not less—that had been the trend so far.

‘He is intriguing,’ he decided. ‘Where did you find him?’

‘You’d have to ask Cthulhu that one. Or Victoria.’

Over away from the fireplace, near the window overlooking the view from the top of the cliff the castle was situated on, Heather was looking out at the stars while her two companions’ gaze was on a far closer star.

‘He’s delicious,’ said the ancient being beside her, the oiled ringlets of his beard gleaming blue-black in the moonlight.

‘You say that about everyone,’ Heather said, quirking an unamused brow.

‘He moves with deliberation,’ said the only one of Phrixus’ household that wasn’t a colourfully-haired opera soprano, nor from Italy. Like the larger, bearded man beside him, he was from lands farther east, and south, where civilisation had begun. ‘A dancer’s grace.’

‘Aye,’ Heather said, shortly. ‘And he’ll dance again, mark me, just not on the ground. He’ll like you, Asher,’ she said to the bearded man. ‘You’re his type. An’ I’d wager he knows you,’ she said to the vampire.

‘Doubtful,’ said the vampire, ‘all have forgotten me, if I ever was there to forget.’

‘Don’t sound so bitter,’ Asher teased, beard curling in amusement.

‘I’m not bitter,’ the vampire said, glancing at him and raising a brow.

‘He knows you,’ Heather repeated, with her signature no-nonsense confidence. ‘Go on and ask him.’

‘He does seem to know of the castrati,’ Asher pointed out.

‘Little Pierrot knows the castrati.’

‘Just ask him,’ Heather said, and pushed him; even with a vampire’s strength, it was hard not to stumble from the shove of a selkie her size. And it was not harshly meant—they had all learned that Heather, like many animals accustomed to being the largest in any vicinity, shoved and pushed her companions with no malice aforethought, simply to express she wished them to move. He’d seen others be sent sprawling to the floor; he was a dancer, and his grace saved him from such an undignified introduction to the witch, as he crossed the room and bowed politely.

‘Hi, I’m Aix,’ said the witch, with modern informality.

‘I am Bagoas.’

A loud gasp. ‘Seriously?! Like—like the Bagoas? The dancer?’

Startled at being remembered for dancing, as though he were Mikhail Baryshnikov, he said, with naked and honest shock, ‘Yes.’

Aix bounced, wiggling like an overly excited puppy, his smile huge and lighting up the entire vicinity. ‘H-hi! Wow, I’m—um, sorry, I didn’t expect to meet someone famous, I’m a little overwhelmed.’

‘I am hardly famous,’ Bagoas insisted, out of disbelief more than anything, ‘I’m not even the most famous person in this room.’

Aix raised a brow. ‘You’re famous to me,’ he said mulishly, folding his arms. ‘You’re important to me.’

The way he said it, Bagoas felt it actually… mattered a lot. It was an odd selfishness, that was so generous as to dismiss modesty like that—you mattered to one person, despite the time, despite the way everyone tried to forget you—you mattered to at least so many people that this one person knew about you, and so needed to that it mattered.

A legacy was what all human beings really wanted, and a legacy was what eunuchs never got to have—supposedly.

Supposedly.

And yet, here he was. Something huge and heavy lodged in his throat, at the magnitude of it. ‘That is—that is kind of you to say,’ he said.

‘You matter.’ Aix didn’t know how to convey the despite. Despite, despite, despite—despite was a strong word, a refrain of the individuals Aix thought of as ‘my people’—eunuchs, castrati, anyone born in between, in form or in spirit, who was born also into a culture that reviled them, that erased them. Despite. Despite it all, they made their mark. Despite the effort to erase them, they remained, enough to be found by their kin over and over. It mattered. And he could, at least, tell someone they mattered.

Was that what it was to be a witch? Aix wondered. Was that why he had been given a life, a mind, a personality, that was categorically incapable of remaining silent when what he wanted to say was kind, however gruffly he delivered the message? He decided yes, it must be. Magic was more than music, and wasn’t healing more than herbs and stitches?

Being from Hollywood, Aix had his share of celebrity connections and meetings—they were all terminally embarrassing, as Aix got weepy when overwhelmed with nerves; but, perhaps more importantly, modern people weren’t really the ones that meant much to him. Their work might mean something, but not their lives, not who they were, not their humanity. They were alive, and therefore their full humanity was private and still in progress. The dead, however… the dead had no privacy—not if they had been dead long enough to leave more than a corpse and a grave marker behind, anyway.

You also didn’t have to socialise with them, or worry what they’d think of you.

Then again, Aix didn’t worry as much about that these days, having met so many people who told him so often how they liked him, liked the honest version of him, for the very reasons he had always been told were flaws to be corrected, or outright red flags—he was starting to believe it, even, particularly couched in Victoria’s refrain that Aix had found the place he actually belonged. He’d never known it would be so effortless, and he had a kind of faith that even this person, this person he knew as much of as one could know, was very likely to like him as well.

‘Come, Bagoas, sit with us,’ René said, indicating the spot next to him on the sofa he was sharing with Victoria. ‘There is plenty of room.’

The castrati, a flock as they were, had settled nearby, and it was shaping into quite the salon; but Bagoas was not overly fond of Dmitri and Roseblade. He bowed to Aix, and René, politely taking his leave.

‘I’ll sit with you, Daddy.’

Garnet was back—again, appearing seemingly out of nowhere—and sat down on René’s lap, breaking the monochrome of the black tie with his colourful suit.

‘Sit, then,’ René said, his voice gaining a low undertone quite different from his conversational voice.

Garnet immediately stopped wiggling. ‘Oooh, yes sir!’ he said delightedly, beaming, and leaned close. ‘We should fuck.’

‘Patience, chéri,’ René said in a low, thrumming sort of voice. But he wasn’t looking at Garnet.

‘Will you sing for us after dinner?’ Roseblade asked Aix, still trying to suss out how to best gain the witch’s especial attention. Bagoas’ shrinking back from the tidal wave of enthusiasm had been illustrative, to say the least; Roseblade hoped his dear and deathlong companion had been paying attention.

‘Sure,’ Aix said, after a slight pause for thought. ‘I brought my music.’

‘Do you have a favourite composer?’ was the first the man at the piano had spoken. He had rather intense blue eyes, and his accent was some flavour of German.

‘Composer for what?’ Aix countered. ‘Ballets, symphonic orchestra, broadway musicals, pop songs, mathematical beauty, jazz, synaesthetic bliss, ripping your heart out and stomping on it on the floor? Those are all different answers.’

‘Oh I know the last one,’ Victoria said.

‘You do?’ Aix was surprised.

‘I know because if it isn’t him, then you’re wrong or lying,’ Victoria said.

‘Leonard Cohen?’

‘Oh good.’

‘Ballets,’ said the man at the piano.

‘Tchaikovsky.’ At the noise this garnered, Aix doubled down. ‘I don’t care if its cliché, he’s everyone’s favourite because of a reason. I will say,’ he added, thoughtful, ‘the Australian Ballet puts on Alice in Wonderland every year, and I don’t know who does the music, but the—what’s his name, um… Dmitri, what’s his name, the mad hatter.’

‘Steven McRae.’

‘Thank you. Steven McRae doing his role as the only tap dancer was deeply unsettling and I loved it.’

‘What about opera?’ Vincenzo asked.

‘Sondheim. Particularly Sweeney Todd. Have you heard it?’

‘I’ve never heard a Sondheim,’ Phrixus said, and Aix noted all the castrati glanced at the man at the piano, as though this were something he should know. ‘Have you, Theo?’

‘No. Is he young?’

‘We just lost him this year, actually,’ Aix said.

‘He doesn’t write operas, not technically,’ said the masked stranger, with disdain.

‘He does so write operas I will fight you in the Tesco parking lot,’ Aix snapped, and Dmitri wasn’t the only one startled into laughter; Aix was pleased the joke was seen for what it was—his style naturally fell to ‘comedic anger’ and for most of his life, people hadn’t understood that. The stranger had been unsettling, especially the way he was standing behind the sofa, in shadow, sort of… looming. It might have just been his height, but Aix had felt judged, and that got his hackles up.

‘With what, exactly?’

‘I’d say wit but you seem unarmed,’ Aix shot back, and from the reaction this garnered, he’d somehow missed something about Gaz—but how could he miss what hadn’t been there, he reasoned with himself. Which meant that, really, he was being clever, not stupid.

‘Well now you have to talk, don’t you, Gazzy?’ Roseblade said, very pleased as he leaned back in his chair, re-crossing his long legs.

Gaz was one of the people who had laughed at Aix’s initial comeback, and so Aix felt like this was less bullying and more… something else. He wasn’t great at being able to tell yet, with these sorts of ‘we’re lovingly roasting you/bickering’ interactions. ‘What’s Gaz short for, anyway?’ he asked.

‘George.’

Which told Aix nothing; George was so common a name, particularly for older men. Which this one was, Aix could tell from the silver hair and crow’s feet around those very blue eyes. With the rest masked, it was impossible to see anything else. His hands weren’t decorated with rings or nail polish, unlike Roseblade who had both; and his hair was in a very nice but unremarkable cut, and…

Maybe it was that Aix’s mind was primed from meeting Bagoas, maybe it was Bagoas saying he wasn’t even the most famous person in this room; but the blue eyes, the name, the well-dressed-but-dull-as-a-henbird fashion…. No, it couldn’t be. Once was coincidence, twice was impossible….

‘Do you have a surname?’ he asked, eyes slightly narrowed in thought. ‘Or… a nickname other than Gaz?’

‘I wasn’t called Gaz in life, no,’ he said, and now Aix detected a smile getting wider, behind that black mask.

‘Oh what the fuck,’ Aix said softly, realisation dawning, hand over his mouth—carefully, because of the lipstick. The giddiness rose, fell, subsided, and he said, voice trembling on the edge of a scream of laughter. ‘Well, now I definitely want to fight.’ And he was glad nobody had asked him about fashion and triggered the rant about men’s fashion and how it got ruined.

That startled Gaz—and it might, Aix thought, there was no real indication that Aix was a fop, right now. It was creative black tie, and Aix’s suit was the colour of black coffee, which was a great deal more tame than any of the other fops. His makeup was pretty simple, too—he’d recently learned how to do neutral eyeshadow and lipstick thanks to Pinky, and his hair was in a classic cut.

‘Now you can’t complain about being invisible,’ the man at the piano said to Gaz cheerfully, with a giggle that was shockingly high and very grating and oh my fucking god. Aix thought. No way.

Aix wanted to know why Gaz was masked. It couldn’t possibly just be age, and Aix knew… a lot about this man. Much more than he knew about Bagoas; or indeed, more than he knew about the pianist, Theo. Theo… god, that was clever. Theo. Theophilius, as in Amadeus.

But Aix hadn’t read a whole biography on Mozart, and there wasn’t one about Bagoas. He knew George Brummell, the way one knew a historical person one had obsessed over for years, researched endlessly—not only for his life, but also his context—the Regency had been Aix’s era of interest for some years, now.

With a sudden sort of violent anger, Aix envied Garnet being on René’s lap, and realised it was because he was overwhelmed by all this new information, and didn’t know how to escape the situation with grace and—more importantly—politeness.

Unseen, Pippin stopped playing and quickly made her way across the room, jumping on the back of the sofa and down onto the cushion, Mask serious and Flash low and amber with red. She pushed at Garnet, on René’s lap. ‘Fsfsfs,’ she fussed at him, insistent. ‘Gogogogogo.’

Garnet moved, though he didn’t have a lot of choice—she was strong. Pippin got up on René’s lap herself, and wrapped her tail around his waist, leaning far out to reach for Aix’s hand. She knew it was useless to try and get his attention, he wasn’t here. She got hold of his sleeve and pulled, and the confusion at her actions suddenly resolved.

René didn’t move, not wanting to dislodge Pippin and hurt her, and knowing how to act as anchor to an acrobat; but he did reach gently into Aix’s mind, finding it panicking, suffering from the deluge of information and not enough energy to process it, and put a blanket over the witch’s senses, giving the gentlest order. Come here. Come to me, little one.

Aix melted out of the chair and was on the rug, draped over René’s lap, in seconds. René directed his face away from the light with a gentle hand. Pippin settled down beside René, using the puff of her tail to cover Aix’s face too.

‘I believe he has read a biography of you, monsieur,’ René said, elegantly picking up the conversation.

‘Ah,’ Gaz said, ‘and?’

‘Oh, so you care what someone thinks of you again?’ Dmitri commented.

‘Shut up, Ashley,’ Gaz said.

‘Maybe he was right about you being unarmed, that was hardly a prick.’

‘You’re a prick,’ Roseblade said, instantly.

‘Whore.’

‘Bitch.’

‘En!’ Pippin said, putting her little hands on the arm of Victoria’s chair, her eyes big and pleading. ‘Apu? Peas? Apu foh Duckie?’

Victoria knew why Pippin was pleading with her; she was in a chair too, and Pippin had learned that she was sort of teaching Aix how to be disabled, and was his Auntie as much as she was Pippin’s. One of the things Aix struggled with was, unfortunately, something Victoria couldn’t help with at the moment—but it was good to know what was wrong. She looked over at Dmitri, and Dmitri’s attention on his wife was automatic, even bantering with his countrymen.

‘Dear,’ Victoria said, sweetly, ‘go and ask our esteemed host how much longer it will be until dinner is served.’

‘Yes, my lady wife,’ he said obediently, kissing her hand, and went. Victoria gently put two fingertips over Pippin’s hand—that was all that would fit.

‘I don’t have any, pits’leh,’ she said gently. ‘It’s too close to dinnertime.’

She made a distressed noise.

‘Oh, I have snacks!’ Garnet reached into his coat and pulled out a plastic bag of sour gummy worms. He gave them to Pippin first, because she wasn’t bound by the Rules, she was already owned. She took the plastic bag and gently tapped Aix’s shoulder.

‘Duckie?’

‘Why does she call him Duckie?’ Roseblade asked Victoria sotto voce, behind his fan.

‘Aix is a genus of duck,’ she answered, as Aix sat up and took one of the gummy worms from Pippin.

Aix was worried about his makeup, but it seemed it hadn’t gotten on René, and he only hoped the lipstick hadn’t smeared. Pinky had gotten him a shade that perfectly matched his lips, so dinner wasn’t a worry, but René’s suit was, and so was him suddenly collapsing against his dom like this was some kind of kink party, not a high class party where he was supposed to be making a good first impression, and… and these gummy worms were really good, actually, like—like really good, no qualifiers. ‘Pippin, where did you get these?’

Pippin pointed at Garnet, and Aix… paused.

‘Okay, and he gave them to you first?’

‘Ye.’

‘Fully handed them to you?’

‘Ye!’

‘Okay,’ Aix said, relaxing. ‘You had me worried for a second,’ he said to Garnet, who shrugged, unoffended.

‘I wanted to help.’

‘Explains why they’re so good, though.’

‘Oh yes, I find the human ones too sweet; what is the point of them being sour gummy worms if they aren’t sour, I ask you?’

‘Are you feeling better, tesoro?’ Eveline said gently, a little confused about exactly what had happened, but motherly of disposition.

‘No,’ Aix said, gesticulating. ‘I’m sort of… this is… A Lot,’ he said, and felt René’s hand in his hair, and was glad he had decided against gel or anything, feeling those nails on his scalp was soothing.

‘Ena apu,’ Pippin said in a raspy, grumpy tone. Aix felt her discontent at there not being food for Aix right away.

‘And I need food, yes,’ Aix said, eating another gummy worm. He closed his eyes. Cthulhu, I’m hungry, are you still in the kitchen?

Food is wonderful! Oh—you’re hungry. We are almost done. There was some panic because the kitchen staff had not understood that they needed to read the labels of their spices, as well as cooking without the fresh plants that make you ill.

Claudiu has taught me to make paprika hendl, we are using wild birds from the forest outside!

‘Ohhh, I think Jojo has a new hobby,’ Aix murmured, feeling all of Cthulhu’s enthusiasm. René chuckled.

‘Ah yes, he was very interested in the kitchen once Janice found out he was trying to learn about humanity without learning about food.’

‘What is taking so long?’ Victoria asked. Aix sighed.

‘Me and my stupid allergies.’

‘Hush,’ René admonished. ‘None of that. Try again.’

‘They didn’t read labels.’

‘He really needs better staff,’ Victoria muttered. ‘Last time there was lard in things. I don’t ask for very much kosher.’

‘Nothing like your staff,’ Aix said adoringly to René.

‘Oh yes, I adore Miss Moon,’ Victoria said. ‘She’s learned quite a lot from Effie’s kitchen. The Baltimore were-rats are the best for kosher, you know,’ Victoria told Aix. ‘Mr Honeycutt is a lovely man, but obviously he can’t keep a kosher kitchen.’

‘Oh yes, I like him a lot,’ Aix said. ‘He was very nice to me. Have you had Warren’s cooking though? Oh my god.’

‘Oh yes, nothing compares to a werewolf’s cooking, especially for meat. You ought to come up and stay a while, as the summer gets on; the barbecues the Hexts throw are quite something in July.’

Talking about food helped, counter-intuitively; it helped remind Aix he was hungry, not that Everything Was Awful Forever. He could deal with hungry. The gummy worms were helping.

Still, it was weird to be at a party where nobody was eating or drinking.

There was only one person Aix hadn’t met yet, in the room—the bear, who might have have stepped right out of some ancient Mesopotamian city, with his beard in tight shining ringlets, big dark eyes lined in kohl and thick eyelashes. His tuxedo was deep red, and the shirt was black—a colour combination that made Aix think of demons, not vampires. He looked over just as Aix looked at him, and Aix found he didn’t actually want to look away—a rarity, eye-contact was something he avoided instinctually even more nowadays. But there was something warm and not at all frightening, about those eyes. Aix had never experienced that before, not even when he’d been deeply in love with someone, and used to their presence enough to gaze into their eyes.

‘That is Mr Asher,’ René said in his ear, and Aix looked up at him, pupils wide and sparkling; René wagered he wasn’t aware he was aroused, he had a disconnect with that.

‘He’s beautiful.’

‘He is,’ René agreed.

‘We are all so scared to ask him what he is,’ Aloysius said in a hushed voice, hiding his face from Mr Asher with his fan.

‘Oh yes, you’re a pagan, you won’t be afraid of the answer,’ Roseblade said. Aix looked around at them, brow raised.

‘Victoria can’t ask?’

‘Victoria thinks they’re all being very silly; and that if they want to know something, they ought to ask themselves,’ Victoria said, with fond exasperation.

‘Oh, please ask him, Aix?’ Felice asked softly. ‘You’re so brave.’

Aix looked at Garnet. ‘Is he, uh, is he a thing, you know? Like that?’

‘Oh no, no, he’s quite nice!’ Garnet said, patting Aix’s shoulder. ‘They’re just people of the book.’

‘You learn that phrase from Milady?’ Aix said wryly.

‘It’s a good phrase!’ Garnet said, tossing his mane of curls, ‘But they’re not like us, you know. They don’t know the Old Ways.’

Aix slipped his shoes off, glad he’d decided to be a little strange and wear striped socks. He got to his feet, glanced down at Pippin and held out his hand to her. ‘Well, Pippin, you wanna have an adventure?’

‘Yee!’ Pippin said, grabbing his hand and letting him pull her up to sit in the crook of his other arm, her Mask turning bright and tabby-cattish.

He crossed the room, aware of all eyes on him, and went up to Mr Asher and Heather and Bagoas. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Aix. This is Pippin.’

Pippin beeped.

‘They call me Mr Asher,’ said that low, low, syrupy voice, that also had a bedroom whisper echoing behind it. It was deliciously unsettling. ‘I am one of the not-vampires.’

‘What are you? If that’s not a rude question.’

His smile curled his beard. ‘We have been called many things. Demons, djann, those from Arali….’

Aix raised his brows, eyes widening not in fear but interest, and a little bit of the wry surprise the modern humans met the supernatural with. ‘Sexy,’ he commented, which surprised Asher into a rolling, booming laugh.

‘You are not afraid! Mother Selkie said you wouldn’t be.’

‘I have an ex-husband, nothing scares me anymore,’ Aix said, with a serene poison in his smile. ‘Anyway,’ he said, smile a little more mischievous. ‘Demons are my subject du jour, have been for the past three years. We should hang out,’ he said. ‘I can show you my favourite show.’

‘It is deeply gratifying to be around someone who isn’t tiptoeing around whether to ask me about Hell.’

Aix laughed, and it was the Villainous one. ‘So is Hell where you come from, or…?’

‘It depends on what you define Hell as. There are certainly no dead humans there. It is where we live—though in truth, many of my children must live up here among humanity, just as vampires must.’

‘Expand on that?’

‘Sit down, pup,’ Heather said to Aix, and he sat exactly where he stood—Pippin squealed at the sudden drop down.

‘Weeee!’

‘Oh, I like you there,’ Asher murmured. Aix grinned up at him.

‘You’ll have to talk to René about that, Daddy,’ Aix said with a playful lilt and bounce of his eyebrows. Pippin nodded in agreement, before getting out of Aix’s arms and walking around Asher, looking him up and down and muttering to herself.

‘Cha doin, beeble?’ Aix asked her. She peeked out from behind his leg, walking back around to the front of him and scratching her head.

‘Beena tail?’ she asked him, very bewildered. He chuckled, pulling the empty armchair by the fireplace around to sit on as though it weighed nothing at all, despite it being one of those wingback types of chairs, solid wood and very heavy. He sat down.

‘You’re very astute,’ he said. ‘Can you see it, then?’

She tilted her head one way, then another. In make-believe land.

‘Ah, I see.’

‘Is make-believe land like the dreamscape?’ Aix asked, keenly interested. Pippin shook her head.

Dream ony when seepan. Make-believe land all the time.

‘Oh like the astral plane, okay,’ Aix said, nodding. ‘It’s like… behind this one?’

‘Ye!’ Duckie ver good at it!

‘Aw, thanks, bean.’

Across the room, Roseblade toyed with his fan, watching Aix chat animatedly with Mr Asher and Pippin, who seemed to be contributing equally to the conversation.

The witch was not accustomed to wearing a suit, from how he moved; then again, most people these days were not. Despite knowing how to tug, unbutton, and otherwise adjust a suit, he moved too much like an acrobat—well, no, that wasn’t it, Roseblade amended…

He moved like a clown. He’d nearly ignored all of the humans in favour of the joeys in the room, and even now he seemed much more engaged with them. Miss Motley came over, and Roseblade could tell she was very interested in him, perhaps sexually, if her fluffed up and bright plumage was anything to go by. Her Mask was very crisp, now, in a way Roseblade hadn’t seen in decades. She settled beside the witch, Young Master Ban trailing after her like the faithful son he was. Clowns were always drawn to anyone sitting on the floor, because that’s where children usually sat, children and foolies, and joeys very much liked both.

‘He’s nothing like I expected,’ Gaz said.

‘And why should he be?’ Victoria said, keeping an eye on Aix’s chair; despite the progress she’d made with all of the people present, they were still prone to forgetting a chair was part of someone’s body, and not to be touched, regardless of it laying empty and being perhaps somewhat In The Way.

‘That’s rather contrary to the point of a witch,’ Garnet agreed. ‘I wonder what Rosenrot will make of him.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘Oooh, I hope he eviscerates him. He’s quite something when he’s mad, all thunder and fire.’

‘Garnet, don’t be unkind,’ Phrixus admonished gently.

‘I’m not unkind,’ Garnet said, pouting fetchingly. ‘I’m only saying, Rosenrot is unkind, and I know exactly what he will say that will make our witch angry. Arrogant little weed,’ he said. ‘Thinks he’s so special just because he doesn’t have a heart or any bones….’

‘If he even notices Rosenrot…’ Roseblade mused softly, watching Aix now having coaxed Bagoas and Heather down on the floor with him, laying down with his knees up and one leg crossed, hands gesticulating as he explained something.

The pocket doors to the dining room opened, revealing Nicolescu, the butler.

‘Dinner is served,’ he said, with a bow.

Pippin cheered, which set off the joeys, and Aix sat up, not daring to cheer, but beaming and getting to his feet—carefully, Heather giving him a hand up.

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