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  She poured herself another glass. “If having the Sight means that I am part-Folk, then why haven’t any others been found out before now?” Joy asked her question while the Bailiwick sipped his tea so that she could not possibly be accused of interrupting him again. It was sneaky, but she was desperate for answers.

  “Well,” Graus Claude said, warming to the topic, “I must admit that I do not know how many humans born with the Sight were ever marked, let alone had experienced prolonged involvement with the Twixt or were otherwise affected by such a wide variety of individuals from our community as have you.” He wiped his lips with several napkins.

  Joy scoffed, “That’s because you blinded them first.”

  “Which, logically, would place them under Sol Leander’s auspice,” Graus Claude mused. “They would be survivors of an unprovoked attack.”

  “Ugh! I couldn’t stand being under his auspice,” Joy said and tried not to think too hard about how Monica, her best friend, had Sol Leander’s mark—a mark she’d all but put there and one that she could have erased...but hadn’t. Guilt still burned like a slow coal in her gut. The idea of Sol Leander watching over her made her ill.

  “Fortunately, this was a fate you were spared by becoming lehman to Master Ink,” the giant toad said. “Still, if those with the Sight are, indeed, descendants of our bloodlines, then one would think that, as survivors of an unmitigated assault, they would have been claimed by Sol Leander and discovered for what they were. And, if not, why not?” He pursed his olive lips. “It would be a closed loop to both abide by the rules and yet refuse to acknowledge claims. Hmm. Perhaps the base theory is flawed...” The Bailiwick settled himself back into his chair. “There are a great number of Houses that account for all the denizens of the Courts, as well as old families, oath societies, political factions and formal alliances that make up the modern Accords. Any one of them might have records about a circumstance resembling yours, yet none have come forward.” He spread his four hands. “Therefore, it is all a matter of where you fit into the Twixt.”

  “So where do I fit?” Joy asked. “What House do I belong to?”

  Graus Claude placed his teacup in its saucer. “Usually that is a matter of the maternal or paternal progenitor stepping forward and acknowledging their claim,” he said. “However, since we have only recently entertained the possibility that those with the Sight share a common ancestry, I would not imagine the Malones have been registered as being under Folk scrutiny.”

  “The McDermotts,” Joy said. “I inherited the Sight from my mother’s side, not my father’s.”

  “Hmm. It is good to be aware of such things,” he said as he applied a pat of rich butter to his bread with even strokes. “The Folk take pains to keep track of their progeny, else the past has ways of catching up when it is least expected and most inconvenient.” Graus Claude lifted another one of his covered plate lids and began dicing a huge steak into pieces with the dance of four hands. “In any event, we can simply wait to witness your change,” he said casually. “Then your genealogy should become fairly evident.”

  “Change?” Joy said. “What change?”

  The Bailiwick lifted a polite finger to wait as he skewered four pieces of steak into his mouth. He swallowed. “Once you manifested your True Name and accepted your place within the Twixt, the change would have begun,” he said simply. “Hence why I described you as being betwixt categories, as it were—halfling and changeling.” He dabbed at his wide chin. “Essentially, after taking on your True Name, you will take on your true nature as one of the Folk.”

  “What?”

  Graus Claude blithely ignored her outburst as he stabbed more cubes of steak. “The change is already under way,” he said. “I suspect it began when Master Ink first marked you, alighting the magic in your blood.” He tapped one of his skewers against the side of the plate. “It is my theory that if those with the Sight are marked by one of the Folk, it ignites the latent, recessive genes into activity. The signatura ritual brings it to the surface, completing it. Or, perhaps, it is triggered by heightened physical response—panic, elation, fear, desire.” He gave a double shrug. “As this has never happened before, I can only hazard an educated guess, but you ought to be experiencing some of the effects by now.”

  Like heat and light and a glow in her veins—the elation of dancing and the pain of grief. She’d felt...something. What happened at the funeral? Has it already begun? Joy hugged her arms to keep herself from shaking.

  “But I don’t want to change!” Joy said with spiky terror, her mind racing through the myriad of misshapen creatures that she’d met inside the Twixt. “I don’t want to grow feathers or claws or whatever—” a horrific thought struck her “—I don’t want to be invisible to my parents!” Panic scrabbled inside her, roiling acid hot and squeezing her voice thin. “I want to go to college! I want to graduate and have kids someday! I want to be seen on TV!” Joy didn’t know where all the words were coming from; they were bubbling out of her mouth in a rush. She thought she might throw up. “I’m still human—part-human—and I want to keep that!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I want to keep being me!”

  Graus Claude gave one of his deep-chested sighs. “Miss Malone, I feel that we keep returning to this same conversation, ad infinitum,” he said. “You, yourself, were the one who chose to exercise this option, and now you are having some difficulty accepting its outcome.” His gaze grew sharp. “Did you think this is an honor we bestow upon a mere human? Your choice—and here I must emphasize the word choice—was to join this world. And you have—or you will—when the change is complete.” He lifted an enormous, fluted glass filled with water in two hands. “Those are the rules, Miss Malone, not guidelines or suggestions—they are the very words that created this world. They are.”

  “Rules can be changed,” she said. “Rules can be broken.”

  “Not by you,” Graus Claude said dangerously. “And not by me. Nor by anyone on the Council or anyone in this world—and they would all tell you the same.” He huffed like a sneeze. “Human laws can be changed, Miss Malone, minds can be changed, fates may be altered, and fashions might fall out of favor, but the rules that created our world were the ones that cleaved order from chaos, light from darkness, and forged rational thought out of the wild abyss. They are absolute. They cannot be changed.” A contemplative quiet passed over his features, which faded as he set down his glass. “Even the human world recognizes the power of words that set the wheels of life into motion. Do not presume that you are an exception.”

  “I’ve been one before,” she said, which earned her a darker glance. “Even you admit that my circumstances are unusual.”

  The Bailiwick’s expression didn’t change in the slightest. “I can hardly contain my astonishment that the word unusual would be closely associated with your person, Miss Malone. In point of fact, during our brief association, I find that adjective to be most appropriate.” He sat back in his chair, which settled with its familiar, wooden groan. “But not this time. Despite circumstantial evidence, it would seem likely that you will follow the pattern woven into the very fabric of life in the Twixt. Best accept that inevitability as the choice you have made.”

  Joy sputtered but couldn’t help remembering Ink’s advice when she’d first encountered the Bailiwick. Respect him. Always. She counted to ten in her head. Then upped it to twenty, clamping her fingers under her armpits to keep herself still. She could buy a glamour if she had to, right? She could look the same. But she would know the difference—she and all the Twixt. She couldn’t imagine looking into a mirror and seeing an unfamiliar face any more than she could imagine looking into a mirror and seeing nothing at all.

  “What is going to happen?” Joy asked. “What about me is going to change?”

  Graus Claude sat back, his ire abating as he wove his double set of fingers over his chest. “The changeling acclamati
on can affect any number of characteristics, depending on one’s genealogical source,” he said. “Once you adopted your signatura, you placed yourself within the magics that make up the Twixt, the last vestiges of magic on Earth. Just as you accepted the Twixt, now the Twixt must accept you.” He leaned forward slightly. “You must adjust yourself and your expectations to the rules that bind our world—the rules that will shape and govern the rest of your life—and that, I suspect, will be the thing that will change you the most.”

  Joy tried to follow the implications of his pretty speech. “I’m becoming magic?”

  Graus Claude looked askance. “You are magic, Miss Malone,” he said. “All humans and places who have a modicum of magic are the very people who are chosen by the Folk and thereby claimed under an auspice, subsequently marked by one of the Scribes. You were marked by Master Ink, therefore it is no wonder that you should have originally possessed some of that magic in the first place, having been one with the Sight, and now that magic has been activated, either instigated by his hand or by your own actions during your latest display in the Council Hall.” His browridge quirked. “Indeed, given your history, we should have expected something like this.”

  Joy marveled at the ever-widening definition of something like this.

  There was a knock at the door, and Kurt entered bearing a silver tray with a single calling card. The Bailiwick wiped each of his four hands on cloth napkins before taking it primly in his claws. Graus Claude squinted at the words, and two hands pushed against the arms of the chair as he heaved himself up, still staring at the piece of card stock. One hand folded the napkin over his plate as the fourth brushed crumbs from his suit.

  “Let him in,” Graus Claude said.

  Kurt bowed and departed. The Bailiwick eyed Joy, who had stopped eating.

  “Remember what I told you,” he said quietly.

  Before she could reply, Kurt opened the door and Sol Leander walked in.

  Joy’s stomach flipped as he strode across the room, his sunken eyes sharp and ferret-bright beneath his dramatic widow’s peak. The cloak of starlight wheeled about his legs in a haughty sweep, and his arms were tucked into bell sleeves that made him look like a rather severe-looking monk or a vampiric Jedi knight. He bowed to the Bailiwick, who inclined his head in return.

  “Welcome, Sol Leander,” Graus Claude said magnanimously. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  The Tide’s representative stared right past Joy and rendered what he must have thought was a smile. It looked like it hurt.

  “I am pleased to find you both here,” he said. Joy privately suspected that he had spies watching her and had known that she was here all along. When he spun to face her, she flinched. “I came to bid you welcome, on behalf of the Council.” He raised his hands in grandiose greeting. “Welcome, Joy Malone. Welcome home to the Twixt!” He slid his hands together, tucking them once more beneath his sleeves. Joy was surprised that his voice held not a hint of mockery. Sol Leander was very, very good at this game.

  She, on the other hand, was new at it. Dangerously so. Joy could feel the Bailiwick’s eyes on the back of her head. She’d just written this down. Respond with grace, with thanks and in kind.

  “Thank you, Councilex Leander,” she said with a bow.

  “Very good,” Sol Leander said as he turned to her sponsor. “She can be taught! You are to be commended, Graus Claude. Proper manners and etiquette will, of course, be essential for her upcoming debut.”

  Graus Claude’s left eye gave an infinitesimal twitch.

  “Debut?” he inquired politely. “What debut?”

  “Why, the one to welcome Miss Malone, of course,” Sol Leander said as he produced an envelope from one sleeve, signed in elaborate script. He handed it to the Bailiwick. “You were right, Councilex Claude—this is a rare and exciting opportunity that should not be challenged, but celebrated! It’s been far too long since we welcomed an addition into our world, and we have suffered far too much loss as of late—don’t you agree?” His smile was reptilian. “What better way to revive our community spirit than a gala?” He gave a small nod to Joy, who stood transfixed by the exchange. She had never seen Graus Claude struck speechless before. “I am here to extend a formal invitation to yourself and Miss Malone. The festivities will be in your honor, of course,” Sol Leander said to Joy. “You are to be presented to the Council and then to your people, the entirety of the Twixt, in order to take your place among them.” His eyes flicked over her shoulders and knees. “Proper attire is required. Masks are optional, although there will certainly be no need to hide your face—” his dark eyes glittered “—you are the reason all of this is happening, after all.” The pointed double meaning wasn’t lost on Joy. She pressed her fingers together to keep them from twisting into childish knots.

  “I see,” Graus Claude said softly, his tone hinting that he comprehended far more than what was actually being said.

  “Yes,” Sol Leander said. “I imagine so.” He gave a bow to the Bailiwick and then to Joy, his eyes hard. “The gala promises to be an event that will equal your esteem.” He inclined his head. “Formal attire. In your honor. In three days’ time.”

  “Three days?”

  Joy wasn’t sure whether she or Graus Claude said it first. Sol Leander looked mildly surprised.

  “Naturally the Council wished to make immediate reparation for the unfortunate circumstances concerning Miss Malone,” he said. “Therefore, it was deemed urgent in order to put all of this sordid business behind us and continue forward as a people, united. You, yourself, Councilex Claude, called for such action before regarding Miss Malone’s necessary Edict and referendum.” Sol Leander lifted his shoulders and stood straight as an obelisk. “It is a matter of honor.”

  The Bailiwick sat back in his chair, the groaning wood sounding like a threatening growl. He passed the invitation from hand to hand until it rested quite neatly in the center of his desk.

  “Quite,” he said, over-enunciating the t.

  Sol Leander stepped back with a flourish. “Until the Imminent Return,” he said with a bow.

  “Until the Imminent Return,” Graus Claude answered.

  Casting a last, parting glance at Joy, the Tide’s representative bent neatly at the waist as if to speak to her in confidence. “And I would advise that you keep your friend Miss Monica Reid well away,” he said with more than a hint of warning. “Her safekeeping is in everyone’s best interests. We are allied in this, at least, Miss Malone.” And without another word, he swept through the door, his starlight cloak a swirling flick of finality.

  The office doors clicked closed.

  Graus Claude leaned heavily to the side, one hand over his eyes. Joy wet her lips, her mind whirling in mad, panicked circles.

  “What’s that about the Imminent Return?” she said, finally. It seemed strange for Council members to part with a toast.

  The Bailiwick ran two of his hands over his face as the two others cleared away any trinkets on the desk. “It’s an old expression that hearkens to a mythical ‘someday’ when we won’t have to play these sorts of games any longer.” He sighed deeply and considered the invitation. “Well, that’s done it nice and neat,” he said, tapping a claw against the seal. “I could not have designed it better myself.”

  Joy wound the edge of her shirt around her thumb. “I take it this gala isn’t a good thing?”

  “Oh, a welcome gala is a marvelous thing—all finery and majesty, with riches to dazzle your every sense, opulence and decadence beyond anything imaginable. A parade of marvels and magics set upon a stage of high drama, low morals and clandestine affairs,” Graus Claude said, smiling. “However, three days...” He shook his head. “Three days? It’s unconscionable. And they agreed?” His many claws clicked against the desk. “Certainly, as your sponsor, I have only myself to blame. I suspect
Maia is behind it. She entertains a particular delight in seeing me squirm.”

  Joy waved a hand to get the Bailiwick’s attention. “Excuse me?” she said, leaning forward. “What are we talking about here? Because it sounds to me like this is just an elaborate excuse to let me fall on my face and make you look bad.”

  “Precisely.” Graus Claude beamed. “Very well done!” He seemed genuinely pleased, which was strangely flattering. “Sol Leander has successfully woven a rope of many threads and expects you to tie the noose and hang yourself with it.” The Bailiwick squeezed a single fat fist. “Therefore, it is our job to make certain that he is the one who chokes on it instead.” He sounded positively vicious.

  “Lovely,” Joy muttered. “So what do we do?”

  “What, indeed?” he said. “There is simply no way to teach you all that you need to know before being presented formally to the community at large. A proper gala to welcome a new member into society takes months, years—perhaps he convinced them on an expedient time line given your mortal nature. More likely, certain favors changed hands. In any case, it is an effective way to make your introduction uncomfortable in the least, and virtually guarantee a number of long-term social casualties. Formal etiquette is very strict, and many in the Twixt are easily offended—they’ll use it as an excuse to cause all sorts of trouble. ‘Bridges burned wound lurking trolls,’ as they say.” He paused at Joy’s baffled expression. “Another old saying,” he explained. “Like the Imminent Return. Regardless, you will be expected to know how to present yourself accordingly and demonstrate your ability to establish your status in the pecking order, selecting your supporters and spurning your detractors in equal measure. Your presentation must be staged with precision and care, for among the Folk, impressions are everything and memories are long.” Two of his hands smoothed down his lapels as he came to a sudden realization. “Good heavens, I’ll have to contact my tailor...”