Anne Claire stood at rapt attention, her eyes scanning the ballroom ferociously. In her youth, Anne Claire had been quite the socialite. She had been the friend to the princess of the age, who was the very nexus of high society. She had become well-drilled on the intricacies of hosting a party and managing a social group—skills that she found worked just as well on her son’s vassals as it did the ladies of the royal court.

  Now, she intended to harness every bit of those skills in ensuring that Willem’s party was a smashing success.

  It was one thing to host a party. It was another entirely to cultivate a society. Willem had indicated his desire to cultivate something of a ‘low society,’ to borrow unpleasant terms. He wished to export the high society’s tendency of gatherings, displays of wealth, drama, and intrigue to form a resilient cornerstone of his business. Anne Claire was confident that she could deliver. It needed to match a merchant’s sensibilities—grand, yet not decadent nor ostentatious like the events in the royal palace.

  “I want these floors to sparkle,” Anne Claire said to one of the servants standing nearby. “Arrange those platters better. And you,” she pointed to the server handing the wine. “If one of the guests has to ask for more wine once, I will remember your name. Rest assured, you will know regret.”

  The servant swallowed and nodded frantically.

  “Countess Dowager, the budget that Willem allotted—" one of the servants began.

  “Budget?” Anne Claire looked at him contemptuously. “You haven’t begun drawing upon my funds?” She snapped her fan open, then addressed all present. “Should any issues arise tonight, the party responsible will be consequenced. I will not brook error today. Remember well the fate of Martin the stable boy.”

  Murmurs about Martin spread through the banquet hall, redoubling efforts instantly. Anne Claire’s fan hid a small smile, while her eyes retained their hawkish ferocity.

  “Those flowers are too limp!” Anne Claire noticed. “Throw them out!”

  ***

  Baron Tielman paused at the boundary of the banquet hall. He was quite early, and thus there were no guests inside. There were, however, people waiting outside, all of whom took notice of him. They began muttering, and Tielman glanced at his clothes self-consciously. Eventually, the guard at the entrance called out to him.

  “Baron?” the soldier said. “Willem informed us you were coming. Please, enter.”

  Tielman didn’t respond, but walked forward into the banquet hall. It looked very nice. It wasn’t overly ostentatious, but it was all immaculately arranged. It appealed to even his untrained eye. In the center of it all, Anne Claire managed things in a green summer dress. Her gaze sunk when saw him.

  “Dowager Countess,” he greeted, dipping his head lightly.

  “Ah. It’s you.” Anne Claire took a deep breath, then sighed. “I suppose Willem will be pleased. Well… go over there, with the other one. Don’t make too much fuss. This is where Willem is supposed to shine. I don’t want people to think your presence will be a normal occurrence.”

  Tielman turned his head to spot Vivienne, who sat in a nice chair while enjoying a glass of wine. Anne Claire shooed him away, and he reluctantly walked toward his ex-wife. Her green eye stayed fixated on him as he approached.

  “Good evening,” Viviene greeted insincerely. “I heard a rumor that you won’t be staying long.”

  Tielman frowned. “From who?”

  “Hmm… must’ve been a pleasant dream,” Viviene dismissed, swirling her wine.

  An unremarkable female servant walked up to him. “Wine, Tielman?”

  Tielman narrowed his eyes. “Baron,” he said firmly. “And no.”

  “My, my. You truly expect your own daughter to call you baron? You’re a cruel, callous man, Tielman.” Viviene smiled brightly.

  Tielman narrowed his eyes, before sizing up the servant again. She smiled at him. The smile was strangely familiar.

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little wine, father,” she said, holding closer a platter full of wine glasses.

  “Catharina?” he said in disbelief. “Wha—Is that…?” He studied her closer. The voice was the same, but the hair, eye color, even the face… it was all different, distorted.

  Viviene laughed. “Ah… what a precious sight. The Shield of the North, sputtering in disbelief. That’s your daughter.”

  Catharina, masterfully disguised, put a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Willem, please.”

  “Disguise magic accessories are everywhere in Valdérie. It’s standard practice for our masquerades to include them.” Viviene took a drink of wine. “I noticed instantly, by the way. Does that make me the better parent?”

  “You two… please don’t argue,” Catharina pleaded. “Please. Anne Claire really wants this to go well.”

  Viviene met Catharina’s pleading eyes for a moment without saying a word, then broke her gaze away. “Oh, very well. I can restrain my bitchiness for one night.”

  “Thank you, mom,” Catharina said, leaning down to kiss her mother’s forehead. Her platter nearly tipped over, but Tielman steadied it. Catharina seemed oblivious to the baron’s aid as she walked out into the crowd to continue her act as a servant.

  “Why would she be so affectionate? She’ll blow her cover…” Viviene muttered, looking embarrassed. “Well, come, Tielman. Stop blocking my view and sit down. Let’s spectate.”

  Tielman hesitantly sat in the chair just beside her.

  “Why did you even come?” Viviene asked. “I know you hate events.”

  Tielman searched for an answer, finally saying, “Willem has a date. I wanted to verify.”

  “Oooh.” Viviene raised a brow. “I had no idea. Well… here come the guests. Which one is she?” She pointed.

  Tielman followed her finger as the guests poured into the banquet hall.

  “Mmm… don’t tell me. It’s that redhead, isn’t it?” Viviene narrowed her eye. “Concerning.”

  ***

  Floris felt a little intimidated when he learned of the venue for the first monthly meeting of the Society of Assured Prosperity—namely, a grand ballroom that the count of Gent often used to host larger parties. While it wasn’t directly connected to the count’s estate, the fact that it had been called into use signified that this society did have a great deal of sway with the count—or at the very least, the countess.

  Upon arriving at it, his nervousness redoubled. It was immaculate. Far too immaculate.

  “Is this really the place?” His wife asked, looking up at it with sparkling eyes. She had dragged him into this with the most enthusiasm she’d shown in a long while.

  “It seems so.” He gave her his arm, trying not to let his jitters show. “Shall we?”

  At the entrance, a knight of the county stopped the two of them. “Names?”

  “Floris,” he greeted simply, wondering briefly if they would be rebuffed as his wife gave her name as well.

  After checking a list, the guard nodded them in, saying simply, “Have a nice evening.”

  They walked inside, and all the while his wife asked him subtle questions—whether or not they were properly dressed for this place, whether or not there’d been a mistake that they’d been invited here. But upon entering, they saw that they fit in with the others reasonably well. As a matter of fact, Floris recognized the majority of the people here—competitors, cooperators, and a general group of highly-competent individuals. He did see someone he was near-certain was Baron Tielman, but the man was in a private section with a woman wearing a half-mask.

  “I think that’s Matriarch Petronella,” his wife said, tugging his arm.

  Floris looked over, and sure enough saw the leader of the city’s church mingling with a few other guests. He reevaluated the society’s relationship with the faith, taking her presence as a near-tacit endorsement of the activities of this place. Perhaps the church had entrusted some funds with Willem. Floris remained a skeptic. He still wanted a deeper conversation with Willem before he allowed the man to manage the money that would subsidize his wife and their two young children in the event of his passing.

  Though the venue was very grand, the preparation was practical. Food and wine were plentiful, but not so grandiose as to be wasteful. It didn’t convey the same manner of decadence that events hosted by the nobles generally had—he’d once seen servants discarding good food by the barrel, simply because the guests hadn’t eaten it all.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “That’s Marnie,” his wife said eagerly. “I’m going to go say hello.”

  “Certainly.” Floris smiled at her, leaving her to her own devices.

  His eyes wandered the room until he noticed a group of men in a relatively low-key area. Craning his neck, he saw they had surrounded Willem van Brugh, who sat on a simple wicker chair with a pillow. They all seemed quite focused on him, and Floris walked to join them. Willem wore form-fitting clothes, and the most notable thing about him was a gold-colored brooch that had a clear crystal on it in the shape of a diamond.

  “…wouldn’t give out bottomry contracts?” he heard a man say, his voice growing louder as Floris came closer into earshot. “Then what’s the point of offering preferential loans to society members?”

  “Merchant vessels are inherently risky, and they require a great deal of starting capital. One bad loan would be a significant hit—a string of bad luck, and the entire operation could be damaged irreparably.” Willem shook his head. “I don’t ever intend on putting the society in a position where bad luck alone could kill us.”

  “With the right merchant, it’s not luck,” boasted a man—an old merchant, who Floris had once worked for in his early days. The man was a veritable slaver with how hard he worked his men. “My ships seldom sink.”

  “Statistically, eighteen-point seven percent of merchant vessels departing Gent haven’t returned from the journey.” Willem stared at the man without blinking. “You run Red’s Shipping, don’t you? You’re right—you do have a statistically lower rate. But it’s still around a twelve percent chance of sinking.”

  As Floris smiled to see his old boss put down, the old merchant narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “I have the numbers, right from the county’s census records,” Willem said without batting an eye. “Would any of you be comfortable betting your wife’s future, your children’s future, on something that had an eighteen percent chance to fail? A twelve percent chance, even? I’m aiming for assured prosperity, gentlemen.”

  A few nodded in agreement, while another asked the question Floris had. “What kind of loans would you give, then?”

  “Loans that facilitate expansions for already-successful industry, for acquiring property in the county, or for minor purchases that someone might lack liquidity for.” He looked at the gathering. “I imagine a great many of you have encountered a scenario wherein your wife wants something, but you’re not quite solvent enough to buy it. Wouldn’t it be nice if that situation never happened again?”

  A few men laughed quite hard at that, expressing agreement.

  “If possible, I’d also be interested in acquiring stakes in businesses as much as loans,” Willem continued once the laughter died down. “Naturally, I’d be very reserved about this. As I mentioned, I’ll never put our money in serious jeopardy. But long-term and consistent flows of coin make for a far better investment than constantly seeking out loans, as I’m sure most of you have realized.”

  The merchants in the room largely agreed with this assessment, and Floris finally found his opportunity to interject. “There is something I’ve been wondering about, Willem. The annual fee. How do you decide it? The younger among us are at less risk of passing than the older. Do we pay the same?”

  People went silent as they waited for Willem’s answer.

  “It’s a good question. I don’t go by my gut, if that’s your concern—if you go by your gut, you’re talking out your ass.” Willem paused as some people laughed at his joke. “Once again, it’s simple statistics. I combed through the death records that the county provided, isolating the factors that cause death. Age and lifestyle are the two biggest factors. I have a formula.”

  “And what is the formula?” Floris pressed.

  “I derive a value for risk factor—let’s call it 0.1, for this example. I determine the amount of coverage the contract provides—let’s say 500,000 silver, to be paid in monthly installments over a period of thirty years. I multiply them together, reaching an annual premium of 50,000.” He looked around. “No one pays that much, for the record.”

  Some others seemed contented, but Floris continued to hone in. “How do you discover risk value?”

  “I might be able to show you my calculations.” Willem smiled. “But they’re not here, so it’ll have to be at the next meeting. Can I expect to see you there?”

  Floris almost agreed instinctively before he caught himself. He laughed through his nose, reflecting. He knew Willem was a shrewd negotiator, but now… now, there was no denying he was a business-minded individual. The only question that remained…

  “How can I trust you to be the society’s treasurer?” Floris pointed right at him. “How will we even know if the money reserved for payouts is even sound?”

  “Floris…!” A man he called a friend rose up, walking up to him. “He’s still a noble,” the man whispered in his ear quickly.

  Floris realized he might’ve made a mistake directly questioning a noble’s credibility.

  “Relax, it’s a good question.” Willem gestured. “Every quarter—err, every three months, I’d deliver a report summarizing the performance of our loans and investments. You can see every single one.”

  His friend sat back down, and Floris looked at Willem with a nod. He had already seen the merit in paying for the service that would keep his wife afloat if his death should come early, but now he saw more of the man called Willem van Brugh. He did have reservations about doing business with nobility—arrangements made with them were often incredibly one-sided—but Willem seemed to intimately understand a merchant’s concerns.

  Moreover, looking around… his wife was having too much fun here to never come back.

  “I look forward to seeing those calculations, sir.” Floris raised a glass in toast.

  ***

  Petronella listened to the chatter and gossip of the party, quietly sipping her wine.

  “Ria… I can’t help but notice that you and the countess are wearing the same brooch,” one woman asked in a small circle.

  “Ah.” The woman beamed proudly, removing it from her white dress. “They give these to society members. It’s a special type of glass in the center, apparently. Young lord Willem called it Bohemian glass, whatever that means. And when you shine it in the right light…”

  She held it to her friend’s eye, and indeed, when looked at from a certain angle one could see two things—the letters SAP, and a blacksmith’s maker’s mark. Petronella had already seen it before.

  “Is that the Heiden’s maker’s mark, Ria?” One of them said in disbelief.

  “It is!” Ria said excitedly. “The glass alone is beautiful—the way it shimmers in the light… but it’s made by the Heiden’s. Apparently it’s to discourage fakes.”

  Petronella walked away from the conversation with a smile on her face when she saw Willem finally escape the group that’d been encircling him. He looked out the window of the ballroom, watching the street. As she came closer, he turned to her.

  “Hello, Willem.”

  “Having fun?” He asked.

  “This is the second time we’ve spoken today. I thought you wanted a lovely night,” she said to him. “But it appears I’m another bit of scenery for your grand opening, yes? You have a famous blacksmith, a famous venue, the countess and her coterie of semi-noble friends, Baron Tielman and the Belle of the Blade… and me, another exhibit for the exclusivity of your society. Am I right?”

  “Of course you are,” he said without hesitation. “I thought that was clear from the outset.”

  “You said you wanted someone to make your night shine,” Petronella gave a stilted smile. “I assumed you wished me to make you shine, hanging by your side. As a date.”

  “Oh. That’s… hmm.” He pursed his lips. “You’re a priestess. I thought they couldn’t do romantic relationships.”

  “What?” She narrowed her eyes. “There’s no such rule. Many of my sisters are married, even. The goddess of life encourages all unions between man and woman. Where did you possibly hear that we weren’t allowed?”

  “I don’t know. Guesswork.” He shrugged. “I learned enough about the church to avoid getting into trouble. I filled in the blanks for all the rest.”

  Petronella laughed disbelievingly. “You’re telling this to a matriarch of the church? Willem, Willem, Willem…” she shook her head, but couldn’t drop her smile.

  “I apologize if I gave the wrong impression,” he said with sincerity. “I don’t apologize often, so savor the words. Hold them dear. Just… not too dear. It’s a cordial apology, not a heartfelt one.”

  “How sorry are you?” she pressed.

  “Well… the problem was caused by words.” He smirked. “I was hoping to resolve it with words, too.”

  “If you’ll notice, Willem, I came here with that misunderstanding.” She walked a little closer, quieting her voice. “And your misconception about my unavailability has been resolved. So…”

  Willem raised his hand, and Petronella hoped she’d finally broken down the man’s wall… but instead, he put a firm hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m flattered, but relationships between business associates is something I’ve learned to avoid.” He smiled politely. “You’re overseeing the society, and things could become problematic if we were entangled.”

  “And if there was no business association?” She continued, unwilling to admit defeat.

  “I’m not fond of hypotheticals,” Willem said.

  “I came out here tonight,” Petronella said, hoping to trigger his guilt. “Can’t you at least give me a firm answer? Do you find me unattractive? Do you prefer the company of… others?”

  Willem hesitated for a few moments before saying, “I prefer older women.”

  Petronella’s brain encountered an error and was forced to restart.

  “You’re a beautiful young lady, don’t get me wrong,” Willem said like he was reassuring her wounded ego. “But age brings with it wisdom. There’s an imbalance that I’m uncomfortable dealing with when dating young people. We have a lot less in common. It’s a maturity of the mind that’s most important to me.”

  “How old are you talking about?” Petronella said, listening with abject curiosity. “I’m six years older than you, so…?”

  “Ah, well…” Willem trailed off into a mutter.

  “Thirty years of age?” Petronella probed, seeking a reaction. “Forty?”

  “Closer, but let’s not put a number on it.” Willem shook his head.

  Nearby, one of the female servants dropped a platter, the wine glasses spilling everywhere. Willem turned his head in the direction of the accident. The serving girl stared at Willem, mortified.

  “Shit. Liquid money, wasted…” he ground his teeth together. “Listen, Petronella. I’m flattered by your attention, but I’d prefer we continue to do good work together. Okay? Okay.”

  With no further room for discussion, Willem walked away to help clean up the mess. Petronella was left to grapple with what he’d just said alone. She’d been rejected for her age—not because of her true age, but because of her false age of twenty-six.

  Petronella had encountered countless oddities in her long life, but this? She would surely never forget this night. She looked out the window with an utterly amused smile, thoroughly enjoying this assignment in Gent. She was glad she’d covered for Willem in her reports. It made for a much more amusing world.