Lance stood in front of a mirror, looking himself over while the off-color music of snoring night crew workers drifted up from around a bend in the barracks wall. What few servants were still around were nearly all snug in their beds with their coverlets pulled over their heads to block out the noontime sun drifting through the windows, just beginning its trek toward the evening low.

  By the light of that very same sun, he looked himself over. Golden eyes stared back at him from within a pale, angular face. His nose was slender and slightly crooked, his cheekbones low and broad. His hair dripped with water from a poured stone basin, which was cast in a mold so that the working along the edge resembled briars. He gripped it with white knuckled fists.

  Soon enough, chicken feathers would begin to creep out of the mass of straight, silver-blonde hair. He might think about smoothing them, then, a nervous habit. He hoped he could maintain his cool.

  Ben had invited him to join him in the Core, had passed the message on through Ariana just that morning. He suspected the location and time were Ariana’s suggestion. He had intended to do the asking himself, of course, but time and all of his worries had gotten away from him, leaving him uncertain whether he should make the first move or wait for this would be suitor to take the initiative.

  If it could just be like this all the time. He thought, looking himself over.

  He touched the side of his neck, where a wound so old he sometimes forgot it was there at all stood out in a darker shade against the skin. He could not remember how he had come by it, but it must have happened in early childhood. If he remembered so much of his life in the palace, those earliest years were a different matter.

  Letting his hand drop, he turned from the mirror, and headed out of his barracks.

  Time I got to the Core. The thought that Ben might not be there when he arrived, that he might not show up at all, crossed his mind. He pushed it down forcefully, yet it lingered in the periphery, waiting for the first sign he had been duped to come storming back into the fore, where it would put down roots and invite all of his great and small insecurities back into him. Right now, he was feeling brave. Brave enough, certainly, to entertain this..whatever it was…date?

  He’ll be there. He wouldn’t stand me up like that.

  Halfway across the palace from the Servant’s Tower and his barracks, he entered a cylindrical garden through a wrought-bronze gate designed in the image of peonies and plum blossoms. The garden was full of trees and bright flowers, a broad array of different kinds which suffused the air with their perfume, quite unbothered by the chill air or a bitter winter looming just over the horizon.

  Gardeners, a class of servants with some knowledge of horticultural magic, kept the flowers in bloom and the leaves on the trees whole and green in defiance of the natural passage of seasons. While the world beyond the palace walls descended into autumn, and the leaves on oak, maple and birch turned vivid red and yellow, then dropped from their bows, the gardens and the flowers scattered throughout the halls of the palace remained, heralding a never ending spring.

  He closed the gate behind him, and traveled away along a winding, river stone pathway which took him toward the garden’s heart. The Core was called, by the nobility, the Hall of Glory, and was originally designed to be a cunning trap in wartime, for the defense of the palace, which was meant to look like an easy regrouping point for an invading force. The bricks had been laid at angle, similar in some ways to a tortoise shell, with ridges protruding from the bottoms and slick faces which tapered near their height to become flush with the walls. They were designed to provide the illusion of hand-holds for climbing, and rose to level with a series of windows on each of the four floors framing it.

  From the windows, soldiers might lob from narrow windows along those curved walls. They could weaponize every tree and shrub with fire, lob projectiles of all kinds at the enemy, and the enemy would be helpless as long as they remained there. What was more, the halls immediately surrounding the garden had no direct connections, no conveyances which might lead from one floor to another, and some of the doors in those hallways were false, leading into nothing but poured stone.

  If they were nothing else, the Shadovani elves of old were cunning. This garden had been modified some four hundred years in the past, when times in the Sun Empire were tumultuous, and rebellion was becoming a common feature in the north lands. Since then, the Hall of Glory, the Core, had become a place of quiet ambiance for those who wished for a moment’s peace to reflect and enjoy the scenery. It had become a popular place for servants to meet, in the colder months, as the nobility seldom ventured beyond their halls except to travel into the countryside.

  It was, he reflected, a perfect setting to get to know someone. Be it Ben’s idea or Ariana’s, they had chosen well.

  Lance walked the spiral pathway toward his destination. The most obvious place for them to meet would be at the garden’s heart. He came around a bend in the path, and latched eyes onto something he should not see. Something which would, nonetheless, be burned into his mind’s eye for some time, unshakable for its absurdity.

  A lady lounged on a park bench, her arms spread over its backrest, her fingers twined in the bars. She wore a dress with a plunging neckline which exposed her supple, milky breasts. Her eyes were closed and her head upturned.

  She gasped. Her chest heaved, and her hips shifted backward, ground into the backrest.

  Lance looked down the front of her dress. Her skirts were flared outward, and a third and fourth leg, turned outward with knees set against the ground and draped in light-gray cloth, peaked out from underneath them. A man was settled between her legs, and the skirts twitched with the movement of his shoulders. Her own legs were propped on top of them, her moccasins carving twisting arcs through still air.

  He recognized the woman—he had seen her not so long ago—and lingered for a moment, wondering who her latest toy was. Had Ben not said this latest beau was a military man, a young soldier? He wondered if it was anyone he would recognize; and, fearing he might be caught up in her antics, that he may face harsh punishment over it, he moved on.

  Lady Therien’s head descended, and her eyes fluttered open.

  Lance ducked behind a shrub, avoiding her eye, but she seemed to suspect something anyway, and pressed her skirts down around her suitor’s shoulder.

  Her skirts parted as the suitor threw them off of him. He cast about for what had disturbed her, and Lance fixed him in his sights. He did recognize him, and suddenly understood why Ben had been so insistent on exercising caution with this one. Indeed, if her husband discovered them, things would get messy not just for her, but for anyone who was perceived to have known what went on between them.

  Lord Tarkenta?

  He was a man that minded of a statue, with chiseled features, high cheekbones, a beak of a nose and somewhat sunken eyes. His hair was streaked with iron-gray strands, which had pushed in from the sides so that the original black was less than a handful scattered under the gray.

  “What? Was it too sloppy?” He asked her.

  “No.” she said. “I thought…never mind. You may continue.”

  He plunged back under her skirts, and she tilted her chin up once more, closed her eyes and purred while he did his work.

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  Lance took the opportunity to leave.

  That was close. He thought, amused and at the same time aware he had narrowly avoided a trip to Lady Tamalsen’s office for a caning. To think she’d take the risk. With all of those windows.

  He found Ben sitting on the ledge of a fountain. The fountain’s centerpiece was a sculpture made to look like a cliff with several disk-like rises climbing along its sides, forming a spiral with roads like catwalks connecting one rise to the next. It was meant to be a model of Mirrhvale, where the Emperor lived, and it had not always been there. The centerpieces in the Core’s fountain changed with the seasons, with sculptors submitting their proposals for consideration and one high lady or another lord approving the design for any given season. The winter’s design had been postponed for something more intimately associated with the coming event, and so a piece of Mirrhvale had come to live in Shadovane, to delight the palace residents and its visitors with notions of a far away place, and all the romance it offered.

  Fish of various kinds flitted about in the moat. Minnows traveled in schools among rocks and reeds while fat carp drifted lazily along with the current.

  He watched as Ben thrust his hand into the pool, water and foam spraying away from the sight of impact. Harassed fish darted away as he came out empty handed, and followed their travels with a sad look on his face.

  Lance approached him, wondering what he meant to accomplish with this strange game as he repeated the action, again coming up empty handed.

  He sat next to him. “Hi again.”

  Ben spun toward him. He overbalanced and fell into the pool back first, catching himself in the knee-deep water on both arms just before his head submerged.

  Lance chuckled. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You uh…it happens.” Ben said.

  “Are you okay?” Lance held out a hand that Ben took, helped him onto the ledge.

  “I’m fine. A little wet”—he gestured at himself— “But otherwise good.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I was tryin’ to catch a fish. I did it once before. I wanted to see if I could again. Is that weird? It’s weird, isn’t it?”

  Lance shrugged. “It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve seen today.”

  “What is?” He pulled his shirt over his head—revealing again his slender torso, coin-sized nipples, eggshell skin—and set it aside.

  Heat flooded into Lance’s cheeks.

  He grinned. The sun touched his eyes and added its warmth to them, bringing out the red beneath the brown.

  “When you said Lady Therien was seeing a soldier….”

  Ben guffawed. “You saw them? Are they here?”

  “They’re just past that bend.” Lance said quietly, pointing up the direction he had come.

  “We should probably take this somewhere else, then.”

  “The laundry, maybe?”

  He looked himself over. His pants were still sodden, and his shirt—now hung over his arm, streamed water onto the tiles. He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “It’s closer than the Servant’s Tower.”

  “Yeah, and I’d be short a uniform if we went there anyway. Bright side is Mistress Rosaline is usually willing to part with a fresh change no questions asked.”

  “You’ve had to do this before?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is there a story there?”

  “Nothing crazy. Just occupational hazards of the work I do. Sometimes something spills…or explodes all over you.”

  A brief but pointed image flashed across

  Lance’s mind. He stuffed that down, too. “Shall we?” he gestured down a path that led in the opposite direction from which he had come.

  Ben led the way, past apple blossoms and then into the warmer reaches of the halls. He shivered as they crossed the threshold, the warmth reminding him just how much colder the garden was than the halls.

  “So…about the other day.” Lance said.

  “I don’t mind.” Ben said too quickly. “I haven’t told anyone what happened and I’m not going to. Besides, it’s not your fault you have a…well, anyway.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. But let’s put that to bed. I kind of hoped you’d show up.”

  “Ariana came up with the idea, didn’t she?”

  “She was really persistent. I was going to ask you today, anyway, but she wanted details. Plans. Thought I couldn’t handle coming up with an idea on my own, apparently.”

  “So, she settled on the Core?”

  “No, that was my idea. She floated the Teacher’s Tower.”

  “That’s unlike her.”

  “Well, it makes a kind of sense. No one bothers the servants there, and the views from the top level are spectacular. Especially around sunset.”

  “Maybe next time then.” Lance said.

  A shadow of doubt darkened Ben’s expression.

  “Shit, sorry. I don’t mean to…I mean…I just put my foot in my mouth, didn’t I?”

  “It’s okay. I just thought…never mind.”

  “We’re okay?”

  “Of course.”

  They talked at length as they ventured through the corridors, took the first opportunity to exit into the servants tunnels. They were no glamorous place to travel, but they provided a necessary measure of discretion. It did not do to be seen in such a state of disrepair as Ben currently was by the nobility. Word would get back to Lady Therien or Lady Tamalsen or both before long then, and he would be punished, trivial though the reason was.

  They arrived at the laundry. Ben did not mention the need to take the slower, more mundane route to get there, did not mention the strange sensation that stole over Lance when he was exposed to shadow walking, seemingly even small doses.

  The laundry was a cavernous space not unlike the Furnaces in its design, except that instead of giant, metal boxes, wide-mouthed tip kettles occupied most of the space, and on elevated rises were drying lines populated with noble wears. The servants’ uniforms went into tumblers which one servant spun while others blasted air and raw heat into the chamber.

  Ben led him around these contraptions to the back, mounted a narrow, wrought-bronze staircase to an elevated rise where a lone desk rested. The Mistress of the Laundry reclined in a wingback chair with her feet resting on the edge of the desk.

  Mistress Rosaline was of harua descent, but taller than Ariana by a head. She was middle aged, not as old as Mistress Dina or Master Gregor but still older than most servants by at least a decade. Planar cheekbones were drawn down over a round chin, and jet black hair was tied in a neat tail behind her head. She wore the white uniform of a servant, not the black more fitting of a woman of her station, but then no one was going to come to call on her about it. No one of consequence ever bothered to come down here.

  Her eyebrow quirked up at the sight of Ben, a complete lack of surprise traced across her fine features.

  Her gaze shifted to Lance.

  “You brought a friend.”

  “Yeah…well, I kind of embarrassed myself.”

  “Should I even ask?”

  “It’s not a very good story.”

  She cocked her thumb in the direction of a series of racks against the wall, all loaded down with fresh linens and changes. “Take what you need.”

  “Thank you, Mistress Rosaline.”

  They ambled over to the racks. She followed them with her gaze. “You know I’m not used to seeing a guy coming in looking like that. They usually don’t bring their friends with them either.”

  “Oh shut up!” he groused, as he poured over the shelves in search of a new shirt, undergarments and trousers. He selected out the items in his size, pulled them down and started undressing.

  Lance turned away, a bright flush creeping across his cheeks. He met Mistress Rosaline’s eye and shied away.

  “Never seen a naked guy before?” she asked.

  “It’s just…we only just….”

  She nodded, her tongue pressed against her cheek. “Yeah. I can see that.”

  “Could you cut the guy a little slack.” Ben said.

  “It’s really okay.” Lance twisted round to mollify him, caught him pulling on a new pair of socks. He was otherwise naked.

  He twisted sharply around to face Mistress Rosaline, his face beet red.

  “Fun date?” Mistress Rosaline asked Ben.

  “It’s getting interesting. That’s for sure.”

  “You gonna go for a second round.”

  “This is the second round.”

  “So you like him?”

  “Y-yeah. I suppose I do.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?” Lance echoed.

  “Good.” Ben said. “As long as you like me too.”

  “I-I do. S-so far. A-are you decent?”

  “Decent enough.” Mistress Rosaline said.

  Lance turned around again. Ben was there, standing a few inches from him with a clean shirt in one hand and his pants securely on. He backed up a step. “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry, I just….”

  “Stop talking, please.” Mistress Rosaline said. “You can see he’s trying to go for it, right? Just let him kiss you.”

  Lance froze, cast about at several objects, avoiding looking at Ben far too long. Ben laced his fingers into his, drew him closer. “It’s okay. She’s just messin’ with you.” He said. “Wants a performance she’s not gettin’.”

  He looked to her over Lance’s shoulder, a grin spread across his lips.

  She stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re no fun.

  “Put your shirt on. Get out of here.”

  He slipped into the shirt, turned around and made a rude gesture at her.

  “Should you be—“

  “Don’t worry. We’re friends.”

  “All…alright.”

  “So, you want to see me again?”

  “Yes.” Lance said, deflating.

  “Good. I want to see you too. Let’s plan next week.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lady Tamalsen assigned me to the reception ceremony.”

  “Well great! She’ll have you workin’ with us. I can see if Lady Therien will put in a word to have you placed with me.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Of course.” He grinned. “How else am I going to convince you of my merits?”