When everything finally calmed, the two of them lay wrapped in each other's arms.
Vivian spoke slowly, "Little Heart, you must take the acting of your potion slowly. The Demoness Sect is currently selecting a new 'saint'—that's nothing good."
"Besides, I now hate the thought of you advancing to sequence 7."
The words set Altair's blood racing. "Vivian, what Sequence are you at now?"
She sighed in resignation. "I just advanced to sequence six a while ago; only after being with you did the potion begin to digest. At this morning's pace it'll take at least half a year."
"Little Heart, you probably ought to know a few things about the Demoness Sect—not much, but enough. Let me explain."
"The Demoness Sect controls the full Assassin Pathway and part of the Seer Pathway. We have a few low- and maybe even high-Sequence formulas for other Paths, yet we never train newcomers in anything but Assassin. A handful of the lucky ones become Seers, but they never join the Sect; they can only enter the subordinate group, the Theosophy Order. At the core of the Demoness Sect there are only Demonesses."
"The archbishop at the heart of the Sect is Judith, the Gray Demoness—child of the Primordial Demoness—along with thirteen high-Sequence Demonesses."
"…As for you, you're the antidote for my breakthrough to sequence five."
Watching Vivian smile while she joked, Altair knew her mood had steadied. "By your rules, then, you're now my wife. I'm no antidote—I'm your husband."
Meeting his serious gaze, Vivian answered with words she would regret: "Only if I agree."
"So? Do you yield now?"
Vivian replied with silence.
When she felt him stir beside her again, she could only surrender.
Only as dusk's light was fading did she give Altair the answer he wanted.
From her performance that afternoon Altair sensed something odd… After recovering, he rose to find food; seeing this, Vivian forced herself, despite her aches, to dress him.
Watching her stubborn effort, Altair felt a sudden warmth—and remorse that he might have gone too far.
Once he was clothed he made her stay in bed while he fetched their meal.
Outside the bedroom he noticed the villa's gas lamps already lit.
Down on the first floor he found Hahn; the steward regarded him with a peculiar look, words caught in his throat.
At last Hahn sighed. "Count Altair—do mind your health."
"What would you like for supper? Or is there anything Lady Vivian fancies?"
Certain the man knew everything, Altair rubbed his nose in embarrassment. "Ordinary fare is fine—add a chicken soup."
With dinner still a while off, he grabbed some pastries and, under Hahn's amused stare, carried them back upstairs.
Vivian sat propped against the headboard, smiling the instant the door opened.
From Altair's angle she had smiled the moment he entered.
He stepped closer. "Missed me that much?"
What a blockhead, she thought; he still needs training—though can my body take it?
Noting her shifting expression, he lifted the pastries. "Supper's still cooking; have these for now."
When she said she hadn't the strength to lift a hand, he fed her piece by piece… Before many were gone the meal was ready.
A full day's exertions had left her shaky; Altair helped her dress and carried her to the dining-room.
The other servants had been dismissed. Loen was outwardly conservative; what happened in private stayed private. Since the previous Sunday Vivian had officially moved in, sharing meals and bed. While Altair attended classes she watched, sometimes wiping his sweat or pouring his tea… In the evenings she taught occultism, yoga, flexibility. That Friday night, lying together, she finally confessed how she had once schemed against him.
"Heart, do you ever wonder why you were made a Demoness and a countess in such short order?"
"Do you know the reason? I still can't fathom what George III is after."
She turned her head. "No one else manipulated you. From your ennoblement to drinking the potion, I pulled every string."
"And your goal?" he asked, eyes narrowing.
His tone stung; she looked away. "I marked you the moment you entered that banquet. Later, when you begged George III for a title with Leif Strauss, it stirred old memories—my ancestors once did the same. I decided you were meant for the Primordial One, and used George III to pull you in."
"But after these weeks I find I've probably fallen in love with you. I've been asking myself whether to confess—and I deeply regret my earlier choice."
His last puzzle—why he had been made a countess—was answered.
He rolled toward her. "I don't resent you; you're my lover. Becoming a Beyonder was always in my plan—just not by coercion."
"So the George III I met that night was you?"
Relieved he hadn't scolded her, she brightened. "Yes. How do you like that mirror? It was the first I ever made, blended with my blood and Beyonder ingredients—and I gave it to you."
Seeing her mood lift, he growled playfully, "Ready for your punishment?"
The childish threat made her wince; she yielded, trembling. "I'm at your mercy, my lord."
"Gently, my lord."