[b]Kalaya![/b]

“A fairy?” Agata’s laugh is both expansive and condescending, as if she’s delighted you’d actually try that. “That’s ridiculous! If it was one of their schemes, I would have…”

She breaks off, considers what she’s saying carefully. (That’s one of the special skills of the Rakshasa,  which you may or may not know: they prey in the empty spaces of perception. The more influence they exert, the harder it is to pin down that they’re responsible. And the Red Wolf knows that, too.)

Then she’s up in your face, fast, holding your chin with one hand, tilting it up, her eyes intense. Then she opens her eyes again, as if lifting a veil, as if pulling away a mask. The air is thick with heat, the kind that licks wood and fiber down to nothing, that demands no secrets before it. And you are a shadow in the sun, a little mouse before a viper, flickering, insubstantial—

And she slumps back in her chair, one hand over her eyes, teeth on display, louche. The heat, slow to dissipate, is all that remains of her full power. “Compress,” she says, holding out her other hand to the medic, fingers impatiently curling.

“Well,” she adds, to you, once a cold compress is laid over her (grandmother’s) eyes, leaning back with nonchalance in the chair. “It seems you’re right. They’re such pests, aren’t they?” Her teeth are so white. “I’ll have to see to an exorcist. But the best way to weaken an enchantment like that is to act very directly against it.”

She tents her fingers. “So I think I may be able to save you, Kalaya Na, from leading half of the Kingdoms into the waiting maw of the fairy folk. How exciting it will be!”

***

[b]Han![/b]

“You put that hand back,” the slave-girl says, teasingly, taking your wrist and guiding it back to— oh, [i]that[/i] fork. “I’ll do [i]anything[/i] you want tonight,” she continues, and she couldn’t possibly [i]mean[/i] what you think she might mean, “except letting you besmirch our reputation for hospitality.” Her eyes are sparkling as she leans in close and pours you more, until it’s almost at the rim, and then sets the pitcher down decisively close to her own seat. “Because we have to work [i]very[/i] hard on that reputation, I’ll have you know! I’ve done place-setting drills!” She pouts for a moment, before bouncing back (just like her nut-brown curls, bounce bounce).

“Anyway, how’d you get this one?” she continues, eyes savoring a scar running parallel to your bicep. And she wants to know! She super wants to know! And she smells of very expensive perfume, and she’s snuggling up next to you, and she’s even reaching over to help roll your duckskin pancakes while looking at you so expectantly, focused on what you want, how she can spoil you.

Maybe you haven’t even noticed the Red Wolf just smoothly letting conversation flow over your complaint, because you’re in the hands of Emli now, and she has the soul of the kind of puppy who will climb right back into your lap after you set her down on the floor. The social entrapment is all the more sinister for being orchestrated by Emli’s supervisor; she is all sincerity and completely guileless.

But you probably notice when the Red Wolf suddenly diverts the dinner conversation.

***

[b]Piripiri![/b]

Naji slithers up, with Maid Confined wobbling on her heels in her train. She’s got a dish for… you? Held out, with a pleading look, a “nnn[i]hm[/i]mmph,” and a nod of the head over to where Lotus sits. Lotus of Tranquil Waters, a hostage who could be the fulcrum on which the transfer of power turns, but one dangerous to publicly keep.

You already know the Red Wolf’s plan for her and her boisterous companion. They’ll be seen off publicly at Lanceolata, personally escorted off by Agata herself— and then they’ll vanish without a trace. And you know, too, who will be assigned the task of returning them to the Dominion’s arms.

Which makes the glance Lotus gives you over her shoulder all the more of an unintended knife. A hopeful “is she hungry?” sort of look. The kind that says that if Agata’s hand weren’t casually resting on her knee, she’d get up and already be asking you why you’re not sitting down (Grandmother forbid) or sharing in the meal. She picks up a strawberry and works it between her lips, completely innocent of how she looks while trying to nibble off the stem, and of how very conspicuous her sneaky glance back at you is. And she’s not just looking at you; she’s letting her eyes linger on the demonesses’ backs, too, when she thinks nobody’s watching, dragging those eyes from the Maid’s heels to her exposed back to the collar—

And then Agata directs everyone’s attention elsewhere, and the little flower jumps and chokes on the strawberry. She puts a hand to her mouth, eyes watering, and makes an effort of trying to swallow.

Someone could step in and help her. Should, even.

***

[b]Fengye![/b]

“And how did [i]you[/i] end up there?” Cathak Agata’s attention has suddenly snapped to you. “While we’re at it, what, is the food not good enough?” It’s probably maybe mostly a joke. “Who [i]are[/i] you, anyway? I don’t think we were introduced, and, does anyone…?”

She makes a show of looking around at everyone involved. Notably, the knight who brought you along, who trusted you, who thought you could be more even without the help of the goddess? She’s absent. She’s not here to step in and speak for you. And nobody else here really interacted with you, except for the priestess, and [i]she[/i] saw you turn into a raging part of the Broken King’s soul.

The Cathak scion turns her attention back to you, and waits for your answer. She’s smiling, but it’s a lazy, expectant smile. Or is it? What is she hiding behind it? Is she hoping to let you dig your own grave? Playing with you as a cat plays with a mouse?

***

[b]Giriel![/b]

Here’s the thing: you know.

Once get all your thoughts aligned in a row, that is. The warmth of Cathak Agata seems to radiate off of her, sinking into your bones, filling them up with lazy warmth. Comparisons might be made, by the bold, to a bear being lulled to hibernation. It doesn’t seem particularly intentional; it’s just that being near her, mid-meal, is making you feel like a cat with a belly full of milk, stretched out by the fire with her paws tucked in neatly.

And the smoke! It keeps drawing your attention away. Its curls up near the roof are a little like all those terrible snakes you had to endure, but, no, they twist and writhe as if suspended, and— every time you’re almost close to it, it’s gone. It smells wonderful. Like cinnamon and cloves.

Then Agata leans close and whispers in your ear: “Wait until you see what I have just for [i]you.[/i]” One finger drifts along the edge of your plate, the lacquered nail (three long, two short) almost scraping against the porcelain. And that gets some legs under you, though perhaps all pointed in the wrong direction. Her voice has such a lovely, playful trill to it, and her hair lingers, brushing against her shoulder as her attention darts back outwards. With the confidence of one of the Princes of the Earth, she simply assumes that you will be delighted to have her. And it is very doubtful that she is wrong. There’s a reason not to get too full yet, hmm?

But you know. You, alone out of the room, have the necessary pieces to know that whoever this meek, mousy little scribe is, she worked a spell over the General, a fragment of the Broken King himself, and reduced her to the furiously blushing, grunting, teetering-in-heels maid barely given enough time to finish pouring you more wine before, with a thickly-muffled whine, she’s pulled off towards the Dominion agent standing well behind you. She is a wonderworker, a sorceress, and she may have saved all your lives.

She also looks like she’s just risen out of her own grave, Agata’s attention on her making her seem to dwindle into a flickering little candle-flame, and she hasn’t said a [i]word[/i] about what she did. You don’t know who she is, why she’s not crowing about her victory, or why she allowed her prize to be taken from her— but you could reveal what she did to everyone.

Do you?