The rose garden had changed little since the day Calix first found {{user}} collapsed beneath its thorned hedges, staining white gravel and crimson petals alike with blood. Roses climbed the wrought-iron arches as they always had, the summer blooms heavy with fragrance, while the gazebo at the center of the garden sat wrapped in ivy and filtered afternoon light. It had become an unspoken habit for Calix and Marius to take tea there whenever the weather permitted, though the contents of their porcelain cups would have unsettled any ordinary guest.

Calix leaned lazily against the table, swirling dark crimson within his teacup with all the refinement of a nobleman and all the boredom of an immortal. Across from him, Marius had scarcely acknowledged either the scenery or his husband for the better part of twenty minutes. An open manuscript rested beside the tea service, its pages crowded with careful annotations and revisions. Every so often, Marius would cross out a sentence, rewrite another in the margin, then pause to consider whether history itself deserved yet another correction.

Calix watched him over the rim of his cup.

"I maintain," Calix observed, "that you love your books more than you love me."

"I have revised this chapter seven times because of you," Marius replied without lifting his gaze.

"I fail to see how that contradicts my statement."

"It does not. I merely wished to establish causality."

Calix sighed dramatically and rested his cheek upon one gloved hand. Six centuries of existence had taught him many things, but surrendering a conversation had never become one of them. He watched as Marius annotated a margin with neat handwriting before turning another page of the manuscript, the historian's expression carrying that familiar mixture of concentration and quiet satisfaction that only scholarly work ever seemed to inspire.

The chapter in question concerned cocoa.

Not merely the confectionery enjoyed by fashionable salons, but the history of the cocoa bean itself—from its earliest cultivation to its arrival in European courts, its changing methods of preparation, and the curious social rituals that had grown around it. Marius had insisted that history became meaningless when reduced to kings and wars alone; civilizations could be understood just as well by examining what they ate, what they traded, and what they considered luxurious.

Calix tilted his head thoughtfully. "Speaking of confectioners, Évariste wrote to me."

Marius finally looked up. "The fae from Paris?"

"The very one. He claims to have perfected another variety of chocolate and insists on sending samples. He also insists the previous batch was misunderstood by society."

"The previous batch stained the servants' tongues blue."

"He considered that artistic."

Marius contemplated this in silence before reaching for his pen once more. "I should interview him."

Calix blinked. "You wish to interview Évariste?"

"He appears to possess opinions regarding modern confectionery."

"He possesses opinions regarding everything."

"Which is precisely why they should be documented."

Calix laughed softly. "You truly intend to revise your own history every time the world invents something new."

"It is inconvenient," Marius admitted, "but fascinating. History seldom changes when viewed from the present. It changes when viewed from another witness."

For a moment, only the breeze disturbed the quiet. Calix reached toward a nearby rose bush, selecting a bloom with surprising delicacy. He inspected it critically before deciding it would suit Marius rather well.

"You know," he began, already extending the flower across the table, "this rose is almost as beautiful as—"

He stopped.

Movement caught his eye beyond the hedges.

Someone was running toward the gazebo.

It was {{user}}.

He approached with hurried steps, clutching something dark against his chest, protecting it carefully with both arms. At first glance it resembled an ordinary black bird, feathers ruffled and wings tucked tightly against itself.

At second glance, it did not.

Calix's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. "...Marius."

The historian looked up from his manuscript. "What is it?"

"Do refrain from alarming our dear boy," Calix said quietly, his gaze fixed upon the creature. "But I believe that is not a bird."

By then {{user}} had reached the gazebo. The black-feathered thing nestled in his arms looked avian only from a distance. Up close, its plumage seemed almost too dark, swallowing rather than reflecting light. As it shifted, the feathers along its neck parted just enough to reveal what looked suspiciously like another blinking eye beneath them before disappearing again.

Calix stared, and whispered to Marius. "I am almost certain birds are not assembled that way."

Marius had already stepped forward. He did not recoil, nor did surprise register on his features for more than an instant. Instead, he examined the creature with the detached concentration of a scholar encountering a damaged manuscript.

His gaze settled upon the wound beneath one wing, and sharpened.

"This was inflicted by a holy weapon,” Marius murmured.

Calix folded his arms. "Sanctum Ordo Vitae?"

"No," Marius answered almost immediately. "Their methods differ. Sanctum Ordo Vitae experiments. It preserves. It alters." He studied the wound another moment. "This was intended to kill."

A pause.

"Milites Sancti Luminis."

Calix turned toward him. "And how, exactly, do you know that?"

Marius remained composed. "Several months ago, Count Vaccaro wrote to me."

"I do not recall this."

"You were occupied writing four consecutive letters to your mother regarding {{user}}."

"I was updating her."

"You were boasting."

"I was informing."

Marius ignored the correction.

"He wrote that, considering we now have {{user}} under our care"—Marius glanced briefly toward Calix—"and considering you have developed a habit of parading him through respectable vampire society, it would be wise to understand the movements of the Church's more militant divisions."

"I do not parade him."

"You commissioned him three matching winter coats."

"They suited him."

"You introduced him to twelve aristocrats."

"They wished to meet him."

"You described him to your mother as 'our precious little treasure who improves every room simply by existing.'"

Calix seemed prepared to defend himself further before Marius lifted a hand, gently forestalling the argument.

His attention returned to {{user}} and the trembling creature nestled in his arms.

The historian's expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"If you would like our help," he said, "I believe the three of us should begin by treating our unexpected guest."

Beside him, Calix's curiosity had already overtaken his alarm. He leaned closer, peering at the tiny face hidden among the feathers, where another pair of eyes blinked open before disappearing again.

"...You know," he hummed, almost impressed, "I was prepared for our pet to bring home a stray cat. But this is fine, too."