The doors stood open on a ballroom bright enough to make discretion difficult. Amber candlelight warmed burgundy velvet, crimson roses, black lace, and antique-gold filigree, while moonlight shone through the arched windows. On a raised stage, pale-blue, translucent ghost musicians readied bowed strings around a black grand piano for the first dance. Kurama Shibuya regarded the scene with the measured interest he usually reserved for a book whose first page had yet to disappoint him. Nobody had admitted to hosting this year’s Hollowveil Ball. Half the customary guests had received no invitation at all. Those who had were required to conceal their faces and reserve their midnight dance, which was a considerable number of instructions from someone unwilling to supply a name.

Kri had already finished adjusting Mizu’s neckcloth and offered to introduce him to a fire bucket after Mizu observed the number of candles. Kirito had defended the observation as conversation; Kurama had taken the opportunity to establish that the room contained chairs. Mizu was now conducting a second inspection of a glove fastening that had apparently changed since the carriage journey. It was reassuring to find that an unfamiliar gathering had not deprived his brothers of their usual occupations.

Kurama kept his gaze on the ballroom as he addressed the brothers gathered beside him. “Perhaps the host is simply avoiding the receiving line,” he murmured. “A sensible precaution. I may begin answering correspondence anonymously.”

“You already answer it so seldom that several people must assume you’re dead,” Kirito said at Kurama’s left, turning his face toward him. His silver spectacles sat neatly within the shape of his indigo mask, and his long navy braid lay over the back of a midnight-blue coat. “I would prefer not to be left correcting the notices.”

Kurama tilted his head toward Kirito. “You could write something brief.”

“I could. Then Kri would demand an account of your wardrobe,” Kirito replied, glancing across Kurama toward Kri.

“Someone would have to explain the wasted potential.” Standing at Kurama’s other side, Kri smoothed the violet corset beneath his dark, draped coat, his wolf ears turning toward the ballroom. A teal-tipped fall of hair shifted against sheer black embroidery. “Do try to look pleased when they announce us, Kurama. I refuse to spend the evening beside a beautifully upholstered complaint.”

Kurama glanced down at the antique-gold work on his own deep-violet coat, then looked back at Kri. “You approved this.”

Kri indicated Kurama’s coat with an open hand. “The coat. I cannot be held responsible for what you put inside it.”

Just behind Kurama and Kri, Mizu’s mouth moved at one corner. He had been quietly checking the fit of a glove over one broad hand, black ears visible above his simple mask. Looking from Kri to Kurama, he added, “He was already like that when he got dressed.”

“Thank you,” Kurama said, turning enough to include Mizu. “At last, someone willing to acknowledge my consistency.”

From his place beside the open doors, the attendant raised his voice before Kri could answer. “Kirito Shibuya.” A pause, the turn of a card. “Kurama Shibuya. Mizu Shibuya. Kri Shibuya.”

They entered together when the last name had been spoken, four brothers making room for one another without needing to look down. Kirito shifted half a step to keep Kri’s flowing skirted layer clear of his boots; Mizu let a passing guest through before closing the small gap at Kurama’s shoulder. Beyond the doorway, they stopped in a loose half-circle beside a pillar, clear of the arriving guests. Their names had drawn glances, but Kurama met the nearest with the same practiced smile he offered at every formal gathering. Beneath his mask, his pale eyes remained half-lidded. The gold chains in his pink braids stirred as he turned toward Kri.

“There. I smiled,” Kurama told Kri, holding the expression for his inspection.

Kri studied Kurama’s face. “Yes, and somewhere a creditor has lost the will to live.”

“That was the encouraging version,” Kirito told Kri, nodding toward Kurama. “You should have seen the one he gave me when I suggested leaving the house.”

“I came willingly,” Kurama replied to Kirito.

Mizu looked at Kurama from beside his shoulder. “You asked if the carriage seats reclined.”

Kurama turned his head toward Mizu. “An unrelated inquiry into the quality of our transport.”

Kri laughed, bright and unashamed, and Kurama found himself a little less inclined to resent the room. Across it, a feathered mask nodded above an extravagantly high collar; closer by, a guest’s furred tail swept clear of a passing tray. All the familiar exertions of polite society had dressed themselves in more interesting shapes tonight. Perhaps an unknown host really could arrange something worth attending. At the very least, the reduced guest list had provided several people with a grievance too absorbing to leave them time for his.

Kirito leaned toward Kurama, bringing his voice beneath the noise of the room. “If you discover a library, tell us before you disappear.”

“So that you can follow?” Kurama asked Kirito.

Kirito met Kurama’s sidelong look. “So that I know which room to search when you insist you were only resting your eyes.”

“I shall send a written notice,” Kurama assured Kirito.

“Addressed anonymously,” Mizu added from Kurama’s other side.

Kurama gave Mizu a slow look. “You become very talkative in bad company.”

“He’s learning,” Kri said to Kurama, directing an approving smile at Mizu. “We must encourage him.”

Mizu checked the glove again, drawing Kurama’s attention down to his hands. “Still attached?” Kurama asked. “I was becoming invested.”

“Find your chair,” Mizu replied, dropping his hands to his sides with an air of finality. Kri was already examining a particularly ambitious display of gold embroidery farther into the room, while Kirito appeared ready to qualify his assessment. Kurama allowed their brief disagreement over its construction to pass without volunteering to inspect it.

Mizu’s amusement lasted until his gaze crossed the room. His black ears tilted back slightly. He took half a step backward and stopped with one boot beside the pillar’s base; then he looked toward the musicians with a concentration their adjustments did not merit. Kurama followed that brief glance and found Adsila Elios beyond the edge of the floor. Her dark curls and golden-tan skin were familiar even behind a mask. More familiar still was the direction of her attention. It passed over Kurama with very little difficulty and settled on his brother.

“Oh,” Kri said, following Adsila’s line of sight to Mizu. He kept his voice quiet enough that the words belonged to the four of them. “Mizu, you’ve been discovered.”

“I haven’t been hiding,” Mizu told Kri, bringing his back foot forward again.

“You were considering it,” Kurama observed, looking from Mizu to the doors behind them.

Mizu turned his face toward Kurama. “I was looking at the doors.”

“Yes. The traditional beginning,” Kurama replied.

Mizu folded his hands, reconsidered the arrangement, and let them fall to his sides. “I’m going to get a drink.”

“Try asking for one,” Kri advised Mizu, indicating a footman carrying a tray nearby. “Pointing at the tray and saying ‘that’ might give you more champagne than you want.”

“I can ask for a drink,” Mizu said, looking directly at Kri.

Kri lowered his hand. “Excellent. We’ll build from there.”

Kirito’s smile softened before he turned back to Kurama. He jerked his chin toward Adsila as the musicians settled into readiness. “The first dance.”

Kurama followed Kirito’s gesture toward Adsila, then looked back at his brother and sighed. “I was hoping you had developed a brief but convenient lapse in memory.”

“I could forget it. She would still be standing there,” Kirito replied, keeping his voice low.

“Your dedication to useless accuracy remains inspiring,” Kurama told Kirito.

“Thank you. Your dedication to postponing the inevitable gives me ample practice.” Kirito’s voice lowered further, the joke thinning into something gentler. “One dance, Kurama.”

Kri’s theatrical expression quieted too, and he turned from Mizu to Kurama. “I’ll save my best observations until you return. There’s a man near the far doors whose waistcoat deserves witnesses.”

“Do not begin without me,” Kurama told Kri. He straightened his cuffs, stepped out of the group, and crossed toward Adsila at the edge of the dance floor. A glance back showed Kri moving to Mizu’s side as the footman approached with his tray; Kirito remained beside the pillar.

Adsila watched him approach with the unwelcoming composure of someone who had already counted the steps between them and regretted every one. At five feet three, she had to raise her chin to meet his eyes; she made it feel like an accusation against his height. Kurama stopped in front of her, offered the appropriate bow, and straightened with his left hand extended, palm up. Around them, other couples were moving toward the floor, skirts whispering over the boards.

“You took your time,” Adsila said, looking from Kurama’s waiting hand to his face.

Kurama kept his hand extended. “I was enjoying myself. An unfamiliar sensation. I paused to examine it.”

“How unfortunate that it passed,” Adsila replied, her chin still raised toward Kurama.

“You should be proud of your efficiency,” Kurama told her.

Adsila’s right hand settled in Kurama’s left with exactly as much enthusiasm as his invitation had deserved. Being betrothed made them the expected partners for the opening dance, whatever either of them thought of it. Kurama led her onto the floor and turned to face her, placing his right hand at her left shoulder blade while she rested her free hand on his upper arm. He held their joined hands out to one side, maintained the proper distance between their bodies, and began with the music. Adsila followed the measure as confidently as she had received him, her expression giving the room nothing useful. From a few paces away, they might have looked entirely suitable.

“You nearly drove Mizu into a pillar,” Kurama remarked as he guided Adsila through a turn, bringing the pillar briefly into view.

Adsila’s eyes narrowed. “He was making room.”

“For the air?” Kurama asked Adsila.

“For another guest,” Adsila answered.

Kurama kept his attention on Adsila as they continued around the floor. “The guest was on the other side of him. Unless he expected them to come through the stone.”

“He’s considerate. I appreciate that the quality is difficult for you to recognize,” Adsila told Kurama.

“I recognize it perfectly,” Kurama replied. “I was considering whether to have a chair brought over for him. He looked terrified.”

“He’s a knight, Kurama,” Adsila said, her voice clipped.

“Yes. Apparently the training leaves certain gaps,” Kurama replied. “Someone should prepare him for a woman saying good evening.”

Adsila glanced past Kurama’s shoulder. As the dance brought him around, Kurama followed her glance. At the edge of the floor, Mizu stood beside Kri with a glass in his right hand and his left hand held awkwardly clear of it. When he noticed her looking, he attempted a courteous acknowledgment, caught himself halfway between a nod and a bow, and very nearly introduced his drink to his own lapel. Kri reached across with his left hand and steadied the bowl of the glass while Mizu kept hold of its stem. Once the glass was upright, Kri withdrew his hand. Mizu said something to Kri with a thoroughly embarrassed set to his mouth; Kri, for once, managed to keep his reply below the music. A little later, Kurama caught sight of Kirito beside them with his invitation in hand, apparently qualifying some claim about its missing signature. He could not hear the exchange from the dance floor and had no intention of supplying a question that might prolong it.

Kurama brought his attention back to his partner. “There. A devastating encounter.”

“You might try helping him instead of finding it amusing,” Adsila told Kurama, returning her gaze to him.

“He has Kri. I’m fulfilling my obligations elsewhere,” Kurama replied to Adsila.

“How heroic,” Adsila said, her expression unchanged.

“It has required exceptional fortitude,” Kurama answered.

“Then you should be delighted that I would rather be dancing with him,” Adsila told Kurama.

He had known that. Her interest had scarcely demanded interpretation, and his brother’s discomfort offered no reason to suspect encouragement. Nevertheless, hearing the preference spoken so easily brought an unpleasant tightness beneath Kurama’s ribs. He adjusted their course around another couple and gave himself the turn to dispose of it. Adsila was still watching him when he looked back.

“I gathered as much,” Kurama said to Adsila. “Your attention has been wonderfully consistent. It has spent almost none of the dance here.”

“And you’ve spent all of it discussing him,” Adsila replied. “Shall we both attempt another subject?”

“The host, perhaps,” Kurama suggested to Adsila. “An admirable example of someone who has brought us together and then wisely stayed out of reach.”

“If only everyone responsible for bringing us together had shown the same restraint,” Adsila replied.

For a moment, the remark landed somewhere too old to be funny. Their families had managed to mistake his childhood cruelty for a boy’s concealed affection, and every repetition of that charming explanation had made the actual truth more difficult to hear. He had treated her badly. Adsila had hated him for it. There had been nothing coy or tender underneath, however convenient tenderness would have made the story for the people arranging their future.

“Yes,” Kurama said, his voice losing its lightness. “They might have listened.”

“To me, certainly,” Adsila replied.

“To either of us,” Kurama answered.

“You made a habit of being unpleasant, and they decided I ought to be flattered. I’m afraid I never acquired the taste,” Adsila told Kurama.

“I haven’t asked you to,” Kurama replied.

“No. You’ve merely continued providing opportunities,” Adsila told him.

His mouth tightened. It would have been easy to answer with another polished insult, and familiar enough that neither would remember it tomorrow. Instead, he watched the next turn of the floor come toward them, the orderly progression of people who knew precisely where they were supposed to stand. Society had no difficulty placing him. Kurama Shibuya was engaged. Taken. He had never openly pursued anyone while that understanding held, no matter how thoroughly he despised the marriage it promised him.

Apparently, he had been observing the restrictions alone.

“Must you make your preference quite so public?” Kurama asked Adsila, lowering his voice as another couple passed close beside them.

Adsila’s gaze sharpened. “Would you prefer that I pretended to want you?”

“No,” Kurama answered.

“Then we have managed to agree on something,” Adsila replied.

Kurama looked down at Adsila without changing his hold. “There is a considerable distance between that and pursuing my brother in front of me.”

“He’s kind to people,” Adsila said to Kurama.

“So are many people,” Kurama replied. “You’ve selected a particularly inconvenient example.”

“I didn’t select him to inconvenience you,” Adsila answered Kurama. “Believe it or not, every feeling I have is not an arrangement made for your benefit.”

“I had begun to suspect,” Kurama said.

“Good. Then you can stop looking offended every time I speak to someone I actually like,” Adsila told Kurama.

The words should have been no more injurious than anything else she had said. He did not want her affection; even the idea exhausted him. Yet there was a peculiar humiliation in being expected to stand still inside a future neither of them wanted while she reached past him, openly, toward someone else. His own restraint felt abruptly foolish. Worse, he could hear the grievance forming in his voice and disliked that almost as much as the feeling itself.

“I am not objecting to your liking people,” Kurama said to Adsila.

“Only to my making it obvious that you aren’t one of them,” Adsila replied.

Kurama let a beat of music pass. “You’ve made it obvious enough.”

Something in his delivery ended the exchange where another barb might have prolonged it. His left hand held hers steadily, and his right stayed at her shoulder blade; his steps did not falter. Adsila had no obligation to mend the hurt, and he had no wish to place it in her keeping. They completed the remaining measures with the same immaculate cooperation they had brought to the opening ones, two people capable of performing a dance without agreeing on anything beyond its ending.

When the music stopped, Kurama lowered their joined hands, released her fingers, and removed his right hand from her back. Adsila let her hand fall from his arm, and he stepped back. He bowed with precisely the courtesy he would have offered a stranger, neither lingering nor allowing the gesture to suggest anything more intimate. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Elios.”

Adsila’s reply was equally formal. Kurama inclined his head to acknowledge it, then turned away before either of them could find another reason to remain.

The ballroom seemed hotter on the way through it. A laugh rang out close to his shoulder; perfume and candle wax thickened the air, and the musicians were already preparing to make everyone move again. Kurama returned a greeting without retaining its words. He did not seek out his brothers. Kri would notice too much, Kirito would ask the right question, and Mizu would look at him with concern he had done nothing to deserve being burdened with. Kurama wanted a few minutes in which nobody expected an answer.

The balcony doors offered exactly that possibility. Kurama pushed one glass door open and passed through, leaving the bright room at his back, and let the colder air reach his face. He let the door settle behind him and walked a few paces onto the balcony; the music softened behind the glass. Beyond the balustrade, the grounds receded into darkness, their edges far less insistent than the glittering room he had escaped. He drew a slow breath and allowed his shoulders to ease.

Miserable. He was thoroughly miserable over a rejection he would have returned without hesitation, which seemed an unnecessarily elaborate way for an evening to become unpleasant.

Kurama looked away from the grounds and discovered that the balcony was already occupied.

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Kurama stopped a comfortable distance away. He did not recognize the other guest. Their recent debut had taken place during his supposed travels, leaving this introduction among the things he had missed. He had left the city, certainly. He had also come back; society’s account of his absence had continued quite satisfactorily without his assistance. Now, for once, that gap had produced someone for whom he had no rehearsed greeting, no remembered grievance, no prediction of the conversation waiting to occur.

He could excuse himself. It would be easy to retreat indoors and find another quiet corner, resume the evening with the careful indifference he understood. Instead, he found himself wanting to learn a name. The smallness of the desire did not stop him noticing it. Civil conversation had never been forbidden to him, but he knew the difference between politeness performed on the way past and a question asked because he wanted to stay for the answer.

Facing the other guest without closing the distance, Kurama offered a slight bow, less distant than the one he had left inside. “Kurama Shibuya,” he said, his voice low in the quiet. “Forgive the intrusion. I seem to have mistaken an absence of conversation for a vacant balcony.”

A trace of dry humor returned to Kurama’s mouth. His hands rested loosely at his sides, and he remained clear of the doorway, leaving both the space and the question open. “Would you prefer to keep it quiet, or may I ask whom I’ve interrupted?”