…

“Yes, my lord.”

Great.

“For what it is worth, I do not wish to be your apprentice anyway.” She pats the wizard’s arm reassuringly.

“Thank you– hey.” He realises the insult.

Dearest gentle reader,

There are seasons when nothing happens; there are nights when whole seasons happen at once. 

For last night, the Baron Huntingdon, heretofore notable only for his odious halitosis and exceptional devotion to horticulture, was the unwitting host of one of the most extraordinary evenings the ton has witnessed in years. 

Where to turn first? At the centre of it all, like a Charybdis around whom all rumours ultimately swirl, stands the new Duke Voltur, whose handsome looks and gentle manner have - alas! - not spared him the predations of envious lords and covetous ladies. 

The Duke, it seems, made a most unaccustomed choice in appointing Dr Ambrose Deneith, a little-noticed second son of the fallen Imperial family, and quite unusually a practitioner of wizardry - supposedly, though quite without confirmation, at the Silvermoon Academy - as a Court Wizard. The Duke proceeded to demand for his new vassal the hand of one Miss Galora Kreel, a debutante of rare beauty and extraordinary chilliness, from her father. 

What the youthful wizard could possibly have done to merit such concern is, naturally, a mystery... as is the reason for his rather shocking outburst later - though surely his words need not be printed here, as all the city must have heard his rude cry, asking the Duke,  'ʜᴇ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ᴜs WHAT?'

Scurrilous rumours have, alas, followed the Deneith family since their arrival, and this will surely do little to stymie them. Indeed, Her Majesty the Queen was obliged to step forth to the rescue of her new favourite, pointing out what a fool Lord Kreel would be to stand in the way of such a match. And what Her Majesty has so ordained, must be; yet surely his poor patron must now bitterly regret the appointment of so divisive, so eccentric, so immoderate a gentleman as Ambrose Deneith as Court Wizard. Perhaps there is truth indeed to the adage that noble hands should not be turned to spellcraft. 

Our Queen herself, indeed, seems rather ambivalent on this point. For as if the evening's developments had not been scandalous already, and Duke Voltur's life not complicated enough, his betrothed, Miss Eloise Bridgerton, shewed herself equal to the courage of her dragon-slaying fiance in confronting Her Majesty herself in a duel of wits. In a dreadful flash our Queen demonstrated the extent of her power, proving that the potential for wizardry does lie somewhere locked within the poor debutante's soul, and Miss Bridgerton was quite overcome - to the point of embracing the Queen's person without permission. Perhaps magic does indeed drive sensitive souls to madness. 

As the night wore on, the Duke Voltur faced yet another trial, this time at the hands of the mysterious elflord Ophel, who seems to have become curiously involved with him: though the two are said to be living together, for reasons undisclosed, and to have arrived indeed in the same carriage, they spoke not a word to each other all evening - until, as the sky began to be tinged with dawn, the Duke was seen rather angrily pursuing his new elven acquaintance, who had disappeared into the depths of the gardens with the notoriously sensitive Lord Wetherby. What secret intrigue may concern such disparate characters is beyond even this author's discernment - for this issue, at least. 

Ambrose grips the issue tightly with trembling fists. Sparks from his fingertips catch, setting the paper alight.

The fury turns his tongue into lead.

…

The humiliation sets in once more. A familiar enemy. This is not the first time Whistledown has written about her.

Her family will have read this. Eloise is no fool, she has… she has lost any credit she has left with them, now. She knows that. 

She sits there, silent, almost… resigned, nestling her burning face into the dragon’s neck. She probably won’t be able to see him, anymore. The reality of that still hasn’t set in.

Whistledown has a way of planting seeds in people’s minds. Eloise herself was never immune to the woman’s manipulations. Her eyes shift slowly between Voltur and Ophel.

He turns his head away from her.

He whines and clings on to Mother. 

How about if he actually just doesn't let go. 

What if I just went to the Queen and told her to do whatever it takes for me to be immune to this bullshit or else, is his first insane thought. 

"Well," he says carefully, "if it is any consolation, Lord Ambrose, I do not regret my decision. And if anything you showed better restraint than I did, the thought did occur to me to kill the man on the spot."

He casts a glance at Eloise. 

“I am going to kill her on the spot if I ever get my hands on her.” A whisper is all his rage allows him.

He doesn’t actually mean it. He isn’t a killer. He isn’t what Whistledown has made him out to be, he isn’t.

Ambrose stands, sucking in a sharp breath. “I must go and check in on my family. Dismiss me.”

Eloise is somewhere else. She frowns slowly at Ophel as he refuses to look at her.

“You must excuse me also.” His face is unreadable. Unlike Ambrose, he does not actually need to wait for the Duke’s permission to leave.

The elf just… goes, the way a candle can be lit one moment and snuffed out the next.

"Go, Lord Ambrose. And do tell your lady mother that I care not for a word Whistledown has to say, and look forward to taking tea with her tomorrow."

With effort, he avoids looking at Ophel. 

For lack of anything else to do, he scratched Edmund's head where he is clutching at Eloise's skirts .

That sedates him a little. He bows and strides out.

Eloise is quiet for a long time. She stares at the charred remains of Whistledown on the ground ahead.

“Why is Lord Ophel here, Voltur?”

"Hmm? Oh. There was extensive damage to his home. I - offered to have him to stay here while it is repaired."

“No. Do not insult me, I am not an idiot. Tell me why he is really here.” She is so, so tired.

He looks at her for a long time without saying anything. 

He's confused at first. That is why he's here. 

...But there is more going on, isn't there.

Eventually he speaks.

"I don't know," he admits quietly. "It began when- he offered to help instruct me. On how to get by in the ton." He trails off. "Eloise... There are some things about Ophel that I believe the ton would find very unsettling. I... am not so sure I should say them to you."

She frowns deeply. “What, is he a murderer?”