"I would hunt your mother."

The fear Margrit hadn’t felt for herself rose up in an overwhelming wave of sickness. Daisani offered an elbow in support, but let it fall again as she felt Alban’s hands at her waist and his reassuring presence beside her. A tremor flowed through her and she closed her fingers over Alban’s, leeching warmth. "My mother?" Her voice scratched and broke. She let go of Alban to press a fist against her stomach, trying to make horror leave her. "Mom?"

Daisani spoke with such cool candor it took her long moments to realize it disguised a wealth of fury. "It would be a well-executed blow. Russell first, though he’s a far more obvious mark, if you’re privy to my relationship with Janx. Rebecca, though. Rebecca would make a subtle and splendid choice. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken to her, and there are so many people who work for me, that I might not have even considered it myself. But look at the depth of symmetry. She’s one of the scant handful of humans I’ve revealed myself to, so my trust is there. She’s your mother, so your love is there. She is an admirable target. I’m tempted to applaud him."

To her own dismay, Margrit could see his argument so clearly her revulsion to it seemed overblown. Her mother was a nearly perfect piece in the game Janx and Daisani played, worth capturing for the damage it would do. She swallowed, trying to loosen her throat. "You won’t let him hurt her."

"He will not," Alban said in a deep, certain voice.

Daisani looked sharply at the gargoyle. Margrit felt Alban shift beside her, and glanced up to see an unfamiliar challenge in his expression.

"No," Daisani said after a long moment. "I will not. Dramatics are unnecessary, Alban. Had I anticipated Russell’s death, I would have moved to protect him, and I assure you." He flashed a smile, teeth unnervingly flat and terribly white. "I assure you, I will not permit Margrit’s mother to be sacrificed to this game. I have lost my queen already this year. I will not lose a knight."

"A knight." Margrit laughed unhappily. "I wouldn’t think she’d be that important. I thought we were all pawns."

"You do yourself an injustice, Margrit. If you knew how few people I have shown myself to in the past five centuries…" Daisani shot a quelling glare at Alban, who shifted at Margrit’s side, but subsided without speaking. "I’ll do whatever is necessary to keep your parents from harm."

"How? Malik’s intangible. How do you stop somebody who can just materialize inside your house?" Fear was fading into its more exhausted brother, fatalism. Margrit put the heel of one hand against her eye as if she could push away despair. "I’m losing my ability to cope," she mumbled. "I just hit a wall. I don’t know what to do anymore."

"If I may be presumptuous, you might consider sleeping. A gift of health doesn’t negate the human requirement for rest."

Margrit shifted her head enough to look at Daisani from the corner of her eye. "An immortal lunatic’s probably going to try to kill my mother, and you think I should sleep? You think I could sleep?"

"I think that in sixteen hours’ time, you’ll be attending a masquerade ball peopled with not only New York’s elite, but every member of the Old Races in this city. I think you’ll want to be at your best for that."

"Oh, God." Margrit slumped and Alban tightened his arm around her, shoring her up, shoring up the blessed feeling of not being alone. "I forgot about that. Masquerade? You didn’t say anything about a masquerade. I don’t have anything to wear."

Daisani smiled. "If you’d permit me, I’d be glad to lend you my tailor. You could even invite your mother along. That would put her under my eye for the afternoon, at the very least, and I think I can manage a few hours surveillance in the morning without anyone noticing me. Take her home, Alban." He glanced down the stairs. "And I’ll make my way to Flushing, to play the part of a gargoyle for the day."

Margrit balked, shaking her head as Alban tried to draw her toward the door. "Mom won’t want to come. She doesn’t like you." No sooner were the words spoken than Margrit frowned, uncertain of their truth. Rebecca was extremely cautious with regards to Eliseo Daisani, but that didn’t necessarily constitute dislike.

A flash of something unreadable crossed Daisani’s face. "Perhaps, but if her daughter, who has suffered an emotional blow in the last few days, invites her, I doubt she’ll turn you down. And she may want to give me that steely glare of hers, when she hears you’re coming to work for me. Or have you told her already?"

Margrit stared at him a moment, then shook her head. "I don’t remember. I honestly can’t remember. I must not have. I’d remember her flipping out."

"Then I look forward to the battle meeting." Daisani moved toward the stairs. "Really, next time you should come in through the front door, Alban. We might have had this conversation in the comfort of my living room instead of a concrete-and-steel stairwell."

Alban huffed as Margrit glanced down the spiral of stairs again. "I seem to be having a lot of conversations in stairwells these days. Must be the company I’m keeping." She looked up again with a brief smile. "Can I invite my housemates to the ball? Cam’ll never forgive me if I get all dolled up without her."

"You can even bring her to the fitting party," Daisani said. "I’m sure Henri would thoroughly enjoy having such a model to work with."

"Henri?"

"My tailor."

"Your tailor is named Henri? Is he really French? That," Margrit said, at Daisani’s nod, "is the most surreal thing I’ve encountered all day. Normal people don’t have French tailors named Henri. Lifestyles of the rich and famous, here I come."

"I think you’d better take her home," Daisani said to Alban. "Sleep well, and don’t worry. I’ll watch out for your mother. I’ll watch out for them all."

"You’ve been very quiet. Are you going to tell me this was another bad idea?" Margrit nestled against Alban’s chest, his heartbeat a slow counterpoint to Daisani’s quick footsteps on the stairs.

Alban curled his arm around her shoulders, lowering his mouth against her hair. A rush of warmth swept her, the safety of his arms offering more comfort than she wanted to admit to. "If it was, it was my bad idea. No, in this case, I…trust Eliseo to do as he says he will."

Margrit tipped her head up, eyes half-closed as she studied the line of Alban’s jaw. "Why? There was all this subtext going on there that I couldn’t read. Not after Vanessa, not after what?"

A throb of memory caught her off guard, as startling for its familiarity as its presence. For an instant she saw a woman with long brown hair, wearing a gown so functional and plain it could have come from almost any era in the last five centuries. Her gaze was solemn and straightforward, almost challenging, and a pang of regret cut through Margrit’s breast. Alban’s regret, not her own, though there was little telling them apart when she rode his memory as she did now.

The woman stood with two men, both smaller than Margrit and Alban in height and breadth. One wore his red hair loose, falling over a gaudy crimson-and-green cloak. The other, more dapper, wore a dark ponytail and a half-coat in somber colors. Margrit felt herself-felt Alban-committing them to memory, as though they were old friends he wouldn’t see again, and then he turned away, leaving them alone in the moonlight.

She caught her breath as she shook the memories off, then frowned at Alban. "Who is she?"

Unfiltered surprise darkened his eyes. "Who?"

"The woman. That’s the second time I’ve seen her. The first time was when you went into the memories to see if Hajnal was still alive. I saw this woman, and I saw Janx and Daisani and you, all in completely different clothes. I just saw it all again. Who is she?"

Alban went quiet, surprise still evident in his features, but shaded by more complex emotions. "Her name was Sarah Hopkins," he finally replied. "That’s all I can tell you, Margrit. Hers isn’t my story to tell."