“Hmpf. I suppose they have some talent, though it is more acrobatics than ballet.”


    Yvon leaned forward, observing the gyrating figures below him. They - he, Sofia, and Anya - occupied a box in the main hall of the Palais de l’Opera, having come for the premier of the Royal Kiev Ballet Troupe’s performance of Queen Tatyana. The performance was nearly at its climax, and the queen took a final dance with Sir Kazankin, her forbidden lover, under the soft swells of oboes. The hall was built around an ancient grove of towering firs, and the patchwork moonlight shone brilliantly upon the couple’s silver-white coats.


    “It was your decision to attend. I hesitate to believe you did so solely on my behalf,” Anya replied. It had been weeks since she had seen another rabbit in the flesh, but the distant performers brought little comfort.


    “The Clary family is a key party in the peace process. It would be bad form to appear to snub Rusyn arts, however provincial they may be.”


    “Whatever you say.”


    The orchestra rose to a dissonant storm as the scene shifted to the transfiguration. The queen’s blood-arts would make of the knight a hideous beast, the beast would slay the wicked king, and the queen would take her own life after being unable to return Kazankin to his original form.


    Be back by dusk, my kit, or Sir Kazankin will find you and eat you alive.


    “Look, over there.” Yvon pointed to a box to their right, where a family of wolves watched the performance with hungry eyes. “See the pup, squirming for his mother’s teat? He is Louis Adolphe Ribemont, the most likely future king of Gaul.”


    “Oh? Will the coronation be interrupted for a change of diapers?”


    “That, and a declaration of war on the Livonian witch-fiefs. The Ribemonts are eager to expand their holdings. Unless the Ansgardes successfully contest their claim, in which case-”


    “Excuse me, my dear loup-loquace. Some of us are attempting to appreciate the finer points of Rusyn ballet.” Sofia set down a pair of opera glasses and ran a hand along her husband’s cheek. “Shhh, love. We are coming to my favorite scene.”


    “The suicide?!” Anya blurted.


    “To die for unalloyed love, now forever tainted with recollection’s bitter sting. I think it is a noble thing.”


    Against shimmering woodwinds and the low wails of horns, the final scene began. The queen-actress clutched her arts-focus to her bosom, revolving again and again under the lamplight as the monstrous Kazankin prowled the shadows. Just offstage, an ice-magus sent a flurry of snowflakesbillowing over her.


    At last, she sprawled on the stage-floor, and thunderous applause began. The dancers assembled at the front of the stage, bowed, and raised their hands to in turn applaud the Ribemont box.


    A collective gasp rose from the floor.


    “Saints on high.” Yvon muttered.


    A piercing wolf-yowl ripped through the hall, multiple voices joining in a jagged chorus. Anya saw that it came from another box of wolves just to their left. Her ears twitched, and a cold shiver crawled down her spine.


    “We need to go. Alain, cover Sofia.” Yvon stood, and Anya felt his hand find her back and push her upright.


    “What’s happening?”


    “The troupe was misinformed, and the Ansgardes have chosen to voice a protest. There may be a brawl.”


    “In a public theatre?”


    “They are hunters, and will not leave with their tails between their legs.”


    The howls grew louder. Several wolves, all young males with long snouts and hands low to the ground, tore down the partitioning curtain and rushed into the Clary box. Yvon passed her off to Sofia, who drew the rabbit close against her legs.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    “Oi, Clary. Going somewhere?”


    A wolf with lazy eyes detached himself from the pack, prowling forwards as he drew a wand of petrified wood from his waistcoat. He snapped his fingers, and a curling arts-flame sparked at its tip.


    Yvon drew himself straight, regarding the other wolf with muted disdain.


    “Good evening, Lord Ansgarde. Seeing as I have no part in this spat, I thought it best to take my leave. Best of luck to you and the others.”


    “You got an urgent appointment with a grass-eater’s arse?”


    “Your witticisms would be greatly improved if there was an ounce of wit to be found in them.”


    Alain edged open the rear door, and found it guarded by another wolf.


    “Funny.” Lord Ansgarde continued, twirling his warned in his fingers. “‘A gutter-rat in wolf’s furs.’ Remember that? The elder Ribemont, when Artois petitioned to put your father on the hunting council. He only made it through because we told the Ribemonts to shove it.”


    “In exchange, we provided the Ansgardes with a war-loan on extremely favorable terms. One that is yet to be paid back.”


    The Ansgarde wolf feinted with his wand, and Yvon clumsily stepped back. Anya felt Sofia flinch.


    “Might be a hard concept to wrap your money-rotted head around, but we Ansgardes don’t do transactional. When you’re with us, you’re with us for good.”


    To their right, furious yelps rose from the Ribemont box. The main Ansgarde contingent had breached it, and were locking jaws with the Ribemont males. The two families’ knights eyed each other warily, weapons drawn to intervene.


    “And this is where your honor brings you? Raise your complaint in a newspaper, and force the troupe to issue an apology. Gaul will never consent to be ruled by hooligans.”


    “You’ve let your blood go dull, Clary. No wonder your daddy needed to buy you a harem-girl. Hey, Hugo, make sure the Clary boy doesn’t run.” The Ansgarde wolf barked at the wolf guarding the door before lunging forward. His wand-flame burst, leaving a hole in Yvon’s clothing and a patch of singed fur beneath.


    “You wish to fight? Then p…put that toy away.” Yvon lowered his weight, but his posture was stiff. Anya could hear fear in his voice. Her hand began to move towards her knife.


    “This is the easiest way out. Let him take it.” Sofia whispered, pulling her closer. The goat’s voice was taut as a bowstring.


    “Fine, fine. Whatever you say.” The Ansgarde wolf blew out his wand with a flourish, stowing it away.


    He opened his jaws, and went for Yvon’s neck.


    The wolf’s teeth found their mark, and the two of them went down in a pile of snarling fur. Blood splattered against Anya’s dress as the wolf’s claws shredded Yvon’s shirt, and the rabbit felt Sofia’s fingers tremble against her shoulder. Yvon tried to twist away, but the wolf had a firm grip on his neck, and his action only made a nasty gash on his neck. One of his arteries had been severed, and a pool of blood quickly formed. The wolf whipped his head back and forth, opening the wound further, and his foot-claws dug into Yvon’s chest.


    “By St. Hughbert, Bastien, you trying to turn him into worm food?”


    The wolf at the door rushed forward, and he and Alain managed to pull the Ansgarde wolf off Yvon’s broken body. The wolf’s eyes were wide and twitching, and fangs and claws dripped with blood.


    “Get yourself under control, the man’s nearly dead! You want father to have our heads? Fuck, Alphonse, get over here and help.”


    A lynx-knight wearing the Ansgarde livery entered, holding a glass-encased relic in his hand. He began to pray, and Yvon was bathed in golden light as the deepest of his wounds closed.


    The next few minutes were a blur. Alain, the lynx, and a servant-horse were able to carry Yvon to the Clary carriage, drawing the gaze of every theatre-goer they passed. He was still bleeding, and the upholstery of the carriage was soon stained red.


    “What is his condition?” Sofia asked.


    “The knight’s saint-arts got him stable, at least. The principle is different, so I’ll need to be careful working around the spots he healed. If I reopened his neck by mistake, he might-” Anya replied.


    Sofia’s hand came down sharply, striking Anya across the cheek. The goat checked that the carriage-windows were closed, and pulled up her dress to reveal her bare calf.


    “Then do not make a mistake. You need blood, do you not? Take it from me.”


    Anya looked at Yvon’s half-open eyes, listened to his gasping breaths. Heart racing, she hesitantly brought her knife to Sofia’s downy fur.


    It’s just blood. Same as mine or Renee’s.


    The carriage shook as it began to move, and the knife broke skin. Sofia did not flinch.


    “Good little rabbit. Heal him, before it is too late.”


    Four minutes, ten seconds. Yvon’s eyes regained their light.


    “This…isn’t St. Hughbert’s saint-field, is it? No woman there could be…half as fair as you. Fine work on the arts, by the by. I feel…right as rain.” Yvon said woozily. He reached for Sofia’s hand.


    “Why did you do that.” Tears welled in Sofia’s deep-water eyes.


    “We cannot afford to anger the Ribemonts. You know it was the only way.”


    “Why did you do that?!” Sofia screamed, pushing his hand away. “Do you know how much it hurt me to watch that demon rip you apart? Did you think for a moment how close my heart would come to breaking? You know you are no fighter, yet you let your swollen ego walk you like a cur.”


    “Mayhaps I inflamed his passion more than necessary.”


    A knife-gaze from Sofia.


    “Dear, I am sorry.”


    “Sorry? What am I to do with sorry? Will sorry heal your scars?Will sorry fill the hole you tore in me? Speak when you and your shriveled heart understand me, though I feel the day will never come.” Sofia turned away from her husband, absently grasping Anya’s hand. The goat’s fingers were cold as ice.