It’s not one table, but six, each of a length and a width, pushed together in two close lines of three tables each, and the tops of them of differing colors of formica, gleaming sunny yellow and dark red a-glitter with silver and black, lavender spun with threads of violet, a sturdy brown, pale institutional green flecked with more and darker greens, or blues, or greys, a buffed matte white, and Iemanya moves methodically about it, polishing the table-tops with a damp rag. The room about is dusty yet, littered with scraps of lath, ivory dollops of dried plaster and brighter scraggles of spackle along the drop cloth where Jim Turk’s knelt, filling and smoothing cracks beneath the line of mullioned windows. There across the room Fildhine with a pair of needle-nosed pliers and Cherrycoke with a screwdriver confer about an exposed junction box. A line of them through half-opened double doors then, Teacup Tall and Charlichhold, Herwydh, Lustucru and Powys, deftly unfolding tray tables, setting down broad trays crowded with bite-sized snacks, and Powys hovering over them, prodding tartelettes back into place, resettling a mound of chips. “Wsht!” a hiss from Herwydh, as Big Jim gets to his feet, as Iemanya drops her rag into the bucket at her feet. The Helm Linesse has stepped through the doors, slender in a sleeveless tunic of gleaming grey, striding toward the trays, where Powys is still fussing. She plucks up a bit of golden crust twisted about a roasted fig, but doesn’t take a bite.

“Chairs,” hisses Teacup, and gesturing leads a number of them bustling from the room. Cherrycoke screws a cover onto the junction box. Jim sets to cleaning his trowel.

Next through the doors, Wu Song, soft white shirt buttoned up to his throat, tattoos at his temples blurred by stubble. A rumble rises behind him and he steps to one side, out of the way of Lustucru and Teacup and Herwydh and Fildhine, guiding a dozen or more wheeled chairs into the room, spinning and turning and pushing the thunderous ballet into place about the table. He steps over to the trays, and after a moment’s contemplation selects a wedge of red pepper, dredging it through a ramekin of spice-speckled salt.

The Huntsman Melissa in her motorcycle jacket followed that herd of chairs into the room, and now, greatsword awkward in her arms, she turns about, taking it all in, “Wow,” she says, just loud enough to echo, “this looks great, you guys have done a fantastic job with this,” heading toward the trays, “this space, wow, these look so good. Thank you,” she says, to Powys, who lurches up and back, blinking, “thank you all,” Melissa’s saying, as they step away from chairs, the table, heads down, looking away, “for all the work you,” Powys already out through the doors, and Iemanya, Teacup Tall and Charlichhold, “do,” she says, as the rest of them hustle and bustle away, and only Big Jim Turk, toolbox in hand, offers up a shrug. Linesse steps around the table, lays a hand on the back of one of the chairs. Wu Song’s thick brows lift, bemusedly consternated.

“Excuse me,” the Earl Alans, stepping in through the exodus. “Such a,” he says. “Hey.” His lightweight sweater asymmetrically patterned in earth tones, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “You’re the Xingzhe.”

“Wu Song,” says Wu Song. “You are the Earl among Barons.”

“Well, we do for ourselves, over across the hills. Don’t we,” says Alans. “So, I’m an Earl. Not a Baron.”

“And she’s not a Duchess,” says Wu Song, with a nod.

“No,” says Melissa, exasperated, “I’m the Hunter.” Snatching a tart criss-crossed with charred shreds of yellow carrot, she heads around to Linesse’s side of the table, heaving up the scabbarded sword to drop it a-clatter on top, taking up most of the length of the bright yellow top.

“Yes,” says Wu Song.

“Okay?” says Alans, looking over the trays, pursing his lips. “Could we get some water, maybe? Iced tea?” but trundle and chime, there’s Powys returning, pushing a cart overloaded with bottles, flasks, pitchers, glasses, cups, Anna in herringbone trousers at his heels with an armload of pads of yellow foolscap paper that she proceeds to lay out one by one on the table, and a pen with each. Melissa pushes her sword away with a scrape to make room. Gloria’s slipped through the doors after Anna, hands stuffed in the pockets of her hoodie, headed head down for the chair at the one end of the table.

“Hey, um,” says the Bullbeggar Otto, rubbing his ruddy head, “is this everybody?” His ripped black T-shirt says Stone and Salt across the front. Leaning over the trays, he dithers a moment, then selects himself a chip.

“Hello,” says the Shrieve Bruno, stepping through the doors, his trousers, his vest, his jacket all of soberly different plaids. He pours a glass of water from the cart.

“This, this must be everybody?” says Otto, gesturing a chip to take them all in.

“Not, ah, not quite?” says Alans, frowning.

“Good day to you all,” says the Queen, there between the doors. Her white gown plain and simple, her loose black curls brushed back, her gold-stroked smile noncommittally pleasant. Linesse ducks her head. Wu Song nods. Anna bows, and Bruno bows, and Alans bows deeply. Otto lifts his chip, and ducks his head. Melissa, who’d just sat down, stands up abruptly, knocking her chair back squeaking on its wheels. Gloria looks over her shoulder.

“We are pleased you all could be with us today,” says the Queen. “Take your seats, and we shall begin.”

Walls paneled in rich wood, the ceiling of pressed tin panels between box beams, thick drapes drawn, and the only light from lamps with blue glass shades that line of middle of the polished table that nearly fills that close rich room. Ten high-backed chairs pulled close about it, and sat in them the Soames Twice Thomas, in a jacket of green tweed, the Wulver Hoseason, thick greyed hair pushed up from off his forehead, the Baron Alphons in an indigo velvet coat, underlit face warmly red, the Glaive Rhythidd in navy pinstripe, his tie of burgundy, the Baroness Clothilde at the one end in her black leather jacket, and at her right hand Sigrid in a black silk blouse, then the Mason Luys in red broadcloth, collar open, the Chariot Iona beside him in a track suit of dusty pink, her close-cropped hair chartreuse, then the Guisarme Welund in a rich brown three-piece suit, and no tie about his neck, and there, at the head of the table, his royal blue shirt with collar and cuffs of spotless white, the Viscount Agravante, lifting up a slender fluted glass. “Gentlemen,” he says. “Ladies. Welcome.”

“We would hear of the Marches,” says the Queen. “How fares Northeast?”

“Beset, my lady,” says Linesse.

“The rabbits tax you?”

“On all sides, ma’am. North, and south.” Linesse shifts her gaze, sere and even, from the Queen, to Bruno.

“Shrieve?” says the Queen, and Bruno, puzzled, slowly shakes his head. “I know of nothing done to encroach upon Northeast.”

“And yet,” says Linesse. “Majesty, I must beg your indulgence. If we are to discuss this matter, properly, and in full, we would violate a stricture you have laid upon this court.”

“Our indulgence is yours,” says the Queen.

“On Friday, then,” says Linesse, “the Gallowglas did come to my hall.”

The Queen sits back in her chair. Gloria looks up. Melissa sits up, “You’re not supposed to,” she says. Anna looks down at her hands. “As an incursion?” says Bruno. “Or a conversation?”

“A complaint,” says Linesse. “It would seem certain knights and bravos of Southeast,” Bruno draws back his chin at that, “have been,” she says, “threatening? Intimidating, a company of mortals camped in my demesne. She’d have it stopped.” Looking from frowning Bruno to the Queen. “As would I, your majesty.”

“Where is this camp?” says Bruno. “If the Marquess would be so kind.”

“East of Williams,” says Linesse, “north of Burnside. Which is enough. Had you not rather ask the names and offices of the offenders? Or perhaps they are known, already, to you.”

“Ah, fuck,” says Gloria, under her breath. Otto frowns, but not at Linesse. “This dispute,” says Wu Song, gruffly, “should be settled in open court. Not private council.” One hand laid flat on the green tabletop.

“This is a privy council?” says Alans, blinking.

“There’s no dispute before us, my lord,” says the Queen. “The Marquess will name these impertinent knights. The Shrieve will see appropriate action taken. We are all in agreement. There is no dispute.”

“Helm,” says Bruno, after a moment, with only a hint of a questioning tone.

“The Kern, Gradasso,” says Linesse. “And your Cinquedea.” Bruno looks away with a pinch of grimace.

“Shrieve?” says the Queen.

“Steps shall be taken, ma’am,” says Bruno.

“There!” says the Queen. “As we have said. How else fares Southeast?”

Wu Song leans forward. “This one speaks for Southeast, now?”

“This one does,” says Bruno, quickly, “in this room, today? Yes.” Turning to the Queen. “Your majesty’s presence, and generosity, are – ”

“There have been many changes, of late,” says Wu Song.

“And we,” says Bruno, looking back to him, “keep up with them.”

Otto says, “He, ah, he can speak for Southeast as well as I can, for North, or him,” pointing to Alans, “for Southwest.”

“But I don’t,” says Alans, drawing back from the red tabletop. “Do I?” Looking about. “Is that why I’m here?”

“You are here, good Earl,” says the Queen, “to speak of, not for. We’d have the news of each of our city’s fifths and marches, North and East, West, South, all from those best suited to provide it.” A hand on the yellow table to her left, a hand on the white table to the right. “Our friend Wu Song’s correct,” she says. “Change looms large in our affairs, of late. These last two peaceful, pleasant weeks of languid plenty were preceded by a fortnight of abject dejection, when all was lost, that we once more lightly hold.” She sighs. “And even the wealth we have restored can’t salve the loss of our cousin, Frederic Pinabel, nor the cruel joke played on us all, by the monster that’s thought to take his place. Such blows must buffet the sturdiest of courts.”

“Hell, I mean,” says Gloria, at the other end, “you even went and swapped your Huntsman for another.” Sat back, arms folded, brown table to her left, and lavender to her right. Anna glares, and lays a hand on Melissa’s beside her. The Queen does smile. “It’s precisely when all seems quietest, that we must listen the more closely for tell-tale signs of subsidence, settling – of cracks – and it is when all seems to still that we have room enough, and time, to make repairs. Thus,” she lifts a hand, a gesture to them all before her, “we will listen, as you each make known what news you have, and when we’ve heard, we shall impart a newis of our own. So!” Turning to Bruno. “Good Shrieve. How fares the Southeast fifth of this, our court?”

A desultory piano echoes through the darkness, someone humming over it, the space of a breath, if you know me so well, sung over the gathering chords, tell me which hand I use, another breath, and then the piano falls into something self-consciously portentous. Three women sit in folding chairs before the blazing mirror, and each with the same blue eyes, and each with that same nose, and each with the same yellow hair severely straight, brushed back to lop behind those similar bare shoulders, before those same pale breasts. The one to the left in the mirror closes her eyes as Aigulha leans close to brush and shape the lids of them with a charcoal sheen. The one to the right lifts up her chin, lips pursed, that Costurere might limn and paint them balefully with red. Button up, that voice somewhere in the darkness, buttons that have, forgotten they’re buttons. Well, we can’t have that forgetting that. The woman in the middle leans over, then, to the left, in the mirror, to her right, eyes as yet unshaded, lips a dull uncolored pink, lifting a hand to tip the chin of the woman beside her up and over for a kiss too quick, and yet too softly gentle to be brusque.

“You’re welcome,” she murmurs.

The woman in the middle with a scrape pushes back her chair, gets to her feet, as Costurere takes up a shadowy applicator, as Aigulha finds a tiny brush. Pads away, naked, toward the racks of clothes-stuff crowding the shadows, with the piano, and the sudden swell of strings.

“She’s clearly mad,” says Twice Thomas.

“It’s that Gallowglas,” says Clothilde, there at the end.

“She is in pain,” says Luys.

“She’s deranged,” says Hoseason.

“She’s depraved,” says Sigrid.

“It’s not just her majesty,” says Agravante, at the head of the table.

“Not this again,” mutters Alphons.

“Yes, this,” says Agravante, setting down his empty glass. “And yes, again, if that’s what it will take. It’s clear to me, and should be, to you all, the Perry line’s been broken.”

“A canard,” says Alphons, with a dismissive fillip.

“You would use this, as an excuse, to keep the Princess to yourself,” says Sigrid with a sneer.

“Myself?” says Agravante. He lifts his slender glass, filled with something clear. “I assure you, cousin, I’ve no ambitions to be King, much less High King. I’ve ambitions to be no more than concerned, for the future of this city, and its court.” He sips.

“Her majesty has turned owr,” says Thomas. “In quantities not seen in years.”

“Generations,” says Iona, looking down at her hands in her pink lap.

“The future of our city seems secure, for now,” says Welund, there to Agravante’s left.

“Does it?” says Agravante. “Think back, but a year. What was the order then?” Holding up a hand, lifting a finger, one, “Her majesty, Duenna Queen,” he says. A second finger. “The Princess Ysabel, Bride-to-Be of the King Come Back. And the Gammer Gerton, Arabella,” a third finger, “all cozily ensconced Northwest, above the Pearl.” A look for Welund, and for Rhythidd to his left, at the other end of the table, and then that hand’s laid flat. “But today?” Agravante sits back. “Two gammers sit and knit on a couch in a house in the midst of the Northeast Marches, and our Queen, a-squat on a pot of gold in a run-down Southeast warehouse.”

“That blasted Gallowglas,” mutters Clothilde, slumping forward. Lifting a hand, a flutter of fingers. “Everything went to blazes when she found the favor of her highness.”

“It all stems from a dalliance with a mortal, yes,” says Agravante, knock of his knuckles on tabletop. “But not, I fear, the one you’re thinking of.”

Hoseason sweeps both hands through his already swept-back hair. “Well?” he says. “Which?”

“Our Viscount’s showing off,” says Clothilde, lifting the heavy cut glass tumbler by her elbow, filled with something honey-colored, and one great cube of ice. She sniffs it, nods appreciatively to Agravante over the line of lamps between them, and sips.

“Her majesty Duenna,” says Agravante, with an accedental shrug. “Her love for her husband’s Huntsman, that led to the birth of our Prince; the duel, that led to the loss of our King; the uncanny shadow that fell, of the loathly lady, that led to the desuetude of her majesty’s gift; the murther of Gammer Gerton, that led to a new Huntsman, our first in many years; the return of the Prince Foregone, our King Come Back.”

“And gone away again,” mutters Hoseason. “Gallowglas did for him, all right,” says Clothilde, and another big sip. “That’s not,” Luys starts to say, but “You all should note that someone’s fallen from this tale,” says Agravante.

“The Bride,” snarls Alphons, shrugging his velveted shoulders.

“We understood, Excellency,” says Rhythidd, “that the Princess Annisa would stand as Bride. For all she’s not been publicly acclaimed.”

“Herself, a scion of the Perry line?” says Agravante, a touch too loudly for the room. “Flung so far afield she sprouted in the Court of Engines, and only now has found her way back home?”

Sigrid glares at Rhythidd across from her. “Her highness is promised to our house. She’s to be quickened for our new court.” Luys turns widening eyes to her there to his left.

“We have two hopes,” says Agravante, quickly, “for our future, which some might say is more than most.” Twisting his fluted glass back and forth. “But they are such slender reeds, bent already almost to the ground, by the winds of the storm that gathers itself about.” Lifting the glass. “Either her majesty comes to her senses, and finds her dear Bride Arabella, who may well have been lost to us, to dust, to strife and murther,” he tosses back what’s left, “or. We somehow find it possible, in spite of all, to quicken up a new line for this Court of Roses.”

“Having offered her highness up, a glittering prize for our affections,” says Clothilde, “you now would snatch her back, to keep for yourself.”

“We must not think of ourselves, ladies, gentlemen,” says Agravante, “but of us all.”

“Where is her highness?” says Rhythidd, then.

“Safe,” says Agravante, setting down the glass.

“But where?” says Welund, to his left. “We meet, after all, in your grandfather’s house,” a gesture encompasses wood panels, pressed tin, drawn drapes, the blue-glassed lamps, “but without Grandfather Count.”

“He remains at the house in King’s Heights,” says Agravante. “It likes him more, I think.”

“With her highness,” says Rhythidd.

“Yes,” says Agravante, after a moment a moment too long. “Her, experiments. Have proven, difficult. To move.”

“I see,” says Rhythidd.

“One would imagine,” says Welund.

Iona looks to Luys, beside her. Luys looks to none of the rest of them at all.

Puddles and splots of cold wax mar this table, and scattered broken candles, toppled sticks, stacks of mismatched plates still crusted with the remains of this meal, or that, a litter of roses scattered there, petals browning, withering, canes yellowing, snapped, some forgotten on the floor below, by an enfilade of empty liquor bottles, a discarded sock of thick grey wool, a crack-spined paperback splayed open, lolled pages curling in the desultory air, a slender phalanx bone sparked with silver, a long radius glittering magenta, what might well be a shard of ethmoid spangled blue, all in a clutter of shards of glass, swept with dust and dirt to a corner of the porch, before those wide-hipped balustrades. The Baron Euric stood halfway along the crowded length of it, disappointment somehow evident in the impassive thwarts of his features as he gazes upon the only other face in sight, pink-cheeked, crowned by a ring of wind-blown ivory, lost in the dazzle of sunlight behind, sat at the foot of that mess. Pink hands push away a stickily empty cup. “Where the fuck is everybody,” mutters the other.

“Thus, the news of our marches, margins, fiefs, and borders, of our court, and all our people,” says the Queen, “brought by you who know it best, to us that need it most. We hope to find our footing more secure, as we proceed together into this, our bright new day. So much, then, for the business of our council.” Pushing back her chair, smiling a benediction upon Anna and Melissa, Alans, Linesse to her left, and Bruno, Wu Song, and Otto to her right. “Now to our pleasure,” she says. “The news we promised of our own is of a celebration. For many weeks now, this generous house has been made a home for our people, and our court. And for,” a hitch then, in her breath, her voice, “myself. Gloria,” she says. “Dearest Gloria.”

And Gloria, at the other end of the particolor table, lifts up her head.

“Gratitude,” says the Queen, “is not a sentiment we espouse.” Bruno frowns at that. Alans sits up, surprised. “The burdens it imposes,” says the Queen, “on both giver, and receiver, too often and too rapidly redound unbearably.” Wu Song looks from the one end of the table to the other. Linesse is watching Gloria. “But it cannot be allowed to go without saying, that were it not for your open arms, your generous heart, this Court of Roses would no more be a court. And so,” leaning on the table before her, pushing herself to her feet, “we honor not your gift, but you, Gloria Monday,” the others pushing back their chairs, getting to their feet, even Melissa, at a nudge from Anna, “and create you,” says the Queen, “Chatelaine of this, our castle, a fully vested office,” squeak, as Gloria pushes back her chair, “of the court,” as Gloria gets to her feet, tugs her hood up over her head, “with all the rights and privileges pertaining,” says the Queen, but Gloria yanks herself away from the table, and stomps out through the doors.

“Thereunto,” says the Queen. Lowering her head. “There’s food below, and wonders to be seen,” she says, to the rest of them, “the Bullbeggar’s promised us music. Go drink, and eat, and dance. Enjoy yourselves.”