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“How remarkably sensible.” Margaret’s own life would be made far easier if more institutions followed that nocturnal schedule. As it was, she far too often had to choose between sharing her husband’s waking hours and accessing daylight-based research facilities. “Perhaps our own king may take the hint and advocate for similar extended hours in London, for the sake of so many nobles and their families.”

“That,” said Lord Riven dryly, “would require him to take a firm stand for the sake of others’ comfort. After tonight’s meeting, I’m afraid I can’t envision it. Can you?”

Margaret sighed as they crossed the narrow street, waving off the hopeful calls of lingering fiacre drivers. “It’s a pity his mother didn’t follow the late Habsburg empress’s example.” Faced with the myriad disappointments of her own children and grandchildren, Maria Theresia had taken on the burden of vampirism in 1760 for the sake of her empire and hadn’t stepped away from the throne until the troubles of the mid-nineteenth century were fully resolved.

“Sadly, I don’t believe Britain would tolerate an undead ruler. In past centuries, the werewolves would have taken deep umbrage, and nowadays...” Lord Riven gave a rueful shrug. “Our current ruler won’t even stand for our right to independently own property. What hope is there of any further progress?”

“Hmm.” Margaret’s lips twisted in discontent, but she bit back her next comment as a black-clad major domo appeared at the door of the coffee house and bowed with stern correctness.

Receiving their cloaks, he led them through clouds of cigar smoke and perfume to a table in the far corner of the crowded room. Tall and beautifully-wrought iron curtain stands, designed in the romantically curving new style, had been placed to either side of it; at Lord Riven’s nod, the waiter drew the curtains shut, enclosing the couple in crimson velvet privacy with only the light of two tall candles on the table flickering between them.

“Oh, this is better.” Alone with her husband once more, Margaret’s shoulders finally fully relaxed.

“It is indeed. And returning to supernatural topics...” Leaning forward across the table, he lowered his deep voice to a murmur. “Tell me more about lorelei like the one we met tonight. Are they kin to the nixen we met in the Black Forest? I’ve never heard of them before.”

Another, more insecure woman might have taken offense at her husband’s interest in a famously enticing and all-female branch of the supernatural community; Margaret lit up with the instant delight of being invited to answer her favorite sort of question. “Oh, yes, wasn’t she fascinating?”

Freed from view of any outside observers by those enclosing red curtains, Margaret leaned even closer, propping her elbows with casual impropriety upon the table. The twin candles warmed her skin even as their flickering light turned Lord Riven’s eyes into shadowy pools of brown, filling her gaze until only he and the scholarly question existed for her. “They are not related to nixen, even though they both hold attachments to particular bodies of water. Nixen are born within their species, though, while lorelei assume their own new natures after death. According to legend, in the rivers of this area and a few of the German states, every so often when a human woman takes her life due to a lover’s cruelty—or is drowned by that cruel lover—the river itself takes pity and revivifies her with new, siren qualities in order to exact her watery revenge upon every other human man for the betrayal.”

“According to legend,” Lord Riven repeated softly. “But according to my wife...?”

“Oh, clearly some sort of supernatural artifact must be involved.” Margaret waved her hand in easy dismissal. “There is no evidence of any river exhibiting real sentience, much less possessing power over life and death. Lorelei are found in this part of the world for the same reasons that so many vampires and werewolves are found in England and nachzehren in the Black Forest; geographical proximity to powerful artifacts planted there either in the past or present. And as for the fact that so many of them took their lives due to male cruelty or were murdered by male lovers...well...”

She gave an expressive shrug, and her husband filled in the rest with wry understanding. “I suppose that criteria is hardly unusual for female drowning victims as a whole.”

“Exactly. Any ensuing rage is more than understandable.” Shifting, Margaret rested her chin in the palm of one hand while the fingers of her other hand beat a reflective rhythm on the leatherbound menu before her. “It is interesting, though, that only females are changed by the artifact, and that music is invariably involved.”

“As it is now with King Thomas’s mystery.” Her husband’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think Madame Amalie may be secretly entangled in it?”

A pointed cough sounded beyond the curtains before Margaret could answer, but not in time for her to straighten into a more ladylike pose before the red velvet curtains were pulled open. An even sterner-looking waiter than the one who had seated them raised a disapproving eyebrow as he inspected her guilty face for a long, uncomfortable moment. Finally, he turned to Lord Riven. “Your order, my lord?”

“Unless you happen to have any blood available, I’m afraid I won’t be able to personally indulge,” said Lord Riven, “but⁠—”

“Naturally,” said the waiter with crisp precision, “we always have the freshest of blood available. It was collected this afternoon and carefully spiced by our own chef, as stated on the menu. For her ladyship?”

“No blood for me, please,” said Margaret, “but...” Belatedly, she glanced down at her own menu, which she had ignored until now. “Which kind of cake would you recommend?”

“For you?” The waiter looked her coolly up and down. “I should say an Esterházy torte, my lady. And a coffee, of course.”

“Tea. If you please?” Margaret was aware, from numerous past experiences, that she often appeared more impatient or brusque than she intended; remembering every past chastisement on the subject from the aunt and uncle who’d raised her, she forced a smile with her request.

Even so, the waiter’s upper lip rose with unhidden disdain. “As my lady insists.” Bowing, he took their menus with quick, impatient yanks and withdrew, pulling the curtains firmly shut behind him.

“My goodness.” Margaret blinked at that red velvet expanse. “Was I horribly rude again without realizing?”

“I assure you, my dear,” said Lord Riven, “you were not—but regardless, you couldn’t hope to compete with him on that front. Viennese waiters are infamous for their own lack of manners. According to rumor though, the coffees they serve are well worth any indignities along the way.”

“Let’s hope their other offerings are, as well.” As a scholar, Margaret fully approved of exploring other culture’s traditions. However, after multiple days of uncomfortable travel and all the evening’s trials, a pot of hot tea was essential.

Still, her husband’s reassurance soothed her enough to return to her previous chain of thought. Propping her chin once more upon her hand, she thought for a few minutes in silence while Lord Riven took her free hand in both of his own and drew slow, warm patterns on her palm that made every muscle in her body relax.

“I can’t say whether Madame Amalie is involved in whatever may be happening at those royal balls,” Margaret said at last with a sigh. “She didn’t seem villainous to me, but then she hardly spoke. If she is not a co-conspirator, though, she may be extremely helpful. King Thomas seems certain that whatever is happening at those balls is linked to a particular waltz, and as neither of us is a specialist in music...”

Another loud cough sounded abruptly, just beyond the closed curtains, giving her such a jolt that she almost knocked her chair over in her rush to yank her hand out of her husband’s intimate grip and resume an appropriately erect position. The curtains opened just as she rescued her seat...but accidentally knocked her cloth napkin off the table.

“Ahem.” Setting down his tray, the second waiter knelt stiffly to pick it up. “I shall bring you another directly, my lady.”

“Oh, no,” Margaret mumbled, “there’s no need for that. Really.”