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“And yet it would render us hopelessly unfashionable.” Sitting beside her with his own body fluidly relaxed against the cushioned seat, Lord Riven reached over to interlace his fingers with hers. “Tell me, my love. What in particular ails you tonight?”

“So much,” she muttered darkly. Still, she had to admit that the press of his hand against hers was a comfort. As his low laugh wrapped around her, she found her own muscles relaxing, drawing her back into the ease of the cushions behind her and his big body close beside her. Tipping her aching head against his shoulder, she let out a long sigh. “I should have asked for a second pot of tea.”

“A lesson learned for the future,” he said amicably, and dropped a kiss upon her hair. The fiacre had been open to the night when it had first arrived, but he’d asked their driver to pull up the roof over their shared seat for privacy. Now, the shadows of that half-roof gave them some small protection from the view of passersby, but the pavements of the narrow street pressed uncomfortably close around their small conveyance. Making it worse, the aristocratic traffic moved in painfully slow starts and stops, inching forward only every few minutes. “Any other notes?”

“Oh...I am weary and out of sorts,” she admitted, “and this morning’s expedition was an utter failure, but at least our landlady’s breakfast was delicious.” For all that her head had ached with exhaustion as she’d eaten, those fresh-baked rolls, served with rich butter and sweet strawberry jam, had been a genuine pleasure. “And the tea was spectacular, of course. I take it you provided the leaves?”

“Naturally. I did promise to always ensure you had a good supply, no matter how far we traveled.” Margaret couldn’t see her husband’s face, but she heard the smile in his words as he murmured them into her ear.

“Mmm.” This time, her sigh was pure contentment.

They had discarded most aspects of their first two marital bargains when they’d shifted from a partnership of mutual practicality into a union of binding love, but he had always kept his word when it came to that part of their second bargain...which was only one of her very favorite things about their marriage.

Perhaps she shouldn’t complain about this traffic after all. Time alone with her husband would be painfully scarce for the rest of this evening—and goodness knew, she vastly preferred conversing with him to tolerating any of the crowned heads of Europe who would be jousting for precedence at tonight’s ball.

Closing her eyes against the bright lights of coffee houses and restaurants and the crowds of noisily laughing pedestrians striding past their slow-moving carriage, Margaret turned her face into the thick cloth of her husband’s jacket and breathed in his familiar scent. “What about you?” she asked. “Did you find anything of interest while I slept?”

“Indeed.” His voice rumbled against her. “I had a most informative chat with our landlady when I gave her your tea leaves.”

“Of course you did,” she said with fond exasperation. “You love talking to people.”

Once her husband had been roused from the listless depression imposed by centuries spent trapped and alone at his ancient family estate, Margaret had been shocked—and, at first, frankly dismayed—to discover that his long-stifled love of travel was accompanied by an inexplicable eagerness to meet and converse with strangers at every stop. However, he had made it reassuringly clear since then that she was never required to take part in those conversations. So, she was free to relax and admire his social skills with the same guilt-free appreciation she would have felt upon witnessing any other incredible—and personally unrepeatable—feat of agility.

She had vowed to support him in his own pursuits too, so she asked, “Is there anyone you’re particularly hoping to meet at tonight’s ball, to spread the word of our new research institute?”

“Not...yet.” His thumb idly stroked the hand he held as he seemed to think through the question. “Between what I gathered from our fellow guests in the Black Forest and what our landlady said tonight, there does seem to be far more acceptance of the supernatural across the Austrian empire than in any of the German states...but far less openness around the subject here than in Britain.”

“That makes no sense,” Margaret protested. “The late empress was known to be a vampire. I learned about that in college, and it wasn’t treated as a shameful secret!”

“No, but twenty years ago, after she stepped down and her chancellor—whom she had gifted vampirism—was removed from office in the wake of the uprisings, everything apparently changed quite rapidly,” said Lord Riven. “When she finally gave up the crown, she made it publicly known that her successor, the current Emperor Florian I, had not followed her in any supernatural regard—and under his reign, his closest councilors have always been human.”

“Oh dear.” Margaret frowned. “He hasn’t changed the laws to oppress supernaturals, has he?” That would feel particularly unjust considering just how many supernatural rumors had spread about his famous grandfather. Napoleon Bonaparte’s almost preternatural anticipation of all his enemies’ most secret plans had helped him conquer a large chunk of the continent before a British duke—who happened to be a werewolf—had finally ripped him to pieces on a bloody battlefield in Spain.

“He has not,” said Lord Riven, “and it’s a well-known fact of local life that many of his courtiers are supernatural. However, the new byword is, apparently, discretion. Local newspapers are no longer allowed even to report any rumors on the matter, so...”

He shook his head, his cheek rubbing gently against her hair. “For all I know, any of the Viennese aristocrats we meet could share my situation. For that matter, any of the visiting aristocrats from Hungary and other Slavic regions of the empire could represent entirely different supernatural elements. But I’ll have to find a way to subtly investigate the matter before I can be certain that it’s safe to discuss our venture with anyone, especially with so many visiting royals and aristocrats from more hostile states like those in northern Germany.”

“I’m certain you’ll manage it beautifully.” Margaret had perfect confidence in her husband’s abilities. In the comfort of this small bubble of intimacy within the noisy, crowded street, she firmly set aside her earlier frustrations.

Yes, this morning’s expedition had been a failure, but this evening would be a very different matter. Tonight, the cloak of invisibility lay folded into an impossibly tiny square inside her beaded reticule, where no one else could spot it. With that secret artifact on her side, she would have an unparalleled opportunity to inspect any supernatural phenomenon that took place at the ball—and once she had uncovered the truth, they would be free to return to the Black Forest and make the most of their remaining time before they were forced to return to Britain.

With that shining prospect to guide her, she had to swallow only a tiny drop of anxiety-induced bile before stepping out of the fiacre and walking reluctantly towards the yawning maw of the palace and the hot and crowded ball that awaited them.

The guests for this assembly really were strikingly international; as she and her husband progressed through the slow-moving queue to the reception line inside the palace, she heard a stream of different languages, some of them fascinatingly unfamiliar. Her own childhood travels with her parents had taught her German, French, and Croatian, and she had worked diligently as an adult to maintain fluency in those languages even while tightly bound by her own nation’s borders.

Unfortunately, she could only claim a very minimal grasp of Hungarian, and she knew herself to be shamefully deficient when it came to interpreting any of the other Slavic languages of the empire and its neighbors. Meanwhile, the Ottoman delegation just ahead spoke a wholly different tongue, and the Greeks and Italians who stood behind her added their own vibrant and intriguing choruses to the mix.

With her husband’s words in mind, she kept a scientific eye on all their fellow guests for any hints of supernatural proclivities—and between her linguistic and academic notes, she found the time passing with surprising swiftness. Far sooner than she had expected, she was being handed a small, printed dance card and a Damenspende gift: a beautifully painted fan with a braided satin loop, which she slipped over her wrist to hang beside the reticule. A moment later, she dropped into a deep curtsy before the first in a line of continental rulers, all glittering with either martial medals or sparkling jewels, and all of them looking distinctly weary of the proceedings.

“Presenting Lord and Lady Riven of Britain,” an officiant announced to each ruler that they passed, again and again requiring a new curtsy from Margaret and another gracious nod and murmured welcome from a royal host.

Emperor Florian stood third among them, grave-faced, dark-haired, and nearly as short in stature as Margaret herself. He wore none of the militaristic flourishes on his coat that were flaunted by most of his royal peers, but his air of distant formality held its own intimidation. He uttered a standard greeting by rote as Margaret curtsied, and she found herself shuffled forward by the determined officiant before she’d even finished rising to a standing position.

The procedure only changed at the very end, when she found King Thomas half-standing, half-slumped against the wall, grimacing at the open door of the ballroom and the rollicking orchestral music that floated out from it. “Riven! And Lady Riven, too. Good, good. You found your way here.” Blinking bloodshot eyes at Margaret, he smiled weakly. “I daresay you’ll have another scandalous article to write after all this, eh, madam?”

“My next article is already well in progress,” she said briskly. “It’s about the elusive Tatzelwurmen of the Black Forest, which have never been properly studied before.”

“Well, ah...very shocking all the same, I’m sure. Regardless, do enjoy your evening, both of you.”