Chapter 16: Love

A witch, her face obscured by a bird-beak mask, hesitated. "This… this is not proper." Her movements were uncertain, yet a sudden, desperate attack lanced towards Corneille’s exposed back.

Corneille half-turned, his shield snapping open with a metallic clang, deflecting the blow that had materialized from his blind spot. With a smooth, practiced motion, he drew his sword, Gryphon, its polished steel a blur, and cleaved through another magical assault hurtling towards him from the opposite direction. The sundered spell dissolved into a shower of glittering motes, which were then scattered by the almost imperceptible current of air that always seemed to cling to his blade. His sword, whistling through the air, then drove towards the witch who had launched the initial attack. At the very instant of impact, however, he saw her form shimmer and collapse, only to rematerialize to his left.

Ignoring the witch who had reappeared in his peripheral vision, Corneille instantly reversed the scabbard in his left hand, raising it and thrusting diagonally backward. A soft "Oof!" sounded from behind him. The witch who had thought to deceive him found the unyielding edge of the scabbard pressed against her throat. Though it possessed no sharpened blade, the sheer, palpable killing intent radiating from it sent a jolt of primal fear through her, the terrifying certainty of imminent evisceration. She raised her hands in surrender.

"Doctor," Corneille said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "an explanation, if you please?"

Cécile replied, her tone brisk and academic, "This exercise, my dear Corneille, was intended to impress upon my… somewhat sheltered… team members the rather stark, and often inconvenient, truth that Waite, and indeed, the wider world beyond our borders, operates under a set of common-sense principles entirely different from their own. Here in Waite, magic is typically to be evaded, or countered with yet another, more potent, magical working. You, however, have just demonstrated a rather… more direct… and considerably less conventional… approach."

Corneille, considering this merely a warm-up, prepared for a second round. He was surprised, however, to see the witches standing as if turned to stone, their expressions a mixture of shock and disbelief. "Is there some… problem?" he inquired.

The doctor explained, "No problem at all, Corneille. It is merely that these… children… are rather more naive than I had perhaps anticipated. In Waite, you see, with the exception of a few, rather specialized, domains, magical duels have traditionally been conducted as a sort of… turn-based game. The combatants maintain a 'proper' distance, engage in an 'elegant' exchange of spells, and continuously probe and counter their opponent’s defenses. Victory is determined by tactical acumen, the depth of one’s magical reserves, the quality of one’s enchanted implements, and the soundness of one’s strategic thinking. The raw combat instincts, the lightning-fast reflexes, the seamless transitions between offense and defense, and the almost preternatural ability to read the flow of battle that you, my dear warrior, have just so… vividly… demonstrated – this is a style of combat utterly alien to these young witches. It is, to put it mildly, most… 'unmagical.'"

"To block a spell with a shield, to shatter an enchantment with a mere sword…" one of the witches murmured, her voice filled with awe, "it is… unheard of."

The witch who had earlier feigned innocence to distract Corneille added in a small, chastened voice, "Our textbooks, and indeed, our esteemed instructors, have always maintained that magic cannot be impeded or intercepted by items of a purely physical nature."

Another witch raised her hand tentatively. "It must be because Monsieur Corneille’s shield and sword are no mere mundane armaments! Surely, it is the preternatural power imbued within them that allowed him to intercept the spells!"

Corneille glanced at Cécile.

"It is quite alright, Corneille," Cécile said with an encouraging nod. "Speak the truth."

"If the attacks were of the same… intensity… as those I just faced," Corneille stated, his voice flat and devoid of boasting, "I could have dealt with them quite adequately with a simple dinner knife – a dinner knife of any material, I might add." He paused, then, perhaps sensing their crestfallen expressions, added a conciliatory note, "However, you are all witches of the 'Magician' domain. You are researchers, scholars. Your expertise lies in other, more cerebral, pursuits. It is enough that you excel in your own chosen field."

A heavy silence descended upon the room. To be so casually, so dismissively, consoled by a man – a member of what Waite’s traditional culture defined as the weaker, subservient sex – caused a hot flush of shame and anger to rise in the cheeks of many present. Corneille, however, could not discern which emotion predominated.

The witch who had initiated the sneak attack, her pride clearly stung, spoke with a renewed defiance. "And if… if I had, from the very outset, employed a flash-bang spell to rob you of your sight?"

"I possess techniques for fighting blind."

"And if I were to then also deprive you of your hearing?"

"It would be of no use," another witch interjected, joining the discussion. "Monsieur Corneille was deceived by your illusion magic but once. He then pinpointed your true location. It is likely he memorized your unique energy signature, allowing him to differentiate between your actual self and any phantoms."

"If, after my initial attack failed, I had used a spell to create distance…"

The witches, their initial shock giving way to a fervent, academic curiosity, began to discuss the encounter with animated enthusiasm. Their ingrained, path-dependent thinking, however, led them to focus primarily on devising strategies to limit and counter Corneille through magical means. Whenever they concocted a new tactic, they would eagerly implore Corneille to test it.

As long as it did not require him to reveal his own most potent, and closely guarded, trump cards, Corneille was quite willing to assist these young witches in their development, and, in doing so, to gain a deeper understanding of Waite’s indigenous combat styles.

Throughout the morning, they engaged in ten such training exercises. The witches, much to their chagrin, were consistently outmaneuvered and defeated. Yet, through these repeated failures, an admirable trait, characteristic of Waite’s witches, began to emerge: an intense, almost insatiable, thirst for knowledge, coupled with a proactive, problem-solving determination. These intellectual passions, it seemed, were potent enough to override the natural frustration of repeated defeat. Had it been Corneille himself, defeated ten times in a single morning by the same opponent, he would likely have avoided even the sight of that adversary’s face for several months thereafter.

Cécile eventually, and with a firm, non-negotiable command, ordered her team members to take a mandatory recess of an hour and a half. Corneille, his own energy reserves considerably depleted, hastily consumed a meal and then succumbed to a brief, much-needed nap. He was, in truth, exhausted; only his respect for the earnest dedication of the young witches had compelled him to persevere for so long.

The embrace of sleep was, alas, all too fleeting. Corneille felt as if he had closed his eyes for mere seconds when he sensed a presence approaching, a delicate hand reaching out to touch his body. He sat bolt upright, his warrior’s reflexes instantly engaged, his hand shooting out to grasp the offending limb. He found himself holding the wrist of a witch wearing a bird-beak mask. This one, however, was not the same individual who had earlier feigned innocence to deceive him. This witch was slender, almost petite, with a pair of child-like twin pigtails peeking out from beneath her mask.

"I… I merely came to wake you, Monsieur!" a tremulous voice stammered from behind the mask. "I had no intention of… of taking any liberties! Please, I implore you, do not speak of this to anyone! Please!"

Corneille blinked, a moment of confusion giving way to a dawning, and rather unsettling, understanding. He recalled, with a jolt, Waite’s almost comically inverted concepts of chastity and propriety. To "ambush" a sleeping man in such a fashion was not merely considered "ill-mannered"; it was, by their peculiar societal standards, firmly categorized as "sexual harassment."

He said, a hint of amusement in his voice, "Mademoiselle, whose name I do not yet have the pleasure of knowing, you would prefer, I gather, that this… little incident… not become common knowledge?"

"Y-yes, Monsieur! Please, forgive my transgression!"

"Very well," Corneille said, his expression softening. "I shall refrain from exposing your… indiscretion… on the condition that you adhere to the following: study diligently, eat your meals at the proper times, and endeavor to cultivate amicable relations with your classmates… Ah, I am merely teasing you, child. Thank you for waking me. That is all."

"...Thank you, Monsieur." With a barely audible whisper of gratitude, the young witch fled, her twin pigtails bouncing with an almost comical agitation. Yet, what truly caught Corneille’s attention was the deep, crimson blush that suffused her ears, visible even beneath the edges of her mask.

Were it not for the moist, almost acidic, and undeniably familiar, scent that now assailed his nostrils, Corneille might have found her rather endearing, a charmingly flustered child. As it was, however, she was merely another… adolescent… her burgeoning desires running rampant and unchecked.

Corneille now understood, with a chilling clarity, the true nature of this supposed "research group." When the afternoon’s discussions commenced, he, the theoretical "subject of research," took the initiative, proposing a new set of rules for their engagement: For the remainder of the session, he would be blindfolded and would fight bare-handed. If, by the fourth hour of the afternoon (their research time regrettably curtailed by the city-wide curfew), he managed to apprehend all of them without being struck by a single spell, he would be declared the victor. Any other outcome would constitute their victory.

Cécile cast a sharp, appraising glance at Corneille, then, with a curt nod, assured them that the building would be entirely free of outsiders for the remainder of the afternoon, allowing them to proceed without interruption.

The witches, their eyes gleaming with a mixture of excitement and determination, readily agreed to his proposal. Regardless of the format, they were desperate, almost pathetically eager, to win, just once, against this arrogant, infuriatingly skilled, and inexplicably alluring man.

Soon, the spacious chamber was filled with a cacophony of joyous, almost hysterical, shrieks and laughter. Corneille experienced a strange, unsettling sense of déjà vu. Long ago, the late Duke Fernando, in his desperate, and ultimately futile, attempts to reignite his fading virility through sensory stimulation, had, it was rumored, engaged groups of women in similar, if perhaps somewhat less… academic… games.

Here in Waite, however, it seemed he was the one providing the sensory stimulation. Within mere minutes, a series of bold, decidedly impertinent, hands began to make exploratory, and entirely unwelcome, forays upon his person.

Corneille, with a sigh, could understand, on an intellectual level at least. When he himself had been of a similar age, he too had been plagued by the tumultuous, often overwhelming, surges of youthful desire. But understanding did not equate to endorsement. His objective now was to drive them to vigorous, sustained physical exertion, to exorcise their unhealthy, and frankly, rather distracting, notions with the purifying balm of honest sweat.

He deliberately slowed the pace of the game, drawing it out, until every last one of them was utterly, comprehensively, exhausted, their breath coming in ragged gasps, their movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Only then, with a calm, almost leisurely, deliberation, did he move towards the final, remaining witch, apprehending her with a gentle, almost apologetic, touch. He was, however, struck by a small, cleverly concealed magical charm she had hidden within the folds of her robe.

After a thorough, and surprisingly contentious, review of the engagement, it was determined that, as Corneille’s hand had made contact with the witch’s shoulder a mere fraction of a second after her hidden charm had technically struck him (though, in truth, it had been harmlessly absorbed by his ever-present, if currently invisible, shield), he had, by the strict letter of their agreed-upon rules, lost the contest.

The witches erupted in a chorus of triumphant, if somewhat breathless, celebration. They immediately, and with great enthusiasm, made plans for Corneille to treat them all to a lavish meal the following week. Corneille, with a weary, if good-natured, acquiescence, agreed. They then turned away, still chattering excitedly, to revel in their hard-won, and perhaps somewhat dubious, victory.

Corneille, meanwhile, made his way to a quiet corner of the room, where the doctor had been observing the proceedings with an air of detached, almost clinical, amusement, standing, for all intents and purposes, like a student being punished, for the entire afternoon. "So," Corneille said, his voice laced with a dry irony, "it seems the true nature of the doctor’s esteemed 'project' is… advanced childcare. And the reason I was so… graciously… invited to participate is because I have some prior experience with Dias, and therefore, am presumed to possess some rudimentary understanding of how to… care for… children."

Cécile shrugged, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on her lips. "My dear, dear Corneille," she said, her voice a silken purr, "do try to engage that remarkably sharp, if somewhat cynical, mind of yours. A research project aimed at resolving Waite’s profound, and seemingly intractable, gender imbalance… is that truly a burden you believe an individual of my… modest… station could possibly hope to shoulder?"

"This… nominal… research group," she continued, "is merely a convenient, and entirely respectable, means of… gilding the résumés… of its young, ambitious, and well-connected members."

"Witches require… gilded résumés?"

"To gain even the slightest advantage in the fiercely competitive, and often cutthroat, arenas of Waite society, my dear warrior, people will resort to any means, however unorthodox, however… questionable. And these particular children, bless their ambitious little hearts… their current level of actual skill… well, let us just say that to achieve victory, they are often compelled to employ methods that are not strictly… conventional."

Corneille shrugged, a gesture of weary resignation. "In a way, Doctor, you spoke no falsehood at the outset. If I provide satisfactory 'service' to these… gilded students… their influential families will, no doubt, ensure that you are most… handsomely… rewarded."

Cécile laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across ancient flagstones. "Money, Corneille, money. One can never have too much of it. And whose coin one accepts, in the end, matters little, does it not? It all spends the same. And this, my dear, pragmatic warrior, applies equally to you. You desire to expand your network of influence here in Waite, do you not? Then, currying favor with these… impressionable younglings… is but one viable, and potentially quite profitable, path. Make them adore you, Corneille. While they are still young, still inexperienced in the treacherous games of love and power, while their desires burn bright and their wills are easily swayed… control them. Mold them. Let them become your private treasury, your personal legion. That particular… style… you possess – that outward appearance of stern, conservative restraint, masking an inner core of raw, untamed aggression, that fascinating, almost irresistible, dichotomy… it is, I assure you, precisely the sort of intoxicating brew that young, inexperienced witches find utterly, fatally, alluring. Like moths to a searing flame, they know, on some deep, instinctual level, that you will likely burn them, consume them utterly. And yet, they will find themselves quite, quite unable to resist fluttering ever closer to your dangerous, captivating light."

Corneille’s reply was dry, almost bitter. "It sounds, Doctor, as if you are describing the tragic, irresistible heroine of some lurid, common Federation romance novel."

"And how will you ever know, my dear Corneille, unless you try?" Cécile countered, her eyes glinting with a challenge. "Surely, you do not intend to… sell… your poor, innocent little Dias to some… unsuitable… witch he does not even desire, while you yourself remain aloof, untouched, your own virtue pristinely, and rather hypocritically, intact?"

"If," Corneille said, his voice a low, dangerous growl, "I truly possess such… marketable value… I will, perhaps, consider utilizing it… moderately. But before that," his gaze sharpened, "I must first apprehend a certain… exceedingly mischievous… little pixie."

Corneille concluded his… consultation… with the doctor and bid farewell to the "research group." The witches responded with a chorus of cheerful, almost flirtatious, goodbyes, expressing their eager anticipation for his return the following week. They had initially, he knew, dismissed him as a mere… decorative brute… a "handsome leopard" with impressive musculature but little else to recommend him. Yet, he seemed, much to their surprise, to possess an uncanny understanding of how to make them… happy. Despite his blatant disregard for the established tenets of "male virtue," none among them, strangely enough, would have ever dreamed of labeling him as… promiscuous.

Just as they were filing out of the chamber, their laughter and lighthearted chatter echoing in the suddenly empty space, Corneille, with a speed and precision that belied his earlier weariness, launched a sudden, silent, and entirely unexpected, attack on the witch at the very rear of the departing procession.

Initially, Corneille had assumed that all twelve members of the research group were essentially the same, their motivations and capabilities roughly equivalent. But as the day had progressed, as he had observed them more closely, he had begun to sense that the masked witch, the one who had feigned such wide-eyed innocence while simultaneously attempting to deceive him, was… different. Not quite right. She had, he now realized, deliberately, and with considerable skill, been masking her true energy signature, concealing the full extent of her power.

It was for this very reason that Corneille had, in the final game of the afternoon, so deliberately, so specifically, set the rules. By feigning blindness, he had lulled her into a false sense of security. By introducing the elements of "time" and "pursuit," he had manufactured an artificial sense of urgency, of mounting pressure, designed to force her into a series of uncharacteristic, stress-induced errors – errors that would, he had gambled, reveal some small, yet crucial, flaw, some tell-tale signature, that would allow him to definitively identify her.

Faced with Corneille’s sudden, lightning-fast assault, the witch reacted, her own reflexes honed and sharp. But she was, nonetheless, caught. He seized her, his grip like iron, and, with a single, decisive movement, tore away her concealing bird-beak mask. A cascade of lustrous, raven-black hair, shimmering like polished jet in the fading light, tumbled down around her shoulders.

Corneille released his grip, stepping back to face her directly. He looked into her startled, yet defiant, face and said, his voice a low, dangerous purr, "Mademoiselle Longueville. You are, it seems, far too… mischievous… for your own good."

"How… how did you discern my identity?" she stammered, her composure momentarily shaken. Then, a look of dawning, chagrined realization crossed her features. "Ah. That final… chasing game… it was designed specifically for me, was it not?"

Anne shook her head, a wry, almost rueful, smile playing on her lips. "Monsieur Corneille," she said, her voice regaining some of its usual silken smoothness, "to so calculatingly, so deliberately, ensnare an innocent, underage maiden… that is hardly the act of an honorable, or indeed, an admirable, adult, now is it?"

"I do not," Corneille replied, his own expression unreadable, "make a habit of quibbling with children. Provided, of course," his gaze sharpened, "that said child does not deliberately conceal her true identity whilst attempting to do me… mischief."

Anne gracefully gathered her scattered composure, adjusting the intricate, jeweled band that held back her lustrous black hair. "It was not mischief, Monsieur Corneille," she corrected, her voice once more cool and self-possessed. "It was… observation. An assessment, if you will. Your… performance score… in these little encounters will, as it happens, significantly influence my family’s overall evaluation of my proposed… marital alliance… with Monsieur de Toledo."

"And will you, then, grant me a high score, Mademoiselle?" Corneille inquired, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"The lowest possible score, Monsieur. The very lowest." Anne stuck out her tongue in a surprisingly childish, yet undeniably charming, gesture. She then extended a slender, elegant hand. "Very well, very well. For the sake of Monsieur de Toledo, and in the interests of future… amicable relations… let us declare a truce, shall we?"

"Mademoiselle Longueville," Corneille said, his voice carefully neutral, "I do not recall ever having been… angry… with you."

He took her offered hand. As his fingers closed around hers, he saw, with a jolt of surprise, that her startlingly red eyes were now brimming with an almost unholy, and entirely triumphant, amusement. He tried to withdraw his hand, but her grip, for one so seemingly delicate, was like a band of steel.

A blinding flash of teleportation magic, sharp and disorienting, enveloped them. When his vision cleared, when the world resolved itself once more into coherent shapes and colors, he found himself standing before a sprawling, ostentatious manor built in the distinctive, almost aggressively opulent, style of the great northern kingdom of Mokosh. The Mokosh architectural style, he recalled from his studies, was characterized by its vibrant, almost garish, use of color, its rigid, almost obsessive, adherence to symmetrical design, its profusion of massive, imposing stone sculptures, its invariably present, and conspicuously large, ornamental water features, and, most peculiarly, its unwavering insistence that all significant buildings be constructed in even, rather than odd, numbers.

From the meticulously compiled local intelligence reports prepared by his own retainers, Corneille recognized it instantly – a detailed sketch of Longueville Keep, situated some one hundred kilometers southwest of Merida. At the time, his primary focus of attention had been the rather perplexing fact that Longueville Keep, though surrounded by fertile agricultural lands, was not situated in an area that could, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered either strategically significant or commercially prosperous. Their decision to establish their primary family seat in such a remote, and frankly, rather unremarkable, location had struck him as… puzzling.

Anne, with a graceful, sweeping gesture that encompassed the vast, imposing edifice before them, announced, "Welcome, Monsieur Corneille, to Longueville Keep. In addition to the main branch of our family, half the members of our four subsidiary branches also maintain permanent residence here."

"I do not recall," Corneille stated, his voice carefully formal, "having received an official invitation from House Longueville. To arrive unannounced, in such a fashion, is… contrary to established etiquette."

"We Longuevilles," Anne said, shaking her head with an airy, dismissive gesture, "do not overly concern ourselves with such… tedious… formalities. We are, after all, of the 'Devil' domain, are we not?" A sly, knowing smile touched her lips. "Rest assured, Monsieur Corneille, you have not been brought here for naught. I have matters of some… urgency… to discuss with you."

"Regarding, perhaps," Corneille surmised, his gaze sharp and unwavering, "your rather… theatrical… collaborative performance with Sabina Curias yesterday?"

"...Your perceptions, Monsieur Corneille," Anne sighed, a flicker of genuine annoyance in her eyes, "are, at times, most… inconveniently… acute."

"The events that transpired yesterday," Corneille stated, his voice flat and devoid of inflection, "if presented as a piece of stage drama, I would, without hesitation, have purchased a ticket. As a depiction of 'actual events,' however, they strained credulity to the very breaking point, and beyond."

Anne made a V-shape with her fingers, a gesture of almost impish triumph. "The important thing, Monsieur Corneille, is that the denouement was, on the whole, rather satisfactory, would you not agree? No innocent lives were lost. And my own… rather spirited… performance served to effectively reclaim the face I had lost during the initial, and quite unfortunate, attack. My family’s name has been largely cleared of any immediate taint, my personal image has been significantly enhanced, those… tiresome… so-called 'guards' who were, in reality, little more than spies and potential betrayers have been… permanently removed… from my service, and the deserving residents of the Istapa district have received a measure of much-needed aid. It is, by any reasonable measure, a most… multi-faceted victory."

"Indeed."

"However," Anne continued, her tone becoming a shade more serious, "to have so blatantly, so deliberately, deceived you, Monsieur Corneille… that, I confess, sat rather ill with me. I had intended to find a suitable opportunity to reveal the truth of the matter to you. But then… then, whilst I was myself preparing to… 'ambush'… you, as it were, I found myself most unexpectedly, and rather comprehensively, 'ambushed' by you. For a man to take such… aggressive initiative… it was, I must admit, rather… vexing. You are sorely in need of a refresher course in the proper tenets of 'male virtue,' Monsieur Corneille."

The blush that now stained Anne’s cheeks might, perhaps, have been attributable to her lingering annoyance. But there was no denying that, in that moment, with her eyes flashing and her color high, she was breathtakingly, almost painfully, beautiful, like a rare, perfect rose in full, defiant bloom.

Yet, for Corneille, this particular rose, however alluring, not only possessed formidable thorns but was also, and most emphatically, a bloom that should not, under any circumstances, be directed towards him. And so, with a deliberate, almost physical, effort of will, he shifted his gaze, moving Anne from his direct line of sight, focusing instead on some distant, unremarkable point on the horizon.

They proceeded towards the main keep, their footsteps echoing on the pathway paved with brightly colored, intricately patterned tiles. The path bisected meticulously manicured hedgerows of dark, glossy green, extending in a perfectly straight line towards a vast, imposing edifice of resplendent and sharply angular, yet perfectly symmetrical, design. The elongated, distorted shadows of massive, grey stone gargoyles and other grotesque statuary writhed and twisted upon the manicured lawns, forming a vast, unsettling, almost demonic, roulette wheel in the center of the main courtyard.

At the very hub of this "roulette wheel," a wide, circular stone basin, its lip carved with leering, demonic faces, spewed forth a towering, multi-jet fountain. The cascading water, catching the oblique rays of the afternoon sun, fractured the light into a thousand glittering, dancing refractions, creating a shimmering, almost hallucinatory, and undeniably vulgar, mirage – a swirling, phantasmagoric vision of men and money, the two earthly obsessions, the twin idols, to which House Longueville, it was said, had long, and devotedly, dedicated itself.

As they walked, Anne, with an air of casual proprietorship, pointed out various features of the estate, her voice a low, informative murmur. Every servant they encountered, from the liveried footmen to the humble gardeners, upon seeing her approach, immediately executed a deep, almost obsequious, bow, their faces carefully blank, their eyes downcast. Anne, for her part, seemed to regard them as little more than animate pieces of furniture, her gaze sweeping over them without a flicker of acknowledgment, without the slightest hint of recognition.

Such a stark, almost feudal, display of social hierarchy, Corneille reflected, was rarely seen even in the most traditional, most hidebound, noble houses of the Federation. In these more… enlightened… times, even the staunchest Royalists, in their desperate bid to curry favor with the younger, more progressive, generations, had, at the very least, begun to hoist the tattered banner of "enlightened governance," paying at least lip service, a performative, going through the motions, respect, to the servants and retainers within their own households.

Anne, as if sensing his unspoken thoughts, found a new, and perhaps deliberately provocative, topic of conversation. "I have discovered, Monsieur Corneille, a rather… unexpected… benefit to being seen in your company. In the past, the servants here have always greeted me with an air of… profound, and rather unsettling, awe. Almost… fear. But your presence, your sheer, imposing physicality, it seems, contrives to make even me appear somewhat… petite, almost…lovable. And as a result," a sly, knowing smile touched her lips, "their attitude towards me has become noticeably… more natural, more relaxed."

"It has been my observation," Corneille remarked, his tone carefully neutral, "that the witches of Waite, almost without exception, possess a stature considerably exceeding 160 centimeters."

"Ah, yes," Anne confirmed with a light, airy laugh. "The very mana that flows through our veins, it seems, tends to make us… rather more… 'substantial'… in all meanings of the word, than our less magically-endowed sisters in other lands. Hmm," her head tilted, her gaze suddenly sharp and appraising, "tell me, Monsieur Corneille, you and your young charge, Monsieur de Toledo… what manner of woman do you typically find… appealing?"

Corneille considered this for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Dias," he said at last, "has always been drawn to women who are strong, assertive, often older than himself, and possessed of a nurturing, almost maternal, disposition. As for myself," a faint, almost imperceptible, smile touched his lips, "I confess, I have always found myself… more inclined… towards those who are… weaker than me. Ideally," his smile widened, a flicker of something dark and unreadable in his eyes, "a person who is… fragile… in both body and spirit."

Anne laughed, a bright, melodious sound that seemed to mock the very air around them. "By your exacting standards, Monsieur Corneille, I fear that even the most formidable of witches might be deemed… a fragile, delicate bloom."

"My perceived strength, Mademoiselle Longueville," Corneille said, his voice suddenly devoid of all levity, his gaze direct and unwavering, "is merely a carefully constructed illusion, a facade of bluster and bravado. That which you so… curiously… seek to explore within me… will, I assure you, ultimately lead only to your profound, and perhaps bitter, disappointment."

This almost brutally direct, and entirely unambiguous, rejection seemed to ignite a spark of anger in Anne’s usually cool, composed demeanor. She quickened her pace, striding ahead of him, presenting him with nothing but the elegant, unyielding line of her back. "Tell me, Monsieur Corneille," she said, her voice tight with a suppressed fury, "am I truly so… repulsive… to you? Do I inspire such… profound and insurmountable… caution in your noble chest?"

"At sixteen years of age, Mademoiselle," Corneille replied, his own voice quiet but firm, "you possess the privilege, the luxury, of innocence, of unthinking impulse. I, at twenty-five, am burdened with the necessity of thinking… one step further ahead. This, I acknowledge, may cause you some… offense."

Anne, her small fists clenched at her sides, retorted, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and wounded pride, "Your words, Monsieur, bring to my mind a certain… ill-tempered black cat I once attempted to befriend. No matter how tenderly I cooed to it, no matter how many delectable tidbits I offered, it steadfastly, almost contemptuously, refused my affections. It would not allow me to come near, and indeed, on more than one occasion, it even had the audacity to… scratch me. Finally," her voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper, "my patience, which is not, I confess, without its limits, was exhausted. I… took the ungrateful creature… and I… cast it from my bedchamber balcony."

Her voice regained some of its former strength, though it was now laced with a chilling, almost cruel, amusement. "I learned a most… illuminating… lesson that day, Monsieur Corneille. It seems that, beyond a certain, rather specific, height, even cats, for all their legendary agility, can indeed be… fatally broken… by a fall. And to think," she added, a note of mock surprise in her voice, "I had always believed them to be such… remarkably resilient… creatures. I too, Monsieur Corneille, possess a measure of pride, a sense of my own worth. Do you, then, intend to be my second black cat?"

As if summoned by her very words, a liveried servant, his face a mask of impassive deference, opened the massive, ornate doors of the main keep. A sleek, black cat, its fur like polished obsidian, darted out from within, winding itself with a sinuous, almost liquid, grace around Anne’s slender ankles, its purr a low, contented rumble.

Anne scooped the creature up into her arms, her earlier anger seemingly vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. A dazzling, almost predatory, smile bloomed upon her face. "Oh, you naughty, uncooperative little beast!" she cooed, nuzzling the cat’s soft fur. "You have quite ruined my dramatic effect! I had such a splendid opportunity to truly… frighten… Monsieur Corneille."

"You would not have truly harmed the cat, Mademoiselle Longueville," Corneille stated, his voice flat, his gaze unwavering. "Because this… small, insignificant creature’s… intrinsic value… is not nearly sufficient to warrant the personal exertion of your own hand."

Anne froze, her smile faltering, a flicker of something unreadable – was it surprise? Or perhaps, a grudging respect? – in her startlingly red eyes. After a moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity, she turned, a slow, deliberate movement. She lifted the black cat’s small, delicate paw and, with a gesture that was both playful and strangely menacing, waved it at Corneille. "Monsieur Corneille," she said, her voice a silken, almost sorrowful, whisper, "you possess no… 'love'… within you, do you?"