The laugh that came out of me was not, I want to be clear, my most dignified moment. It was not the kind of laugh that appears in stories as a rich chuckle or a knowing smirk, the kind that communicates sophistication and effortless superiority while the villain writhes at your feet.
No, it was the other kind—the kind that erupts from somewhere below rational thought and sprints straight past composure without even pausing to wave, the kind that makes your shoulders shake and your eyes water and your crew exchange glances behind you that you’ll be dealing with for weeks.
It was, in short, the laugh of someone who’d been holding themselves together with concentrated effort for a very long time and had just felt the last fiber of that effort snap like an overstressed string, releasing everything that had been coiled behind it in one spectacular, slightly unhinged burst of sound.
Madame Seraphine didn’t laugh with me. This was understandable.
She coughed, which is a generous description for what actually happened—a full-body convulsion that brought blood to her lips with the dramatic thoroughness of a performance that hadn’t received the memo about subtlety.
Her hand shot out toward me and I took a single small step sideways out of pure courtesy, not because I thought she’d actually reach me, but because watching her grasp at empty air while the poison took its position in every system of her body seemed preferable to watching her tear at my sleeve.
She got perhaps two inches of forward motion before her legs made their dissenting opinion known, folding beneath her in stages, first the knees then the rest, and Madame Seraphine—sophisticated, lethal, perfectly composed Madame Seraphine who’d made the air go cold with her presence not fifteen minutes ago—hit the floor with a sound that had absolutely nothing elegant about it.
Blood tracked from her eyes in thin lines, red against the pale architecture of her face, painting her in the specific kind of detail that makes a scene difficult to misinterpret.
The pain was clearly doing extraordinary work. I could see it in the way she held every muscle—that particular rigidity of a body trying to choose, in real time, between fighting the thing happening to it and simply surviving it—and she was winning, barely, which meant she was both tougher than most people I’d ever poisoned and capable of producing an expression of fury so refined it might have been beautiful in a different context.
She forced her voice out the way you force a door that’s been swollen shut by weather, with effort and a specific quality of determination that makes clear the door didn’t win.
"How," she said, each word arriving individually as though she were paying per syllable, "did you do this?"
Not a question. The intonation of someone taking inventory of the damage before deciding how to proceed.
I let the last of the laughter shake itself out of my shoulders, swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand, and then composed my face into something approximately appropriate for the occasion, which took more effort than it should have given the circumstances.
"Well," I said pleasantly, crouching down to her level with the casual ease of someone settling in for a lovely afternoon conversation. She coughed again, and this time the sound came from deeper, and my expression adjusted accordingly. "Elvina," I said simply. "She was never actually back on your side. She’s been working with us since before the exchange."
The fury on Seraphine’s face went through several layers in quick succession—disbelief, recalculation, a very specific variety of contempt that sharpened her features into something almost architectural.
"That’s impossible," she said, and the word came out strangled but precise. "You destroyed her. You did it in front of the entire tower, in front of everyone she’d ever—" She stopped, a sound escaping her that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a snarl but contained elements of both. "There is nothing you could have offered her that would get her back on your side!"
I let that sit there. Didn’t build on it, didn’t explain it, didn’t offer the context that would have made it legible.
I’ve found that nothing unsettles people quite as thoroughly as a complete non-answer delivered with total serenity, because it implies that the actual explanation exists somewhere, is interesting, and has been made deliberately unavailable.
Seraphine stared at me through the blood-streaked ruins of her composure and I returned the look with an expression of mild contentment that I was reasonably proud of, all things considered.
Her eyes moved to Elvina.
Elvina, to her eternal credit, did nothing.
She stood there with her face arranged in an expression of blankness so thorough it was almost its own form of artistry—not the blankness of someone suppressing emotion, but the specific stillness of someone who has committed to their position and doesn’t feel the need to advertise it.
The only thing visible was a faint shock that lived at the very edges of her eyes, something underneath the performance that hadn’t fully processed the reality of where she was standing and what she was watching.
Seraphine’s mouth opened.
"If," I said, very gently, "you raise your voice, I will break each of your fingers. One at a time. I’m not in any particular hurry."
Her mouth closed.
The room was extremely quiet. Somewhere beyond the silk-draped walls of Seraphine’s private lounge, the brothel continued its business with complete indifference to the private collapse happening in here, muffled music and footsteps forming a pleasant unreality around the edges of the moment.
I appreciated the contrast. It had a certain poetic quality that I’d have enjoyed more thoroughly if I weren’t actively managing seven different things at once.
Seraphine breathed for a few seconds, getting herself back below the threshold of screaming through what appeared to be considerable effort. When she spoke again the volume was controlled and the fury had been pushed down to something functional, a working temperature rather than a combustion one.
"How," she said again, different this time, deliberate, "did the poison get into my establishment. I stripped Elvina completely. I checked every inch of her—there was nothing on her, nothing hidden, nothing sewn into her clothing, I was thorough—" Her voice thinned slightly at the edges, a hairline fracture of a thing, the specific sound of a careful person confronting evidence that they weren’t as careful as they believed themselves to be. "How?"
I stood. "Elvina," I said, and tilted my head toward my side with the small motion that meant come here rather than the specific words, which I didn’t need to say because she was already moving, already standing at my shoulder with that new particular quality she had, this slightly unnerving attentiveness that I would examine in depth at a later date when there were fewer bleeding masterminds on the floor.
I stepped around behind her, reached up, and put two fingers into the side of her mouth.
Elvina’s breath hitched, brief and involuntary, a sound that belonged to a different kind of scene entirely and arrived here by accident.
A faint flush moved across the bridge of her nose and scattered along her cheekbones with the kind of timing that really couldn’t have been worse or more entertaining.
I filed it away in the same internal drawer that contained various other things I was choosing not to think about right now, hooking my fingers against the inside of her cheek and pulling it gently to the side so the interior became visible—and specifically so that one particular detail in her lower jaw became visible, second from the back, slightly different from its neighbors in a way that was invisible at a glance and required knowing what to look for.
I pulled my fingers free, wiped them on my skirt, and looked at Seraphine with an expression of profound personal satisfaction.
"Look at the teeth," I said.
Seraphine squinted, which clearly cost her something in terms of the pain redistribution it required. Then her eyes went wide. The particular width of someone whose mathematics has just stopped producing consistent results.
"She’s missing a tooth," she said, almost to herself, like a person trying to hear their own thought clearly enough to determine if they believed it.
I clapped my hands together with a sound that rang cheerfully across the room, because I’d been waiting to do exactly that since Willow finished the final version of the false tooth three days ago.
"The tooth," I said, bouncing very slightly on my toes in a way that I acknowledged was perhaps not the image of composed authority the moment called for and didn’t especially care, "was false. Planted the morning before the exchange. Hollow, sealed with a dissolvable compound—just add hot liquid, give it thirty seconds, and the seal dissolves and the contents release into whatever it’s sitting in." I spread my hands in a gesture of modest presentation. "Simple. Old. Extremely reliable. The oldest tricks keep working because everyone gets sophisticated enough to miss them."
Seraphine stared at me with blood drying on her face and the expression of someone being forced to appreciate an argument they desperately don’t want to find compelling. It was one of the better expressions I’d collected and I intended to remember it for years.
"Why," she said, after a very long moment, "didn’t it affect her."
"Tolerance," I said with the comfortable air of someone settling in for a lecture they’ve been genuinely looking forward to giving. "If you expose someone to a compound in small amounts, over time, increasing gradually—the body learns to manage what would otherwise overwhelm it. Build it slowly enough and what would kill a person in one dose becomes something they barely notice." I tilted my head. "She was uncomfortable, toward the end. She had a few rough mornings. But she was fine."
The confusion on Seraphine’s face wasn’t ordinary confusion—it was the particular kind that arrives when someone encounters a concept that has no existing structure to hang itself on, a thing so outside the framework of known knowledge that the mind keeps sliding off it.
I recognized the expression because I’d worn it myself, years ago, in a life that had no equivalent anywhere in this world.
The concept of building tolerance through micro-exposure was something every person who’d ever studied pharmacology on Earth absorbed without much ceremony, but here, in this world where poison was wielded with medieval simplicity and the idea of gradually calibrating a body’s response had apparently not occurred to anyone, it landed like news from a different civilization.
Which, technically, it was.
I kept that thought precisely where it was and didn’t share it.
Seraphine looked at me for a long moment, and whatever she saw there clearly didn’t give her anything useful, because she shifted and dropped the line of questioning with the decisive movement of a woman who had identified a problem she couldn’t solve and had chosen to redirect to ones she could.
Her expression rearranged itself—painful, effortful, but real—into something resembling a smile, and the smile carried something cold in it that had nothing to do with the poison.
"It doesn’t matter," she said. Her voice had steadied somewhat, whether through sheer will or because the poison had moved past its initial dramatic peak into something more sustained and therefore more manageable—I wasn’t sure, but either interpretation was interesting.
"None of this matters. Because you need me alive." She watched my face and whatever she saw there gave her something to stand on. "If I die, the entirety of the Ivory Gambit moves against you. Every resource, every operative, every favor called in and every contract taken. You’ll have nowhere in this city to exist. You need me alive to present this as a negotiation, to bring back terms, to maintain the story that you and I are finding common ground." The smile sharpened. "So. Here we are."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Pressed my lips together very hard while my face turned a color that I’m told is less becoming than I imagine, the specific red of someone trying with all their considerable will to not let something out that very much wants to come out, the physical reality of laughter being held at gunpoint by the last responsible part of my brain which was screaming at me that now was not the time and that I should maintain composure for at least three more minutes before dissolving completely.
I made it perhaps two of those minutes before the laugh won.
It burst out of me with the full enthusiasm of something that had been compressed past its structural limits and I pressed one hand over my face while it ran its course, tears gathering at the corners of my eyes, my shoulders doing the thing they do when the laugh is running the show entirely.
Seraphine watched this from the floor with an expression that had moved past fury and was now doing something more interesting—something that was starting to look, underneath everything, like the very first cellular awareness that the position she thought she held might not be the position she actually held.
I wiped my eyes. Composed myself. Looked at her with the warmth and patience of someone for whom composure at this point was basically performance art.
"I’m sorry," I said, in a voice that wasn’t remotely sorry. "Did you think I hadn’t planned for that?"
She said nothing, which was the beginning of the answer.
I glanced back over my shoulder, Julius met my eyes from across the room, and something passed between us in that look—understanding, anticipation, the quiet acknowledgment of two people who’d run a plan together long enough to know which part came next without having to say it aloud.
My crew shifted without instruction, redistributing themselves to the edges of the space with the easy movement of people who knew what they were making room for, and the space in the center of the room opened up around Julius like a stage.
He took a breath, slow and deliberate, the breath of a performer centering before a scene, and closed his eyes.
The air didn’t crack or shimmer, didn’t produce any of the theatrical signals that magic in bad stories announces itself with. It simply shifted—the quality of the space around Julius changing the way the quality of sound changes when a conversation pivots to something important, a fullness arriving where there had been ordinary air.
His illusionary magic didn’t perform itself, it installed itself, quietly and completely, the way Julius did most things that mattered, with a seriousness beneath the dramatics that only appeared when the stakes were real.
His features moved.
That’s the only description that does it justice—they moved, reshaping themselves with the deliberate precision of water finding a new level, and the change was total rather than incremental.
It didn’t look like transformation. It looked like revelation, as though the thing being revealed had always been there and only the light had changed.
Seraphine’s voice. Seraphine’s eyes, calculating, cold, and alive with that particular intelligence I’d spent the last hour mapping. Seraphine’s posture, the specific architecture of her stillness, the angle of her chin. The hollow at her throat. The expression, carefully neutral in exactly the way Seraphine’s expressions were carefully neutral, which was to say fully, with intention, with nothing accidental anywhere in it.
The figure who’d been Julius stood in the center of the room and looked nothing whatsoever like Julius and everything like the woman bleeding on the floor, and the detail was not approximate—it was exact, it was complete, it was the kind of reproduction that didn’t leave gaps where the original could be distinguished.
A splitting image copy of Madame Seraphine looked back at the real one from across the room, and the real one stared at it with the particular stillness of a person whose last piece of leverage has just become visible for what it actually was.
"You don’t need to survive this meeting," I said pleasantly, letting the words land one at a time, "for anyone to believe that you did."