Marceau’s sister was a harder sell to the Cult of the Blackened Sky than one might have expected from her later fervent adoption of it. Listening to the varying proclamations of her brother and Hadrian, she considered each, and at first laughed, calling them fools both.

But the thoughts rested heavily on Aurélie’s mind, swirling within like the embers that danced down from the sky that week. At last, she agreed that this was all a sign of something, but what, who could say? The Wolflord’s plans were his own, and there was no need to fear his Consort – the wild changes he’d enacted at the beginning had been brought to heel, his strange machinations tamed and brought into line with their Lord’s vision, whatever that may be.

This, she thought, was the object lesson: the children of the Lair must not react in haste, but must only trust in the Wolflord.

Aurélie’s became something of a soothing voice during the week of the Blackened Sky, not as alien as that of the First Muse, but gentle and understanding. At first, she had even tried to draw close to Agathé, to work together, but the Muse had been too busy to hear her theories, and seemed disinterested in them besides.

“This is only a temporary state, try not to read much into it,” she had said, and, dutifully, Aurélie had nodded.

But the Muse had been gone for many lifetimes – she did not know their ways. She did not know of the Darkening Times of previous years.

It was no matter – the children saw the patterns clearly enough.