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“So, you think Emperor Florian is behind it?”

“If he isn’t, it’s a blatant attack upon his home.” Margaret narrowed her eyes. “I wonder if he would be willing to meet with us tomorrow?”

“My dear...” Lord Riven sighed, setting down his glass. “Our own king may be all too ready to stand on the deepest informality with his own nobles, whether we wish it or not. But if your plan is to march into the palace of the famously reclusive, morose, and rigidly proper emperor of the Habsburg empire—Napoleon Bonaparte’s own grandson!—and interrogate him about whether he may be secretly plotting to defeat the cause of peace in our time through sneaking, supernatural means...”

“That would be the simplest course of action,” Margaret said wistfully. “You don’t think he would agree to assist in our investigation? Even with a letter from King Thomas as a reference?”

“Far be it from me to underestimate the power of your persistence,” said her husband, “but we may be more successful if we wait to be introduced to him on a social basis by our king at the next ball—and then ask a few careful questions on an informal basis.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ll defer to you on matters of diplomacy,” said Margaret, and steeled herself for another sip of disappointing tea. “But in the meantime...”

Scowling, she pushed aside her still-half-full cup and laid out the facts. “There is a series of balls held every three days for a month, with two weeks still left to endure. Each ball is officially hosted by a different ruler among all those gathered here for the Grand Exposition, and the guests are the highest aristocrats from all of those visiting nations.

“We know that, from the first ball onwards, one particular waltz has always been played—one that sounds strikingly familiar and yet somehow unidentifiable—although different orchestras and conductors have been hired for all the different balls. Not one of those conductors or musicians seems to know—or be willing to confess—who requested that strange new piece from them. But each time that waltz has played, the entire ballroom has fallen into a strange trance. No one can remember afterwards exactly what has happened, but all report strange, dreamlike images passing before them...and everyone who was dancing to that waltz has worn their slippers to rags as it played, even though no more time than usual passed on any clocks.

“Now, rumors and conspiracies are flying, and even though no one’s been injured, the whole series of inescapable magical attacks has been taken as a grievous insult to the authority of every attending ruler. Naturally, that’s led to their private negotiations becoming more and more fraught after each offensive new event, and every nation is pointing fingers of blame at all the others, so...for goodness’ sake!” Margaret threw her hands in the air. “Why on earth has no one simply thought to cancel all the upcoming balls? It’s by far the most practical solution to avoid any more such magical attacks.”

“But it would immediately signal weakness and surrender to whoever has been behind them,” Lord Riven said. “That is a message few powerful men can bear to send...especially when surrounded by their rivals, with scimitars rattling on all sides and war threatening on the horizon.”

“Ugh!” Reaching over to the curtain, Margaret tugged it open and beckoned forcefully to the closest waiter, dismissing all her earlier fears about propriety. “I need my commonplace book from my cloak to make notes.”

When that waiter returned, though, a few minutes later, she blinked at the silver-colored cloak folded in his arms. “That is not the cloak I left at the door.”

“Ahem.” The waiter looked down his nose with weary patience. “My lady’s servant made the exchange soon after you arrived, following your earlier instructions.”

“What?” Both of the servants who’d traveled with them had been left at the spacious apartment in the eighth district that King Thomas’s staff had arranged for their visit. Margaret hadn’t given them any instructions except to place her most important case of books in her room before they retired to bed. “But⁠—”

“Thank you,” said her husband, and plucked the cloak from the waiter’s arms. “We must have forgotten.”

“‘Forgotten?’” Margaret repeated skeptically as the curtains drew closed once more. “You may have insisted on buying me more clothes in Paris than I’ll ever manage to wear, but I know I’ve never seen that cloak before.”

“Nor have I,” said Lord Riven, “which makes it interesting, don’t you think, that someone went to the trouble of ensuring you were given it?”

“Oh!” Margaret leaned forward with new interest, inspecting the folded silver cloth in his hands. “You don’t think it was a mistake?”

He raised one eyebrow as he passed it over. “It would seem unlikely for such a mistake to occur, especially as they asked for you by name. Add to that the fact that we only arrived in this city tonight...and you’ve just been set a politically fraught supernatural challenge.”

“That is true.” Shifting to sit sideways in her chair, Margaret shook out the cloak from its folds. It felt unusually thin, not designed for any warmth, and it rippled strangely in the air as she shook it, taking longer than it should have to fall into neat and customary lines.

Once it had, it looked deceptively plain and unimpressive. However, when she pressed against the dangling fabric with both thumbs, she could have sworn she felt herself press through the material, even though no indentation showed on its smooth surface.

“Ooh.” A warm glow of fascination rose through her as she turned it back and forth. “That isn’t just a clever effect. It’s an illusion.”

“I beg your pardon?” Frowning, her husband rose to stand over her, one hand landing protectively on her shoulder. “If that thing is dangerous⁠—”

“It’s a supernatural artifact,” she murmured without looking up. “They’re always dangerous. But this, I believe, is one of the more minor examples.” There was no telltale buzz of power from this cloak, as there had been from the Rose of Normandy back in England, or from Reflection’s Heart in the Black Forest. It merely hung pliantly from her hands in exactly the shape a hooded cloak should hold...which was clearly not its own.

Hmm.

Given unlimited time in Vienna’s Imperial court library, Margaret would deeply enjoy researching this item, hunting through every tiny fragment of legend and old stories to find the whispers that signaled underlying truth. However, she was working on a harshly restricted timeline—and as every successful researcher knew, in the end, there was no substitute for hands-on experimentation.

Nudging her husband’s hand out of the way, she shifted back her chair and then whirled the cloak around her shoulders, fastening the silver laces around her throat.

“Good God!” Lord Riven lunged forward, uncharacteristic panic contorting his patrician features.

Margaret clasped his closest reaching hand reassuringly in hers. “I’m fine,” she said firmly. “What do you see when you look at me?”

“Nothing.” His voice steadied, but his brown eyes still looked wide and half-wild. “Absolutely nothing! I can feel your hand now, but otherwise...” His grip tightened. “I would swear the chair was empty and I had lost you.”