Having hastily finished his dinner, Hohenlohe has just about stepped into his villa's quarters for the night when Carnelian appears behind him without warning. 'What are you doing here so late?' 'You had worries, and I've just seen to them. I'm here to report in, of course.' 'Oh, I see.' A gust of night air blows through the room, mile-long curtains fluttering restlessly. Having left his Spire for the moment so as to smooth out tomorrow's parade, the Count feels the air faintly nip at him. 'Hold on, what made you—no, let me restate. Can you even be that quick?' 'Of course.' 'Really? Well, I'll make one more check, just on the off-chance. Given tomorrow's parade, you—' 'Off-chance? Don't you have faith in me?' Much like one would enrage at a habitually interrupting bodyguard, the Count stomps his feet forcefully. 'How could I have faith? Are you to say an instrument can be so quickly learned? What, did you take up the triangle?' 'You surmise well.' 'Do I now? You plan to show up to my parade tomorrow tinkling on the triangle?!' 'Exactly. And by the way, all triangle lovers take grave offense at your words.' 'You—! You might recall I had every other bodyguard playing music at last year's visits, while you alone stood there doing nothing, making us all look like fools!' 'And you insisted I act like a member of the bodyguards last month, when an envoy came from the next city over. If you'll remember, when he affixed a tapping device under the table, I drew my weapon across his throat by reflex before remembering I was holding a trumpet, not a sword.' 'Carnelian!!' 'I'll be blunt—looking after you takes enough of my energy. I'm certainly not disposed to learn an instrument for you.' 'I don't care! I demand you learn! I demand it!' The Count glares at his unrepentant attendant with all the temper of a small child, ultimately not so furious as to pounce at anything—he simply slams the door as he leaves. But the moment the door latches shut, Carnelian places a firm grip on the dagger at her waist. 'Alright, you behind the curtain. Come out. 'An assassin sent by the diet, I presume? And you really think that once the Count is dead and his cousin succeeds the title in all his ambition, he'll grant the Stadtrat autonomy? 'No. Forget that. Here's a different question. Would you prefer a sophisticated death, or one more to-the-point? '...Well, if you won't say anything, can I take that as the dealer's choice?' The assassin barely has time to twitch before the curtain becomes a pair of lips, the bookshelves jaws, and the candles incisors. One massive chomp on their windowside prey is followed by chewing, then a swallow, and finally a mess all over the floor. 'It's over now. Won't you come in?' The Count pokes his head through the door to confirm that all danger has passed, then musters all his courage before entering. 'Very swift to react, and on-point with the improvisation as well. Quite well done.' 'I don't need you complimenting me.' The two of them stare at the villa bedroom, a scene of chaos and scraps and fresh blood, neither breaking the silence. It isn't the first unsuccessful assassination attempt, but all previous ones have taken place at Count Hohenlohe's Spire, which is hardly dilapidated enough to let would-be murderers as far as the sleeping quarters. After a spell, the Count breaks the tension. 'Carnelian.' 'What? I can't exactly use my Arts to clean rooms.' 'And I wasn't expecting you to.' 'Good call.' 'I wanted to ask, are you really not going to learn an instrument?' 'Oh? So you are scared of losing face after all?' 'As if! No, it's no more than a bit of curiosity. You—' The Count's face flushes red. He stammers silently. Eventually, having not said a word further, he turns to flee the bedroom. Carnelian shakes her head. The hyacinths by the head of the bed catch her eye. In front of them lies an implement nominally for self-defense, but hardly useful in practice, save for offering the Count a little mental assurance—a dagger. Though yet to nestle in anyone's flesh, blood has dyed its blade a deep carmine.