"Lady Francine Fruge" was Horace's crisp announcement.

She started to kneel.

"Just a curtsy is fine," I said firmly.

She stood.

"Queen Mona Lisa." There was a look of disapproval on Horace's sour face as he grudgingly continued his introduction. "Warrior Lord Gryphon and Warrior Lord Amber."

A second low curtsy from Francine. "My Queen. My Lords." Her gray eyes, I noted, lingered a little on Gryphon, eliciting mixed feelings in me. Mostly annoyance.

"Are you also a member of Bernard's household?" I asked. My guess was Margaret's sister, but with a Monère you could never tell. They all looked young. She could have been anywhere in age from twenty to two hundred—I think their hair started to gray after that—and anyone from great-granddaughter to great-grandmother. Safer just to ask how they were related rather than presume.

"His daughter, my Queen."

See.

My eyes sharpened upon her with interest. I'd never seen a complete Monère family before. A whole unit—father, mother, daughter… a precious child.

A man stepped forward next. His bearing was graceful and confident and more than a touch arrogant. It might have come from his looks. He was fair, like the others, with a thick wave of sun-kissed hair, strikingly handsome like one of the ancient Greek gods. Tall and moderately muscled, with lovely moss-green eyes. But his was a mere beauty of the world, a cold surface perfection. Something to admire from afar, like a figure on a coin, or a cold marble statue. Gryphon's beauty was otherworldly, like that of a fallen angel's, unmatchable, with a drowning sensuality that made you want to touch him, stroke him, to breathe his essence deep into your body and wrap yourself in his sweetness.

"Dontaine Fruge." Something about the way Horace announced him proclaimed him special.

My eyes narrowed as I sensed him, the quiet thrum of his power. He was strong, much more so than Bernard. Perhaps the confidence wasn't just in his looks then, I thought, as Horace went through his spiel.