She saw Sergei and gestured for him to join her. He bowed-awkwardly, his arthritic body no longer as supple and flexible as it had been when she’d first known him-and he came over to her, leaning heavily on his cane. He smiled at her, the reflective silver paint on his face cracking slightly as he did so. Sergei’s silver nose-the false one he always wore to replace the one of flesh he’d lost in his youth-seemed almost to be part of him tonight. A patchwork of small mirrors covered the bashta he wore. Crazed, broken reflections of herself and the dancers and crowd behind her moved madly around him. The lights of the hall flared and shimmered in the tiny mirrors, dancing from the nearest walls.

“That was quite an entrance,” Sergei said. Allesandra slowed her pace to his as they moved through the crowds.

“Thank you for suggesting the method, though you had poor Talbot terrified that something would go wrong. I must say, however, that I’ll need to retire for a bit soon to have my attendants get rid of the harness; it’s rubbing my poor skin raw.”

He smiled. “The Kraljiki’s entrance should always be dramatic,” he said, smiling. “A little discomfort is fair payment for a stunning appearance. You should know that.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Sergei, when you don’t have to endure it.”

“I’ve always loved the Gschnas,” Sergei told her. “I’m glad you’ve brought back the tradition, Kraljica. Nessantico needs her traditions, especially after the last few years.”

Especially after the last few years. The comment tightened her lips and narrowed her eyes. “You needn’t bring that up now, Ambassador,” she told him. The history was never far from anyone’s mind in Nessantico: the horrible cost of recovery after the Westlanders nearly destroyed the city, the continued separation of the Holdings and the Coalition nations, and most recently, the political and military disaster in West Magyaria.