In a place that is no place, many voices speak, but only a handful are heard. “How does your scheme progress?” one voice asks, the sound of a quill scratching parchment. “The pieces are sliding into their places,” a second voice replies, smooth and oily. “The girl has reached her adulthood, and is reacquainted with the boy. There will be wedding bells in due course.” “And Father?” A third voice, full of the excitement of a puppy on a sunny day. “He does not know?” “For the last time,” replied the oily voice sternly, “He is not our father! Nor is he our brother. He was simply the first of us.” “But does he suspect?” “I doubt it, he's a little out of touch these days. Even his latest title belies his senility.” “So now...?” the first prince asked. “Now we wear masks of hostility and indifference with each other, and await our moment.”
