At her thanks, Kier smiled and dipped his head, his eyes hanging on hers for a moment longer before he made a show of chivalrously deferring to her, his head and eyes downcast for a second before he rose again. Really, it was uncommon — it was passing strange. If anyone were to watch, were to watch this scene of the leader going to such pains to make a lowly she-cat feel welcome, a she-cat who was neither Superior nor Executioner nor even Reporter, who was a traitor’s daughter… It would have been unthinkably befuddling. There was no reason.

It was more or less understood that if Kier took a fancy to a Superior tom’s mate, they’d turn a blind eye for a night. Let themselves be cuckolded and not hold it against their leader. Afterwards, the next dusk, the next night, Kier would laugh and give them a conspiratorial little grin, lean in like it were a terrific inside joke at the she-cat’s expense, and say their name with such teasing warmth, say oh, you know how it is; when they give me that look, I can’t help myself — nothing degrading about sharing. And they’d have to put on a tight smile and nod — because even if they didn’t love their mate, as many a tom in NightClan now didn’t (if Kier said you know, I think you and her would make a fine pair, there was little room for argument; you proposed the next day, because it was beneficial to him socially, or politically, or practically, and so you followed suit), she was still theirs. Theirs, until she was Kier’s. And yours again when he was done, when he’d had his little power trip that came of taking a wife off a husband’s arm and knowing he had no choice but to be just as loyal as before while Kier fed her dripping cherries on his lap at the head of the table.

But Cascadepaw wasn’t anything special, not to any onlooker. She wasn’t even the mate of anyone special. She wasn’t the elegant, the poised, the sophisticated sort of she-cat he favoured for his one night stands and mistresses — women who could kick him in the face with heels and still look perfect for dinner; graceful, disdainful, old Hollywood glamour. She might grow up to be, but now she was just reticent, shy. And more than that, Kier wasn’t being overtly lewd, overtly flirtatious. Really, he was being as respectful, as well-mannered, as attentive as he had ever been — and all of that without trying to feel her up. Without even seeming like he wanted to. His smiling eyes stayed on her, but they were absorbed, interested in what she had to say, like she was more than she was, like she mattered, like he would pull out her chair for her and lavish attention on her, and for what? It was inexplicable.

Of course, she didn’t matter. She only mattered so far as what she could give him. She might have been the ugliest thing in the world, might have been a complete dolt, and he’d have given her all the same attentions if she could offer him all the things she could now — it was just a benevolent mercy that she was fine to look at on top of it all, that she was clever enough to know how to play stupid. He liked clever in Eris; he liked stupid in every other she-cat. Let them be pretty faces and empty heads.

I am honored that you think highly enough of me to grant me that privilege. For a moment, Kier feigned surprised incomprehension, like he couldn’t imagine why she would ever think herself unworthy. Then he seemed to realise, and in his surprise he did a sort of double take, like he was horrified she was still entertaining ideas like that when she’d been reprieved. “Oh — the business with your mother?” He waved a paw dismissively, soothingly, like she were a skittish mare who had to be gently calmed. “Oh, my dear, it’s forgotten. Your sister — of course I’m irritated about that, everybody knows I am, but you; you were found innocent! Fairly and truly. It’s no privilege, just what you’re owed.” He smiled warmly, like she were an equal. And that, when all the world knew Kier’s fanatical obsession with Class distinctions, was more inexplicable still. At her forward question, Kier’s smile didn’t falter; it stayed on his face as she babbled, his eyes never leaving her, just watching with a slow blink. Perfect — perfect, that she should be doing all this work for him. Perfect, that she should be so conscious of ladylike behaviour, so eager to please not only him, but this idea of what she should be that she’d crafted in her head from scraps of propaganda, of need, floating about NightClan’s air and plucked from it. Perfect, that all of this should flow like destiny, like the universe itself, had ordained it. He would come out of this on top after all, with his perfect lady bloodied by all the deflections she had shielded him with. What a pair they could be.

In lieu of an answer, Kier wandered over to the sheltering privacy beside his pillar in the centre of the camp and sat down, gesturing with his paw for her to sit. The smile never left his face. They were still in the open, but the stone at his back and the cool shadows over them both made it feel a little more fitting. By now his fur had dried to glossy black. “Do you know, it’s very refreshing to be asked that outright,” he replied at last when he was seated, his voice as cheery and open as it had ever been. “So many skirt around questions — I know what they mean and all the while it’s hell, having to wait for them to tie themselves into knots before they finally get somewhere close to what they want to ask. I suppose it’s because they’re afraid of being seen to commit themselves to anything, and all that doublespeak rhetoric has its place, I appreciate it, I admire it, I use it — but really, I’d say there’s far more danger in annoying someone by not just spitting the damn thing out.” He laughed. Someone was clearly him, but he would never say that; until he didn’t, and in spite of all the violence and the slaughter and the horror of kits reporting parents’ indiscretions and condemning them to death, he made a great show of how harmless he was — until he was parading his tyranny, he was warm and benign, no more dangerous than a sparrow. What could little Kier possibly do? Mention his ringmaster theatrics the day after they’d happened and he’d widen his eyes and feign obliviousness — at least with gentle ladies. They had no reason to know what the perfect gentleman did at trials, had no reason to hear his screaming, frenzied speeches that whipped the masses into hysteria like a drug — they knew, of course he knew they knew, but it was an unwritten bit of decorum that they would feign ignorance and let him be the harmless flatterer. His smile grew warmer still. “And really, you can let up on ‘sir’ while we’re alone.” Unable to stop himself, he leaned in and the lecherous little grin spread across his face as it so often did, his voice lowering. “Not that I don’t like it an incredible amount. If we were alone somewhere else, perhaps it would have its merits…” Then he remembered who he was speaking to and leaned back again. “So,” he continued warmly, like he hadn’t just made a meaningless pass at her, “is there any particular reason for the pleasure of your company, or am I simply lucky?”