“You would not dare,” he said, pushing at me like some girl in a horror movie who’d been told to struggle, but not too much.

“Do you love Irene?” Jean-Claude asked.

“What?”

“You heard him; do you love her?”

“I . . . I love her art. I love her creations.”

“Do you love her?” Jean-Claude and I asked at the same time.

Those brown eyes stared up into my brown eyes, but mine burned brighter. Her face went a little slack. “I love the way her eyes glitter as she looks at the jewels and metal, and begins to create in her head. I love her long, thin fingers, so delicate when she sets the jewels in my metal. I love that I can begin engraving a line and she can finish it with a flourish or two that I didn’t see. I love that she adds to my vision, and she still loves watching me work in metal, even as she aids me.”

“You love her,” I said, softly.

He looked puzzled, and then slowly, as if each word were drawn against his will, he said, “I think I . . . I think . . . I do. I don’t know what I would do without her at my side. I would be lost without her quick fingers and her bright eyes. Her smile is the first to greet me at night and the last I see as dawn comes. I did not realize that she was so important to me.”

“You love Irene,” Jean-Claude said.

Irene’s face didn’t turn toward him this time, but continued to stare up into mine. “I love her, don’t I?”

“Yes,” I said, “you love Irene.”

“I love Irene,” he said.

“You love Irene.”

“I love Irene,” he repeated.

“Put her back on her feet, ma petite.”

I put Irene’s body solidly upright, hands still steadying her. The face turned to Jean-Claude. “You have bewitched me, Jean-Claude.”

“Non, mon ami, we have shown you the truth.”

“Are you saying I loved Irene before this?”

“I suspect it was love that made you want to make her your human servant in the first place, mon ami.”

He shook Irene’s head as if a fly were buzzing in his ear. “I am not certain that is true.”

“We felt her need, and we looked into your heart, Melchior, and found an answering need.”

“I didn’t need to love her.”

“No, you already did,” I said.

“I am not certain . . . I mean . . .” He turned and looked at me with Irene’s face. He looked confused.

“You love Irene, and you can’t wait to tell her that,” I said.

He frowned at me. “I . . . tell her that.”

“Some of the most glorious art in the world has been created because of love, Melchior; think what you and Irene may create with your love and art intertwined,” Jean-Claude said.

“Yes,” he said, “yes, we will craft you such rings, and a crown worthy of our first queen in centuries.”

I wanted to argue that whole queen part, but we were winning, so I kept my mouth shut. “Let Irene be present, Melchior, and we will talk of your creations,” Jean-Claude said.

“No, no, we must begin again. I did not understand love before; my designs are too cold. You need something warmer, hotter, more . . . loved.”

“As you think best, Melchior.”

“My king.” He bowed to Jean-Claude, and then he turned to me. “My queen.” He had never addressed me like that, let alone included me in the bowing.

“Go now, let Irene back,” Jean-Claude said.

“As you wish, my king.” And from one blink to the next Irene was there. It was the weirdest thing, because it was the same body, but you just knew it was her again. The expression, the body language, all of it went back to just Irene.

She smiled at us. “Now, where were we?”

I studied her face, and so did Jean-Claude, and then we looked at each other. I raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember anything from the last few minutes, Irene?”

She smiled at both of us, raising her eyebrows, and gave a little shrug. “I’m assuming my master has been present. I am but his vessel to fill as he sees fit.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” I asked.

“He has allowed me to live for centuries beyond my mortal span, and to learn more of metal and jewels than I ever dreamt possible. He is my master not just as servant and vampire, but master jeweler. We have traveled the world and the centuries in search of art and beauty, and raw stuff of our craft drawn from the earth itself, or sometimes wicked people.”

“It sounds very adventurous,” Jean-Claude said.

She nodded, happily. “It is, my lord.”

“If he loved you as much as he loves your art, would that not be a glorious thing?”

She lowered her eyes and blushed. “Oh, my lord, you tease me.”

“I think you underestimate your worth to your master, Irene.”

She shook her head.

“Should we tell her?” I asked.

“Tell me what?” she asked, looking up.

“Your master has some new ideas to discuss with you,” Jean-Claude said.

“But I thought we were almost done with the design.”

“He said that he has some new ideas,” I said.

“Something about wanting to capture love in the rings, or something like that,” Jean-Claude said, waving a hand vaguely in the air. He looked harmless and almost foppish, the way he’d hidden his power for centuries among the other vampires. He was just handsome and seductive, nothing else to see, move along, move along.

“Well, I’m sure my master knows best; he is the greatest metal-smith in the world.” She smiled happily and simply began to repack all the jewelry. She never questioned our word, or that her master might simply use her like a puppet and change all their plans. It probably happened often enough, because Melchior had been an “artist” for a few thousand years. It gave you an attitude. I wondered how Irene would feel about his new inspiration.

We waited while she packed and the guards let her out. They’d make sure that her personal guards who had been made to wait in the back were at her side before she took that much bright and shiny outside the Circus. It would suck to have her mugged on the way back to her master now that he loved her.

When we were alone in the room, I turned to Jean-Claude. “Did he really love her all along?”

“I believe so.”

“But you don’t know so.”

“No.”

“Did you make him fall in love with her?”

He gave that Gallic gesture that was almost a shrug, but not quite. “We lifted the veil and allowed him to see the brightest jewel in his collection, that is all.”

“You mean Irene.”

“Oui.”

“And we’re both tired of people discounting me because I’m your human servant.”

“And that,” he said.

“Are you really going to make me wear a tiara for the wedding?”

He smiled like some fallen angel trying to sell you ice cubes in hell. “Well, ma petite, it would be churlish of us to strip him bare enough to fall in love and then insult his art.”

I looked at the ceiling, took in a deep breath, let it out, and said, “Fuck, you didn’t tell me we had to wear crowns.”