AN: Surprise! Some chapters just want to be written.

They sat together in Richard's small room, which was still cluttered with books, pointedly not looking at each other.

"So." said Richard.

"Do you think he'll ever unlock the door?" Catherine asked, gazing wistfully at the room's only exit.

Richard snorted. "Knowing Maikos? He'll probably wait until we jump to our deaths."

"Or, we could have a civilized conversation, like civilized people, like he asked." Catherine pointed out. "Just a thought."

"I refuse absolutely to have a civilized conversation with you. It would be excruciatingly boring. I'd rather jump."

"Can we at least talk about something?"

"We are."

"I mean something that matters."

"Getting out of here matters."

Their eyes met for a moment and they hurriedly looked away, Richard at the window, Catherine at the door.

"The doctor. . . ." Catherine began, and stopped, wringing her hands. Richard risked a sideways glance at her. The corners of her mouth were pinched, her eyebrows drawn together. She swallowed, blinked a few times, and continued. "The doctor says your mother probably won't live through the night."

"And here Maikos has me locked up in this room with you. I like his sense of priorities. Incidentally, do you remember where I put my dagger?"

"It's under your bed, next to the Compendium Magorum." she replied with a casual wave of her hand. "But please don't stab him. I'm sure he has your best interests at heart."

Richard stuck his whole upper body under his bed, then called out to Catherine, "It is not." He kicked his feet a few times, head resting on his hands. "I don't see how this benefits anyone."

"We're married." Catherine said. "Come out from under there, you look silly."

"No." said Richard, and pulled his feet under after him. "And anyway, I don't see what marriage has to do with any of this."

"You don't think it's odd that we've pledged to spend our lives with one another, come what may, and we haven't had a single conversation in the three weeks since we did so?"

"I've been busy." Richard replied, voice muffled by his bed. "Research. Writing letters. Boring things."

"Who've you been writing letters to?" Catherine inquired, moving to sit cross-legged on the floor by Richard's bed. She could see him only as a dark shadow, lying flat on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes.

"I don't think that's any of your business."

"And I think it is. Will it do any harm to tell me?"

"Probably."

"Oh, come now, Dick. You know I couldn't lay a finger on you, even if I wanted to."

Richard's whole body went rigid, just for a moment, and then he sighed.

"Fine. I've been sending messages to town, asking if they know of any good healers in the region. Nobody's answered yet. And if you call me 'Dick' one more time I swear to God. . . ."

"Which one?" Catherine retorted. "And anyway, you needn't be so touchy about it. Are you sending for healers because of your mother? You really think they could help?"

"Would I be wasting the effort if I didn't?"

Catherine gave him a critical look, which he was completely unable to see. "Yes, I think you would."

There was a lull, where Catherine looked at Richard and Richard looked at the inside of his own elbow, before finally he sighed and removed his arm from his face.

"What are we supposed to talk about? Anything? Everything? I don't have time for this. So you talk, and I'll listen, and when you're done, I'll go back to doing important things and you can go back to doing whatever it is you do when we haven't been locked in a room together."

Catherine sighed and looked at her hands. "There was something specific I was supposed to talk to you about. I just . . . I wasn't sure . . . I don't know how to even begin. . . ."

"What is this, a story? It doesn't need a beginning. Or an end. Or even a middle, for that matter. Just say it so I can get out of here."

"It isn't that simple." Catherine objected, shifting onto one hip and curling her legs behind her. "It isn't the kind of thing you just . . . blurt out. It's . . . it's life-changing!"

"Oh boy. Just what I need. More changes in my life." Richard intoned, then made a derisive noise in the back of his throat. "If you're going to stammer around it all day, I'll just let you think about it while I get on with my life."

"But . . . Dick, you don't understand. You can't understand. Everything will change. Everything! I can't just . . . I wanted you to be ready. Oh, don't you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

Richard glared at her. She was obviously distressed, eyes going red around the edges, chewing on her lips, picking at her fingernails. He sighed. "No. No, I don't. So tell me."

"I . . ." she sighed, bowed her head; and when she next spoke, her voice was softer than the fall of a feather. "I'm pregnant."

He gaped. He stared. His mouth moved, and no sound came out. He sat up quickly and cracked his head against the underside of his bed.

"Son of a—!" he cried, putting a hand to his forehead and curling up under the bed. He wriggled out into the light, still staring wide-eyed at Catherine, who seemed fascinated by her fingernails. "You . . . but . . . that's not . . . what?"

She smiled shyly and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't listen. Now do you see why I didn't want to just drop it out of thin air? Why I had to . . . to try and get you to figure it out for yourself? Now do you see what was so important that Maikos had to lock us up here alone? I've been trying to tell you for a week, Dick, but you just never let me."

"I . . ." he leaned back against his bed, ran a hand through his hair. "Why does it all happen at once?" he asked miserably.

"I don't know." Catherine said, taking his hand in hers. "But we'll work through this. It's something to celebrate. Something to bring hope."

"I'm going to throw up." said Richard.

"I know it isn't a fair trade, your mother's death and your son's birth, but it is something, isn't it?"

"No, seriously." he said, putting a hand to his head. "And my mother won't die."

Catherine pulled him into an embrace, stroking his shoulder. "Sweetheart, sometimes you just have to let things go."

Richard hiccuped, then shoved Catherine away and vomited at the foot of his bed.

She stared at him with pity in her eyes. "You weren't joking." she said. "I'm sorry. I'll get you some tea. Wait here. Don't go anywhere." She rose in a swish of skirt and knocked on the door. "Maikos?" she called. "You're still out there, aren't you?"

"Yes, miss." came the muffled reply.

"Richard isn't feeling well. Could you bring up a cup of tea or two?"

"Oh, certainly." Maikos replied. "Back in a moment." There was the sound of running footsteps, then nothing. Catherine moved back to Richard's side and sat down, putting an arm around his shoulders. For a long time, neither one moved or spoke.

"It's going to be all right." she said eventually. "I know this is hard for you, but you're strong enough to get through it."

"Am I?" he asked, voice rough and quiet. "All alone, left with nothing, am I really?"

"Dick, what are you talking about?"

There was a knock at the door. "Tea!" called Maikos. Richard hauled himself to his feet, waving off Catherine's offer to get it.

"I'm not dying." he snapped. The door unlocked and he pulled it open. Maikos stood before him, flushed and sweaty, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and two cups on it. "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore."

The tray fell with a crash, spilling hot tea all over the floor. Richard vanished down the hallway in a flurry of dark robes, running as fast as his feet would carry him. Maikos stood in the doorway and looked at Catherine.

"He didn't take it so well, then."

She shook her head. "You wouldn't expect him to, would you? If I found out my father had been poisoning my mother, right under my own nose. . . . I think he's taking it exceptionally well, considering. You don't think he'll do anything stupid, do you?"

Maikos rubbed one eyebrow. "I don't think so, Miss Catherine. I know so."

There was a guard outside the door to his mother's room, a shiny-faced young man with blonde hair and broad shoulders.

"Let me in." Richard ordered, breathing heavily. The guard shifted uneasily, rolling his shoulders and looking off to the side.

"I wish I could." he replied eventually. "I do, my lord. But I'm under orders, you see? Nobody goes in except the doctor. He was very ad—" The guard was cut short when Richard's hand closed around his throat.

"Let me in or I will kill you." he said calmly, expressionless.

"Hhhrk," said the guard, his face growing red. Richard let go and the guard, coughing, said, "Yes, my lord," and stood aside. The young lord opened the door without so much as a second glance at the guard.

She was like a ghost, lying on her bed in the pale gray light of cloudy evening. She had grown thin, little more than skin stretched over bones, and her face was pallid and lusterless. Richard sat next to her and took her cold hand in his.

"Mother?" he said, counting the space in between her breaths. One, two, three, four, breath, one, two, three, four, five, breath. . . . "Mother, it's me. It's Richard."

"Richard?" she muttered vaguely, eyelids fluttering. One, two, breath, one, two, three, four, five, breath. . . . "You weren't supposed to know."

He swallowed effortfully, jaw clenching. "You're going to be all right, do you hear me? I will do whatever it takes to make you well again."

She sighed, eyes open and looking at nothing. "I didn't want you to worry. . . ." she murmured. Richard squeezed her hand, gently.

"I'm not worried." he said softly. "Not now. Not ever. I always knew you'd get better. And you will. So don't you worry, either."

"I don't want to miss the wedding," she said, with a hint of a smile. "I want to have grandchildren."

One, two, three, four, breath. . . .

"You . . . didn't miss it." Richard said. "And . . . and you are going to have . . . a grandchild. A boy. I'll let you hold him." Something tickled his cheek and he brushed it away carelessly. "I want you to name him. But you can't name him until you hold him."

"Oh, Richard." Lady Ashendale sighed, patting the back of his hand. "Don't put all your eggs in one basket, darling."

One, two, three, four, five, breath. . . .

"I don't know what you mean." Something was tickling both cheeks now. He ran his sleeve over his face and sniffled.

"I'm dying, silly." she whispered conspiratorially. "And don't argue."

"I won't let you." he replied. Something dripped off his nose and landed on her bedcovers. "I'll find a way to fix this."

She sighed and closed her eyes—one, two, three, four, five, six, breath —then woke up all over again.

"Are you . . . Death?" she asked softly, gazing at Richard.

"Mother. . . ." he began, voice strained. Her eyes closed again.

"It's all right. I'm not scared."

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, breath. . . .

"I won't let this happen." Richard said, tears dripping from his face. "I won't."

He waited eight seconds until she took one more breath, then kissed her on the forehead and departed.

"Maikos?" said Catherine, catching up to him in the hallway. They were both red-faced and out of breath. "Anything?"

The servant shook his head. "Nothing. No one even saw him leave."

"Gods damn it." Catherine hissed. "Where could he have gone? It isn't like him, to run off on his mother like this. He should be here."

"Unless. . . ." Maikos began, but Catherine had already taken off running again. He watched her go. "Unless he's doing something really stupid."

His breath rasped in his lungs and tasted like blood, the trees whipped at his face, cold water splashed over his bare feet, his heart thundered in his ears. He ran until he fell and could not get up again.

"I did everything you asked!" he screamed, striking the ground with his fist. "Everything you wanted!" He gasped, crumpling sideways against a tree, shivering. "I never even asked why."

A figure coalesced from the gloom, three green dots glowing out from its forehead. Richard stared at it dispassionately.

"I suppose I have you to thank for all this."

"Richard Ashendale," said the figure, in the voice of an old man, sketching a bow, "we meet at last."

"And a fat lot of good it does me." he snapped. "Why don't you make yourself useful? Just because I can't do anything doesn't mean you can't. And I did what you asked, though Gods know it almost killed me."

The figure shook its head. "I am sorry, Richard. But I never guaranteed—"

"You as good as did!" he cried, hauling himself to his feet. "And now look at me. I threw away everything I had because I thought it would save her. Because you made me think it would save her. And now I find out, now I find out that it didn't make a difference?"

"I am truly sorry. What I told you was true. Your mother was being poisoned, and only your marriage would stop it."

"Which, by the way, makes no sense."

"Of course it does." the old man retorted. "Use your head."

"What do you. . . ." Richard stopped, staring at the man with three glowing orbs protruding from his forehead. "My mother, poisoned. And only my marriage could stop it. And the only people with a vested interest in my marriage. . . ."

"Now you're getting it."

"My father, and . . . Catherine. But Father would never. . . ."

"Correct." the old man replied. "He wouldn't."

Richard stared at the man, and kept on staring. "That bitch." he spat.

"And do remind yourself of when your powers disappeared."

"After the wedding. Which means—" He brought his left hand up to his face, stared at the gold ring on his third finger. "This isn't just a ring, is it. It's a binding. That bitch! I'll kill her!"

"You'll kill who?" someone behind him said. The old man had vanished, and Richard turned to see Catherine standing before him, smiling gently. "You took so pitifully long to figure it out, I thought I'd have to tell you myself."

"You bitch! I'll kill you!" Richard roared, flinging himself at her. But suddenly rage turned to shock, and shock to agony as he crumpled to the ground, clutching his stomach. Something in Catherine's hand glinted coldly. "You . . . you stabbed me." he gasped, staring up at her.

"Technically you ran into my knife. But yes, I stabbed you. Which is silly, because you should have been able to turn this knife to butter by now."

"Don't mock me." he growled, then convulsed in pain, his whole body drawing inwards toward the wound in his stomach.

"Or what?" she said, and grinned. "You don't have any of your little tricks left, do you, Dick? I made absolutely sure of that. It's a pity, about your mother—we didn't mean to kill her, but it seems she just wasn't strong enough to recover from the poison. Good idea about the healers, though. We intercepted quite a lot of letters. You must have been really concerned."

"You stopped . . . my letters?" he gasped, blood leaking out from between his thin fingers.

"Not stopped. Just intercepted, read, and sent on their way. I daresay someone's replied by now, and is sending their best healer to take care of your mother. Although it'll be a miracle if she makes it through the night. It's too bad you won't get to say goodbye. Then again, you also won't have to see her die, so I suppose it balances out."

"Stop talking." Richard ordered, pulling himself onto his hands and knees. "What do you want? Why . . . all this . . . why?"

"There was quite a lot of money in it, for me." Catherine said, sitting by his side. "For my father, too. Land holdings, family money, that sort of thing. For your father? Well, I suppose he just wanted a better heir."

"I will murder . . . all of you . . . and your families. . . ." His arms were shaking, and he breathed only in quick, painful gasps.

"I highly doubt that. I'm going to give you two choices." She raised the dagger and touched the bloody point first to one finger, then another. "I can kill you now, quickly and painlessly. Which is quite kind of me, considering. Or, I can leave you here, and you can try to make your way back to your happy home before you bleed to death. There might even be a healer waiting for you. Any thoughts?"

Richard spat on her, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "Go to hell." he said.

"I see." she said, joviality gone. She stood, sighed, and shoved Richard's shoulder with her foot, hard. He fell onto his side, scrabbling at the dirt like an overturned turtle. Then the knife plunged into his abdomen again, and twisted, and he screamed, the sound scattering birds from the trees. "I'll see you back at the house, darling." Catherine sang, and kissed him on the forehead. "If you make it back, I might even be convinced to name the baby after you. I'll call him Clarence."

"Nothing . . . you can do . . . will save you. . . ." he hissed, glaring at her with fire in his eyes.

"It's cute, how you think you'll survive this. Goodbye, Dick. It's been fun. Really." In a flurry of white skirts, she vanished into the forest. Richard whimpered, clutching at the twin wounds in his belly, trying to hold his hot blood inside even as it poured out over his fingers. The world had gone blurry, and the pain was so immense he could scarcely think.

Then, slowly, he pushed himself onto his knees, put his bloodied right hand forward, and began to drag himself homeward.

He could smell dirt. It was the strongest smell he thought he had ever encountered, that earthy, rich, dirt smell. It was probably because his face was pressed into the mud. He couldn't feel his toes, or his legs, or anything, really, except for the two white-hot steel balls of pain in his abdomen, and even those were dimming. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision, and breathing was agony. But he could see his house, up on the hill, so close and yet so very, very far, tinged with the first pink light of dawn.

He gasped in another horrible, burning lungful of air and pulled himself forward, his body sliding along the boggy ground. His face dropped into the mud again with a splat, and the darkness came closer, narrowing his vision to a tiny circle. All he could see was dirt. All he could smell was dirt. All he could taste was dirt. And the only thing he could feel was that terrible pain, and even that was fading.

He heard a rhythmic squelching sound, and it took him a moment to realize that someone was running towards him. He tried to pull his head out of the mud, but found his muscles would no longer obey him. Strong arms grabbed him around the shoulders and turned him onto his back. He could see the sky, rose-tinted purple, the last stars of morning fading into the brightness of day, not a cloud in sight. He smelled sweat, and a distinctive tang of pipe tobacco.

"Maikos," he whispered. He couldn't hear his own voice. Someone's big, bald head was in the way of his stars, his sky.

"Hold on, Lord Richard." The words came from a hundred miles away, leaking slowly through his consciousness. "Just hold on a few more minutes. Look at me. Richard, look at me!"

"They're . . . beautiful. . . ." he said softly, and tried to stretch out an arm to point at the stars. He could only see one, now, but he knew there were others, up there, somewhere, hiding from him. His arm didn't move, but the pain in his belly came back for a moment, and he gasped and whimpered.

"Come on. I'm right here, look at me. Your mother's waiting up for you, Richard. She's waiting for you to come home. Just hold on, just a little longer, everything's going to be okay."

Suddenly, Richard found some last reserve of strength and clutched Maikos' shirt, dragging him down until his hairy ear was next to Richard's mouth.

"C— . . . C—" he stammered. He was falling, but very, very slowly. "C—. . . Kitty. . . ." he gasped.

The hand holding Maikos went limp and fell away. Suddenly the servant was holding a delicate, long-limbed doll—broken, cast aside. The head sagged back, the eyes closed, and a sigh passed through the white lips. But it looked almost peaceful, cradled there in Maikos's arms, with the first warm ray of sunshine bursting over the horizon.

Maikos stared, unbelieving. "Richard. . . ." he whispered, as tears gathered in his eyes.

Then he buried his face in the narrow chest of his dead master and sobbed.