Shortly after, Lily stopped going to the park. She could handle the furtive and not-so-furtive glances and the hushed whispers and not-so-hushed whispers, and she could deal with the fact that her name was now a household one, accompanied by derision and used as a warning to the young against escapades with "wild cats." She didn't care; there were not many cats whose opinions mattered to her, and even if they disapproved or sat beside her now with discomfort, they still stood by her.

No, she wasn't bothered by what the others thought. Tinsel and her followers were the least of her concerns. What kept her home was physical; it was too much to go to and from the park everyday, and as she'd never been a mother before, she didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. Besides, her friends knew where to find her—Jink and Maudie visited her every day, and sometimes her friends Cap and his sister Sissy stopped by on their way to or from the park—and Wind, she was sure, knew enough to look for her here.

And sure enough, almost a paper turn later, she heard the familiar scrabbling of claw on wood as a cat ascended the fence. Jink and Maudie had already stopped by earlier that day, and Cap and Sissy had been by the day before; it had to be Wind.

Lily slid awkwardly down from the lawn chair and padded forward…as a spotted brown cat summited the fence, hauling himself up before sliding down the wood, graceless and undignified.

Lily pulled up short, in surprise, tensing. The tom shook himself off, then looked up at her, his gaze a piercing green. "Are you Lily?"

Lily started, mind racing, trying to remember all of Wind's lessons on self-defense, all the while wondering who this cat was, how he knew who she was, and whether or not she could trust him. Deciding to err on the side of caution, she returned, "Who's asking?"

The tom—for she could hear from his voice that he was indeed a tom—narrowed his eyes. Where Wind would have been amused by and proud of her audacious caution, this roguish tom did not seem to heed her words but appeared to be sizing her up. What his training told him—to not give too much away to this stranger, this kittypet—were at odds with what he saw before his own eyes—a pregnant and thus weakened, albeit wary and defensive, kittypet female. He did not like this she-cat, and he did not trust her—but how could he, after what she had done to Wind?

Still, he had a promise to carry out…and he would see it through. He lifted his chin, meeting her gaze. "Pike, general of the rogues, is asking, and will ask again; are you Lily?"

He had not anticipated the response his reply would garner. Lily looked as though she had been pummeled in the gut. "I should have recognized you. You're Wind's brother," she whispered hoarsely. Then, frantically, desperately, "Why are you here? Where is he?"

Pike hesitated, lowering his gaze, and realization sank into Lily's heart. She stared at him, gazing right through him. "He's dead," she whispered, the words hollow and wretched in her mouth. They did not belong there; she could hardly utter them. She could hardly breathe, either, able to manage only the shakiest of breaths before she persisted. "How?"

Pike glanced up at her. "He was killed by… by a fox," he said carefully.

His hesitation betrayed him. Lily's eyes narrowed in understanding. "Killed by a fox or by Fox?"

Pike flinched at the harshness and bitterness in her voice, surprised by the knowledge it betrayed, but did not answer, averting his gaze.

Lily softened. "It was my fault, wasn't it?" she asked quietly, her voice losing its harshness but still maintaining its bitter edge, then, gentler, wearier still, "What happened?"

Pike shifted on his paws. Should he tell her? Could he tell it to her? Though Pike loathed her, he was not heartless—she was hurting enough as it was now. Could he injure her further? Still, if he were in her paws… Wind had been her mate, fathered her kits. A lump began to form in his throat. Wind had loved this kittypet. Why, Pike could not say. And she had loved him, which Pike understood all too well. Though his training as a rogue objected, his instinct as a cat forced him to meet her gaze. "Wind was followed. Fox was told. Fox accused Wind…and Wind spoke honestly. He—he didn't even try to deny it. And Fox…Fox challenged him. Taunted him. Humiliated him. But Wind… Wind stood firm. And Fox… Fox attacked him." Pike closed his eyes, the memory flashing before them, and took a deep breath before opening them again. "And Wind…he—he just sat there. He—he didn't fight back. He wouldn't. Which aggravated Fox even more. He taunted Wind more. He humiliated him more. He—he killed him." Pike could hardly speak around the lump in his throat. He refused—refused—to fall apart in front of this kittypet. He refused to let her catch him in this moment of weakness. So he swallowed the lump, looked her in the eye, and forced himself to speak evenly. "We tried to stop him, but—we couldn't. Before he—he died, he spoke to me. He wanted me to tell you that he was sorry…and that he knew you would understand why he did what he did." Pike watched Lily, studying her to see her reaction to this. For how could she understand when Pike didn't understand it himself?

And Lily didn't understand—not yet. She would, with time, come to understand why Wind had done what he did—why he didn't fight back. She would come to realize later what Wind had realized then, in his final moments: that he had to die.

For he knew he could not live without Lily—but he couldn't have lived with her after that day, after his humiliation and the revelation of her existence and his deviation. As much as the rogues had disliked Fox and would dislike him more after his exhibition, they had also undoubtedly lost faith in their general, in Wind; for they had trusted him, and might have still if they had heard the truth from his jaws first. But they had not, and now they would be disheartened by what they would see as a betrayal on his part, and they would never accept Lily. And as much as he loved the rogues, he loved Lily, too. He could not, would not, live without her, but he could not live with her, for she would not be accepted in his world, and he could not and would not leave it for hers.

And the rogues, though greatly disheartened, would not think ill of their dead general. They would remember Wind with fondness and his departure with loathing for the one who had brought it about, not he who had suffered it; both he and his death had left an imprint on the rogues, and both would be remembered by them with pride, pride for the strength and dignity and loyalty of the tom who had faced his punishment and fate with calm acceptance. Wind's final act had made its mark; he had not deserved such a punishment for his treason, and yet he had taken it without complaint and would not strike back at the tom who had delivered it, his commander and superior.

And finally, Lily would see that his death was an act of defiance; in his dying and his death, in his refusal to save himself by striking back at his leader, Wind had rebelled in his own way against Fox's tyranny, showing the old cat for what he was, showing his true colors—showing what time and power had made of this cat and warning his companions against those like him. True to his convictions, Wind had not ruthlessly brought down Fox; Fox had done it himself.

Lily did not understand this now, but someday, somehow, though she would never get over it, she would understand it, as Wind knew she would. But for now, Lily's view was slanted, her understanding askew.

"I understand," she whispered, lowering her gaze. "It's all my fault."

Yes, it is, Pike thought, but said nothing.

Lily looked up at him suddenly, intently. "You said that you were general of the rogues," she said slowly.

"Yes."

"But I can't imagine that Fox would replace Wind with his brother. Would he?" Lily tilted her head, eying him warily.

A ghost of a smile twitched on Pike's muzzle. For a moment—just a moment—he could see what had attracted Wind to her. "No, he wouldn't."

"Then why—"

"Because he didn't."

"He—why—"

Pike lowered his head, meeting her confused gaze with his own calm one. "Fox is dead." The frankness—the indifference—with which he spoke sent a chill down Lily's spine. "We had confined him to his den. We found him there the day after—well. The cause of his death was determined to be natural—either he died in his sleep or passed quietly away." Pike stiffened suddenly, his claws gripping the ground fiercely. Which is more than he deserved. More than he gave Wind.

Lily was quiet. "I see," she murmured, her gaze falling to the ground, her paws, the curve of her belly. She looked up at him again. "Who replaced him—as commander, I mean?"

Pike shifted on his paws. Surely it wasn't his place to tell her or her place to know? And yet… He could see no harm in it; she already knew so much. "When Wind—after—Fox never appointed a new general. So when he died, we chose a new commander, Aspen, who then chose the new general."

"You."

"Me."

Lily fell silent, and so a silence came between them, punctuated only by the sounds of the wind in the plants, the birds in the air, and Pike shifting in the grass. He knew he ought to leave, but he had been charged with this duty, to deliver the news and see it through, and he was not sure yet if it was.

Sure enough, Lily spoke again, after a time.

"He loved me, you know." Quietly she spoke; slowly, she lifted her gaze to him. "I know what you're thinking—how could he love me, a housecat with no skills, no claws, nothing to offer but a few clumps of—of catmint?" Lily choked back a sob at the memory that rose then before her eyes, for she would not let this cat, this stranger, though he be her brother in some sense, see her this way, broken, though unashamedly so. She gathered her composure, speaking evenly now. "But I tell you, he did. Why else would he have done what he did? Did you know he asked me to join the rogues? And not, mind you, after he found out about—about our kits. Then I might have said that he was asking out of a sense of duty, doing the honorable thing—for he was honorable. Even I could see that. Why else did he do it, I ask you? He loved me. I don't know why, and I don't know how, but he did. And I loved him."

Pike was silent. Lily drew in a shaky breath, drawing herself up to her full height and looking him in the eye. "Thank you, Pike, for coming," she said slowly. "Thank you for telling me. I appreciate… I appreciate knowing. The pain of knowing…the sorrow…is great indeed, but the agony of never knowing… I can't imagine…" Lily closed her eyes. "Just…thank you," she whispered to the darkness, opening her eyes again to the brightness of the day.

Pike dipped his head to her. He had completed his task. He turned and, with a bounding leap, scrabbled his way to the top of the fence. He was about to jump down again, when

"Pike!"

He turned, looking down across the yard to where Lily sat, small and sad despite her increasing size and impending joy.

She hesitated, then, "I'm sorry for your loss."

Pike was surprised, and equally so at the anger he felt at her words. You should be. The words leaped, unbidden, to his mind, with greater alacrity than that with which he had ascended the fence. But instead of vocalizing them, he dipped his head shortly. "And I yours," he answered, then disappeared.

Lily watched him go; with him went every emotion she had experienced thus far that day—the hope, the despair, the sorrow, the guilt, the pain—leaving her drained. She hardly noticed when Jink appeared atop the fence, hastily descending and approaching, followed closely by Maudie.

"Lily! We saw—are you all right?" Jink stopped, breathless, and Maudie panted behind him.

But Lily did not see them. She stared past them, past the fence, past the alley and the paths and the houses that lined them.

And then she tore her gaze away, looking her friends in the eye, withdrawn, empty.

"No," she answered. "No, I am not."