A/N: As always, thanks to Tafferling for betaing and to you for reading. All comments are hugely appreciated.

Chapter Twenty-Six

"The gods don't do a damn thing. Do they even exist? How could anyone tell? Daedra Lords, sure. They exist. They do things. Bad things, mostly, but things you can see. The gods? They don't do a damn thing. So why do we build big chapels and sit around and mumble, and ask them to save us from this and that? It's stupid. And chapels and priests and folks grovelling on their knees, they're stupid, too."

– Else God-Hater

I dreamed of darkness. Of ceaseless water the colour of shadows stretching out to the horizon. Waves lapped at the edge of the steeply sloping beach on which I stood, the pale-coloured shingle shifting beneath my bare feet. Overhead the starless sky rippled like the folds in a length of black silk.

The waves surged up the beach towards me, leaving rivulets in the pallid stones like grasping fingers. No white foam caps on these waves: they looked like ink, black and glossy and reflective. Further and further still they reached each time, and as I backed hurriedly up the slope, the stones cascaded from beneath me in a sudden avalanche, carrying me down towards the water. I clawed at the slope for purchase, saw that the stones were not stones at all, but bones, the fine delicate bones of birds, and the more frantically I scrabbled to stay my fall, the faster I fell.

And below my shadow was waiting. That featureless man with his empty face lay beneath the surface of the glassy water, arms stretching up to welcome me. He'd been waiting a long time, that monstrous bastard, but his time was close now. He'd been patient, but he could afford to be. He had all the time in the world.

I plunged into the water, and surged up, gasping. The current had already seized me and was carrying me further out. Water droplets beaded on my skin like quicksilver. Where they touched me, they burned, colder than ice. On my skin, in my eyes, my mouth. Not water at all, but an ocean of shadows from a place sunlight had never touched. They would swallow me up and I would be lost in the darkness forever.

A hand burst from the water and clamped around my throat.

I screamed and jerked for a moment in the darkness, fighting something that held my legs tight, until I reorientated myself, and realised it was the covers tangled around my ankles. I wasn't lost in an ocean of shadows, but lying in a strange bed. And still my heart skittered so fast I thought it might stop completely, and a movement beside me made me flinch and cry out in shock.

"Corvus?" It was Millona's voice, quiet and small.

"Gods, my love, I had the worst dream." I gripped my forehead, and shuddered. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry..."

She grasped my arm roughly, tight enough to bite into my flesh. "Corvus."

"I'm awake, I'm awake. I'm sorry, I was dreaming–" I broke off as the shadows around me shifted and remade themselves, and I struggled to make sense of what I was seeing. My wife was a pallid ghost sitting up beside me in bed. The covers had puddled in her lap, and she clutched her right hand by the wrist, her palm turned upwards.

Her fingers were black. They shone wetly in the dim light.

For a moment, I was certain the liquid shadows of my nightmare had leaked from the dreamsleeve into the waking world. They'd filled Millona's eyes too, turning them to black hollows in the gloom.

Not shadows, at all, I thought, with a sharp stab of relief. It's only blood.

Only blood.

That same knife-blade of relief pierced my heart and twisted. In the wake of the relief I'd felt came the hollow understanding that this was it, that our time of joy had finally come to an end. I think I'd always known it was coming; I'd been waiting for it to happen all this time. And even so for a moment I was frozen in place.

Move, you damned fool.

I threw myself out of bed, snatching for my dressing gown. "I'll fetch the healer."

If she replied, I didn't hear.

Out in the corridor, I chased down a patrolling guard. "You!"

"My Lord?"

I grabbed his arm and shoved him down the corridor. He opened his mouth to protest but kept silent when he saw my expression. I was already backing away as I barked orders at him. "Wake the castle healer. Tell him the Lady Millona Umbranox is in need of his assistance. Tell him it's a fucking emergency."

"My Lord–" The rest of his reply was lost to me. I'd already turned my back, and was running along the corridor to Qileel's room. I hammered on the until she jerked it open and glared at me, spines flared and prickling with irritation.

"What in Oblivion–" Her anger dissipated as quickly as it flared up. "My Lord, what's wrong?"

"Your mistress is in need of you."

The flash of concern was as brief as her anger. She was already shoving past me, striding on down the corridor, without even bothering to close her bedroom door. And I stood frozen, staring at the open doorway, at a loss as to what to do next.

Millona. Go to Millona.

But through the door I'd seen a looking glass, and in it the reflection of the door, and through that a pale blur of my face, and in the murky light it seemed to have no features. I felt an all-too-brief stab of hope that I might still be dreaming, that none of this was real.

And abruptly, I reached out and jerked the door closed.

Down the corridor I met the healer coming the other way, ruffling his fingers through his tousled hair. He was a young ruddy-faced Imperial, face still creased from sleep, grains of sleep caught in the corners of his eyes.

A smear of blood was drying on the back of my hand, and I rubbed it with my fingers as I stopped in the doorway to my room, staring at Millona huddled on the bed, at the blood smeared across the sheets. The healer shoved past me, and as if they'd agreed wordlessly to swap positions Qileel came towards me. She took hold of my arm, guiding me out into the corridor. Her grip was weak, and I could easily have wrenched away, but all my strength seemed to have drained away.

"Will she be all right?"

"Best you wait outside."

I should have argued. Should have told her to go fuck herself. But it was a man's place to wait outside, and I was too young, too uncertain of my position to insist otherwise. So I let her turf me out, and paced the corridor, casting anxious glances at the door until the healer let himself out.

"She'll be fine now," the healer said, and at his words I sagged and exhaled in relief, burying my face in my hands.

"Oh, thank fuck. Thank fuck." I dropped my hands. "And the baby? Is the baby all right?"

Silence met my words. I met his reluctant gaze, and in his grimace read my mistake. He'd been speaking only of Millona without really thinking through what he was saying. Without considering the possibility that he might be talking to a fucking moron who hadn't yet realised what had happened here.

He laid his hand on my shoulder, and it felt like a ton weight. So did his voice, although he made it as soft and gentle as he could.

"The baby's gone, My Lord."

~o~O~o~

Millona bled for another week. It was only a little heavier than her normal courses, which seemed wrong somehow. There was little pain, she said, white-faced and weary, only an ever-present ache in her lower back, and headaches that swarmed her like storm-clouds and filled her skull with splinters. Her mood was changeable as the weather, shifting from numbed shock, to heart-broken weeping, to something that seemed very close to normal. I just felt numb.

I wrote the letter to her father, or tried to. The words never seem to come quite right.

Your Grace, I regret to inform you–

Well, looks like we've had a spot of bad luck and no mistake–

You bastard, you were right all along. I have made her miserable.

None of the letters I wrote seemed quite right. Nothing seemed to quite put into words what had happened, and how lost I felt. How I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. In the end, I went with the 'I regret to inform you' option, although the letter felt far too cold and stilted when I read it back. Impersonal, like I didn't give a damn about the loss of our baby, or how my wife continued to suffer.

As if it were nothing more than an inconvenience.

Returning to Anvil might have been our best option, but Millona flatly refused, and to make matters worse, the Count of Bravil was kindness personified. He enquired gently after Millona's well-being in a manner that made me furious, although it wasn't his fault. Still, he had no damned right to go about being kind to me. It made me want to snap that maybe he should pay more attention to the levels of poverty in his town, and not worry so much about the petty concerns and heartache of his peers.

Instead, I accepted glass after glass of brandy and deflected his questions as best I could. My wife was still indisposed. Yes, she seemed a little better. I kept my answers short and virtually monosyllabic, and the count, damn his unexpected kindness, didn't pry.

The bleeding stopped. Millona seemed tentatively to return to normal. The ache in her back vanished and the savage mood-swings came to settle on a kind of shocked numbness.

We travelled back to Anvil. Rather than returning by carriage, we opted for the Mages' Guild: a blink of an eye and we were home. Or almost. We still had to run the gauntlet of the guild, and face down Hannibal Traven who was just as kindly and sympathetic as the Count of Bravil had been. While Millona wanly tolerated his ministrations, I bent double and splattered vomit on my shoes. I'd really hoped I would manage to avoid puking that time – hardly a dignified arrival for the future Count of Anvil, particularly when it was my wife who had the claim to be unwell.

And back at the castle, Lucar welcomed us home with no questions – thank the gods – but only a hug for his daughter, and a terse nod for me.

Of the baby itself, we didn't speak. We settled back into our routines, but something between us had shifted. Even though her bleeding had stopped, and it was almost as if it had never happened at all, in bed there seemed a vast space between us, an uncrossable gulf. We hadn't made love some Bravil, since the afternoon she'd told me about the baby. Her body felt stiff, her kisses less certain, and it never quite seemed the right moment to attempt to bridge that gap, to kiss her a little harder on the lips and make my meaning clear. I began to fear that moment might never come, that we would never be able to return to what we'd once been. We'd been so naïve, foolish enough to think ourselves untouchable by tragedy, even though we'd both had more than our fair share of it already.

~o~O~o~

The shadows wreathed the bed like a shroud. I lay awake, wishing we'd left the curtains open to let in the moonlight. Beside me Millona stirred. When she spoke, she kept her voice soft, as if she was hoping I was asleep and would not wake. "Corvus? Are you..."

"I'm awake."

She rolled onto her back, lay still for a moment, then rolled the rest of the way. I held my breath, hold out my arm for her to slide into the crook of my elbow. It felt like luring in a wild deer. She hesitated, and I was certain she'd shy away, then she came the rest of the way, and tucked herself into my side, her face buried in the hollow of my throat. I let out the breath I'd been holding and kissed her forehead, her skin smooth and pale as marble.

She tilted her head up towards mine and met my kiss, her lips parted and slightly off centre. I turned towards her out of instinct, but even as she kissed harder, I forced myself to ease off. Would it be a step too far, I wondered, to draw up her nightgown? Gods, I wanted this, though, and desperately so: it felt like it might be the bridge back to normalcy.

A hitch in her breath. Wetness on my cheeks. She was crying. I brought my hands up to her face, and kissed the sharp salt taste of them away, while she reached down to tug up her gown. There seemed a kind of urgency to her movements now; I wasn't sure I liked that, but still my body responded, because gods-fucking-damn it had been too long. Her legs fell open, and her hands gripped my hips, pulling me in, telling me she was ready.

An image flashed through my mind: inner thighs stained with blood, the glint of an eye through a tangle of black hair.

I broke off the kiss, turned my face away. Her fingers bit tight into my hips, but she wasn't urging me on anymore. She must have felt my shudder, because she'd gone still, her breathing ragged with tears.

I rolled off her, onto my back.

"I'm sorry," she said. Her voice was awful, quiet and broken, like a frightened child's.

I fumbled out in the darkness to grip her hand and bring it to my lips, overwhelmed by a sudden fury at the gods. I was used to being disappointed and fucked over, but Millona had been nothing but devout all her life. "Don't apologise. You have nothing to apologise for."

Her fingers entwined with mine. She leaned in and kissed me, gentler now. As her nails scratched down over my belly and down a little further still, I groaned into her mouth. She rose and straddled me, her hands resting on my chest, her hair brushing my face.

Now this... this I could do.

A careful movement of her hips and I was sliding inside her, fighting to ignore the rising fear that in the darkness, and with her face in shadow, she could be a stranger. Instead, I rose on one elbow to wrap my arm around her backside and pull her harder onto me. Her breath caught, ragged for a very different reason now.

We moved as one, and as I buried my face in her throat, she said my name – "Corvus, oh gods, Corvus," – and I wondered how I could ever have thought her a stranger, or feared that the gulf between us might never be crossed. Maybe our relationship wouldn't ever be quite the same, and perhaps we had both been fools to think ourselves untouchable, sheltered against heartache in our safe little bubble of early marriage, but none of that mattered.

We could face anything, so long as we were together.

~o~O~o~

There were more miscarriages. A string of them throughout the years, and with each one Millona's heart cracked a little more. But I clung onto that truth I'd glimpsed, and did my best to tell myself that I could handle this. I took over as many of Millona's duties as I could, as many as she would allow. I fought off the well-wishers who pushed a little too hard for details, warning them off with a glower of warning on my face. I very nearly threatened to punch that little witch Alessia Ottus when she dined with us, ungentlemanly though such an act might be, but bit my tongue when Millona caught my hand beneath the table, her fingers squeezing tight in a message of both warning and thanks. Spite and curiosity glinted in the Ottus woman's eyes, and no doubt she patted herself on the back and thought her questions were out of genuine concern.

I escorted Millona to the Chapel every week, even knelt at Mara's altar myself and supped the water as if I believed it might do a bit of good. Some claim the sanctified waters leave them light-headed, but while the water tasted very pure, it was no sweeter than spring water. I felt nothing, sensed nothing, and still I tried my best to pray. For Millona, for the seed I'd planted in her belly, for the hope that fragile little shoot might not be uprooted before it even had a chance.

If the gods were listening, they didn't care.

That shoot was plucked as carelessly as a gardener might pluck a weed. Another week of bleeding. Another chip in Millona's fragile heart, but I clung to her and gave her a safe harbour to return to until the squalls had passed.

And the next one too. And the next. So many that in a numbed haze I nearly joked to the steward that he ought to dedicate an account in the ledger purely for the replacement of feather beds. Thank fuck I managed to keep my mouth shut. I was numbed and weary and a little bit drunk but there would have been no excuse. Gods, if Millona had overheard...

Finally, three years into our marriage came a pregnancy we thought might actually stick. The weeks passed, and nothing happened, and while Millona was too fearful to admit it aloud, I could see the hope in her eyes. We set up a shrine to Mara in her bedroom, and she prayed at it three times a day, as well as her twice-weekly attendance at the Chapel of Dibella. And she began to laugh again, for what seemed the first time in far too long. I could see the certainty in her eyes as her confidence gradually began to creep back: this time, this time it'll stick.

It didn't. This one went the way of all the others. Another feather bed that would need to be replaced because neither of us could bear the sight of the tale written upon it.

And I was starting to get tired of being strong.

~o~O~o~

The light from my room spilled out through the open shutters, casting the shadow of a chimney across the slates towards me. Beneath me, the lights of Anvil spread out towards the sea, glinting like the stars above. I slumped back against the cold stone of the tower, my legs stretched out across the mossy tiles, and stared up at the face of Masser, at the sky strewn with stars. Faint lilac wisps of clouds drifted across the face of the moon. It was a beautiful night, crisp and clear.

From inside my room came a noise, Lucar Umbranox calling my name: "Corvus?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. Too much to hope I'd be able to go one night without some arsehole demanding my attention. "Outside, My Lord."

He appeared in the doorway to the balcony, frowning at me. "What exactly are you doing out here?"

I squinted down at the glass of brandy, running my thumb around the edge. "Getting shit-faced." And before he could reply, I quickly added: "Millona's asleep. The apothecary gave her something. She's unlikely to wake tonight–"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me."

Yes, I thought, I do. But I stared at him helplessly, my trail of thought lost.

"In any case," he continued, "that wasn't what I meant. I meant, what are you doing on the roof."

"Oh." I blinked and looked down across Anvil. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."

His brows knotted. "Exactly how much brandy have you had?"

"Good question. And one to which I'm not entirely sure I know the answer. However much it is, it's not enough."

"Gods." He closed his eyes, drew his hand down over his face. "Why don't you come back inside, eh? You're in no state to go climbing about over rooftops."

My gaze dropped back down to the glass. "You're probably right." And still it took me a long moment before I rose to my feet. The tiles were slippery from the recent rain, and there was a moment of vertiginous dizziness when I realised I was a lot drunker than I'd thought, and certain to slip and fall – and then Lucar grabbed me, and pulled me back onto the balcony. His hand slapped gently against my back as I slumped against him.

I pulled away, heat creeping over my cheeks as I crossed to the dresser, desperate to keep myself busy, to keep myself from looking at him. "May I offer you a drink, My Lord?"

"Please. But Corvus, enough with the 'My Lord' bullshit. You'll be the count of Anvil soon enough. And on top of that, for all our sins, you're my godsdamned son-in-law."

"I'm sorry."

He stared at me. "What in the name of all the Divines are you apologising for?"

I had no idea how to answer this – where would I start? – so I poured us both a generous glass of brandy, while he shifted the pile of books from one of the seats by the fire and sank down, accepting his glass from me. I took a gulp of mine, and wandered back to the window, feeling his gaze on my back all through the long silence. And when I lifted my glass to my lips I found it empty. I blinked down at it.

"You are not responsible for this," he said quietly. "It isn't your fault."

I shot him a look. "Are you sure about that, My Lord? Because I'm fucking not." Before he could answer, I gestured to the bottle of brandy. "Another?"

His gaze darted down to his glass, still half full, then back up to mine. His lips tightened, then he gave a shrug, held out his glass for a top-up.

"That's the thing about becoming a parent," he said as I handed him back the glass and sank down into the other chair. "Having children can be the most terrifying thing you'll ever do. It opens you up to joy like you'll ever know, but also to heartbreak in equal measure. And every bit of that will feel like it's your fault." He paused, studying me. "Did Millona ever tell you about how her mother and I came to wed?"

"Yes, a little. She said you married for love. She said..." Fuck. I was on the verge of crying again. I forced myself on, my voice a little ragged. "...She said that was how she knew you'd give your blessing to our marriage, because it was history repeating itself."

"Ha. Yes, that's right. We married for love. Such a beautiful story." He snorted and knocked the brandy back in one. "Shame it's a lie."

"My Lord?"

"My name is Lucar, Corvus."

"Lucar." I hesitated. "I'm not sure I understand."

He sighed. "I wasn't in love with Pellandra when I married her. In many ways I'm not sure I even liked her very much. When I looked at her I saw a wealthy young woman with powerful but weak-willed and indulgent parents. And she was infatuated with me."

"But Millona said–"

"Parents lie to their children, Corvus. I lied to mine, and I have no doubt you'll lie to yours in turn. You lie to everyone else, after all." He studied the surface of his brandy. "I saw an opportunity and I grabbed it with both hands. I'm a bastard. But then, I think you knew that already, didn't you?"

"I had my suspicions."

"I'm not nearly so fine a liar as you are, Corvus."

"You do yourself a disservice, My Lord."

He cast a thin smile my way. "Pellandra could see through me too. She could be foolish, and never more so than when she fell in love with me, but she wasn't stupid. I did my very best to hide it, but by the time we were married, she knew I didn't love her. And I'll never forgive myself for that. I told myself I was as good a husband as I ever could be, and I blunted my disappointment in the warm beds of other women and came home stinking of them..." He closed his eyes, raising the glass of brandy to his lips. "And then our son was born and everything changed. By the time Millona was ten, I think I loved my wife more than any man who ever lived. It's a strange thing. Sometimes the love that grows slowly from humble beginnings roots itself more deeply in the meagre soil. And when she... when she died, and my son with her, all I could think of was all the years I wasted not loving her and the many, many times I betrayed her. And it broke me."

"Lucar..."

"Ah. There it is. I knew we'd get there eventually." His eyes, shining with tears, creased at the corners. "I failed my daughter, Corvus. She'd lost both her mother and the brother she adored, and her father, the one person she should have been able to turn to for comfort, was... useless. Worse than useless. She had to nurse me through my grief on top of her own and she was far from well herself, and that is another godsdamned thing I'll never forgive myself for. So..." He drew a breath, his hands shaking. Wordlessly, I stood, and poured him another glass of brandy. He nodded his thanks, and we sat for a while in silence, each nursing our own brandy and our own pain. "'History repeating itself'," he said, and shook his head. "You know what I see when I look at you, Corvus?"

"Um..."

"I see the man I should have been. The man I could have been, perhaps, if I hadn't been such a bastard at heart. You might be a liar and a rogue, and filled to the brim with more shit than an overflowing cesspit, but you're a good man, a far better man than I ever was, and a fine husband to my daughter, and I'd be proud to call you my son."

My throat ached. I closed my eyes. "I just wish there was something I could do."

"There is. You take care of Millona. Every moment that you can, and do your own grieving in the moments in-between. And on occasion, when you get the chance..."

"Get shit-faced?"

"It's what I'd do." He sighed. "It's what I've done."

It seemed he would leave without saying anything else, but on his way out he turned to me, and drew me into a hug. The smell of pipe smoke clung to his clothes, and his hand slapped lightly on my back, then rested on my shoulder as he drew away. "I'm truly sorry for your loss, my boy," he said, and when I replied my voice sounded broken and bitter.

"Which one?"

~o~O~o~

Millona was pregnant when her father died.

It was a stroke that took him, and no one saw it coming, although perhaps we should have done. We were both too wrapped up in each other and our own heartache. A maidservant found him sprawled half-out of bed, paralysed and mute, his eyes rolling with terror. Three days later a second attack carried him off. Millona took the news quietly, pale and composed, and without tears, even afterwards when we were alone. Outside it was a lovely spring day, the garden a riot of colour – trees laden with blossom, and the beds overflowing with flowers.

"I should speak to Voric," she said, her voice brittle. "I know Papa wouldn't... wouldn't want anything too lavish."

"I'll speak to Voric," I said, moving away from the window towards her. "You have some rest–"

"I'm not a bloody invalid, Corvus, and I'm sick to death of being treated like one. Leave me alone." She shook me off. and turned her back on me, lifting her gaze towards the lovely, insipid portrait of her mother, her shoulders trembling. When I wrapped my arms around her from behind she tried weakly to wrench away for a moment, then spun and folded herself against me. "Papa hated you," she mumbled into my shirt front.

"Yeah, I know."

"He thought you couldn't be trusted."

"In fairness, he was probably right."

"He changed his mind though." She pulled away, her eyes a little too wide and glazed. "I think he came to realise you were all right really."

'He was all right, really.' They'd probably write that on my gravestone. That or, 'Well, he tried...'

I brushed her hair back. "Everyone makes mistakes. One of my finest talents that, lulling people into a false sense of security–"

"And then they go and die on you."

"I'm so sorry, my love. Get some rest, I'll–"

"No!" She shoved me away. "How many times do I have to tell you I'm not tired? And it's not like it makes a damned bit of difference anyway. He was my father. This is my responsibility, and I know you didn't like him much, that you thought he could be a bit of a bastard occasionally..."

Probably because he was a bastard. And not just occasionally. "He was still my father-in-law. And he let me marry you." I risked a smile. "Or are you worried I'll take my revenge by deliberately messing up the funeral arrangements? You ask me, I think he would have taken a black sort of pleasure in something like that."

"That isn't funny, and you shouldn't joke about it." Her lips twisted. "Although you're probably right..." She drew in a sharp breath, and looked up at me with wide eyes. "Gods, what am I going to do?" She spread her hand over her stomach in a protective gesture that was pretty much futile for all the good it had done us in the past. I caught hold of her wrist, kissed her brow.

"I told you, you don't have to do anything. Let me–"

"I'm not talking about the funeral. I'm talking about Anvil. It was never supposed to be me. It's too much. I don't think I can, not with... not with everything, and if–" Her voice rose to a high pitch, trembling with anxiety. "–And if we lose this baby too–" She broke off as the door opened and a maidservant froze in the doorway, weighed down under a stack of sheets almost as tall as she was.

"Out!" I snapped at her, loud enough to make her flinch. She gaped at me, and then spun around, fumbling for the door. She was close to tears herself, little more than a child, and regretting how harshly I'd spoken I crossed to the door and took the sheets from her while she stammered an apology.

"Bad time," I murmured. She ducked a curtsey and fled. I closed the door and dumped the sheets in a pile, kicked them for good measure, furious at myself for shouting at a child. She couldn't have been more than fourteen.

I returned to Millona and knelt in front of her. "Do you want to know what I think?"

"I have my suspicions that you might be about to tell me," she said faintly,

"I think..." I took hold of her hand, pressed her knuckles to my lips, "I think I've never heard such a steaming pile of horseshit in all my life."

She shot me a startled look.

"There's a great many things in my life I'm uncertain about, but I've never been more certain of anything than this, Millona. You'll be the finest countess Anvil's ever seen. They're lucky to have you and they know it. Why do you think the people love you so much? Remember our wedding? The county was virtually deserted–"

"We should have planned that better," she said, fretfully. "People were hurt in the crush."

"Your father should have planned that better. If it had been you making the arrangements, you would have done exactly that. You'll be better than your father was and better than your brother would have been, and of that I'm certain. And besides, you've got something neither of them have–"

She shot me a weak smile. "You'd better not be about to make a joke about female anatomy, Corvus, because now is really not the time–"

"You've got me, remember? And I'm fucking brilliant." I drew her into a hug, and hesitated. "And as for the baby, we have other options."

It was the wrong thing to say. I knew it even as the words were leaving my mouth, even before I felt her stiffen and her breathing go still, the laugh choked off. My skin suddenly felt far too tight.

"What other options?"

"That... was the wrong way to put it. I only meant–"

"Stop prevaricating and tell me." There was a dangerous edge to her voice that she'd inherited from her father, blunted, but wielded in the right way just as dangerous.

I closed my eyes. "Perhaps it's simply not meant to be." My were words dull and hollow – I didn't even mean then, or more accurately, I wasn't sure whether I meant them or not – but I was tired of having to watch Millona suffer, of the awful inevitability of clots and ruined beds, of knowing that there was nothing I could do to help. "Perhaps it might be better if we stopped trying..."

Her face had gone white with rage. Twin spots of red blossomed in her cheeks. "Don't you dare– don't you ever say that again."

"I didn't mean–"

But she was already on her feet, tripping over her skirts in her hurry to be away from me.

"Millona, wait–"

"Go to Oblivion, Corvus!"

I started to rise, but there was nothing I could say to her: not in this state, so I sank down and let her go, furious with myself. Of all the fucking moments to pick...

It was little consolation that her fury probably wasn't entirely my fault, but due to the heartache of losing her father on top of all our other losses. Not to mention her fear for the child she carried, because she must have wondered as I had about how the additional stress would affect this pregnancy.

I'd spoken badly, but my words had been one last crack in a dam that had been crumbling for a while. I'd triggered the flood, got the brunt of her anger, and my guilt at having hurt her mingled with a sharp little sting of resentment, because I hadn't even meant it, not really. It was just a thought that had been niggling in my thoughts for a while, because we couldn't go on like this. Wasn't it something we should at least consider, to talk through together, and, if necessary, to reject together? Wasn't it my decision too? Didn't I get a say?

Lucar Umbranox's words rose up in my mind. If you came between Millona and her duty to Anvil, that's something she could never forgive you for.

"Fuck off, you old bastard," I muttered, shoving myself to my feet.

~o~O~o~

I went to what had been Lord Umbranox's private study, having expecting that Millona might have retreated there to blunt her fury in work, but there was no sign of her. I called for the steward, and poured myself a brandy while I waited for him to slope in. I think he'd been expecting her too.

We began some of the preparations for the funeral, the simple details, ones that Millona could reverse if she deemed it necessary. I was careful not to overstep my bounds, and pressed aside the slow-growing resentment tightening its grip about my heart. While the steward made some notes, I poured myself another brandy, tilted the bottle towards him in a silent question. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, which I took as a yes and poured him a glass.

"Picked his fucking moment, didn't he?" I said, glaring at the surface of my brandy, the candlelight reflecting in the ridges of the crystal glass. "The selfish old cunt."

Voric bared his teeth at me. "Knowing him he planned it like this. Just to keep you on your toes."

I grunted. "Tell me something, one man to another. Would he have given you the nod if I'd said something he didn't like? Would you really have murdered me that day?"

"Well now..." He sank back in the seat and scratched at his eye socket. "Let's put it like this, My Lord, do you really think you're the first inappropriate suitor the Lady Millona's ever had?"

"Nice try. Not fucking buying it. Sorry."

"Damn." He studied me, squinting his remaining eye. "You're a lot like him, you know. More'n I realised at first."

I sipped my brandy. "Is this the moment you're going to tell me he was a good man at heart?"

"Him?" He snorted laughter. "Nah, he was a fucking bastard right down to the marrow of his bones, always was, and I reckon the same'll prove true of you in the long run. But bastard or not, he loved his daughter, true as anything." He lifted his brandy. "To his Lordship."

I echoed the toast and knocked the brandy back.

~o~O~o~

I found Millona in the gardens, sitting in the loveseat where I'd proposed to her. She lifted her head at my approach, her reddened eyes widening. "Corvus, I–"

"Shut up. Don't say anything, I–"

"'Shut up'?"

Shit. "Just let me speak for a moment, please." I dropped to my knees in front of her. "Millona, I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. Not for a second. I was only ever following your father's advice–"

"What advice?"

"To consider every option, even the ones you're desperate to dismiss out of hand. Especially the options you're desperate to dismiss out of hand." I gripped her fingers and squeezed them gently. "I chose my moment poorly, and for that I apologise, but for what it's worth I'm glad you reacted the way you did." Liar. "So you see, I was honouring your father's memory."

She was silent for a moment, then gave a sharp little bark of shocked laughter. "Gods, that's..."

"A little too flippant?"

She tapped her finger against my hand as she processed this. Then: "I'm sorry, too," she said. "For telling you to go to Oblivion. That wasn't fair. I shouldn't have said that."

"Thank goodness for that. Because I happen to have been to Oblivion and I have no desire ever to go back." Liarliarliar.

She tilted her head curiously. "You–"

"Never mind. Long story."

"I shouldn't have reacted the way I did," she continued. "It wasn't fair of me. It was just... something went through my head when I heard the news..."

As she trailed off, I took my seat beside her on the bench, and wrapped my arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. Her hand rested over her belly, and I interlaced my fingers with hers. "Tell me."

She shook her head. "I can't. It's awful."

"It's me, remember? I'm the best person to share this with. There's nothing you could say that would stop me loving you."

She gave me a sharp look at that, a flush rising to her cheeks, then she glanced around, as if to make sure we were alone. "My first thought was relief."

"I don't understand."

"I'm not sure I do either, really. It makes no sense, it wasn't rational, but I've been sleeping so badly lately that perhaps rational thought would be too much to expect." She shook her head at my look of concern. "I'm fine, really. Stop fussing."

"But–"

"Would you just let me speak?" Frustration ran through her voice, taut as a bow string. "The first thing I thought was, 'Oh, thank the Nine,' because if he had died... I thought perhaps his death might be the toll we'd have to pay for our baby's life."

"Oh. Oh gods..."

She closed her eyes. "And I was glad, Corvus. I was glad he was dead."

"Don't you dare." My arm tightened around her shoulder, my voice low and fierce. "You were half asleep, and you're damned well right – you weren't thinking clearly. You can't punish yourself for some stupid little thought that flits through your mind at a time like that. I won't let you, and your father wouldn't have wanted you to."

"I know... I know..." But her voice was so slight I wondered if she really did know, or if she was continuing to let it gnaw at her. She was silent for a few moments, her ragged breathing slowing down as she calmed herself. I kissed her cheek, held her close. "I should have gone to the steward," she said after a while. "There's so much to prepare."

"I went. We've already started going through some of the details. Nothing's set in stone yet, though, so..."

She squeezed my hand. "Thank you. I think if I'd gone I would have broken down."

I hesitated, but talking about castle business seemed to have calmed her further. "He has a list of names for us, people who thinks might be able to take over the position of steward when he moves on. I have some reservations about some of his suggestions, but a couple of them are worth a look... But, look, I know Rory's my man, really, but I still think he'd make a fine steward."

She hmmed thoughtfully, and when she spoke her voice was a little stronger, more confident "As a matter of fact, I have my eye on Dairihill. She's sharp and has an excellent eye for detail."

Personally I thought Dairihill had an excellent eye for furthering her own main chance, but I'd sworn never to interfere. At least I could keep an eye on the little Bosmer sneak. I nodded, and let Millona rest her head on my shoulder.

Another brief silence fell and a breeze brought down a shower of blossom petals. Millona glanced up at me, and I lifted my thumb to her puffy cheek, then leaned in to kiss her.

"Tell me," she said, her voice barely above a breath when I drew away. "Just tell me you didn't mean it."

"I didn't mean it," I said, and couldn't tell if I was lying.

~o~O~o~

I never did make much of a count. I did my best, for Millona's sake, but I lacked the necessary patience to endure the endless stream of petitioners when all I wanted was to be with Millona. I resented every moment the demands of the city took me away from my wife. It's a strange thing though: while most in Cyrodiil saw me as I truly was – a lazy, disreputable scoundrel with little talent for diplomacy or politics – in Anvil that worked in my favour. They saw how much I loved Millona, saw that my anger and impatience stemmed from a deep concern for her and her alone.

I did my best. That's all anyone can say in the long run.

At the funeral Millona was starting to show, her dress chosen deliberately to hide her growing bump. We'd learned quickly not to announce our pregnancies officially, but even the slightest swell of a pregnant belly is unmistakable if that's what you're looking for. Within the day everyone in Anvil knew she was pregnant.

Three weeks after the funeral, she miscarried again.

It was almost enough to make me long for the early days of our marriage, when Millona's courses came on as predictably as clockwork, and we wished, more than anything, that she would only fall pregnant.

Well, we'd got our wish now, all right, even if it hadn't been quite what we'd wanted. But wishes that come true never are. You don't have to make a deal with Clavicus Vile to learn the truth of that particular piece of bastard irony.

~o~O~o~

Just before I turned thirty-four, Millona fell pregnant again. At first there seemed little different about this pregnancy. She rested, ate her way in fitful starts through the first months of early pregnancy, and in bed her sleep was restless. Her nausea was strong this time around, but we'd long stopped seeing that as a good sign, because so far it had provided nothing but false hope.

We waited, expecting the bleeding to start at any moment. The weeks passed, and every day I'd wake up and think that today would be the day we'd see the first signs: the barely perceptible ache in her lower back, a telltale brown smear of blood on her linens. And every day I'd shove the thought away in case I brought it on somehow through belief. I couldn't let myself think like that, but nor could I allow myself to hope that the reverse might be true. I was balanced on a precarious fence a hair's-breadth wide, and to lean too far one way or the other would spell disaster.

Disaster didn't come. Her sickness passed, and Millona began to show again.

There was no need to announce the pregnancy officially: Rory informed me there wasn't a person in Anvil who didn't know Millona was with child again, and they were all praying for us, news that gave Millona further hope, even if I still had reservations about the usefulness of prayer.

With the exhaustion of the early months all but gone, her energy and sexual arousal returned in a flood. Her belly swelled, her breasts rounded, and her waist thickened, and with each change, she looked more beautiful, despite the sadness in her eyes. I did my best to chase that sadness away, but I still heard her crying when she thought me asleep, and even when I pulled her close, she couldn't always stop. We were both of us waiting, but the weeks and months passed, and the bleeding never started. The baby clung on despite our fears. It continued, further than any of her pregnancies had progressed before, far enough along that she could feel the baby quicken within her, those first early kicks that she said felt like bubbles popping. Far enough that we both started to think this might be the one that would stick.

And then one night in our parlour, she gave a started gasp. I was sitting on the floor at the foot of her chair, a book balanced on my knee and a glass of wine tucked around the side of the chair. I tilted my head back, cautious, although the gasp had been one of excitement rather than fear. "What is it?"

She caught hold of my wrist and brought my hand to the swell of her belly. "Feel this," she said, smiling. "Wait, hold on... Damn it, why won't he move– There! Did you feel that?"

I hadn't felt anything, but her eyes were brighter than I had seen them in a long time, and all her sorrow had fled. I laid the book aside and rose to kiss her. "I felt it."

"That's our baby."

"I know." I brought my lips to her neck, and kissed away the lie until she caught her breath. A side-effect of this stage of the pregnancy: she was never too far from arousal, and as she leaned back in her chair, I wondered if we might not risk intercourse. But no matter how careful I was to be gentle, no matter what the healers said about it posing no danger, we couldn't risk it. We'd made that mistake before.

This was the first time in a long time that Millona had risked speaking of the baby as a possibility, stopped skirting around it and admitted aloud, that it might survive. So how could I have told her the truth, that I'd felt nothing but the faint tremble of her breathing? How could I have done anything but lie?

Yet it seemed an ill omen. I'd never thought of myself as superstitious, but a decade and a half of years living in the Niben Valley will do that to a boy. I hide it well, but I have a superstitious streak a mile wide. I can't pass a wayside shrine without leaving an offering – never coins or anything of real value (I'm not a fucking idiot), but I never take anything either, no matter how hard my palms itch. I avoid crossing people on the stairs if I can, and I have been known to engage a passing servant in conversation to make my discomfort less obvious.

I know it's bullshit. Mostly. But what if it's not?

It was no ill omen. Only a pregnancy too early for me to feel anything. Perhaps, I thought, as I kissed her neck, if she'd been naked... And I considered telling her the truth and asking her to let me try again, but by then it was too late.

The lie returned to me when we were in bed. Neither one of us could sleep. Millona struggled to find a comfortable sleeping position, thumping at the pillows we'd had ordered in especially from Balmora. Even if it hadn't been for the guilt gnawing at me, she would have kept me awake.

I rolled onto my side to spoon her, my hand over her bump. I closed my eyes, willing the baby to move, to do a fucking back-flip if that was what it took, because a lingering fear had taken root and started to grow.

There was no back-flip. Not even the slightest flicker of movement.

I closed my eyes, and pressed my forehead against the hollow between her shoulder blades. This time, I thought. This time for certain.

Except it wasn't, of course.

~o~O~o~

The screams tore through the air, each cry of agony determined to rip my heart in two. I paced the corridor and gnawed at the inside of my cheek until I couldn't bear it any longer, shouldered the door open and stormed inside. But the sight of Millona in agony in the bed was almost enough to pinch my raging fury out as easily as if it were a candle. I very nearly turned on my heel and fled, coward that I was.

Thank fuck then for the midwife, whom I'd never liked, and the look she shot me, lips pursing with disapproval. "This is no place for a man, Your Grace. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to–"

I pointed at her. "Unless you want to spent the rest of the week in the castle jail, I suggest you keep your fucking mouth shut."

"You can't talk to me like–"

"I'll talk to you however the fuck I want. I'm the bloody Count of Anvil and my place is by my wife's side."

"But–!"

"Will both of you be quiet?" Qileel snapped. "This is hardly the time." She glared at me. "If you're here you might as well make yourself useful," but as she spoke, Millona gave an agonised cry, writhing in agony in the bed.

I took a step backwards, blanching, then steeled myself. Make myself useful, I could do that. Maybe. "What should I do?"

"Come here to the head of the bed. Hold her hand."

Millona lay sprawled on the sheets, the blankets rolled up and shoved in a corner. Her skin was waxy-white, and the muscles in her thighs were bunched taut. Her hand closed on mine like a vice, her grip tight enough to grind my bones together, and the rasping pain in my fingers was enough to make me cry out. I swallowed down the ache in my throat, and brushed her hair back from her forehead.

"I'm here, love," I murmured. She didn't hear me, and gave another wrenching scream, her back arching. "Fuck. What's happening to her?"

The midwife shot me a distracted look as she placed her hand on Millona's belly. In my fingers I felt a shivery itch, the silvery sensation of Restoration magic.

When it happened, it happened quickly. Millona's back arched, she made a sound that hit me a fist to my gut, and then blood gushed from between her legs, soaking the sheets. I flinched, squeezing my eyes shut, but I could still smell it. I dropped my head to press my face against Millona's neck, her skin damp and feverish, ragged shallow little gasps as if she was clutching at each breath. I murmured something meaningless, a platitude that was supposed to be comforting, but she was well beyond hearing me, and even if she wasn't I doubt it would have helped. I forced my eyes open, and flicked gaze towards the midwife, bent between Millona's legs. I clamped my mouth shut, so tight my jaws ached.

"The afterbirth as well," Qileel murmured, and the midwife made a soft sound of affirmation, a weary little sigh.

"It'll kill her," I said, and they both looked at me a little startled, as if they'd forgotten I was there. "She can't lose this baby."

Qileel put her hand on my arm, left it resting there a moment or two, before she let it drop. I think it was the first time she'd ever touched me.

Millona's grip on my hand had eased a little. As the older women busied themselves, my gaze was dragged down to the afterbirth lying on the sheets like a slab of bloodied liver, and in the midst of it all lay a waxy shape, something that looked like a child's discarded rag doll. A broken little thing.

Millona's eyes were closed now, her breath laboured, as if she struggled for every breath. Her head fell to one side, and I brushed her hair back from her face. Her skin was damp and scorching. As the midwife set about her business, pressing her fingers into Millona's belly, the careless spillover of her magic turning my blood to molten gold, Qileel scooped up the broken shape and carried it away.

I worked my hand out from Millona's grip and followed, flexing my aching fingers. "Let me see."

She glanced back at me with no expression on her face, without so much of a twitch of her spines. "It may be better if you don't."

"Let me see."

Reluctantly, she moved aside and I took her place at the dresser, unfolded the little bundle of cloth. It seemed a doll at first, impossibly small, but perfect in form. It could have fit in the palm of my hand, and its hand curved over the end of my thumb like the cup of an acorn. Each miniscule finger was tipped with a nail.

It would have been a boy.

Qileel watched me, as I laid the arm back down, and folded back the sheet, covering its face back up. His face.

I drew a ragged breath, and lifted my head. Qileel was talking to me, her mouth moving, but all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears, the too rapid pulse of my heart, and Millona's uneven breathing from the bed. I stared at her, blinking too rapidly. Thinking it was the first time we'd ever had anything to bury.

~o~O~o~

The days passed. Millona slid in and out of fevered dreams, treated with the finest Restoration magic and potions money could buy, but it was touch and go. An infection had set in, and that's not always something Restoration magic can help with, since infection is a kind of living poison and magic risks making things worse.

Inevitably, the alchemist and the Restoration mage bickered like schoolchildren over the best way to treat her. Asking mages from two different disciplines to cooperate is like herding cats. It made me wish Voric hadn't already buggered off to Daggerfall, because I could have used his particular brand of believably threatening menace with those two pompous fuckers.

Dairihill was all but useless and Rory not much better, although in fairness he spent most of his time spying on Dairihill, who was using her countess's absence to slip some quiet changes through, unnoticed. I put a stop to them naturally, and made a note to have a word with Millona when she recovered.

And she did recover, thank the gods. Physically at least.

~o~O~o~

Millona's breath was slowing, evening out as she drifted back towards sleep. And still she stirred restlessly, fighting it. "What if this is it, Corvus? What if we can't... What if I can't..."

I brushed her hair back from her forehead, and kissed her brow, her lips. "We can. We will."

"But what if we can't?"

I closed my eyes. What could I do but repeat myself? "We can and we will."

It felt like a lie.

I couldn't let myself doubt, and still the questions came rising up. What might have been if she hadn't married me. If she'd chosen a man more beloved of the gods. Someone less irreverent, less fundamentally wicked, someone who hadn't allowed himself to be fucked by a Daedric Lord for the sheer hedonistic joy of it, because it had been fun and he'd been drunk at the time and why the fuck not? Would she have a baby suckling at her breast? Another toddling on the rug beside her?

The ghosts of a litter of unborn, never-born children seemed to surround the bed, crowding in on me. I brushed her hair back, and lay down beside her, her back warm against my chest, waiting for her to finally pass out.

Gods. I closed my eyes, and pressed my forehead against the nape of her neck, as if by doing so I could erase the memory of that tiny body in my arms. I hadn't told her I had seen it, or that it had been a boy. Not yet. Probably I never would. There were still some things I didn't think I could ever bring myself to say, even if I had sworn that one day I tell her everything. The memory of that tiny body, translucent skin, fragile and perfect and broken beyond repair: that was one of them.

A little boy. My son.

When she was asleep, I slipped from her bed, careful not to wake her, although thanks to the apothecary's concoction she was already well beyond waking. Her hair was a tangle, the covers half thrown back, and she looked like a drunk who had passed out. I leaned down to press my lips to her forehead and tugged the bedclothes back up to cover her. I strode from her chamber, and down the corridor, barely heeding the servants that greeted me, leaving a scattering of 'Your Grace's and curtseys in my wake.

The further away from her I got, the harder it became to control my rising fury. I clenched my fists, thinking that this had been the one fucking thing she wanted. The one fucking thing she'd prayed for, and the gods, the fucking cunting heartless gods, couldn't deign to grant it to her, even though she'd been devout all her life. Instead they'd dangled in in front of her, only to snatch it away and almost kill her in the process.

And in the morning, which was a few scant hours away, I'd have to do the whole rigmarole of holding court, because Millona couldn't. Hours of sitting in that damned uncomfortable throne, listening to tedious backbiting and mock-concern for our losses, and running like a riptide underneath the sly curiosity about what exactly would happen if, gods forbid, we couldn't produce an heir.

Fuck that. Fuck that. I couldn't bear it. Not with Millona in this state and my heart still so heavy...

And still I'd do it. I'd do it because if I didn't Millona would. Because it was her godsdamned fucking duty to Anvil, and as I slammed into my private quarters, the door rebounding off the wall so hard it left a deeper dent in the already dented plaster, I thought that Anvil could go to fucking Oblivion for all I cared.

My chamber had the tidy neat air of a room that went mostly unused. The bed's covers appeared freshly made. I thought of the covers beside Millona, creased and rumpled where I'd lain on them, and wanted to punch the wall. Wanted to imagine it as the primate's smug fucking face. Sometimes the gods have their reasons.

Yeah. It's because they're cunts. The whole fucking bunch of them. They–

A noise. The slightest scuffle behind me.

I reacted on instinct and spun, slammed the figure up against the wall, my forearm wedged beneath its throat. Above my arm, eyes burned through the holes in the Fox's cowl.

My seething rage sharpened to pinpoint calm. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Hello, Corvus."

"You–" Tempted to jerk her forwards and slam her into the wall again, I settled for tightening my forearm against her throat. "What the fuck are you doing here? How fucking dare you–"

"I'm sorry for your loss. Is the countess well?"

"Shove your sorry up your arse." But my cold rage was already crumbling, cracks shearing through the sheer sheet of ice. I gave up, dropped my arm and turned away. "Get the fuck out," I said, my voice weak, defeated. "I want nothing to do with the guild."

"Don't you want to hear what I have to say?"

"What part of 'Get the fuck out' would lead you to ask that question?"

"Let me get you a drink."

"I don't want a drink." It shamed me how obvious the lie, how my gaze darted at once towards the counter where the bottles awaited me. "I'm tired. I want my bed."

"Wine or brandy?" A mocking pause. "Or perhaps you'd prefer water."

"Brandy."

"I thought it might be."

My fists flexed. Fuck you, I thought, and turned around, opening my mouth to say something, I don't know what – to order her to leave perhaps, or to call for the guards and have her dragged away to the jails, even though we both knew they wouldn't hold her for long. I didn't do any of that. She looked small and slight, and had lost weight, I think, since the last time I'd seen her. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes seemed to be shining a little too brightly beneath the cowl, as if she was on the verge of tears. And with my heart feeling as wrung out as a dishrag, I was too tired to do anything but feel sorry for her.

"What do you want?" I asked.

In reply she held out the glass of brandy. She'd filled it so much it was almost over-brimming. My mouth dry, I took it, swallowed down the first sip so it wouldn't spill. And then I took a larger gulp. The sweet honeyed fragrance promised arms around me, a kind of borrowed calm. It was a lie, of course, but it still offered a kind of peace, and I badly needed some of that. I badly needed sleep too, but the brandy blunted the worst of my exhaustion, leant me the strength to stay up, even if I rarely used that borrowed time to do anything but drink some more.

The Fox sank down onto the bed, her own brandy glass clutched in her thin white hands. The cowl made her head look too large for her body, lending her the curious proportions of a small child.

"You made me a vow once, Corvus. Do you remember?"

I was drunk. You can't hold a man to something he says when he's drunk. The province would turn to chaos.

I sank down into a chair, pinched the bridge of my nose. On instinct the other hand brought the brandy up to my mouth, and I breathed it in, let the scent of it settle my nerves. "I might," I said, slowly, "recall saying something to that effect."

"You swore," she continued, "that you'd help me if you could."

"Now really isn't the time."

"I know. I'm sorry for coming here. If I could have avoided it I would have. And I meant what I said, I truly am sorry for your loss, Corvus. Jack."

I snapped my gaze up. "My name isn't Jack any more. Don't call me that. And stop with the condolences. I'm about sick of them. Like you'd know what it's like to... to..."

"To lose a child? No, of course not. Whyever the fuck would I know anything about something like that?"

I stared at her for a moment, my anger deflated by the sharpness in her voice. "You're right," I said slowly. "I shouldn't have presumed. Did you...?"

"What, lose a child?" Her eyes fluttered closed but only for a moment. She rolled her lips inward as if tasting the brandy lingering on them. A memory flashed through my mind, too quickly to be recognised; by the time I snatched at it, it was already gone. "Yes," she said, slowly. "I lost a child. More than one, in fact."

"Then I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have..." My voice was uneven, the threat of tears like a river threatening to break its banks. "Look, I'll help you if I can, if whatever you want is within my power to give. I owe you that. But this... It's a bad time."

"My children weren't unborn babies, Corvus." She held up her hand as my eyes narrowed, my disquiet shading back towards anger once more. "I mean no disrespect, Your Grace. They were children. My eldest was nearing his eighth summer, and my little one was only four. How she loved her brothers. She'd follow them everywhere, copy everything they did. They professed to hate it, but I think secretly, secretly they loved it."

I shifted in my seat, discomfited by the certainty I wasn't seeing something. Nothing seemed to make any sense. "Was it an illness that took them?"

"They were murdered." Her voice was quiet, calm, without even the slightest tremble.

I exhaled. Somehow I'd known. A niggle of warning itched at the back of my skull. "Oh. Oh gods, I'm..."

"Sorry? Yes, so am I. The one who murdered them, he didn't make it fast. It took them a long time to die."

A flicker of a memory. A bloodied hand-print on a wall. And still she was talking, her voice weaving its quiet awful spell around me. "I have a chance to get my revenge on the man who did it," she said. "But I need your help."

"Anything I can offer," I said, "it's yours. But–"

"I need you to come with me. Now."

For an instant I was stunned into silence. "You have to be joking. I can't leave my wife."

"It's important, Corvus. And you did swear you'd help if you could."

Torn, I lifted my hands to my face, rubbing at my eyes. Then: "No. I'm sorry, no. I can't possibly–"

She rose from the bed, moved towards me with silent footsteps that I felt rather than heard, each one seeming an echo of my heart beat. A scent weaved itself around me, along with the memory of slick silken sheets beneath my skin, the scent of spice and women's laughter in the air. My mouth went dry as she knelt before me, her hands resting on my knees. The cowl tilted up towards me, and beneath it her eyes, desperate and pleading. "The one who killed my children..." she began.

My hands flexed. I wanted to take hold of her and push her away, but I was too afraid to touch her. How tired I was. How drained and weary. How lonely. I felt a muscle memory of my hands resting on another woman's shoulders a long time ago. Wet heat and knife's edge desire mingled with recent pain that hadn't yet mellowed to an ever-present ache. "Get up."

"...He was a vampire."

"I said, 'get up'. Get the hell away from–"

"I think he knows your mother."

My thoughts slammed shut. I flinched. A long while passed before I could arrange my thoughts enough to do anything other than stare at her. "That's..." I blinked again, dropped my gaze to her hands resting on my knees. Her slender fingers, her bitten nails. "What?"

"The monster who killed my children. I believe he was part of your mother's clan. Or he's connected with them somehow. I'm not entirely certain of the details." When she turned her face away, I reached down and gripped her head, and forced it towards me.

"What do you know about my mother?"

She shook her head. "Not much. Not much at all. Every so often someone comes through the Imperial City asking if anyone's ever heard of a boy who used to call himself Jackdaw."

"And you told them...?"

"Nothing. Of course."

"Of course," I echoed numbly. "When did they last come through?"

"Five years at least. I think they've given up. Assumed you're dead."

My heart pounded. And gods, what I wouldn't do to have that moment again, to have the chance to do what I should have done in the first place: shove her away and tell her to go to Oblivion. If only. If only...

But if wishes were horses, beggars would never go hungry again.