In The Silence

~45~

"Wind, do you see him?"

The forest underneath Jack is a shadow outlined in glimmering snow and the river is a ribbon of reflected moonlight, but nowhere does he see a betraying flash of red. Not below on the ground, not above in the star-strewn sky, and the Moon's close regard feels like expectation as it falls across his coated shoulders. Moonbeams dance around him drawn in by the search and their gentle queries fill the night in a steady, thrumming song of, 'Where where where?'

The Wind isn't sure and that startles Jack, for the Wind is everywhere and ever-watchful. But the Wind is embarrassed as it admits amidst much bluster that while it is indeed everywhere — except a few places, a very few, protected places hidden within wards of such strength that the Wind dares not enter — it doesn't always pay attention. So many of the workings of the world are boring beyond belief; besides, its frost child had been indoors at the time and could Jack blame the Wind for being distracted by the tears of its child?

"Wind..." Jack flings his arms around his friend; hugs tightly and is hugged in return; a hug of dew damp air that leaves a furring of frost along his new clothes and a swirl of snowflakes in the Wind's wake. "What about now? Does he ride upon you? Or does he trek upon the ground? How far of a head start does he have?"

The thief's lead must be vast for all the Wind can tell him is north, and Jack is not sure if the Wind is offering direction or merely repeating the outrageous man's name to itself. They rise higher, him and the flock of errant moonbeams, rise towards the ceiling of the sky as the Wind eddies below to check between the swaying branches of pines and inside the small crevice-caves of the eastern mountains. Jack rises until the world is less than a patchwork quilt but isn't yet a dinner plate, and the Moon watches with amusement. Offers encouragement in a wide, brilliant smile that lights up the night — but stays silent. Silent as always. Silent conspirator in St. North's escape.

"Big help you are," Jack tells the Moon, folding his arms across his chest and pouting. "From your vantage point you must see everything. Couldn't you... I don't know... Point, or something?" Moonbeams laugh around him and Snowflake laughs as a clear, shivering chime that impossibly fills air too thin to properly carry sound. And Jack can not hear laughter and not join in, not when it's the innocent, delighted laughter of moonbeams, and his chuckling chases away the lingering remnants of petulance leaving behind in its place an urge to move...

If only he knew where.

'Jack boy,' Snowflake says, a warmth against his heart and a comfort against the small, long-held sorrow over the Moon's eternal silence. 'If Nicholas is North as you think, Katherine's North... If he is, and is not some other North...'

"He mentioned Santoff Claussen." Lips still quirked with the remnants of laughter, Jack thoughtfully leans back, gripping his staff with both fingers and toes; leans back and gazes into the infinity of stars overhead...

Though there had once been more. Ever so many more stars, before.

...as the idea takes shape and moonbeams play a never-ending game of chase about him. "He knows Big Root. If he's North, then Katherine knows him."

'If he is North, then Katherine should know where he went.'

"Wind!" Jack shouts to gain the attention of his meandering friend. "We're going to Santoff Claussen to see if the storyteller knows where St. North dwells. Are you coming?"

Coming? Of course the Wind is coming; doesn't know why its child even needs to ask such a silly question. The Wind is coming, and going, and always always always there even when there's nary a breeze. The Wind is, and it will never leave Jack... It cannot, however, do much should Jack decide to leave it. The Wind has never liked Jack's lake, the bottom of which is a mystery. The Wind doesn't much care for Santoff Claussen, that village of wards and spells and frightful forest spirits — but it will travel with Jack. Of course it will. What else in the world could possibly hold its interest?

They travel, Jack and the moonbeams upon the Wind's strong back, across the mountains and over the dark expanse of ocean that gradually brightens as they race towards the rising sun. The sun is golden light above and the water is a dazzling gold reflection below until sea once more meets with land lightly carpeted beneath a layer of snow. Together they travel past cities and hamlets and ancient, wary forests; past hills and mountains and sprawling plains. They travel until the Wind slows; retreats, but not before pressing a soft caress against Jack's face and offering a promise to keep watch.

The Wind will stay with the moonbeams high overhead; it doesn't feel like braving the welcome that exists for its child in the village. Jack might be invited behind the wards, but the Wind feels no allowance has been made for itself.

"I'll ask," Jack says as he lets himself drop in glorious freefall. "Where I go, you should always be able to follow." And, as badly as he feels for the Wind left behind to sulk, Jack can't help a jubilant whoop as he spirals down faster than a stooping hawk to the great, spreading tree that's raising up sturdy limbs towards the sky as if they are arms reaching out to greet him.

Big Root is overjoyed at his return; trembles and quakes as leafy branches run gently over his skin and through his hair, as twigs like fingers twine about his coat sleeves and the already tattered edges of his new pants. Jack spares an indignant glare at the torn material; he'll need to find something to bind the linsey-woolsey of his trousers or the Wind will have them completely unraveled in no time. That, though, is a chore for later. Now, he has a friend to reunite with.

He's overjoyed to return to Big Root; pushes his face against green, growing leaves and breathes deep as he lets his fingers run along bark both rough and smooth; wraps his free hand around a limber branch and swings freely as clumps of snow dislodge from the tangled leaves above and shower down around him. He jumps from limb to limb, wood warm and pulsing and pleasant beneath the bare soles of his feet. He jumps and Big Root moves to catch him in a net of leaves and twig-fingers, and sometimes he dodges with a shrill of laughter and sometimes he lets the net catch him and bounce him to the very top of the tree where sunshine blazes against a sky of azure and pearl.

Jack frolics in Big Root's canopy, but he's come to Santoff Claussen for a reason and during pauses in the game he's playing with the tree he peeks in hollows that serve as windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Katherine. He supposes he could always go to Big Root's front door and knock, but peering through windows is familiar and falls within a frost child's jurisdiction. Through one such hollow he spots a parliament of owls perched sleepily around a large, hollow globe. Disturbed from their rest the ruffled birds stare at him with wide, gold eyes and grumble in the language of owls — which is subtle, but not subtle enough to disguise the fact they're insulting Jack's upbringing. Or his manners.

'Or both,' Snowflake tells him helpfully, listening with interest to the owls' complaints. 'It's hard to tell. The language of owls is enigmatic. Or perhaps it's their habit of mumbling. Owls are terrible mumblers. Even if they are wise and can spell Tuesday... nearly.'

Planting his elbows along the bottom edge of the hollow, Jack rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue at the owls. "I'm perfectly within my rights," he tells them. "This is clearly a window — even if it's lacking glass or shutters — and I am a frost child."

"Why, so you are!" With a suddenness that has Jack yelping and falling backwards, an elderly man pokes his head through the window and watches with twinkling, keen eyes as Big Root gracefully catches Jack before he can hit the ground. "Imagine; a frost child in this day and age! How wonderful and unexpected. Come in child, come in; don't mind the owls. They've been out of sorts all morning, what with the children playing with their new toys and ignoring all thought of lessons. Owls do despise hullabaloos." The old man grasps Jack around his wrist and yanks as Big Root lifts, and before he can protest the rough handling Jack is through the window and sprawled in an untidy heap atop the old man on the floor of the room. His staff is caught in ornate folds of robe and the fringe of his scarf is tangled in curling white strands of the other's beard, and the thin chest beneath his ear is panting in mild astonishment. "Goodness!" the old man chortles as he absently pats Jack's capped head. "I wasn't expecting that. All the weight of dandelion fluff!"

Jack huffs — although he can't keep a slight smile from escaping — and does his best to untangle himself. "A snowflake," he corrects as he slips free of clinging beard and silky robe and struggles to stand with the help of his staff, losing his cap in the process.

"Nonsense. A snowflake is no weight at all. You, my boy, are at least as heavy as a butterfly. Perhaps heavier! Although nowhere near twenty-one grams; wretched bit of nonsense that's going to be. Of no matter!" Waving his hand negligently the old man sits up and beams. "I'm Ombric Shalazar: Wizard, scholar, and inventor of chocolate — never mind what Bunnymund claims; if you were to listen to him he'd take credit for gravity! Hmph. I invented bouncy balls; gravity is a given. —And you are?" he asks as he waggles his raised hand, his fingers twitching as if searching for something to grasp.

Jack's grown wiser in the ways of the world; he's seen people in towns greet others with a meeting of hands, palms against palms, and so he offers his own hand. The old man takes it with a speed that's surprising; shakes his hand with a firmness and authority that belies the mischievous sparkle in his eyes and hauls himself to his feet, nearly tugging Jack down in the process.

"I — I'm Jack," he says as Ombric continues to shake his hand with an enthusiasm that only grows at his introduction. "Do you know Aster?" Unable to reclaim his right hand, Jack leans his staff across his shoulder and uses his left to retrieve his stuffed toy from its pocket. "He said — he said we'd meet again, and I wanted to show him Aster Bunny so he knows... I haven't forgotten. Because... Maybe he thinks my lake's taken those memories away, but I haven't forgotten. Not once. And, and it's been so long and I know he said it would be a while but if you know Aster, could you tell him?"

"Oh..." Ombric is no longer shaking his hand; instead, he's holding it gently as his other hand lifts to stroke the soft fabric of Aster Bunny's ears. "...Aster said you'd meet again? That's far more assurance than I was given. Then again, knowing Bunnymund, he likely knew you'd tell me and figured that was notice enough. Do I know him, though? According to the Lunar Lamas he is difficult to know, and enjoys being unknowable; the Grand High Lama would argue that no one knows him well enough to say what he's had for breakfast — but I could make a fair guess as to what he's having for tea on any given afternoon, so I suppose I might know him better than most."

"...I don't understand." Jack doesn't like to admit it, not to someone who can hear him; touch him; pity him. Snowflake's never minded his gaps in understanding, and together with the Wind they make a game of learning as they move about the world. Ombric, however, he doesn't know, not to be able to say what the elderly man's eaten for breakfast nor what he might have for tea later on. Ombric is a wizard which is, perhaps, not quite a man, and Ombric feels like Thaddeus to Jack's self which would usually be reassuring — but not now. Not now when he's... he's angry with Thaddeus...

He's angry at Thaddeus he realizes, gasping as he finally recognizes the emotion for what it truly is. He's furious at Thaddeus because the man is a father, his... His. A father shouldn't be unfair. And Thaddeus has been unfair. A father stands up for his family. All his family. And Thaddeus hasn't.

If Thaddeus' home is his, and it is for its welcome is woven deep within his self; if Thaddeus' home is Jack's home, then Thaddeus is his family. Thaddeus and Rachel, Sarah... and even Teddy, they're Jack's family — but family doesn't just ignore one of its own. Or cast it aside simply because it's become inconvenient.

Of all the things in the world Jack doesn't understand — this, he does. He's watched families through windows for nearly a hundred years; watched warm welcomes and warmer embraces and beatific smiles when others come home. He had that. He was part of the Burgess family...

And Thaddeus hasn't been fair, at all.

When Jack returns — of course he'll return; he'd practically promised — when he returns home after confronting St. North... He's going to have words with Thaddeus. Even if the mirror's been set aside for safe keeping. Even if he's been banned from the windows. Even if Thaddeus can't hear a single thing he says, Jack's going to discuss this with Thaddeus. Calmly. Rationally. And then he's going to freeze the man's underclothes solid.

Mind made up, Jack blinks — then ducks his head in embarrassment for he has no idea how long he's been standing, staring vacantly at the elderly man in front of him. Ombric, though, is smiling a kind, sympathetic smile; smiling and still holding his hand between the wrinkled, weathered palms of his own. Ombric might feel like Thaddeus but Ombric also feels a bit like Sandman; feels like age and wisdom but most of all fun. Ombric feels like grandfather as the man pulls him close in a snug embrace that soothes away the rough edges of Jack's anger.

"It's okay," Ombric murmurs as he carefully places Jack's green and brown cap back on his head. "I can hardly claim to understand Bunnymund either, even though he's a good friend. To both of us, I'm thinking. Oh, Jack. How I wish I had an answer for you. A true answer instead of wishy-washy this-or-that. Bunnymund's a Pooka and he travels as he will across the universe — and across time. Did you know that?"

"I think so." He thinks he recalls something of the sort. So much of his conversation with Aster had made so very little sense, and after all these years the two things he remembers clearest is the rabbit's disappointment that Jack hadn't warned him of the — awkwardness — of their first encounter, and the great, booming lub-dub of Aster's heartbeat guiding him into slumber. "Aster told me I shouldn't think too poorly of him when next we meet, for he'll be younger and not... not..."

"Not particularly like Bunnymund at all. No." With a final pat to his shoulder Ombric releases Jack but doesn't turn away, nor tries to hide the growing concern shadowing his twinkling eyes. "Bunnymund had to leave this time, though whether he went forward or back I do not know. I've looked for him, even at times and places we've met before, but while there are Bunnymund's aplenty to be found, none of them are precisely my Bunnymund, and they're less likely to be your Aster."

Ombric sighs, a heavy, burdened sound out of place inside the protective shelter of Big Root. "Bunnymund laid a fearsome charge upon us before he left. A most terrible duty. For this time we are currently moving through belongs to his younger self as well. Who, quite frankly, is a troublesome, irascible Pooka which styles himself as Bunny, and Bunnymund — rather at wit's end, actually — had us swear to take the ill-tempered Bunny in hand. Shelter him under our wing, so to speak..."

An owl, a large dappled fellow of scruffy feathers who looks more startled than peeved as he rests on the highest perch above the hollow globe, hoots mournfully in testament to the impossible-ness of the task.

"I know. How I know!" the wizard responds to the owl's biting comment, shrugging his shoulders in a small, hopeless jerk. "Jack my boy, if I happen across your Aster I'll pass along your message. Certainly I will. But from the sound of it — and Bunnymund would know, wouldn't he? — you're going to run into Bunny first. And if your Aster felt the need to warn you... Oh, do take care. Take extraordinary care. At this precise moment in time Bunny has all the charm and personality of a viper caught while shedding its skin. Less, actually; you might be able to reason with the viper, but while I speak all the languages of the creatures of the earth I've yet to understand more than a fourth of Bunny's rants. Fair dinkum!"

"...What?"

"Exactly my point!"

Jack doesn't want to think poorly of Aster, not his friend of soft, tickling fur and eyes greener than spring. He can't think poorly of Aster, not with Aster Bunny cuddled to his chest pliant and smelling vaguely of pepernoten from the crumbs left behind in his coat pocket. But he's now had three warnings...

And Aster would know, wouldn't he?

...about the rabbit's younger self, and dare he disregard them? He's worried, now — and not quite as eager to meet Aster again. Not if it won't be Aster but some strange, incomprehensible Bunny instead. Pressing his lips to the plush rabbit's head the scent of cinnamon tickles his nose, and with more care than usual Jack slips the toy back into his pocket where it rests somewhat forlornly amidst pepernoten crumbs.

"I'll — be careful," Jack says, and how he's come to dislike that word in the course of a single day. Careful got his mirror taken away. Careful has separated him from his family. Careful might keep him from properly welcoming Aster when next they meet — but he hopes not. Careful shouldn't have the power to ruin friendship. He shan't let it have that kind of power over his life.

"Excellent. Well, not the situation. Future situation; Bunny's hardly excellent, although glimmers of the Pooka he'll someday be do escape his scowling visage from time to time." Twirling a long strand of beard between two fingers, Ombric pauses as he struggles to recall his point. "I meant: Excellent to finally meet you, Jack! Big Root's told me so much about you! And I must say," he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "your arrival has cheered the old lad considerably! I understand Nicholas' need to gain a foothold on Christmas, rather dreary holiday that it's been, but Big Root? Simply cannot comprehend why all the children are off playing with their new toys. Excellent timing, Jack. Most excellent!"

"...You're welcome?" Ombric is once again shaking his hand; shaking his hand and patting his back and steering him towards a door leading out into a carpeted hallway beyond. "Only, Nicholas St. North is the reason I've come to Santoff Claussen. If he's Katherine's North—"

"Oh, he most definitely is. Or she's North's Katherine." Ombric's smile is wide and gleaming, and Big Root pulses beneath Jack's feet as if sharing a joke. "One or the other, but usually both. Do tell me what my student's done to bring you here in search of him. Has he taken up banditry once more?"

Jack frowns, not sure if the wizard's levity is proper for the situation. "He stole Rachel's cookies. And left me a sled."

"Did he now?" Ombric is laughing at him, Jack knows he is, even if his mouth is a solemn, concerned line. Jack can see it in the twinkling depths of the wizard's eyes; hear it in the quiet hooting of the owls behind them... but it's a laughter that's inviting him in rather than locking him out — and Ombric's wrinkled hand is still clasped securely around his own.

"Best we find Katherine, then," Ombric says, nodding sagely and paying no heed to the owl landing roughly atop his long, pointed hat or to the frost child leaning in to the comfort of his silk-robed side. "She has a compass, you see. A wonderful, magical compass — that always points towards North."

~o~

End notes: And there's Ombric lol!

Okay, Kaylessa needs a metric ton of praise for her beta of this chapter. Really. See, as some of you already know Esse took a tumble down her back porch stairs a few weeks ago. And while her doctor is very chipper and optimistic Esse has been in pain, and has been mopity, and has been downright whiny. ~And now that the doctor has switched pain meds, Esse is also terribly loopy. Kaylessa bravely took on this part, this part written by a loopy, cranky, mentally-deficient Esse, and fixed it up to readability.

Sweetling, I owe you a drabble and about a billion hugs. Let me know what you'd like.

What this ultimately means for the readers of Silence? Well, the story is going to be finished, but there are going to be large delays like the one that took place this week. Sitting is agony, and I'm writing in 15 minute spurts as I can bear it. Hopefully I'll start feeling better in a few more weeks, and I'll get more work done. Patience is appreciated, but I'm just as put-out by the delays as you prolly are.

a parliament of owls: apparently, a group of owls is a parliament. Go fig.

spelling Tuesday: is a reference to Winnie the Pooh, in a quote regarding Owl: "You can't help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simply doesn't count." Sure, Milne hasn't written Winnie the Pooh yet — but surely the ability to almost spell Tuesday is universal amongst owls :D

twenty-one grams: the purported mass of a human soul based on an experiment performed by Dr. Duncan MacDougall in 1901. His results have never been replicated, nor has there been much interest in trying to replicate his experiment ^^;; because, yeah — way morbid.

fair dinkum: true, genuine. Ombric isn't entirely sure of its meaning, and he uses it more as an example of Bunny's unfamiliar slang.

Ombric's opinion on Christmas: because we really don't think of this holiday as being drear. But at this point in time, with North only just starting to deliver presents? It's a holiday of solemn prayer and thoughtfulness, and Ombric much prefers having fun to stodgy introspection.

Many huggle-filled thanks to Hunter-Re, Bookworm Gal, MisteryMaiden, ThatOneFan, Kaylessa, dizappearingirl, Alana-kittychan, Fumus000, Anne Camp, Eternal She-Wolf, bookworm, Tanigi, Tenshi-Chan, Breezyfeather, Alaia Skyhawk, Crystal Peak, Yue Hikari, jboat, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, UVNight, Anon, Dragowolf, hi, Magiccatprincess, TriplePivotTurn, DragonsFlame117 and Palleas for their reviews. I know there was a bit of a glitch with part 44; FFnet just wasn't behaving that weekend. I'm not going to be to answer any questions right now, but I hope to next part when my thinking's a bit clearer ^_^

I do have to give sincere apologies to wynturkroh. I am so very, very sorry. I do not know how I missed your first PM. I'll try to PM you this evening as you deserve a proper response. Please believe I haven't been ignoring you on purpose, and again, I am so very sorry.

Fumus000: Well, I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind for your drabble, but it's what popped into my head ^^;; And... this is part one of two. Because it was just getting too long for a drabble — but it demands to be finished. Huggles!

~o~

"This the place, then?"

It's a small, two-story house, and to the discerning eye it had once been well-loved. Time and neglect, though, has left it the worse for wear after the passing of nearly two centuries; paint has peeled until only small flecks of color remain in sheltered crevices and unprotected wood has splintered and snapped. It should be condemned, is Bunny's opinion; condemned, torn down, and something useful put in its place. Like a park. A city can never have enough parks.

However, the structure is not condemned, although by the dust coating the closed placard displayed in the front window it's been a while since visitors last graced the building. A worn sign hanging from the porch's fascia declares the ramshackle house to be the Burgess Museum and there's something melancholic in the way the sign creaks, pushed gently by a sudden breeze. With a shiver Bunny reaches up to still the sign and stop the mournful sound. Even if the place should be condemned, it was once well-loved and he hates seeing history ignored and forgotten.

Mostly, he can't understand humans who are so eager to distance themselves from their roots. The past is all he has of his people and he cherishes every remnant, every scrap he's managed to salvage. Sighing quietly he lets disdain go and admits, if only to himself, that the house must've been a beaut back in her day and even now there's an odd, fey dignity lingering like cobwebs drifting across cracked windows.

"Yeah." Jamie's shoulders are hunched, and while Bunny would like to blame his posture on winter's cold the young boy is dressed warmly. No, it's their proposed activity for the night that has Jamie nervous; breaking and entering into the museum dedicated to his town's founder is a bit more than a childish prank, and the repercussions of getting caught are frightening to a child whose greatest previous misdeed has been sneaking out of his room late at night to build snowmen with his dearest friend.

"She's been so lonely," is Tooth's judgment as she rests the palm of her hand against the weathered front door, and while she might be Guardian of children's memories, this house so long abandoned by its family guards memories in its own right and Tooth feels nothing but respect for any being, be it person or Guardian or old, faded house that has so faithfully tended to its duty through the years. "Children once laughed in her halls, babies were born in her rooms... and..." Lilac eyes blink as the house shares a precious memory with an honored guest. "—And a frost child would sneak in through her upstairs windows to play. I've no doubt this is the right place, Bunny."

"Ain't the place I'm doubting, Tooth." Scratching at an itch high up on his shoulder, Bunny's expression is less than pleased. "Just don't know why we're here. All I was wondering was how a bloke couldn't recognize his own tombstone; looking at the dusty thingos of some long gone tall poppy won't tell us a thing."

"You don't know anything about Jack." For such a small, unassuming child Jamie has a scowl to be reckoned with.

"Know enough," Bunny snaps back, but his ears swivel in distress until he confirms the silence surrounding them. The last thing he wants to deal with tonight is a repeat visit from his future selves berating him for his attitude towards Frost. Sure, he might not have given the larrikin a fair go in the past but he's trying to make amends. Even for things he knows he'll never forgive himself for.

Which is why he's standing on the rotten front porch of an old house turned museum. Because Jack forgave him, time and again — and Bunny needs to know why. He needs to know Jack... and Jamie's right. He doesn't, but he'd like to.

"If you knew Jack, you'd know better than to insult Thaddeus Burgess," Jamie insists, hefting up the heavy weight of a backpack to his shoulders. "Not — not call him a poppy." Puzzlement twists his frown into something less threatening, but the hands clenching around the backpack's straps are fisted tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. "What kind of insult is that, anyway?"

"Not an insult..." Ears twitch to the nearly silent footfalls of a cat jumping to the lid of a trash bin, and Bunny rolls his shoulders as he tries to ease the tension pulling at his spine. He's not upset with Jamie; the boy's right on so many counts; Bunny's never taken the time to truly know the winter spirit. That the whacker brought snow had been enough to condemn him — that had been Bunny's opinion...

But what winter spirit weaves wreaths of roses in summer? What creature of snow splashes through rain puddles and fiercely guards a newborn fawn as it takes its first, trembling steps upon reed-thin legs? What bringer of ice, and cold, and death cries when the first tulips of spring fail to lift their heads above the soil but doesn't cry when he's bleeding out his life in rivulets of crystal water at the bottom of North's sleigh?

"Sounded like one." Pushing back dark brown bangs, Jamie takes a deep breath then releases it as his mother's taught him to do when emotions run too high. "Not that it matters. You'll see. We came here on a field trip in first grade, and it's actually pretty cool inside. But it's the last room you should see. I want to see it again. I mean, it didn't mean anything, before; just a bunch of pictures, but now... I really think you'll want to see them."

"Yeah, yeah. So you've said, and so we're here." Bunny's foot taps against weathered wooden planks impatiently, and a clawed finger taps at the door's tarnished brass key plate. "But unless you've got some way past the lock—"

"Bunny." Shaking her head, Tooth takes his arm and pats his hand. "Now you're just making up excuses. Baby Tooth is already inside, and she should have the lock open in—" A soft click from the other side of the door interrupts her, and with a small smile tinged with the faintest traces of guilt Tooth twists the brass knob and opens the door. "Good work, Baby," she praises her smallest self, receiving both a quick hug and a chattered response in return.

The house is dark as they enter but the Moon, as if approving either their initiative or their intentions, shines brightly from behind enshrouding clouds and moonlight falls through cracked windows in dreamy pale curtains, illuminating the rooms within. There are glass-doored cabinets and curios filled to capacity with all manner of knick-knacks and heirlooms. Display cases line the walls and once-fine furniture is hidden beneath sheets thick with starch and dust. Gilt-framed pictures hang from the walls; generations of Burgesses caught in oil paint, in charcoal, in pastel and Conté crayon; Burgesses dressed in their finest clothes and Burgesses dressed in outrageous outfits more fitting to the tropics, or the desert, or the far, far North.

Bunny thinks the outfits to be mere artistic license until he sees them hanging behind protective glass in another room of the house. Asian silks and beautifully embroidered Indian cotton, shawls of intricately tatted Angora and a Christening blanket as cool and soft to the touch as snow made of no material Bunny's ever encountered. There are skirts made from impossibly green ti leaves and caps of felted reindeer hair, and in a case tucked away in the corner of the room there's a simple woolen cloak brown as earth, ragged and torn and childishly repaired with golden strands of dried grass and flowers caught forever mid-bloom.

Tooth is not flying about in distraction. She is not fluttering, or hovering, or darting about. She's standing in the center of the room with her fingers pressed delicately to her mouth, useless attempt to hold in a shocked gasp. "They're feathers," she says, nearly voiceless, as she picks up earrings of shimmering greens and blues. "They're feathers from my fairies. How? How can they be here? Our feathers can't be taken, only given..."

Baby Tooth chirps and grins saucily as she holds up a pendant with a feather as golden as the one that crowns Tooth's head; as golden as Baby Tooth's own.

Distracted from his own find — painted eggs, googies from his own fields but ones he's never painted, not in pale blues and the silver swirl of snowflakes — Bunny looks towards the fairies as his confusion grows. "What's the little sheila saying, Tooth?"

"I — I don't know! It doesn't make any sense." Quick flicks of her wings betray Tooth's agitation as she asks her smallest self for clarification. And as Baby Tooth explains, Tooth's lilac eyes widen as glittering tears dampen feathery lashes before falling to splash upon the dusty floor. "They played with Jack, Bunny. All these years... they've played with Jack, and I never knew. During Onam they'd dance, and my fairies gave him feathers and he... He named them Little Sisters. All of them. And he's their cherished Elder Brother; every year he accepts their rakhi and I never knew, Bunny! All these years my fairies told me tales of Jack Frost with his sparkling teeth and I never understood. It wasn't his teeth; it was his smile, Bunny.

"He's family... and I never knew. I didn't even try."

"C'mon, Tooth," Bunny says, throwing his arm over her shoulders in a bracing hug. "We're trying now, aren't we? Surely that counts for something."

It doesn't stop Tooth's tears or Baby Tooth's burbling chirps, and it most certainly doesn't lighten the frown darkening Jamie's face.

"We need to go upstairs," the boy tells them, setting down a snow globe that looks suspiciously like Yeti-work. "You really need to see the last room."

~o~

And yet more definitions for Bunny's use of slang o.o;;; If I've made any mistakes, please let me know!

thingo: wadjamacallit, thingummy, whatsit
tall poppy: successful person
larrikin: a bloke who is always enjoying himself, harmless prankster
whacker: idiot; somebody who talks drivel; somebody with whom you have little patience

As for Tooth's mentioning of Onam and rakhi: these will be explained in a future part, but feel free to look them up if you're curious :D