Ellain knew to expect the worst when she heard the knock on her door, but she was still unprepared for how haggard Gavin looked. The poor man was out of breath, the shock in his face completely blocking out the admiration he usually showed her. "It's Cassandra," he gasped. "In the bakery. She…" He shook his head. "You need to come right away."

Ellain lost no time in gathering her things and rushing out the door. "Get two buckets of water and meet me there," she commanded.

Gavin rushed off to obey as Ellain dashed to the bakery. Her skirts swished about her elegantly even as she ran across the fort grounds. She ignored the surprised looks she was collecting and made her way through the bakery door—where she stopped short at the sight before her. "Gods above," she whispered. "It's worse than I imagined."

Cassandra shot her a glare from her position by the oven. The morph leader was covered head to toe in flour and some unidentifiable mixture of sauces—which was nothing compared to her surroundings. The place looked less like a bakery, and more like an alchemy lab, one that had played host to a horrible accident. "I told Gavin not to get you," Cassandra muttered.

"Then we are fortunate that he did not listen." Ellain stepped into the bakery, taking in the scene. The room was small, having merely been a storage area before one of their number had turned his attention from dark magic to baking, and built a brick oven in the center of it all. Right now, the entire place looked like something had exploded. There was a pot in the oven, which was covered in splatters and burns. Rivers of liquid ran from it across the floor, and smoke was leaking out from the top even after the fire in the oven had been extinguished. "Were you trying to… bake a soup?"

"Of course not!" Cassandra snapped. She looked at the oven, let out a slow breath, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "All right, maybe."

Ellain resisted the urge to shake her head, and turned toward the door and the sound of approaching footsteps. "Better make it three buckets, Gavin," she called, even as the man entered the room. He set down the two buckets he was already carrying, shot an apologetic look at Cassandra, and darted off. "And bring Grace, if the poor thing feels up to it!" she called after him.

"He wouldn't be doing this if he weren't besotted with you," Cassandra glowered.

"I can't help it if he has good taste." Ellain found a pair of sponges in a cupboard and dropped them both in the water, wringing one out and carrying it over to Cassandra. "Where is Haymer?" she asked, scrubbing at her leader's face. "Last I checked, this was his bakery."

"Stop that at once!" Cassandra shouted, trying to push away the sponge. As usual, though, Ellain won the confrontation through pure stubbornness; Cassandra's hands fell to her sides as she submitted to her ministrations. "I told him I needed the bakery," she muttered. "He was all too happy to leave me to my work."

"You scared him off," Ellain interpreted.

"I—" Cassandra bit off her retort, eyes smoldering.

"You know," Ellain went on, continuing to scrub at the congealing sauce, "the entire point of having Mark start helping you was so that you wouldn't have to do everything by yourself."

"Yes, and?"

"If you want to make him dinner as thanks for his help, mightn't you have made use of Haymer's expertise—or my own?"

Cassandra pulled away, glaring at the sponge. "This was your idea, as I recall. You and Denning and Grace cornered me until I agreed to do this for him."

"That sounds about right," Ellain said, undeterred. "If by 'cornered' you mean 'gently suggested that we do something nice for him,' that is. We, I might point out, not you."

Cassandra slumped against the cooling wall of the oven. "I shouldn't have to do anything nice for a hostage," she grumbled.

"Even after all he's done for you? Between your leadership and his organization, things have been running more smoothly than ever. You yourself finally have free time."

"Too much free time."

Ellain smiled. "Don't pretend you don't enjoy it. I saw you reading a book the other day—not a ledger or an atlas, but an honest-to-gods book."

Cassandra turned her sulky gaze to the wall as Ellain started on one of her cheeks. "Perhaps," she admitted. "In any case, since you were all so insistent we do something nice for him, I figured I should be the one to do so. I'm the one he's helping, after all."

"He's helping all of us," Ellain replied. She stood back, clicking her tongue. "This isn't working. Gavin, dear?"

The morph man was just rounding the corner when she spoke, holding another bucket. He jumped at the sound of her voice, and a hint of red came to his pale cheeks. "Yes?"

"Did you bring—" Grace appeared around the corner even as she spoke. "Ah, excellent." Ellain smiled softly at the diminutive healer. "How are you feeling?"

"All right," Grace said, her voice mildly hoarse, but still strong. "I still don't know what ails me, but it usually passes by midday." She looked over Cassandra. "I can see how baking the soup went wrong, but where did the flour come from?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Cassandra muttered.

"Well," Ellain went on, "if you feel up to it, I'll need you to take Cassandra off my hands. Gavin and I will handle the cooking while you get her cleaned up." She turned to her leader, who was already jumping to her feet. "No complaints, now. You may be in charge here, but"—she motioned to the spills, scorches, and stains surrounding them—"I think you've had enough cooking for one day."

Cassandra looked between the three of them, indecision simmering in her eyes. She wanted to handle the cooking herself, and she didn't want Grace cleaning her up—but she also wanted to be far, far away from the site of her failed attempt at dinner. "All right," she acquiesced at last. "But make sure it's a damn fine meal, all right? If we're going to indulge in this foolishness, we're going to do it right."

Ellain smiled. "That's the spirit. All right, you two, go on."

Grace took Cassandra's arm and steered her toward the door. Their leader looked down at herself, grimacing at the flour and stains on her robes. "Must I go out like this?" she asked.

"Go to my room," Ellain called after her. "It's just across the way, so nobody should see you. Oh, and Grace?"

The healer glanced back over her shoulder. "Yes?"

Ellain studied Cassandra. The morph leader was a little smaller than she was, especially in certain areas, but with a little cinching… "Go through my wardrobe as well. Make sure she wears something flattering."

The healer gave Cassandra's arm a sharp tug, pulling her from the bakery before her cry of protest could escape her lips. Ellain turned to Gavin, who was looking at her with a mixture of admiration and trepidation. "Now, then," she said with a smile, "where shall we begin?"

Cassandra turned as she heard the door creak open. "Cassandra?" Mark called as he stepped through. "Denning said you—"

He fell silent as soon as he saw her. She knew he'd do that, but it didn't stop her from grimacing. The dress was one of the more colorful ones Ellain owned, though the blues of the fabric were still subdued—something about bright colors not working with a morph's complexion, or something; Cassandra had stopped listening to Grace about halfway through the laces. Even she had to admit that it looked good on her, though. The sleeves draped elegantly from her arms, the neck was cut tastefully low, and the skirt overlapped itself off to the right—the opening provided freedom of movement without being overly revealing, though Grace had remarked that it showed "just enough skin to spark the imagination." She'd been smiling entirely too broadly when she said it, too.

That thought brought her attention back to the man before her, and the stunned look on his face. She shrank under his gaze, crossing her arms and looking away with a glower. "Ellain's idea, not mine," she said, putting as much venom as she could muster into her voice.

"What?" he said. She refused to look at his face, but could imagine him blinking in surprise. "Oh—the dress? Yes, I… this was her idea, too."

Cassandra frowned. "What was?"

"This."

She turned to him—and noticed for the first time what he was wearing. A tight-fitting navy-blue shirt and matching trousers were covered by a long black jacket with red embroidery along the edges. Silver buttons shone at her from one side, almost distracting her from the more subtle stitching on his shirt and trousers. She could see Ellain's hand in constructing the outfit, but there was nothing amateur about it. Wearing it, he looked almost… regal.

Mark cleared his throat, and started shifting his feet as though uncomfortable. It took her a moment to realize that she was staring at him, just as he'd stared at her moments before. She quickly tamped down her embarrassment as she tore her eyes away—turnabout is fair play, after all. "Well," she said, managing to keep her voice level. "You do look… nice."

"As do you, milady," he replied, a little too readily for her. She felt heat rise in her cheeks, and hated herself for it; any red there would be obvious against her pale skin.

She scrambled for something else to talk about. "When, ah… when did she take your measurements?"

He let out a nervous laugh. "I wondered the same thing myself. Denning assures me she hasn't been breaking into my room while I'm asleep, so she must have sized me up by eye alone." He looked down at the trousers. "He tells me this is very fashionable in Lycian courts."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Have I kept you here so long that the fashion has changed?"

"No, but in truth, I never paid much attention to such things. They never seemed very practical."

She snorted. "Indeed not. If I had to fight in this dress, I'd—" She cut herself off, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the common ground they'd found. "Well," she huffed, "we aren't here to play Ellain's games, are we?"

"No," Mark said, glancing about the room. "Although, if I might ask… why are we here?"

She winced. "Here" was actually the fort's meeting room, which would have been used for audiences and planning when it was occupied, but now was mostly neglected. Ellain had claimed it was the only room suitable for such an occasion. Cassandra had hoped Denning would have explained her intentions as he was bringing Mark over, and spare her from having to speak the words herself. Clearly, he was not feeling quite that charitable.

She took a breath as she turned to the table. "I wished to thank you for all your help," she said, spilling out the words before she could think better of them. "True to your word, you've managed to improve nearly every aspect of life in the fort. Obviously, as my hostage, I can offer you very little, but I—well, we—thought you'd at least enjoy a nice dinner."

As if on cue, the door swung open behind Mark. He stepped out of the way just in time as Ellain swept in, carrying a covered platter—we have platters?—in one hand and linen napkins draped across the other. Behind her, Gavin shot a sour look at Mark as he slid a plate of bread onto the table. Two others followed, one arranging more bowls and platters on the table as the other set two places with plates and cutlery. There was hardly any table space left once they were done. Ellain set her platter in the center and lifted the plate to reveal a still-steaming roast, presenting it with a flourish and a triumphant smile. "Your dinner, milady, sir tactician." She curtsied, then turned and ushered the others out, casting one last infuriating smile back at Cassandra before sliding the door shut.

Mark cast his gaze over the food spread across the table before resting it on his host. "I, ah, see." He motioned to the table. "Shall we, then?"

The simple act of eating had been entirely transmuted by a few simple embellishments. The food before them, the clothes they wore, even the place settings were so different from what she was used to—which was usually stew-soaked bread eaten with one hand as the other worked on whatever issue was plaguing her people. There was stew here, but it was redolent with spices she couldn't even name, and the array of spoons before her made it clear she couldn't just soak it up with the bread. She looked across the table Mark, forcing a smile. "How is it?" she asked.

He raised a spoon to his lips, taking a careful sip as stew dripped over the sides. He smiled at her as he replaced it in the bowl. "Excellent. Ellain wasn't exaggerating about her cooking."

Cassandra listened with half an ear; most of her attention was on his movements, which she mimicked as closely as she could. She thought she must look every bit the dainty noblewoman—or at least a precocious girl pretending to be one. The thought made the corners of her eyes crinkle.

Gentle sipping and chewing were the only noises for a while. She wasn't particularly comfortable with the silence, but she felt even less comfortable trying to break it. She felt peeved—and a little relieved—when Mark did so instead. "Are you keeping occupied?" he asked.

Cassandra snorted again. Most unladylike. I'm doing this dress a disservice. "Just because you've taken over organizing the morphs doesn't mean I don't have plenty to do. The gold we had saved up has nearly run out; I've been talking to some of the others about making crafts to sell."

"Really?" Mark sat up. "Such as?"

She tilted her head. "We morphs were expected to be self-sufficient, you know. Nergal might leave us in an area for months, even years; we'd have to take care of ourselves. Denning's not just a soldier, he's a hunter. And between all of us, we had enough knowledge of agriculture to start the garden."

"So you'll be selling hides and vegetables, then?"

She smiled ruefully. "We need everything we grow to keep us fed, I fear. But hides could be an option. And don't forget, we have a smith."

"Trask," Mark said, nodding. "But last I checked, he worked primarily on weapons. Do you think he'll be able to make tools you can trade as well?"

Her smile turned ironic. "As has been demonstrated to me of late, we all have the power to apply our skills in unexpected ways."

Mark looked at her for a moment, then returned her smile, raising his goblet to her. She felt triumph in her heart—as well as a strange warmth.

She tried to ignore it. "If Trask can be made a blacksmith, Denning a tanner, and Shel a wheelwright, then we can peddle those wares and earn enough to keep us afloat." She took a sip from her own goblet; the wine slid down her throat too easily, leaving a sweet aftertaste. "And that is how I've been occupying myself."

He nodded. "That's good. You strike me as the sort who'd go mad if she had nothing to do."

She lifted her goblet. "Let's hope we never have the chance to find out."

He raised his as well, and they drank together. The wine was velvety on her tongue, and the aftertaste beckoned her back for more. She took the jug and forced herself to pour it slowly, first in her own goblet, then rounding the table to refill his. He was trying not to look up at her while she poured. She wasn't sure whether or not that fact pleased her.

She returned to her own seat and pursed her lips at the mountain of food still before her. It all smelled wonderful, and she was hungry, but this seemed like a bit much for two people. She took up a knife and began slicing at a slab of roasted meat, frowning as it deformed under the blade. The knife must have been dull. Dull as my companion, she thought, though the joke brought her little joy.

"How is Luther?" Mark asked. "I haven't seen much of them since…"

Cassandra smirked. "Since they tried to kill you?"

"Well, yes," he said, eyes down.

She shrugged. "It's been hard for them. It always is, at first. At least they have so many others to help. Moriel and Durran have begun working with them, adapting them to life here. Deichtine might start taking them out on patrols, if we can get a horse acclimated to them."

Mark nodded. "That's good. They seemed so lost."

"We all were, once."

"Even you?"

She looked up at him, surprised, before forcing her gaze back to her plate. "Especially me."

He had the courtesy not to respond to that. They ate in silence for a brief while before he leaned around the table. "Would you like some help?"

She looked up at him, then at the slab of meat that still refused to be sliced. "No," she said; then again, trying to purge the indignation from her voice, "No, thank you. I've got it."

"All right," he said, sitting back in his chair. "If you want to borrow my knife, that might work better."

Cassandra glanced up, and saw that Mark already had his meat cut into tiny cubes. She glared down at her own knife. Trust Ellain to give him the sharp knife, and me the one that couldn't cut wet paper.

She went back to sawing, and finally managed to make a deep enough gouge that she was able to pull the chunk off with her fork. She lifted it triumphantly—and then stopped. Unless she cut it into smaller slices, she'd be chewing on that chunk for the next five minutes. She set it down with a sigh. "Since you offered," she said, "I'd appreciate it."

His smile was thankfully devoid of mockery as he rose, holding the knife handle-out to her. She looked at it, then at his own plate, then at him. "Actually," she said, "would you slice it for me?"

He was still a moment, and she feared she'd miscalculated—but then he nodded, walking slowly around the table to stand next to her. He leaned over, carefully keeping his jacket away from her food and her face, and began cutting the meat into neat slices. She looked up at him as he worked, noting the way his lean muscles tensed under Ellain's needlework, the length of neck exposed above the jacket's collar. His cheeks grew more and more flushed as he sliced. Was her gaze doing that to him?

She placed a hand on his arm, and he went suddenly rigid. She could feel his blood pulsing just beneath the skin, the perspiration starting to form under her fingers. "You are standing over me," she said, "holding a knife. You could end your captivity right now."

Where his cheeks had been reddening, they now went pale. He set the knife down, and slowly pulled away, her fingers trailing along his arm as it slipped from her grasp. He returned to his own seat, and looked at her with a forced smile. "Twice now, you've seen me in battle," he said. "And I've seen you. If I'd tried anything, that knife would be in me by now." He spread his hands. "And if my foolhardy attempt to assassinate you had succeeded, I'd then be in the heart of a fort full of morphs with their beloved leader's blood on my hands."

It was true—and the main reason she'd agreed to let him help her. Still… "Don't you want to escape?" she asked.

He frowned, as though the question wasn't one he'd considered. "I want my freedom," he conceded, steepling his fingers. "But escape means breaking the treaty. That means war. And that means a lot of good people are going to die."

"A lot of good morphs, you mean."

He said nothing.

She lifted her goblet, taking a long, deep sip. The wine burned in her throat and mind alike. "What do you want, Mark?"

He let out a breath. "I've been asking myself the same thing for a while now. I believe, Cassandra, that I want the same thing you do—for you and your morphs to live in peace."

"Then you wish to remain my prisoner forever."

"No." His voice was firm. "I wish for you and Hector to come to an accord, without you feeling you need a hostage to guarantee he honors it. I want you to live in peace, alongside humans."

"Impossible."

"You didn't seem so sure of that when you showed me Nergal's notebook."

Cassandra winced at the truth of that. "I suppose you've been rubbing off on me," she sighed. She drowned the obvious innuendo with another sip of wine. "Perhaps it's not impossible," she acknowledged. "But for humans to accept us… it seems like a fool's dream." She shoved a bite of the meat in her mouth. Damn, but it tasted good.

"I don't believe that. We—" He cut himself off, suddenly very interested in his fingertips.

She swallowed. "What?"

His eyes slowly lifted to meet hers. "There is a place," he said quietly. "A secret city, lost to all but a few. It's called Arcadia, and like your little city of morphs, it is the last home of a people once thought dead. It is a hidden oasis where humans live side-by-side"—he took a deep breath—"with dragons."

She said nothing. She could think of nothing to say. She drew her goblet toward her, only to discover that she'd already drained it. Mark rose wordlessly, taking the pitcher and refilling it. "I know how it sounds," he said, voice almost lost among the splash of the wine.

"It sounds ludicrous," Cassandra replied. "Humans nearly wiped out dragons during the Scouring—just like they nearly wiped us out five years ago."

He grimaced as he sat back down. "You're not wrong. But Arcadia is real. We've met people who live there—people with both human and dragon parents. And if they can do it…" He spread his hands, eyes almost painfully earnest. "Cassandra, this could be our Arcadia. Humans and morphs, living together in peace."

She opened her mouth to offer a retort—and found none forthcoming. It sounded perfect. Without the shadow of Ostia looming over them, her people could live in peace, and Mark—this foolish, naïve, brilliant human, this man who had the ear of the ruler of all of Lycia—wanted to make that happen. If only it were possible.

If only…

"Foolishness," she said, pushing the goblet away. She'd clearly had enough wine. "We can't live together."

He looked crestfallen. "Why in Elimine's name not?"

"Because we aren't really living at all." She placed a hand on her chest, the fabric of the dress smooth beneath her palm. "I was created from stolen quintessence, Mark. But without harvesting more, all we have is what's in us now. What do you think happens when it runs out?"

He went deathly quiet.

"Our days are numbered, Mark, as are we. We can't bear children; when the last of us dies, the whole of morphkind dies." Her vision had gone blurry, and when she tried to blink through it, something hot and wet began running down her cheeks. "Don't try to sell me hope for a future. Don't think I have a legacy to carry on. Every beat of my heart is an affront to Saint Elimine and all the gods she serves, and when that heart stops beating, when my quintessence runs dry—" She snapped her fingers. "That's it. We're done. So, you just be a good little hostage for a few years, and when I drop dead, you can be free, and forget all about me and Denning and every morph you've ever met."

Her throat was full, and her arms were trembling. She gripped the fork tightly, maneuvering another piece of meat into her mouth as slowly as she could manage.

She was almost halfway done with it before Mark spoke again. "May I say something?" He was doing an admirable job of keeping his voice steady, considering the tightness of his face and the wet spots at the corners of his eyes.

She chewed a while longer before swallowing. "I suppose," she muttered.

He lifted his chin, unflinchingly meeting her gaze. "You're wrong about one thing, at least. I could never forget you."

His eyes suddenly seemed unfathomably deep. Her resolve broke, and she took another sip of the wine.

Nor I you.

She hadn't the courage to say it aloud.

The fact that the rest of the meal passed in peace was, in Mark's estimation, a minor miracle itself. Things remained awkward between them, but there were no more impassioned outbursts. In the end, most of the food remained on the table, but each of them agreed they couldn't possibly eat another bite. Ellain and her helpers soon arrived to clear away the dishes—though Mark could tell that the temptress had immediately picked up on their moods, as she cast a subtle frown at them before the door swung shut.

Cassandra escorted him back to his room. It was well after dark by then; the clouds of that day had parted to allow the silvery moonlight through, and several stars winked down at the two of them as they walked in silence across the fort. It would have been a nice night for stargazing, Mark thought, if things had been different. If the woman at his side had been different.

Then the roof of his building swallowed the stars, and they were at his door a moment later. She pushed it open, and stepped back. He paused, unsure of what else to say. It felt wrong to leave her like this, but what comfort could he offer her after what she'd said?

She drew her shoulders in, the fabric of the dress shifting across her frame. "I… did enjoy myself tonight, Mark. Despite what you may think." She swallowed. "My goal was to show my gratitude for all your help. I fear I did a poor job of it, but—"

"You needn't worry," he said. An impulse took him, and her hand was in his before he knew it. She stiffened, but made no move to pull away. "I enjoyed it too," he went on. "I hope we can do it again someday."

It took him a moment to gather his courage before he could do what he needed to. Her hand felt leaden in his as he gently pulled it upward, bending down ever so slowly until his lips just brushed the back of her palm. He'd done this countless time at courtly functions, so there was no reason for him to be nervous.

No reason at all.

She stepped away, her hand sliding noiselessly from his, and studied him with an unreadable expression. She nodded once, then motioned to the door. He stepped through and remained still, not turning to look as the door swung shut. He waited until her footsteps disappeared down the corridor, and finally allowed himself to breathe again as tremors took his body.

It was only when he stopped shaking that he realized she'd taken him the wrong way. This room was not the one he'd woken up in. This one was slightly larger; the table was against a different wall, though it had all the ledgers and notebooks he'd been working on piled on it. Even the secret diary he'd been keeping was still secure in its cubby. What few personal effects Cassandra had allowed him had been moved here, too. It was the same building, certainly; but, thinking back on the turns they'd taken as she led him here, he realized he was on the opposite side of the structure now, far from where Grace and Denning spent their nights.

And, as he moved into the room, something else caught his eye. Not only had she not bolted the door behind him, his new quarters had a window.

His lips opened involuntarily, and when he breathed in, he thought he could still smell Cassandra on the wind.

I'm not sure whether or not the morphs age. Denning looks much the same as he did five years ago; then again, so do I, at least on my good days. They eat and sleep as humans do, but, if Cassandra's conclusions are correct, they may not grow old and die as we do. It could be that they will live forever—or, as she believes, the quintessence that gave rise to them may one day give out, and they will simply… stop. It's a discomfiting thought.

Though it was Hector's booming baritone that echoed through the great hall, Lyn could hear every word spoken in Mark's soft voice. He'd always been a quiet one—until he found something that excited him, and then he could go on and on for hours. That was what she heard now; the passion with which he wrote of the morphs was the same she'd heard in his voice when he was speaking about a rousing game of chess, or discovering a draconic artifact, or her future as marchioness of Caelin, or—

"Are you all right?" Eliwood whispered to her.

She gave a start. "What? Oh, yes, of course." She straightened in her seat, looking around the table. "I'm fine."

He did not look convinced, but—ever the diplomat—he did not press her.

She looked around the table, re-familiarizing herself with its occupants. The group attending these meetings was still a small one, mostly composed of lords, their closest advisors, scholars, and anyone too stubborn to be kept away. Erk, Canas, and Pent sat together; Serra and Raven sat nearby, flanking where Lucius would have sat, were he still there. Continuing around the table, Eliwood had the greying Marcus and the lovely Isadora at his sides; similarly, Lyn had brought Kent, earnest and handsome as ever, and a visibly-uncomfortable Florina, who was fingering her lavender locks. While Lyn had left Sain and Heath in Caelin, she and Eliwood had each brought an entire company of knights with them, most of whom were outside training and integrating with the Ostian troops in preparation for…

For whatever happened next.

Hector was usually flanked by Oswin and Matthew. Today, however, the aging knight had given up his seat—moving over next to Kent—because the lady of Ostia had put in a rare appearance. Priscilla's pregnancy had been fraught, but she had apparently grown tired of being kept from the proceedings, especially with so many familiar faces returning to Ostia in the current crisis. Lyn found she could sympathize. Looking over the woman, who somehow managed to remain dainty despite her swelling belly, Lyn found a small flame of admiration burning within her—as well as an unfamiliar ache.

Florina must have sensed her mood, because the small pegasus knight shifted her chair a little closer to Lyn's.

Hector finished the letter, and put it down, eyes distant. "That's an option I hadn't considered," he admitted. "Simply wait for them to die."

"If they do die," Matthew mumbled. "Even Mark admits he doesn't know. Even Cassandra admits she doesn't know."

"Well?" Hector was looking at the scholar's side of the table.

Exchanging glances with the others, Pent was the one who rose. "As Mark says, the morphs engage in normal—human—bodily functions. Quintessence may be what gave them life, but food is what's maintaining it. As such, I see no reason to believe they will not age."

"I agree," Canas added—though his voice lacked Pent's confidence. "There's almost no way to know for sure, though."

"And we can't take anything for granted in this situation." Matthew was sitting sideways in his chair, one arm draped over the back as he stared up at the ceiling. "It's best to assume the morphs will be alive and kicking for some time to come."

Hector nodded slowly, his eyes turning to Canas. "Does Bishop Renault know anything about this?"

The scholar shrugged. "He very well might. There's no way to know unless we find him, however."

Hector turned next to Serra. "Do you know how that's coming?"

She sniffed. "How would I? Lucius's last letter said he was in Badon. Until we hear more, Renault may as well not exist."

Hector gritted his teeth. "I know that. But if he mentioned anything to you, or if he…"

He trailed off. Serra was meeting her leige's gaze with uncharacteristic strength. She said and did nothing—but, after a moment, Hector turned away. Lyn nodded to herself, impressed by how far the cleric had come since their first meeting six years ago.

Just weeks after she'd met Mark. Lyn put a hand to her throat, which was suddenly tight.

"All right," Hector said softly. "Keep working on the information about Cassandra's process. See if we can learn anything else about Nergal's past, and if there might be any more of his notes out there. Until Lucius returns, that's all we can do." Hector gave the group his usual imperious nod. "All right. Dismissed."

Lyn rose, feeling her scabbard hit her thigh as she stood. Florina and Kent rose with her, and they started with the group toward the door. Her long strides carried her in front of the milling crowd, and she was out the door before any of them, her two knights in tow. Kent turned off to join the other knights, as Florina scurried up to her side. "At least Mark is still well," she said.

Lyn nodded. "Yes, thank the sky. Now we just need to make sure he stays that way."

Florina hesitated. "You don't really think they'd hurt him, do you?"

"They have to at least be willing to," Lyn said. "Or he's no good to them as a hostage."

"I agree with Florina," Eliwood's voice echoed down the hall. Lyn turned to find him striding toward them. "The more time goes on, and the more Mark ingratiates himself, the less likely it seems that they'll actually hurt him."

Lyn mustered up a smile for her old friend. "Eliwood. Sorry for running off so quickly."

"No apologies necessary," he assured her. "I can tell you've a great deal on your mind." He returned her smile. "I was wondering if you might share some of the burden with me."

Lyn glanced at Florina, who smiled at her encouragingly. "It's easy enough to hope," Lyn said, "but what I said still holds. Mark is only valuable to the morphs if they're ready to kill him. And from what I've heard of this Cassandra woman, she doesn't seem the type to hold back."

"No," Eliwood agreed. "She seems a woman of strong conviction. One who holds great compassion for those she protects, and strong contempt for any who would threaten them."

"She sounds dangerous," Lyn murmured.

"She sounds like someone I know."

Lyn paused, looking down at the sword at her side. One hand unconsciously reached back to touch the tip of her ponytail. "I'm not sure whether I should be offended by that."

"You know I meant no offense," Eliwood said softly. "In truth, that's what gives me hope that she can be reasoned with."

"You want a lasting peace with her?"

"I do. Each letter we get from Mark only builds my conviction that it's possible. If the morphs are capable of befriending Mark, why not ally with the rest of us? It certainly does them more good than starting a war with Lycia would."

Lyn shook her head. "Unless there's a hidden agenda. Unless this is all a part of some long-term scheme laid down by Nergal years ago, and every action they take is to manipulate Mark."

Eliwood cocked his head. "Do you believe that?"

"I don't know what I believe," she sighed.

They walked in silence for a moment.

"You really think Cassandra and I are similar?" Lyn asked.

"From what I've heard." Eliwood smiled once more. "Seems Mark enjoys the company of strong women."

Lyn halted in her steps, and Eliwood flushed. "Er… forgive me. I didn't mean to insinuate…"

"No," Lyn said, turning to him, trying to ignore her own blush. "But—what you said… do you think he's developing feelings for her?"

Eliwood's mouth opened, but no words came out.

"Um." Florina stepped forward, looking at her boots. "Sorry for interrupting, Lyn, but I sort of thought the same thing. Not about you and Cassandra," she added quickly, "but about Mark. When he writes about her, you can see there's respect, and a healthy amount of fear…" She swallowed. "But also some affection."

Lyn looked at her a long moment, then at Eliwood. He lowered his head, frowning. "If I'm being honest, I thought the same," he said.

Lyn suddenly felt very small in the hallway.

"She could be manipulating him," she said, forcing her words out. "She knows how; he's said as much in his letters."

Eliwood's frown deepened. "I thought you didn't agree with Raven."

"I don't, I—" She took a breath. "Cassandra can do whatever she wants. Mark's our friend. He won't betray us."

"No," Eliwood agreed.

Florina smiled up at them. "Of course not."

They were almost to the guest chambers Hector and Priscilla had provided for Lyn; Florina, as her closest female retainer, was staying with her. They said their good-byes to Eliwood, who left them, not without some trepidation. Lyn strode into the room and stopped, gazing out the window as Florina closed the door behind them.

Lyn heard the pegasus knight's soft footsteps approaching her. Florina spoke barely above a whisper. "I know how much Mark meant to you."

Lyn turned, hoping her smile didn't look too forced. "He meant as much to me as he does to Eliwood. To Hector." She took Florina's hand. "To you."

Florina's own smile looked hollow. "But on the plains, when you two were alone…"

When the boy who'd lost his past and the girl who'd lost her family found each other…

"So, you agree with Eliwood?" Lyn released Florina's hand and struck a pose, flexing her muscles. "You think Mark 'enjoys the company' of strong women?"

Florina's laugh was genuine. "You're terrible, Lyn!"

"What about your husband?" Lyn asked, moving toward the bathchamber. "Does he 'enjoy' your company?"

Her answer came in the form of a pillow flung at her head.