"How long have you been playing?" Mark asked, not bothering to hide his astonishment.

Denning paused his playing, setting the lute in his lap to retune it. "Ten days. Cassandra's not the only one who's found herself with more free time of late." He plucked one of the strings, smiling as the tone echoed down the streets of the fort. "Stringing a lute is a far cry from stringing a bow, but I've grown to enjoy it."

Mark sat down on the doorstep next to Denning, rubbing his hands. A cool breeze was blowing through the fort that evening, portending the coming of autumn. He'd spent the last week taking full advantage of his new freedom; he was still a hostage, but he had much more freedom to come and go from his room as he pleased, so long as he had his escort. Not to mention, being able to see the sun in the morning, or look out at the stars at night, made his heart feel lighter than it had in weeks. And when he thought of Cassandra…

He shook his head, trying to focus on the situation. He, Denning, and Durran had stepped from his building into an impromptu dance lesson. "You're rather good for ten days of practice," he said to Denning, who was now strumming a familiar waltz.

Denning picked up the unspoken question. "No, I wasn't given knowledge of the lute. Ellain might be able to play for the purposes of seduction, but such frivolities would never otherwise be something Nergal considered."

"Then you're simply talented."

"I suppose so," the morph replied with a smirk. He glanced toward the street. "It appears they still need some practice, though."

Moriel shot them a glare before returning her gaze to Durran. Her arm was on his shoulder while hers was on his waist, their other hands clasped together. "Ignore them," she said, starting to move to the beat of Denning's playing again. "Come on, let's try again."

Durran's neck, rigid as it was, still managed to move enough for him to nod in acknowledgment. The two of them resumed their slow waltz as Denning strummed out the melody. Moriel was surprisingly skilled, and settled in to her partner's arms with a smile; as for Durran, Mark couldn't tell whether the giant man was more uncomfortable with the dance, or how close Moriel held him.

It seemed he'd finally stopped stepping on her feet, at least, and the two of them settled into the basic steps for a few minutes. Moriel leaned a little closer to Durran, eyes floating shut. Scarlet spread across his cheeks, but Denning kept strumming, so he kept dancing. The archer exchanged a knowing glance with Mark. "It seems Grace and I may not be the only couple for long," he murmured.

Mark had to suppress a grin. In truth, Denning didn't know how right he was. He'd been observing the morphs during his daily constitutionals, and while Denning and Grace were the most demonstrative pair in the fort, they were far from the only ones he'd seen exhibiting an attraction. Gavin, obviously, was taken with Ellain; Mark wasn't sure why he'd fallen for her when the other men seemed able to resist her charms, but at least that meant he didn't face any competition. He wasn't sure when Moriel had developed feelings for Durran, but he seemed to be starting to reciprocate. Haymer had been finding more and more excuses to drop by Shel's carpentry shop of late, and among the guards, Amora and Bennet frequently traded shifts with others to be on duty together. Even Ronic seemed to linger at Trask's smithy these days. The morphs definitely felt attraction to one another; it just seemed to have taken five years for most of them to act on it.

For some reason, Mark suddenly felt very lonely.

"Speaking of which," he said, grasping at the chance to change the subject, "how is Grace?"

Denning did not falter in his playing, but his expression fell to a glower. "Still the same," he said. "Whatever's affecting her is far from debilitating, but there's no denying it's there. She's still nauseous frequently, yet she's eating more than ever. She seems to be moody—" He cut off, looking at Mark. "Well, I suppose that's not something you care to know," he muttered.

Mark grimaced; perhaps this wasn't a good subject to change to. "I'm sorry, Denning. Is there anything I can do?"

Denning smiled. "Organize a battle plan against her disease, perhaps?"

He meant it in jest, but his words hollowed Mark's chest.

"Sorry," Denning murmured. The smile turned sad. "I appreciate the offer, but there's little anyone can do. If morphs carrying a library's worth of healing knowledge can't solve this puzzle, I doubt a human tactician can." He fell silent for a moment, brows drawing slowly together. "Although…"

Mark straightened. "What? Is there—"

"What's going on?"

The voice came from directly behind Mark; once he dislodged his heart from his throat, he turned to find himself looking at the drawn face of a tall, slender morph. He swallowed, and not quietly. "Luther?"

Denning stood, motioning to Moriel and Durran, who paid no attention to the newcomer. "They're dancing," he said to Luther, not missing a beat in the music. "Search your memories, and you'll understand."

Luther's face screwed up in concentration. "It's much harder," they said after a moment. "Before, everything came to me. Now…"

"Give it time," Denning soothed. "You'll get better with practice."

Luther's expression relaxed, and they cast one last look at the dancing couple before turning to Mark. "Yes, I'm Luther," they said. "You are Mark?"

"That's right," the tactician said, pleased to find his voice even. "It's good to see you again."

"Is it?" The morph scratched their head. "Last time you saw me was when I attacked you."

Mark found himself without a response. "Yes," he managed at length. "I suppose it was."

Luther looked at him, then over at Denning, who cleared his throat. "Oh," Luther said, blinking as if surprised. "I'm sorry. For attacking you."

Mark blew out a soft breath. "Thank you."

"It is good that I failed to kill you," Luther went on. "Though I would have likely succeeded, were I not exhausted from—"

"That's plenty," Denning said, words quick but not curt. "Thank you, Luther."

The morph nodded once, and walked away down the street, almost cutting between Moriel and Durran on their way. Mark exchanged a glance with Denning. "They're still adjusting," the morph said quietly. "Give it time."

Mark remembered what Cassandra had told him at the dinner. We were all lost, once. "Were you like that at first?" he asked softly.

"No." Denning shook his head. "I was far, far worse."

The dance lesson lasted the rest of the hour before Moriel finally admitted they'd had enough for one day. Durran offered her his arm with hesitation; she took it with none. The large morph was on Mark's escort duty that day, which meant Mark and Denning had to accompany them as he escorted her back to her room. If she'd been hoping for a farewell kiss, it was clear she wasn't going to get one; Durran would have been embarrassed enough doing so without the audience. Still, she smiled at him, and he smiled back with only a little reluctance. Mark couldn't help but feel a little warmth in his heart at the sight.

As Moriel entered her building and the door swung shut behind her, Denning turned to Mark. He'd been curiously quiet on the way over, but now he spoke abruptly. "Mark, would you take a look at her? Please?"

Mark blinked in surprise. "Who, Moriel? I've been looking at her this whole time." He winced, and looked at Durran. "That is—"

"No," Denning said, sounding irritated. "Grace. I think that—" He shook his head, and motioned to Durran, who looked as confused as Mark felt. "It's difficult to put into words. I'll explain on the way—at least, I'll try."

Cassandra felt she should have been surprised when Mark came into the infirmary. But, as he strode out of the entrance hall between Denning and Durran, she realized she'd been half-expecting him all along. He'd insinuated himself into nearly every other aspect of her life, after all; why not show up here? Granted, they'd barely spoken to each other over the past week—neither was sure what to say after that candlelit evening, so it was back to business as usual, him making reports to her, and her accepting them in awkward silence and sending him on his way, trying not to smile at his retreating back. But it somehow felt right that he be here, now, when everyone was looking to her for strength.

Mark, in contrast, missed a step upon seeing her. She grimaced at the sight as he caught himself on the doorframe. "Cassandra?" he asked, looking at her like she was a purple cow. "What are you doing here?"

She did not bother with a wry smile. "Visiting a friend," she said. She motioned to Grace, who was lying on a bed squarely in the center of the long stone room that served as the fort's infirmary. Poorly-lit, but well-ventilated, the room and the beds lining its walls saw pleasingly little use—morphs did not tend to get sick, and injuries were few and far between.

Which made whatever was happening to Grace that much harder to understand.

Peleus and a crowd of other healers were discussing her condition at the far side of the room, while Cassandra and Ellain stood beside Grace's bed, the temptress having joined her for this visit. Cassandra remembered she was holding the young healer's hand, and she gave it a gentle squeeze. Mark's gaze, she noticed, had honed in on the gesture of affection. The scowl she gave him was enough to turn it away once more.

"Mark. Durran." Grace struggled to sit up. "I'm sorry. I told Denning—"

"Easy, dear," Ellain purred, pushing down gently on her shoulder. "You need to rest, remember?"

"I remember," Grace replied, rolling her eyes; but she relented, and lay back down. She looked back at the men. "I told Denning he didn't need to visit me, not when he's on duty."

"I know," the archer said, stepping forward. Cassandra was struck by the pitiable expression on his face. "I asked Mark to come. I thought—well, I was hoping he might take a look at you."

Cassandra felt herself stiffen; across the room, the conversation among the healers came to a slow halt. "I beg your pardon?" Grace said, blinking.

"This wasn't my idea," Mark said hurriedly.

Denning shot him a glare. "No. It was mine—though something Mark said made me think of it." He met Grace's eyes uncertainly. "He was thinking a human healer might have a different perspective on your condition than ours."

Cassandra could feel tension from the healers behind her, though she also heard someone mutter "That makes sense." She looked at Mark, and let out a groan. "So, you thought, 'we may not have any human healers, but at least we have a human,' is that it?"

Denning cringed at her tone. "Yes," he muttered. He sat down on the foot of the bed, looking earnestly at his wife. "I know it seems pointless, but I thought…"

Grace was eyeing Mark uncomfortably. "I understand, dear, but…"

As they conferred, Cassandra moved forward. Mark didn't seem to realize she was beside him until she grabbed his arm. She smirked for an instant at his start, then started pulling him away. "Can I talk to you?" Her tone made it clear there was only one answer.

He fell in, not resisting her grip, and she towed him partway down the row of beds. They were far enough from Denning and the others that they wouldn't be overheard if they whispered. "What are you doing here?" she hissed.

Mark held up his hands defensively. "I told you, this was Denning's idea, not mine!"

"Which you agreed to; otherwise, he wouldn't have brought you here." She shook her head. "You don't really think you'll be able to find something they couldn't, do you?" She motioned to the healers.

Mark cast a quick look at Denning, and lowered his voice further still. "Of course not. I don't think he does, either. It's just…" He turned to the bed. "Look at him, Cassandra."

Part of her blanched at the idea of being told what to do by this human; the rest of her was already doing it. Denning was standing at the side of his wife's bed, one hand on hers, the other fingering his bowstring. His brows were down, his mouth was pulled into a frown, and his lips trembled ever-so-slightly between words.

"He's afraid," she whispered.

Mark nodded. "I don't think I'll find a damn thing, if I'm being honest." He glanced at Peleus. "They know more about healing than I ever will. But if taking a look makes Denning feel better, even a little…"

Cassandra found herself fingering her braid. "Why do you care?" Her voice was so soft, even she could barely hear it.

Mark frowned at her. "What?"

She looked up at him. "Why do you care how Denning feels?"

"Because he's my friend."

She found herself shocked, not only by the answer, but by its immediacy. "He's your guard. He's helping to keep you hostage."

"He also advocates for me every chance he gets, goes out of his way to make me more comfortable, and spoke to me at a time when nobody else would. He wasn't ordered to do it, and it wasn't something Nergal put in him—he did it out of the kindness of his heart."

Her own heart throbbed at the word.

"And now he's asking me to do something for him," Mark said, looking back at the morph couple. "I don't think I can do it, no—but I'll be damned if I'm not going to try."

She slowly released her braid, letting it swing free to her back. "Am… I your friend, too?"

He hesitated—which pained her, for no reason she could name. "If you want to be."

She forced her eyes off of him and back to Grace. "Well," she murmured, "I suppose it can't hurt for you to take a look."

Mark's shoulders slumped with relief. "No, I don't think it can."

"Depending on how close a look you take," she added with a smirk.

Somehow, his embarrassed expression was even more satisfying than when she'd been in his room. "I'm just going to ask about her symptoms!" he said quickly, voice rising a little too far above a whisper. 'I wasn't going to do anything untoward to—" He cut off, studying her expression, and his face slowly twisted into a scowl. "Do you enjoy teasing me, Lady Cassandra?"

She didn't bother to hide her grin. "Oh, immensely." She motioned to the bed. "Well, if Denning can convince Grace, I suppose she's all yours."

Mark sucked in air through gritted teeth, but if he was going to say something more, he thought better of it. He kept one eye on her as he walked back to the bed, joining in the conversation with Denning and Grace as he pulled a notebook and a piece of charcoal from his satchel. The healers moved surreptitiously closer to listen in; Durran was leaning against the wall by the door, looking bored, and Ellain was—

She frowned. Ellain was peering at her with an opaque expression. "What?" she said, a little more harshly than she'd intended.

Ellain hesitated—something that rarely ever happened. Cassandra felt something slip inside her, and when she spoke again, her voice was much softer. "What is it, Ellain?"

"I just—" She looked across the room at the tactician. "After the dinner last week, you and he seemed so uncomfortable, and it was all my fault, and—"

"Don't blame yourself for that," Cassandra interrupted. "He and I, we…" She shrugged. "I just wasn't sure what to do after that."

"But it was my idea," Ellain persisted. "We need him on our side, Cassandra, if we're going to survive this, and I thought the dinner might help with that, but this stupid thing inside me turned what was supposed to be a diplomatic dinner into a romantic one, and you…" She trailed off.

"We… what?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

Cassandra studied her for a moment, then followed her gaze to Mark's back.

If you want to be.

"I don't know, either," she confessed.

"How long did you say the cramps have been happening?" Mark asked, tapping a piece of charcoal on the edge of his notebook.

"About six weeks," Grace repeated, eyeing him. "But the nausea began about four weeks ago."

Mark nodded, trying not to think of what else Grace and Denning had been up to at that time. "And you say you've put on weight?"

It was a question that would have rankled most human woman, but Grace merely nodded. "Yes. And I get…" She shifted on the bed, looking over at her husband. "I get strange cravings."

Mark paused, looking over his notes so far. He hadn't been expecting to find anything, but her description did lend itself to an idea, one that morph healers might overlook—albeit for a very good reason.

He shut the notebook and motioned to Cassandra. She exchanged an uncertain glance with Ellain before slowly approaching him, arms still crossed over her chest. "Yes?"

He glanced from her to Grace. "How do you know," he said quietly, "that you can't have children?"

The women both stiffened. "Because we can't," Cassandra said, her voice returning to its customary growl.

Mark bit at the inside of his cheek. "All right," he said slowly, "but how do you—"

Denning put a hand on his shoulder. "Are you sure you wish to pursue this?" he said; there was a note of danger in his voice Mark had not heard since they first captured him.

The tactician swallowed down his fears, and nodded. "You asked me to give you a change in perspective. These are questions a morph might not even thing to ask."

"With good reason." Any and all patience had left Grace's tone. "We know because Nergal suppressed the necessary biological functions. It's in his notes—and in our bodies. Males and females alike are completely infertile. So, if you're thinking of suggesting I might be pregnant, know that it is physically impossible, and leave it at that."

She turned away in a bit of a huff; even Denning was looking away, jaw tight. Apparently, this was a touchy subject. Perhaps it was time to abandon this line of—

"Well," Ellain said softly, "that's not entirely true."

Mark twitched; he hadn't heard her approach, so he didn't know she was standing at his side until she spoke. He saw Cassandra quickly hiding her smile behind a hand as she rubbed at her face. "What do you mean?" Grace asked, tilting her head.

Ellain rubbed at her neck; Mark had never seen the smooth temptress look so uncomfortable. "Nergal had suppressed those functions, of course. But shortly after Cassandra freed us, most of the women in the fort had their… monthlies… start," she explained. "As the only one who knew what was going on, I found myself helping most of them through it. Including—"

"All right, that's enough," Cassandra said quickly, motioning her to silence. "Anyway, what does that have to do with what's going on with Grace?"

Mark gaped at her. "You're joking, right?"

"I'm afraid she's not," Ellain said softly. "Not all of us were given the same knowledge, dear. I only know these things because I was expected to live among humans for an extended time. Cassandra may know how to seduce a man in a pinch"—she politely ignored Mark's blush—"but few here understand some of the finer points of women's health." She shrugged. "And, human or morph, there are some things of which you just don't speak."

"Well, speak of it now," Cassandra growled. "What do monthlies have to do with having children?"

So Ellain did speak of it. And, as she went through her explanation, Mark began to realize that his own discomfort was nothing compared to that of the morphs listening to her. Poor Denning looked like he might faint.

When Ellain was finished, she turned to Grace. "When did you last have your monthlies, dear?" she asked gently.

"About three months ago," Grace replied. "Why?"

Ellain's lips parted, and she looked at Mark. "I didn't think it was possible," she whispered. "None of us did. Even after our monthlies started, I never dreamed we could…"

"It was Cassandra," Mark said, too excited now to be uncomfortable. "It must have been. Her freeing your minds somehow freed your bodies as well—undid whatever Nergal was using to keep you from…"

"This is ridiculous!" Grace was almost shouting now as she sat up in the bed, ignoring the protests of those around her. "Peleus, get over here. Hand me the testing staff."

Peleus swept across the room to the row of staves opposite Grace's bed; he took a small, asymmetrically-designed staff from the rack, and carried it to Grace's side, almost shoving past Mark to get there. He handed it to her, and she set to work immediately, removing the gem from the staff and muttering an incantation into it. As she spoke, the gem glowed an almost sickly rust-red color. It went dull again only when she finished speaking. "This staff is used to test for a number of conditions," she explained to the others.

"I've never heard of a staff like that," Mark said.

Grace glared at him. "That's because we created it."

"Oh."

Peleus shifted. "It was never intended to test for… this."

"Which is why I've modified it." Grace reattached the gem and held the staff to her belly. "Once this glows red, we'll know I'm not pregnant."

A moment later, the staff tip glowed blue.

Peleus and Grace simply stared at it; the rest of them looked about in confusion. "What does that mean?" Cassandra asked.

"It's a positive," Grace whispered. "It means that I'm—"

She choked off the last word, hands going to her mouth. A single tear ran down her cheek before Denning flew over to her, smothering her in his embrace. He was trembling—with fear or excitement, it was impossible to say. "You're pregnant," he whispered. "We're going to have a child."

And then Cassandra's hand was on Mark's arm, and he was being yanked from the infirmary just as it exploded into activity. Half the morph healers were arguing about why this was impossible; the other half marched to the bookshelves and set about learning midwifery. The last thing Mark saw before the door swung shut behind them was Denning and Grace, as still as the eye of a storm, holding each other and shaking with silent tears.

They emerged into the last glimmer of twilight, yet still Cassandra pulled him along like a broken cart. He turned to her, but whatever protest he was about to make died in his throat. Her wide eyes were set on the path before her, her lips parted to accommodate her raspy breaths. She looked just as shocked as Grace had—more so, even.

"I'm sorry," he managed at length. It was all he could think to say.

She stopped short; he almost collided with her. "Sorry?" she echoed, not turning to look at him. "You're sorry?"

He felt his skin grow cold. "I—"

She spun—and seized him in an embrace. He stumbled back, managed to regain his balance as her cheek pressed into her chest, her arms squeezing around his torso. "Gods, Mark," she whispered. "This changes everything."

He looked down at her, unsure of what to do with his hands. He ultimately elected to hold them aloft; it looked and felt awkward, but he didn't dare touch her, even now. "Is that… good?" he asked.

She shook her head, rubbing her face against his shirt. "Yes. No. I don't know." She held him a little tighter, threatening his ribs. "I thought morphkind would end with us—that when we expired, so too would our race. But now…" She finally pulled away, holding him at arms' length—and she was smiling. "We have a future, Mark. This can go on, even after we die."

His mouth felt dry as he carefully put his hands on her shoulders. She didn't tense up or pull away. He almost wished she would; that, at least, he could understand. "So that is a good thing."

Her face fell. "But when Lord Hector hears of this, how will he react? Will this make us seem more human to him, or—" She looked back at the infirmary door. "Will it make us more of a threat?"

"More of a—?"

"If we can have children, if our race can carry on, then the time to wipe us out is now—before we can propagate." She lowered her eyes. "It's what Nergal would do."

Without thinking, he slid his hands down her arms, placing them over hers. "Hector's not like Nergal."

She looked up at him, and he was nearly struck down by the sadness in her eyes. "It's what I would do," she whispered.

That, he did not have an answer to.

"Maybe he doesn't have to hear of it," he said. "I don't have to put it in my letter."

She shook her head. "Yes, you do. It's your duty, and I promised that I wouldn't interfere with it." Her fingers seemed tiny as they slipped between his. "I keep my promises, Mark."

It was dark by now. Cricket song echoed to them over the fort walls as the cool of night started to settle in. Cassandra drew a little closer, eyes searching his. "If I let you go," she whispered, "what will he do?"

His breath caught in his throat. "I don't know," he confessed.

She blinked, and rubbed her thumb over his hand. "Do you still want me to let you go?"

The moon illuminated her face, glistening off her ruby-red lips. "I… don't know."

It was impossible to say how long they remained like that before the distant slam of a door snapped them out of their reverie. They both turned at Durran's stumbling approach; he stopped a few paces away, saluting Cassandra. "Apologies," he rumbled. "I had difficulty extricating myself from crowd." He looked from one to the other, then down at their clasped hands. "I am… interrupting?"

Cassandra smiled. "Not at all." She released Mark's hands, nodding to him. "I have a lot to think about. Durran will escort you back to your room."

He nodded, taking a few steps back. "I'm sorry," he said again.

Her smile was distressingly warm. "Don't be," she whispered. "I don't know what the future holds, Mark—but, thanks to you, I know we have a future."

I fear there was little of note to report this week. My work as administrator continues to keep me busy and to ingratiate me to the morphs. I have grown as comfortable here as a hostage can be. Perhaps, in time, the fort and Ostia can further pursue diplomatic relations.

"He's read the letter a hundred times since the meeting ended," Priscilla said between sips of tea. "Trying to read whatever it is Mark didn't write."

Eliwood set down his own cup on the tea table at the center of her receiving room. "It's been six weeks since Mark was taken," he said softly. "And Hector still blames himself?"

Priscilla shook her head. "No, Hector blames Cassandra. Only Matthew blames himself."

"That doesn't sound like Matthew." Lyn stirred her cup, looking pensively out the window.

"He and Mark had grown rather close over the last few years," Priscilla pointed out.

"That really doesn't sound like Matthew." She set her cup next to Eliwood's. "But it does sound like Mark."

The receiving room was well-lit and well-furnished. Hector had grumbled at the extravagance of so many couches in one room, not to mention making cushions for all of them, but the grumbling had ceased when she'd shown him the end result. Lyn and Eliwood reclined comfortably, each on their own couch within easy reach of the tea table. Most of the others were tucked away in the side of the room—the wood was not so heavy that the castle guards couldn't move them about as needed. Priscilla would have tried herself, but everyone seemed to jump to alarm at the thought of her exerting herself. Apparently becoming pregnant had turned her to porcelain.

Priscilla took a slow breath, looking at the marquess and marchioness before her. "I'm working on arranging a hunt," she said. "It's not so late in the year that we won't be able to find a stag, and gods know my husband could use something to keep his mind off Mark." She looked over at Lyn. "We all could, I think."

"That's a grand idea, Priscilla," Eliwood said. "We could all use a little diversion."

"Indeed." Lyn met her gaze with stony detachment. "Though we should not remain distracted from our goal for too long."

Priscilla let her gaze fall to the teacup in her hands. "Our goal of rescuing Mark?"

"Of course." Lyn took a slow, quiet sip.

Priscilla let out a sigh—a most ladylike one. "That's the other thing I wished to discuss with you," she said. "It might be time to face the idea that this situation may not be temporary."

Silence greeted her statement, and she tried not to wince at the expressions on their faces. "You don't think we can rescue Mark," Lyn said, voice low.

"I think," Priscilla began deliberately, "that rulers sometimes demand hostages from their vassals to ensure loyalty. Obviously, Cassandra is no ruler," she said before either could protest, "but the concept is the same. So long as she holds Mark, she knows we won't attack; and so long as we don't attack, she'll keep Mark safe."

Lyn shook her head. "I wish I could believe that. Yes, if this were an ordinary situation, Cassandra would have every reason to keep Mark safe. But the morph leaders we fought against were masters of manipulation—Ephidel brought Lycia to the brink of civil war, and Sonia brought the entire Black Fang under Nergal's control."

"From what we've seen, Cassandra's nothing like them," Eliwood said softly.

"But we can't know that for sure," Lyn insisted. "That's my point. How do we know Cassandra isn't using Mark—using all of us?"

Priscilla frowned, stirring her cup. "We don't," she said softly. "I'm not trying to argue that. I'm just saying rescuing Mark may be neither possible nor wise." She shook her head. "Yet Lord Hector is willing to do whatever it takes to get him back—even if it means sacrificing Ostian lives. I think we all know Mark would never want that."

Lyn slumped against her couch. "No," she sighed, "he wouldn't."

Priscilla forced a smile. "I miss him too," she said. "He was a boon to Ostia, and a dear friend. Just… please, consider what I have said."

"We will," Eliwood promised. Lyn only nodded.

She looked between the two of them. "In the meantime, you two will, of course, be accompanying my husband on the hunt, correct?"

Eliwood smiled. "Wouldn't miss it."

"It would be nice to get out for a bit," Lyn agreed. "Just spend time together, not as lords, but as friends."

Priscilla felt a weight lift from her shoulders upon hearing those words. Lyn had been closer to Mark than any of them, and she'd been struggling the most with his capture. Cheering her up was nearly as important as cheering up Hector.

Lyn nodded to Priscilla. "I'm sorry you can't join us."

"Not as sorry as I am," Priscilla sighed, rubbing her belly. "I'm sure this child will be a delight when grown, but in the meantime, it's quite a nuisance."

Eliwood grimaced. "I'm afraid the 'nuisance' part doesn't end with birth."

Priscilla smiled at him. "And here I thought Rebecca was doing all the work."

She was rewarded with silence from Eliwood—and a rare smile from Lyn.