MMMMMLate AGAIN. Sorry fellers. Hope your Christmas was good, hope your non-Christmas holiday was good, hope your normal winter day was good.

Hope you're in the mood for some fantasy au. A small reference in this chapter...

Chapter 11 - Clowd

"What'd Air do then?!" I rock forward in the chair Lady Tayel gave me.

Sir Tyle smiles, his hazel eyes getting that little glitter they do when he gets to the end of a story. "He rallied his army and fought his brother. Their war lasted a year, until Air's wife was finally returned to him and Smoke surrendered. Air and his wife lived happily ever after, and the treacherous Smoke retired to live alone, far away from Air and his kingdom."

"Wow." I linger in the satisfaction of a happy ending for a minute as Sir Tyle sighs and lights his pipe. I've heard bits of the story before, different characters and different kingdoms from a time before people, but never that one in particular, of the two brothers and their year's war.

"Are you filling the boy's head with fluff and nonsense again?" Lady Eie croaks from the doorway. She's re-appeared with the fruits of her early morning pilgrimage to the kitchen; two steaming cups of herbal tea.

"They're all true," Sir Tyle insists, puffing on his pipe, and takes a mug from her. "Thank you."

Lady Eie rasps a laugh, rolling her milky, sightless eyes. "Clowd, boy, why don't you run along and get some fresh air? It's not good for a young man to waste a summer indoors."

If I had my way, I'd be outside, I think and sigh. "Fiyr's punishing me for hunting in the wrong place again."

Lady Tayel clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "That's no way to encourage a boy to behave better. You need to get your energy out somehow. Why don't you run along and Sir Tyle and I will take care of the rest of the scrubbing?"

"Really?" I'm already halfway out of my chair.

"What? No, I won't," Sir Tyle grouses, still puffing away at his pipe.

Lady Tayel winks at me and I dash out the door. Around halfway through the story about Smoke and Air, I stopped scrubbing at the floor and migrated into one of the padded chairs in the elders' common room and just listened. But I did scrub some! Besides, I did a bunch of that stuff last week. The elders' common room is probably getting too clean at this point. And with that, I put the chores out of my head and hurry to the squires' stables.

Sir Fluffyhooves seems to agree that I've been cooped up in the castle for too long; the big white horse snuffles and stamps his hooves against the packed earth when I open the door. I lead him out and head for the enchanted patch of leaves without hesitation. As the familiar frisson of energy tickles its way over my scalp and down my back, I consider the enchantment.

Fiyr told me that was what differentiated god-magic from human life-force—the difference between gods' precise enchantments and corruptions that persisted for years and a human's surge of vitality. If you ask me, though, it seems like most of the lines between powers are drawn arbitrarily. My own 'god-magic,' if that's even what it is, is more like elementalism than anything. I can't cast enchantments, just toss around spikes of corruption like it's iron or earth. On the other hand, lots of Blessings that we still have around today like the height of Thundria's supporting trees or the enchanted leaves seem a lot like god-magic. And more than just the Blessings… I wind a finger through Sir Fluffyhooves's coarse white mane. If strong summoners like Lady Faise can summon animals and plants that don't fade when they stop concentrating, like half the horses in the castle, then how's that different from god-magic?

Just seems like a lot of excuses to divide people up into categories that don't really exist. I wonder how gods think of it. They must know about human life-force—they do spirit-clipping to stop their servants from manifesting it, don't they? I wonder what kind of life-force my mom would've had if it hadn't been taken from her. I wonder why Fiyr's is still around.

Sir Fluffyhooves and I ride out of the shelter of trees and along the ridge of a cliff. The land cuts away to my left, descending down, down into a valley of green, and then back up in a blur of trees too far away to pick out the details of, cloaking the hillside town of Trueno. The sky is dazzling summer blue, the kind of day that makes me wish I was still in the nursery with Faern, Briatte, and Thorrin, so we could go out on the terrace and play Shodawa-invasion, or eat the almost-ripe peaches that the morning supply run brought us.

Despite the sudden memory, I turn my eyes back to the path that leads into the trees and nudge Sir Fluffyhooves on quicker. I'm not going for a fun ride across the countryside; I want to see my father. I've snuck back a few times as spring turned to the edge of summer, to see the library or the ballroom or the observatory or the gallery, always accompanied by my father. Sometimes we see other gods in the halls, but I haven't spoken to any of them since that awkward lunch with who I learned was my father's partner.

The wind ruffles my hair as I ride back into the cover of the trees, and I spur Sir Fluffyhooves into a gallop, eating up the last leg of the journey in a quarter of an hour.

My father is waiting for me at the gate's edge, the summer sun turning his hair to mercury, glistening and almost rippling as its shades of silver and gray are illuminated. He smiles his glorious smile when he sees me and I practically leap off Sir Fluffyhooves to receive one of his crushing god-hugs.

"Son," he says, and my mind echoes with Dejka.

"I missed you," I admit into his shirt. I love his smell, more than maybe anything else about him. He always smells fresh, clean, and healthy, like just-washed clothes or a new-bloomed flower.

"Will you stay?" He asks this every time I greet him, and usually I play it off with some kind of equivocating statement, but when I pull away… His eyes, like real, heavy blue sapphires, glimmer with a sort of sadness that twists in my heart. "Son, will you stay?"

"I…"

He blinks, then smiles and it's gone. "Stay one day. One day and one night, yes? Live like we do and then return."

And see how much worse it is, my brain fills in. I hesitate, searching his gaze for the sincerity from a moment ago. I think I can see it, in the way his brows crease his porcelain skin and his mouth pouts a little. "One day? Okay."

And he smiles and it's like the sun's come back out. "I am glad to hear this. Come, come, we move to the summer land."

"The what?" He wraps his arm around my shoulders and starts ushering me into the house. Sir Fluffyhooves will be taken by the stablehands now.

"A different house," he explains, the airiness of his tone making me wonder just how ordinary this is to him. "Better for the summertime. We return in the… the quieting season…?"

"The fall?"

"The fall, yes, the fall. We return in the fall," he finishes.

"Where is the summer land?" I'm starting to get a little nervous, but I can't help my curiosity. They have a whole other house for one season? I've seen inside the main house, and it's huge. I can't imagine what's missing from it that they'd need a different house for. And if I stay for a day, am I going to have to travel somewhere?

"Across," he answers. "By the silverpeaks."

The silverpeaks? We looked at maps last time, and I pointed out all the major landmarks of the kingdoms to him. He was very impressed with my description of the solstice pavilion and the village of the Sun Rocks. That's so far! "How long will it take to get there?"

"You cannot travel on a path," he muses aloud. "Then, the physical travel… two hours?"

That fast? I'm amazed. A human on horseback could make the journey from Thundria in a day, if they packed light. "Okay! Wow, okay."

He shoots me an amused look as we enter the library. "The path takes the time of a blink. I can teach you, when you come to stay."

Travelling on a soulpath? I picture the glassy, river-like paths that cut across Thundria's territory. Cindra's staff and uneven gait also come to mind. What if I hurt someone?

"It is easier than you think," he assures me.

For gods, I think. Maybe I won't be able to do it at all. I don't think I'd be very disappointed. As incredible as it sounds to be halfway across the world in an instant, I don't know if I'd ever be able to get the image of Cindra's injury out of my head.

"Do you play?" My father's question snaps me out of my thoughts and I come over to join him next to what looks like a long, oak table covered in taut strings that sits against a bookshelf. It's not a table, actually; it's one massive instrument. It looks like a zither, but far larger and with far more thread-thin strings, many stacked on top of each other.

"Do I play… this? No, I've never seen an instrument like this before," I admit, thinking of the afternoons in the nursery when I was eight or nine and finally bothered trying to pick up an instrument. When Lady Tiall was in a good mood, she'd sometimes alchemize a simple tune for me to copy on a tambourine or a horn. I was never as good as Faern.

He nods, then closes his eyes in concentration. His long white fingers slide between the strings. Then he runs his hands between them.

The sound is almost indescribable. All the words that jump to mind aren't ones I'd normally put to music—skinny, tremulous, cold, spiralling, painfully sweet and sharp as a knife at different pitches. I shiver. My father only plays the instrument for a moment, its mournful strains tracing webs of sound over the stacks of books and down the hallway, before pausing and turning back to me.

"What's… what's that music called?" is all I can really think to ask.

He cocks his head. "Aldh caun Hedrsi. A Cannot-be… hm. A Love that Cannot Be."

I nod and swallow, finding my mouth dry at the way his eyes glow, like he's remembering something. Then I ask something that I've been thinking about for a long time. "Did you love my mom?"

My father's pale brows flicker at the question, surprise rippling over his perfect features. Then he smiles in the same sad, lonely way that he did when he asked me to stay. "Yes. I loved her. It was just that, aldh caun hedrsi."

I think of Graie and the Rivien lady that died. I saw him last Gathering, when he came over to see Fiyr, and he commented on how much I'd grown. I hurried off to listen to the monarchs with Faern and the others quires, because I didn't want to be around when he and Fiyr got all weepy about being together again. I still remember the look in Graie's eyes, though.

"You are ready to go to the summer land?" my father asks..

I look at him. The sad, remember-y look is gone, but I can still hear the echo of strange instrument in my mind. "Yeah. Yeah, let's go."

...

I'm not disappointed by the summer land, exactly, but not as utterly cowed as I thought I might be. It's pretty much the same thing as the manor by Thundria, just framed against mountains and farmland rather than expansive wild forests. Same sweeping, steep-eaved rooves that gleam black in the sunshine, same marble pillars shielding porticoes, and same vast hedges, gardens, and outdoor ornaments. I don't think I'm going to find my mom sitting with a book, cooling off between performances though.

"Come inside!" my father suggests. "Everyone else is already unpacked."

The god-toys already unpacked everyone else, my brain echoes. We bundled into an ancient looking horse drawn carriage that I suspect hadn't been used in a good few years, and I spent the two-hour-journey listening to my father explain all the new things that we could do at the summer land. The only part I really paid attention to is that apparently there's a nearby family of gods, the patriarch of which offers music lessons. Well, there are a bunch of nearby families of gods with equally unpronounceable names, but they all kind of blurred together. Even the ones that are Very Important and that I should Be Excited To Meet.

What I do gather is that it seems like there's a lot of competition for status between families. My father informed me that 'we' have a whole bunch of ranks and titles that immediately slide off my brain. They're all long and involve lots of strange words that I'm assuming sound better in god-language.

But now we're… here, wherever here is. Somewhere north of the outer-Wynnder trace-line, I think. My father ushers me up the cobblestone path, and I fight the instinct to run back to start unpacking the stuff the god-toys strapped to the back of the carriage. I don't have to do that stuff anymore. We have a bunch of servants to scrub the floors and move our stuff around. I shoot a look back at the four men pulling the boxes and luggage off. One of them's probably not much older than Sewif. It'd be nice to see him doing work for a change.

Still, there's a weird kind of slimy feeling in my stomach as we enter the house. My father moves down the halls with a relaxed confidence of the man in charge, as if he either doesn't notice the shadows of god-toys flitting about, cleaning and preparing the house for his presence, or doesn't care. I try not to look right at them either; I've learned that doing that usually provokes them either sweeping into grand bows or apologizing.

My father brings me into the main foyer, a massive room make of creamy marble and gilded accenting. Despite the thick carpet, I still feel like our steps echo loudly—it's deserted and almost soundless, save for the trickle of water in the fountain that bisects the grand staircase. We walk up the stairs and I feel like a toddler again; each stair comes up to nearly my shin, but my father has no problem so I rally my strength and huff-puff my way up to the giant hall. It transitions into a colour scheme of green and gold, the same marble floors as are by the library in the other house.

"What do you think?" my father exclaims, sweeping a hand over the interior as if to say Isn't it gorgeous?

"This is really beautiful," I agree. "It's so… um, big."

He seems satisfied by that and starts off down the hall again. I have to almost jog to keep up with his long legs. "You want to see the library?"

I stifle a laugh. Apparently telling him that I was trying to study gods has now cemented in his mind that all I like doing is reading and researching. "Er, do you have an archery range? Or a sparring pen?"

"Fighting?" Dad's eyebrows shoot up toward his hair line, crinkling his smooth skin. "Do you like to fight?"

Do I… like it? I hesitate. "Yeah, I guess so. I just thought… I thought you might want to see how my god-magic works." Doesn't he want to know how my half-godness affects my abilities? How common are people like me…?

He nods. "Yes, yes! I am thinking that your aptitude is about books and learning. Or music? We are scholars, in our family. Historians, novelists, and philosophers."

"Oh, right," I say, because I'm not really sure what I should answer that with. Like… elders? I want to go back outside and explore the new grounds. The land's so flat here. Sir Fluffyhooves would love to gallop on a field, I bet. I wonder how you hunt on fields. Wynnders do it all the time, don't they?

"Come, come!" And my father's dragging me down the hall again. "We will look at all the rooms and then you can choose places to spend time before dinner."

Oh, good, dinner… I think of my father's partner and hope she won't be there.

…

No luck. After an afternoon of not going outside and oohing and aahing over more gigantic, perfectly polished, fancy rooms, my father ushers me back downstairs and into a suspiciously-similar-to-the-other-one dining hall.

The difference is glass wall on the far side; it provides a clear view out into the garden and spills the still-strong light of the afternoon sun into the room. My father seats me next to him again, and sure enough, the moment we've sat down, she swans in from the doorway by the windows. A young woman, a human, follows at her side and just behind with a perfectly blank expression. I remind myself not to catch her eye, and focus instead on the god-woman. She meets my gaze, her eyes cool and mouth twisted in the tiniest sneer. Then she glides over to the table, seats herself, and surveys the room with the kind of disinterest that suggests we might all as well be potted plants.

We're served quickly, cold soup and salads of many different mixes, and then four god-toys in motley dance in. My father claps as they go through their routine, then motions for a servant to serve him more soup. It's good, like I've learned most god-food is, perfectly smooth and tasting faintly of mint and potatoes, but I don't feel hungry. The performing humans pull off trick after trick, juggling multi-coloured sacks and tucking into rolls and handsprings with the expertise of people who have been training for years. As I watch, though, one of them lands awkwardly out of a flip and stumbles, their cheery expression winding tight as they fight to keep it in place despite the pain, and keep going through their routine. They manage, but I can tell they're favouring their left foot. Fiyr taught me how to detect physical weaknesses, but I'm not exactly trying to get the upperhand in a border skirmish. Worry wriggles in my stomach as I watch them finish, bow, and hurry out of the room. The injured one is limping slightly.

Aren't they allowed to stop if they get hurt? I look at my father, who's gone right back to his salad. Should I ask…? I poke at my soup half-heartedly, then grit my teeth. Don't be a coward, Clowd. "Hey, Dad, can I ask something?" As usual, the out-loud communication feels awkward and out of place in the silent room.

My father sets down his utensil with precision. "Of course!"

I ignore the sort-of-leer on the face of the god across from me and focus on my dad. "Uh, the… the servants, are they… do they like working?"

He blinks and echoes, as if he's forgotten they even exist, "The servants?"

I point as subtly as I can to the man who just refilled my father's goblet. At his command, no less. "Like, the humans."

"Oh, yes, they like working," he answers easily enough.

I nod, but there's still a feeling of hesitance in my chest. What about the one who got hurt? "Okay." I return to pretending to eat my soup.

My father takes my free hand, his crystal-blue eyes serious. "Son, you are caring of others and I am glad. You can speak to them yourself after dinner."

I perk up. "Really?" I could talk to actual god-toys about how they're treated? That eases the feeling in my stomach. Then there must be no problem if my dad has that much faith that the god-toys are happy in their predicament. Still, it'd be nice to talk to them. I finish my soup quickly; it is good. My father beckons over the man who refilled his cup and murmurs something to him.

Dad touches my arm when I grab my bowl, ready to bring it to the kitchens, and I let go of it. Right, right, don't have to clear my own place. We're the first to leave the table, out a side door deeper into the mansion, and I feel my father's partner's eyes following me.

"It is down here," he explains as we duck into a smaller hallway. The ceiling is so low that my father has to bend a little. "It is a group I started. I wanted to talk to some servants to check in with to make sure everyone is happy."

"Really?" I'm impressed. He must care a lot about them to start something like that.

My father smiles at me, and even in the low-light of the servants' hallway, his eyes twinkle. "Of course! It is important to me."

Warmth blooms in my chest, and I smile back up at him. Then we stop in front of a wooden door not unlike one I'd find in the knights' wing and my father pushes it open. Inside are about a dozen humans, ranging from an older woman whose common-brown hair is streaked gray to a boy who can't be more than eleven or twelve. They all have the same pale skin as my mom and Fiyr, and they all look pleased to see my father.

"This is my son," my father exclaims, clapping me on the shoulder, and then motioning for me to sit. The room is way smaller than the other ones in the mansion, which is to say a normal size. It looks like it's mostly used for storage, based on the crates of root vegetables stacked against the far wall and the lack of windows, but a bunch of chairs have been arranged in a circle for the god-toys. I sit gingerly in one of them.

The god-toys bow to me, then sit as well. My father stays standing.

"He wanted to ask about your experience working for the family," my father continues. The god-toys seem faintly impressed by his command of our language and I flush with pride. Probably my doing. I guess he doesn't talk to people in our language very much.

"Yeah," I say, fighting the urge to play with my hair like Fiyr. "Uh, I'm… I'm only half-god, I was raised by my human uncle."

The god-toys' round eyes move to me, their faces unreadable. I falter.

I'm one of you, I try to transmit to them. "But, uh, my dad offered to let me come live here. And I just noticed… um, how much hard work you do." I swallow. "And I wanted to ask if you guys are, like, happy…? Do you like your work?"

The older woman I saw before nods. "Yes. It is very fulfilling and enjoyable."

The stilted language makes me falter again, and I dart a look at my father. He looks on proudly. "Right. And if you get sick, or—or hurt? I mean, you don't have to keep working through it?"

"One time, I—" the young boy begins, a slight lisp from a missing molar lending an innocent tone to him. The woman next to him, in her twenties I would guess, grabs his hand and squeezes it, giving him a look.

"Yes. We are healthy and happy," the older woman who first spoke assures me. Her dark eyes are hard to read, but I think I've gotten good at telling when people are lying after growing up with Sewif and Thorrin. There's a tightness to the purse of her lips, the way her gaze keeps sliding to my father that makes me think she's not being completely transparent. My father doesn't seem to pick up on it at all.

"Okay. That's good." I stare at her, trying to somehow make her see that I'm trustworthy, but she doesn't even blink. I search her face for a moment, then turn back to my dad. "Okay. Yeah, I think I've seen enough."

"Thank you, everyone," my father says brightly to the group, then follows me out the door back into the hallway. As we go, I catch sight of another woman across the hall; she's probably only a few years older than me. When our eyes meet, she doesn't curtsy or scurry away, just tilts her a head a little, eyes narrowing. Then she disappears out another door. She's familiar, isn't she…? That's the woman who was following my father's partner into the dining hall. Did she ask her to spy on me or something?

My father doesn't seem to notice her and starts leading me down the same hallway, toward where she disappeared. Even as we reach the end, though, and move back into the main mansion, there's no sign of her. Weird.

"Let's go to the library!"

I sigh, but smile at my dad anyway. I'm only staying for a day, so I should take advantage of the opportunity to research gods while I still can.

Unfortunately, it quickly becomes clear that most of the books are written in the same stream of squiggly god that I have absolutely no hope of reading. My father guides me to the small section of other-language books near the back, then returns to his place deep in shelves. I watch him go, then turn back to the bookshelf of possibly-readable books. I ignore the couple of shelves dedicated to elf records, orc-tongue, and—dragon scrolls? Blessed Starlaxi. My curiosity is piqued, but I can't make heads or tails of the markings that stretch over the page. It's not even linear; I might be holding it upside down, for all I know.

Instead, I turn my attention to the books written in the common language. I run my fingers over the spines of the novels, thinking of my mom. The Queen's Journey over the Sea sounds like something she'd like. I'm not really in the mood to curl up with a book, though. I don't know if I ever have been. What catches my eye is the god-toy non-fiction. History of Servants. Soul-clipping. On Captivity. The titles make my stomach turn and I listen for the sound of my father's footfalls. Why do they keep books like this? Then I find the last book in the row, a slim, green volume. Songs of Kept People.

I remove it from the shelf carefully, knowing some of the books are so old they'll fall apart in my hands if I'm not careful, then open it to a random page. God-toy's Lullaby. It's a sheet of music with the lyrics compiled at the bottom. Huh. Wish I could read music. I never stuck with the tambourine long enough for Lady Tiall to get her hooks into me. Still, I'm hesitant to pop the book back onto the shelf for some reason.

Maybe I could get Lady Tiall to play it for me. Or that god music instructor nearby, I think. I shouldn't take it out though. Instead, I move to one of the desks in the main area of the library and start copying the bars as best I can. My penmanship is wobbly at the best of times and trying to draw straight lines results in mostly weird, wavery streaks of ink. Still, after a few minutes of eyeing the page and then trying to reproduce it on the thick, creamy paper on each desk, I think I've got it more or less copied. I blow on it gently, hoping it'll dry enough that I can fold it and slip it into my pocket.

"Clowd?"

I stand at the sound of my father's voice, tucking the paper away and praying to the Starlaxi that it doesn't smudge beyond legibility. "Yeah?"

"I will show you to your rooms," he offers, coming over to the desk.

Rooms, plural?

…

Despite the incredible luxury of the giant bed with its silky sheets and piles of pillows, I have trouble falling asleep. I know Fiyr's probably pulling out his hair back at the castle now that it's dark and I haven't come back. He's going to be so mad when I get back. I imagine all the chores that are waiting, then think of all the servants of the mansion. Which makes me think about the group of god-toys in the dark room and the woman lying. Do they have it hard, and she was just lying because she though that's what I'd want to hear? Or was it because my dad was there?

I close my eyes and don't fall asleep for a while. I think of the squire's wing, where if I tried really hard and held my breath, I could hear Faern's breathing in the nook next to mine. I used to find it annoying when I was trying to sleep and I could hear them all snuffling, but now… The manor's eerily silent.

A god-toy arrives to wake me up by lighting the fireplace that's in my room and I stumble out of bed, still in the weird sleep-clothes I found in the dresser. I debate between what I'm assuming are day-clothes that look way too big or my uniform from yesterday, then tug on my uniform. It's mostly clean, anyway.

I regret my choice when I arrive in the dining hall for breakfast and get a venomous once-over from her. Still, shuffling to my seat in a baggy robe doesn't sound like it would've gotten a better reaction. My father's already in place at the head of the table, and gestures for me to sit at his right-hand, as usual. As usual. Do we have routines now? I'm leaving today, I think, though as we begin eating, my father says nothing about getting back to Thundria. Maybe later, then.

The food is hot and tasty, and I feel a sudden burst of warmth at the idea that meals could be enjoyable, now. I'm not going to have to choke down weird, slimy, sharp-tasting foods or try to plug my ears and hold a fork at the same time in order to avoid slitting Sewif's throat. The gods all eat with silent, perfect bites, and the food seems designed for people with tastebuds like me. Of course.

I sniff the slightly foamy brown liquid in my mug, then drain the whole thing when I realize it's hot chocolate. I only had it twice; once when Samn and Fiyr took me and Faern to the village of the Sun Rocks for the trade fair, and the other time at Samn and Fiyr's Union-slash-Snowstar's Eve feast. A god-toy steps forward, leaning delicately over the table to refill my mug with a carafe of it. As she draws back, she's a moment too slow tilting it back upright and it drizzles over the tablecloth and into my lap. There's not enough of it to burn me, and it's barely noticeable on my black pants, but she immediately bursts into a tizzy of apologies.

"It's fine, it's really fine," I assure her, swiping the napkin out from under my fork before she can grab it and dab away the spilled drink.

"I'm so sorry!" she repeats, and I look up to give her a reassuring look. Our eyes meet and I force myself not to react when I realize it's the same woman who I saw following around my father's partner, and then also in the halls by the servants' group. "Here, let me!" And before I can protest, she drops something small and white into my lap, grabs the soiled napkin, and replaces it with a fresh one on the table in a single movement.

Then she steps back to the edge of the room, and I'm left a little agape at her swiftness. My father smiles at me, shaking his head a bit as if we're in on a joke, and I force a smile back, not looking down at what she left in my lap. I take a sip of my second cup to cover the movement as I reach into my lap and close my fingers around it.

It's a slip of paper, thin and folded twice. I quickly tuck it into my pocket with the lullaby, and finish my breakfast. My father doesn't notice.

I trust him, I think, guilt worming in the pit of my stomach as we stand to leave. I do, but if she doesn't want to tell me something in front of him, then I should follow her example, right? I'm sure it's nothing.

"Well, son, what will you do today?" he asks as we leave the dining. "I have work to attend to."

"Oh, I'll be fine on my own!" I assure him, heart leaping. Well, that works out perfectly! I don't want to bother him. "Uh, I think I'll go out to the gardens."

"Good, good! I will see you," he promises, already stripping away from my side. I wave to him as he heads down the hall, moving much quicker with his long legs than he does when he walks with me. Once he's gone, I realize this is the first time I haven't had him escorting me around the manor. The rooms somehow feel even bigger and emptier. The bit of paper feels as heavy as a horse in my pocket.

I hurry out to the gardens, looking nervously through the massive windows from the outside, into the dining hall. It's godless, but god-toys swarm the table, loading their arms with the mostly-uneaten food and disappearing back into the halls. What do they do with all those leftovers? I don't have time to contemplate it, though; I want to know what the note says.

The moment I'm out of sight, shielded by a giant rosebush, I fish it out of my pocket and unfold it. It's only two lines, and looks like it was written as quickly as possible. The letters smudge together a bit, but the handwriting is precise.

Go back to the cellar in two hours if you want to know the truth.

And beneath it is a messily drawn symbol. It's familiar, but I can't quite place it; two leaves joined at the tip, spreading away from each other and pointed upwards. I turn my attention back to the words, and take a hasty breath at the implications. The truth. I knew there was something going on. Where's the cellar? The woman saw me in the room with the root vegetables. Probably down there. I crumple the note and stuff it back into my pocket, then try to figure out how to kill two hours alone in a massive garden.

Ahhh yall I'm excited for this one. Review your predictionsss

~Akila