"Warehouse fire reveals hidden skooma ring! Four arrested, one dead!"

By mid-morning the next day, everyone had heard the news. A fire in the warehouse district in the dead of night, caused by skooma production hidden inside the building of the general merchant. Shriveled, blackened evidence was found in the rubble when it had at last been contained – exploded vials, pitchers, alchemical tools and the stink of burnt sugar, all tell-tale signs. The corpse inside, bones blackened. The arrests, first of Borba, then of the rest of the ring as one by one they outed each other in an attempt to protect themselves.

If they pointed fingers at me, no one believed them. No one knew. No one came to talk to me, question me. All the better, for I had no intention of leaving my bed. Not that first day. Nor the second. I left my door locked and my hearth cold, trying to somehow go numb in the midst of the season's warmth. Ignoring the newspaper left on my doorstep, the crier's calls and endless gossip just outside my windows.

Push it all away. The freedom I'd tasted, thought I could have. The Family-not-family that wanted the best for me, wanted to protect me, yet left me afraid to so much as come out from under the blankets.

Everything.

Even poor Luke, whining and tugging at the covers, gently taking my wrist between his jaws and trying to lead me from my room, only for me to pull back and curl up again. I wanted to evaporate. To vanish, cease, feel anything but this bitter exhaustion. Even when I finally forced myself downstairs, forced myself to work and eat and pretend everything was normal, I…

It had been nearly a year, now, since this all began. Since everything I knew had been ripped away, and I was forced to make do with what I could patch together. I'd tried to be content. I'd tried.

But what good did it do?

It was as Vicente said, as I'd known for far too long. I couldn't bear being bound, and Lucien couldn't bear to let me go. Neither of us would change for the other, could change, and I…

If I couldn't make what I needed to be, maybe I wouldn't be anything at all.

"Dusty?"

I bit back a sigh, unwilling to make any noise that would confirm Antoinetta's suspicions. A groan outside my front door, another rapping.

"I know you're in there! I just don't have a key. Let me in! Please?"

Ignore her. Maybe she'll get bored.

"Duuussstyyyyy…"

Luke trod past me, abandoning his place at my feet to head for the door, parking his bottom in front of it with a tilt of his head.

Oh, don't you dare…

"I'm not going away, Dust! I can stand here all bloody night if you make me! I'll come in through a window!"

Gods dammit. Luke was up on his hind legs now, clawing at the door, tongue hanging and tail wagging furiously. He loved Netta, the tidbits she'd always sneak him, the love she lavished him in. If his scratches and whines didn't confirm my presence, the resounding boof certainly did.

"Traitor." I shot him a glare, and reached for the door.

"Dusty!" The assault was immediate. I grunted, lost somewhere in the tangle of her arms as Antoinetta squeezed me tight. "It's about time! Do you hate me?"

I managed to extract myself, rubbing at my eyes, closing the door after her as she swung off her cloak. A dumb blink, my sluggish mind needing a moment to catch up. "What?"

"Do you hate me?" She hung back now, biting her lip, abashed. "After – you know."

She'd told Vicente my plan, who in turn had told Lucien. Maybe, if she hadn't twisted her words, maybe he never would have gotten involved. Maybe it all would have gone according to plan, maybe…

Maybe I would have been beaten half to death, or worse. I let that sigh pass now. "… No. I don't hate you."

"Good, because I couldn't bear it if you did, and then you'd feel all guilty, and then I'd feel guilty that you felt guilty – "

A bitter laugh escaped, hoarse as I turned away. "… I've had enough guilt to last a lifetime."

"I'm just – worried, I guess. You're not acting like you."

This time I managed to keep the bitter laugh back, let it strangle my throat from the inside out so my words came out in a whisper. "When has that ever worked out for me?"

"I know, but you've hardly gone outside all week. And when you do, I can't find you. I used to follow you so easy, but…" A little line creased her brow. "You've stopped humming."

I wanted to tell her to go. I wanted to pretend everything was fine, if it would mean she'd go away and I could go back to wallowing in my resentment. But it had grown too much, too harsh, too bitter for me not to spit my thoughts out. "Hard to sing with a leash around your throat." I thought of Sheogorath's words, mocking, tempting. "… Hard to dance with a chain around your ankle."

"… Dusty, I get why you're upset, but…"

"No." The bluntness of the syllable surprised us both. I sucked in a breath, standing my ground. "No, you don't."

"Dust – "

"Believe me, I wish you did." Gods-dammit. I thought maybe I was finally dry of tears, had finally managed to go numb, but here they were stinging fresh. "Then maybe I could have some hope that Miles could, too."

She had no answer for that. Her hands fell by her sides, helpless, lips parting but no words coming forth. A heavy silence fell over us, a dense fog, enough to make our shoulders slump. Even Luke bowed his head, whining.

"I – I brought you something."

I expected a loaf of bread, fresh rolls, maybe one of those torrid books she loved and wanted to share. But what she pulled from her bag didn't smell like garlic and thyme.

It smelled like mint.

A shiver down my back as she pressed the little wooden box into my hands, distantly familiar. Recognition clicked – I'd seen it only once before, in Vicente's quarters. The chest where he'd kept the letters mum must have sent, over the years.

"I thought – I thought maybe seeing what made her happy, what made her stay in contact with the Family, might help." Uncharacteristically shy she avoided my gaze, voice soft. "Vee said I could bring them, if I thought they'd help."

Grief struck fresh, ripped open like a scabbed wound, washing over me in a rush of regret salty on my tongue. Maman, maman, maman. That oil perfume I knew so well, dabbed on every message and lingering for decades, it saturated me in a way that made me want to sob with anguish and relief in the same breath.

"Thank you, Antoinetta."

She hugged me tight again, arms linked around the back of my neck. "I know you can't be like us, I know. But maybe you can be okay with belonging to us, anyway. You don't have to act it, just…"

A watery laugh escaped me. Her earnest wish to reach out, somehow – it touched me, even through all the resentment I felt. A relief to spill it out, to be heard, to know someone could care for me even in spite of it. To expel the hurt and hate, like pressing pus from a wound. "No one gets to choose their family."

"Exactly. We just try to work with what we've got, right? And I'm a pretty good sister, in spite of it all. Right?" She teased now, pinching my arm with a grin. "I bring homemade bread! And I share my wine, and I teach you how to fight, and…"

"I'll read them." I gave her a squeeze, sliding the box carefully onto the counter.

"You said you care about us. Well, that goes both ways, whether you like it or not." She hugged tighter in return with a little grunt, patting Luke as we parted. "All of us. Me, Vicente, shadow-pup here." Her eyes softened. "… And the Listener too, I think."

A surge of anger, but I kept it just at bay. It wasn't her fault. "I – I appreciate it, Netta."

"You'd better. I have to go, I've got – well, y'know, stuff t'do, but promise me you'll try to get outside tomorrow? You'll go crazy locked up alone in here."

"…I'll try."

"Be good, Dusty-doo."

I slumped as the door sank shut behind her, then I turned the lock and tried not to stare at the little box of letters. Then, a soft laugh. You'll go crazy locked up alone. Alternatively, I'd go crazy because I couldn't do it alone.

Which would be worse?

Tempting to ignore that innocent chest, of course, just as tempting as it had been to kick Antoinetta out and just as impossible. I sank down at the table, reaching for it, fingering the carven lid. The smell – mint, rosemary, a hint of eucalyptus…

If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend she was in the room with me.

But what would you say, maman? What would you want me to do?

The lid creaked open. I slid my fingertips along the neatly stacked pile while Luke curled back up at my feet, red gaze somber, chin on his paws when he lowered his head to the floor.

"Ow." One page nipped, slitting the pad of my finger as I grazed it along. Well, it was as good a sign as any. I held my breath and slid out the offending letter, unfolding it and gazing into a past that had never been mine, that I had inherited.

Dearest Vicente,

I cannot tell you how much I miss you all, at times like this. I wish I could be there with you to mourn our fallen brother. When we take Phillada, I only wish it be slow and painful – fair retribution for the pain he has visited on you all. I winced as I read, biting my lip hard. Lucien was right – maman really would have been happy for the role I played in his death. Pass my condolences on, please. I know Lucien won't hear of them, but I must try regardless.

As for myself, and life here…

Ah, my old mentor. You taught me so much, over the years – about wisdom, patience, about when to speak and when to hold my tongue. And now, it seems to have all simply fled.

Davide and I have been speaking for some months about Gabby's future. A shiver crept down my back, my breath shuddering out. She has no interest in her suitors, and certainly no interest in becoming the mistress of a household, a mother or wife. Anya is business minded, happy to run her home – she flourishes in her new life. But my little alchemist…

We want what is best for her, truly, we do. She rebels, she argues because she's young. She was so small when we left the village, left behind poverty and filth. But I know this world. I know how cruel it can be, and how hardened I have become in turn.

I wouldn't see that for her. I would protect her, at any cost.

I'd started crying at some point as I read, wiping at my eyes, breath shuddering out. Any cost – her safety, the lives of innocents, my freedom.

The man Davide and I have chosen for her is one of the few remaining. Most of her suitors, she's managed to scare away. I told you about the incident with the dyed wax, didn't I? A trembling laugh. I can't say I'm pleased. He's a sad little boy, whining and pompous. But his family might be her saving grace. They've built a sound business around alchemy, and her skill will surely be appreciated and welcomed. Her marriage may not be a happy one, but she can give herself to her true passion wholly.

I'm so torn, my old friend. On the one hand, I see her discontent. I see how she longs to be free from this future we've built for her. But on the other…

That girl you told me about, the little Breton you taught to read. The life she came from is the life I lived, too. I cannot let that happen to Gabby. She'd never survive. She is her father's daughter, and I know, I know she would give herself away until she had nothing left if I allowed, just as he did.

But protected and healthy, safe with her new family – I have to believe she can be happy with that. That she can make…

The letter crumpled in my hands, a sharp, choked sound leaving me. I couldn't finish that sentence. I couldn't, even as I heard her voice in my head.

Make the best of it.

But I can't, maman.

I stood now, lowering the letter to the table and pacing. Luke stood in turn with a groan, watching me carefully. You wanted what you thought was best. It's all anyone wants for me.

But I can't live like that any longer. You're gone, and I have to live my life, even if it means I lose everyone else, too. I sniffled, smiling bittersweet to myself. You were right, in the end. I would be just like papa.

But not for others. I'm more selfish than that. This – this would be just for me.

"But it isn't that simple, is it?" I spoke aloud now as I circled the room, rubbing at my arms despite the balmy evening air dancing through the curtains. "Even if I want to, I don't know how. I can't run away if I don't even know how to get where I need to go, can I?"

A whimper. I sighed and reached for him, scratching behind his ears, under his chin when he pushed his wet nose into my palm. "... I guess – I guess my goal is still the same. Isn't it, boy?"

Maybe my plan would have gone horribly wrong, if Telaendril hadn't intervened. Maybe Magub would have chased me down and killed me, there and then. Maybe I would have been found by the guards, pinned for the explosion. Maybe it was all a mistake.

But it least it would have been my mistake to make.

Either way, I was out from under the smuggler's threats. I was free as I'd been in months to pursue my research, Sheogorath's invitation. Free, except for…

Big, soulful eyes. I blinked back my tears and let out a gust of a sigh. "… Are you going to try and stop me, too?"

A long, petering whine. But though I went for my cloak, shoved my feet into my boots, he didn't move to stop me. Instead he rose, claws clicking along the floor, maw gaping in a yawn as he thumped against my side, ready to follow where I led.

"…Good boy." His nares flared in a little grunt. One last scratch, right above his eyes. Would that I could take his complacence as maman's approval, somehow beyond the veil.

But, no. I'd read for myself her words, her wish. And I couldn't grant her even that.

You might be right, mum. I stopped at the door for a moment, gaze drifting back to the letter where I'd left it on the table, unfinished. Maybe they all are.

Maybe it's foolish, maybe it's risky. Maybe I'm foolish and niave, and maybe I'll be punished for it all.

But I want to find out for myself.