Cassandra was sat close to the fireplace, her fingers working swiftly with the golden thread she was embroidering with. It was all Alfred's idea; proper young ladies knew how to embroider and sew—and apparently, Cassandra was now a proper young lady. The idea was entirely strange and seemed very wrong to her. Every time she looked in the mirror and saw the ringlet of gold on her head, she was prepared to remove it quickly before someone saw her playing with things that weren't hers. But then she remembered how her father had placed it on her head. It was hers. Everything she had was hers.

Richard would do this thing when he got gifts—which happened every time he batted his eyes at Father, or Uncle Oliver returned from a trip—where he would bring them into her chambers, and they would gush over the fancy silks or pretty toys he had. Sometimes he would drag Jason along, and they would all admire and touch the pretty things they had.

Richard would giggle, begging Cassandra to try on her pearls and spinning around in his new sorcerer's robes and capes, and Cassandra would take deep breaths of incense and perfumes while Jason gushed over the thick leather covers of ancient manuscripts from faraway lands. It was so strange to think that there was a time when such luxuries were unimaginable to them. Jason often remarked that Father had better be around for a long time because there was no way he could ever go back to living on the streets.

There was a tapping at her window. Cassandra placed her embroidery down, the rudimentary looking alphabet coming to a rest. She opened the window to allow the armored visitor to climb in from their precarious perch on Cassandra's windowsill. Removing the helmet that covered her face, Barbara's hair fell down her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed and there was a thin layer of sweat on her forehead. She smiled, closing the window behind her. The two young women looked at each other, bursting into laughter as Cassandra helped her best friend remove her armor and change back into a fancy dress.

"How was it?" Words came to Cassandra more naturally when she was with Barbara.

"It was amazing!" Barbara gushed, splashing water on her face from the basin Cassandra had prepared while she carefully placed Barbara's armor into the chest beneath Cassandra's bed. "I got this close to besting Damian, and he was so angry!"

Cassandra smiled—she could see Damian scrunching his nose in anger. He said he didn't, but everyone knew he did. Tim and Jason had compiled a rough sketch of what Damian looked like when mad, but due to the devil's horns and fire coming out of his mouth, no one took it seriously. Barbara stepped into the thin shift Cassandra held for her, tying up her hair in a loose braid while Cassandra laced up the outer level of her dress.

"I love this dress, it's a wonderful choice." Barbara smoothed out her dress. It was a light yellow, very loose, and airy, with small roses embroidered on the sleeves. Barbara examined herself in the mirror, Cassandra returning to her attempt at and embroidery. "My father praised Sir Benjamin today for his wonderful archery skills." Barbara settled herself into the chair opposite Cassandra and produced her embroidery from the basket of thread and needles.

They settled into a comfortable silence, Barbara regaling her recent experiences as a young man training to be a knight. Her father did not want her to be involved in any way with the violence and hardship of combat. But Barbara wasn't going to be told what she could and couldn't do because of her womanhood. She had been training in secret ever since she was little, originally training with Terrence in secret, but she and Cassandra had recently taken up a scheme where she would enter Cassandra's chamber in normal dress and sneak out to train with the other knights in a discarded set of armor. Gotham had no rules that limited who could seek knighthood, so Barbara was able to train with the knights and disappear without being missed. She would enter the trials when she was able to—and since there were no restrictions on who became a knight, as long as she proved herself to be a skilled fighter and good of heart, her father couldn't keep her from being knighted.

"Are we meeting with Lady Morgana or any other noble ladies tonight?"

Cassandra shrugged, scowling at the lopsided 'M' she had completed. "Not sure. Morgana said she was supposed to meet with Terrence before dinner."

"Oh, the poor girl." Barbara gestured for Cassandra to bring her exemplar closer and undid the M she had just completed. "I seriously doubt Bruce would go through with such a thing."

"She seems nice. And I don't think Terrence cares."

"You may be right, but I would hope you could all find happy relationships instead of political ones."

"And you?"

"I don't plan on marrying anyone, Cassandra. I'm going to earn my knighthood and protect my kingdom."

"I thought you were going to be my bodyguard?"

"That too." Barbara's hands found their place on top of Cassandra's, gently guiding her through the small stitches. Cassandra always wanted to finish her samplers quickly, and so her stitches were large and sloppy. This meant that Barbra had to correct and reteach Cassandra patience.

As tedious as the process ways, stitching was a very good distraction from the stressors and rigors of both training to be a knight and being Cassandra's lady-in-waiting. There were times when Barbara wanted to scream, pull her hair out of the stupid braids, and turn the frilly dresses into comfortable pants and steal a horse to just…leave. Maybe find a small village and start a new life where she protected the villagers from bandits and in exchange was given shelter and food. Sometimes Cassandra was in that village, and sometimes she wasn't. Barbara knew that she did not have much to complain about, but that didn't mean she couldn't have an active imagination.

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Richard was tucked into the windowsill, the cool glass pressing against his forehead as he quietly shuffled through the ancient scrolls Zatara had copied for him. Something about sticky fingers not being good for handling hundred-year-old parchment that held the very secretes and traditions ancient magic was founded on. Despite the large population of magic users, ancient texts were hard to come by. The Camelot refugees did not have many to begin with, and many destroyed their texts as they fled to avoid accusation. Richard didn't know if his parents had been those people to flee, or how far they had gotten, but he knew they would have protected the ancient texts if they had to.

Richard could remember his parents. He remembered his mother holding him while his father kept a fire going to warm them. His father was tall and strong—though his memory has foggy about this, and he may have combined his adoptive father and his biological father into one man—and he worked so, so hard to make his mother happy. His mother was just as strong—Richard had seen her work just as hard to keep him safe. And Richard knew he remembered their death. He had been there; he had seen it. But it was too much—that's what Father said. Richard could barely call up the images of that night, not that he wanted to. He actively tried to forget about that because it was just too scary and hurtful. His father said he couldn't remember it all too well because he had been so young, and because of what happened to him afterwards. Richard didn't try to remember that either.

There was much he tried to push out of his mind as was successful with, but he could never forget the red, the flowers that were growing around his mother's body, and the golden lion that killed them. Richard could make out the shape of the man—he knew it wasn't the sweet animal that lived two tents down from his family that killed them—but when he tried hard to see his face all he could see was the lion on his shoulder and armor.

He let his leg slowly slide off of the windowsill, bouncing it against the wall below him in a soft thudding pattern. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes like Damian did when he was shifting through legislation late at night. He was perched in one of the big windows up in the north tower were his teacher practiced his magic. As the youngest prince he has free rein of the palace and immediate citadel area, but he liked being in the tower. He could feel the magic from Zatara's workshop calling out to him as he studied, his hands flexing along with the printed instructions. He was able to manipulate light fairly well, provided there was a light source available. Late at night he liked to make the dying embers in the fireplace swirl around each other high into the air, and if he concentrated long enough and hard enough, he could bring a dying flame back to life—no matter how big or small.

Zatara said his magic would get better as he grew up. Right now, his voice wasn't right for casting spells. Spells required a deeper voice than Richard had at the moment. The words needed to cast magic was ancient and guttural, Richard thought that his teacher sounded like his mouth was full as he enchanted. Because Zatara's voice was fit for the ancient words of magic, he did not need to be as precise with his hand movements—he could simply wave his hands around and the spell would work. Dick had to memorize the exact movements for his spells to work. And like Damian had said, he could not just wait to get older to learn how to protect himself.

He focused intensely on his hands, positioning them directly in a ray of sunshine. He closed his eyes, trying to deepen his voice as much as possible as his hands passed over each other, the right hand slowly turning like he was twisting a door handle. He peaked a little, disappointed that there was no light in-between his palms. He groaned, letting his head bang against the glass in frustration. He had been trying to create light for months. He had perfected transformations when there was already an object there—like turning thread or twigs into flowers, or a spoon in his brother's hand into a partial mouse (he was still working on transformations into living things more complex than plants)—but created something new from something very limited—like bright light he could manipulate out of a sun beam—was incredibly frustrating. Richard aggressively flipped the scroll over, deciding to try one of the meditation rituals Zatara said the creators of ancient magic would use in order to become closer with the physical world. Maybe if he were more connected to nature, he would be able to turn Jason's spoon into a mouse—he would settle for any animal at this point—at dinner that night.

The boy began chanting under his breath, focusing his energy into his limbs—he didn't exactly get it, but that's what Zatara said—and picturing the essence of the universe. His teacher was doing something similar, but he was standing in the spiral staircase with his eyes focused on his student in the windowsill. Richard had been making progress in all areas of his studies, but he was starting to slow in his magic. Zatara couldn't help but think it had something to do with the pendent he wore on his neck. His hands unconsciously reached for the small crystal that hung off of the enchanted chain the king had commissioned from the finest silversmith in the kingdom.

He turned his back on the boy, retreating into his tower once again. He wasn't sure if the charm had anything to do with Richard's roadblocks, all of his research had shown that it would have little to no effect, and besides, how could he go against the orders of the king? The boy's progress had changed pace many times before, but this felt different, it felt more permanent. Zatara knew that soon he would have to explain to the boy why they could not work on spirit connections. Richard had talked his ear off about spirit connections the second he heard of them. He wanted to make a connection with his brothers, with his horse, with his father, and with Zatara himself. Spirit connections allowed those who entered them to share themselves. They could share emotions, thought, and memories.

Spirit connections could not be made by someone who didn't have all their memories.