Kith

by leukoplakiaa

Despite her promise to Azel, she was chilly with the sun shining. Today, she wore the gifted cloak, trimmed finely with glass beads, conscious of the day in church—the unshakable feeling someone watched her hadn't left. "If they needed a thing" - What sort of trouble did her lord think she and her shiny-shoe son could get into? [Additional character tag: Aida]

AN:/ continuation of "weather coming"

i.

Azel had an uncle.

He had aunts too, along with cousins upon cousins who gave more cousins. His grandfather was dead when he was born, but his grandmother did not die until his first birthday, in the same castle she'd been born in, several months away. From there, there were granduncles and aunts to accompany them. And, mostly forgotten, somewhere between six and a baker's dozen of unaccounted siblings. This did not include her own family, with a lineage much less impressive and a bit straighter, but hers did not matter.

A duchy's worth of relatives that, completely an accident, he'd been kept from. Between her and the lord, who else did he need? They never called him a filthy word. He ate three times a day, bathed as he wanted, and his toys were looked after with meticulous care. A whole library and then some to read. What else could he possibly need? The three of them. Perhaps if the lord never went to school, they could've hid the fact from him forever.

She may've been able to hide away, but Azel had the lord's hair.

Lord (lord?) Dalton did not have the same vibrant shock of red hair. More brown in tint, but when the sunlight hit it right the red shone through. Lord Arvis was not around for comparison, but he stood equal height to him, she was certain; standing taller than her was not much of a feat. He looked slim, though it was hard to tell with the black the Velthomers favored. She could not remember seeing him before, for she'd always been a lousy servant, but if Lord Arvis liked (tolerated?) him enough to leave the duchy in his hands, he couldn't be too wretched, surely.

Sunilda wasn't sure. Most of this was gossip. Oran, Velthomer's long standing butler, told her the man and his wife were back from a long stay in Edda (her family, apparently; a little family for a little brother), yet standing on a balcony with the old man to better see the courtyard, she did not know Lord Dalton. Unreasonably, dread poked her stomach. What trouble would come? She was no one, and Azel was too little to be anything now. Best, she thought, to avoid it all. Azel didn't need the worry; he did that enough, as it was, and as much as his heart was full of love, it could get shaken easily. Did he mean to? No, but he always wore too much on his sleeve and always showed his cards.

Sometimes literally.

"Flip them over, sweetie." Presently, he was busy taking his mail from Oran. Somedays, as if she had not grown, she worried about how easily they were found, not that their routine changed often. Dens were quiet, private, and she liked the carpet in this one.

Azel did not dive to do so, so she laid hers face-down and reached across the table to do likewise to the boy's. She was mindful of the in-play chessboard at the edge of the table.

Oran did not hand her her letter, but sat it down in front of her. Her lady letter with the lord talked about potentially getting Azel on a horse before winter, and he did not need to know just yet. She was not insisting on it—the closest they'd been to arguing, and it was not even in a medium she was comfortable with.

The man did not stop there. Impressive for his age, he bent to lend a secret to her ear and never to Azel's. "Lord Dalton takes lunch in your usual spot. Would you like yours sent here?" The air outside was brisk, tight in her chest. Best they ate indoors.

"That will be fine." Azel, laid out on his belly, kicked his feet as he read his letter. "Send an orange if we have any left." He inclined his head. She was not anyone, so she did not have to dismiss servants.

Clutching his letter, Azel poked his head up over the table just as Oran left. He scooted down to his chessboard, moving one of his brother's black pieces. The lord was deep, and Azel was checked. Her boy was getting better, but, well, the lord was older and schooled. She did not know much about the game. It was not for her to know, but she'd watched them play enough. Both her and Azel looked at the board, mirroring the cock of his head. Then, in a habit he'd yet to break, his brow creased. "Momma."

"Azel."

"Whadda I do?"

"I don't know." He sighed. "You've time, sweetie." The courier left once every two weeks, but the lord could live without an immediate response. All she and her boy had was time. His life wasn't particularly difficult, nor did she know what could find him here: a nobleman, by all rights, already more than she'd ever be. Educated, clothed, and a bit of fat to his cheeks.

Still, she didn't want him worrying through lunch. An upset head was an upset tummy. "We can fuss over your move tomorrow."

He huffed. "And when I don't know what to do tomorrow?"

"Then the day after that."

Azel stretched his letter out beneath his palm. While he was distracted, she tucked hers away in her pocket. "It doesn't take him two days."

"How do you know that?"

"Momma."

Lunch would not be ready for a while yet. Yes, it was cold for her, but walks were a staple of his life. "Why don't we take a walk? You can think about it then." He pretended to think it over, then nodded. "Alright. Let's stop by my room first. I need my cloak."

He stuck by her side steadfast. He walked all the way with her, then lingered in the doorway as she grabbed her cloak. She shooed him down the hall, and to her relief, he giggled. Grief had no place in his heart. He waited at the corner for her. "Come on, Momma!"

"I am, I am." His head wobbled side to side on his skinny neck. He put his hand back into hers, walking down the path to the cobblestones of the gardens. They'd gotten new bushes recently that she forgot the origin of; not Velthomer, at least: their palm-sized, dark, waxy green leaves, easy to brown, trailed on the ground, unlike the tight, neat bushes she was familiar with. Azel did know their names, both short and long, cocking his head as he tried to remember their first home. A bright boy with much to think about.

He took quick steps, but for now she was taller than him and did not have to rush to keep up. "I don't know," he said with that sad twang. She gave a tug on his hand, just enough to make him stumble but not fall. "Hey!"

"What?"

He pouted, hopping up onto the retaining wall. Now he was taller by a hair. The grass licked the soles of his house shoes. "It wasn't nice." He put his arms on her shoulders, up on his toes for two hairs of height. "What if I wasn't nice? It'd be a big fuss!"

While he was smaller than his brother at this age, she was weaker, too, so when she wrapped her arms around him, she didn't expect him to go anywhere. He didn't budge. "How do you know we'd fuss?"

Chin hiked, "'cause you do." A cocky child! Where did the foulness fit in his heart? Nowhere. She couldn't lift him, but she could tickle, pinching his ribs. She mostly caught his baggy tunic; the intent was there—he screeched, twisting out of her arms: she managed to hold him for a few moments before he darted off across the grounds. Despicable boy went on the side of the wall, so she sat on the lip, then swung her legs up. The day was brisk, but she did not run often on whims, so she warmed quickly in her dress and the cloak she insisted on. Azel was small but light-footed—she saw the flash of his red hair disappearing behind the curve of trees, hugging the path but not using it. As a girl she was certain running like this would've ended in pain—roots, rocks, village children, the random animal—but here a groundskeeper kept everything neat for the day Velthomer took company again.

He stopped to wait for her, bouncing on his heels, and when her fingers grazed the collar of his shirt, he doubled back to their starting spot. She knew they were playing now, unsurprised. Going opposite of him, she meant to catch him on the other low side of the wall. The high part gave her cover, barely managing to peek over the wall to catch the blur of his bare calves.

Azel continued on down past their start, hopping off the wall. He briefly stumbled, enough to make her heart drop, but he carried on unperturbed. At least he'd have an appetite today, gone again between the paths. He disappeared from her sight—one, two, three. She slowed for a moment to relax her knees, but then Azel yelped. What was it now?

"Honey?" He didn't answer. She picked up her steps again. "Azel?" He wasn't hard to find, but oddly enough he was not alone. It was the man from the courtyard; he did not look mean, at least, but he had his hand on Azel's shoulder, and no one touched Azel, not even the servants.

How many strangers came into their home? "You should watch where you run, boy." Not many.

Azel took a step back. "I'm sorry, sir." They'd talk about manners. One, two, three; a few more quick steps, and she laid her arm across his slim shoulders. He looked up, wide eyed, brow doing its usual. "Momma," he mouthed. She shushed him again. What was there to worry about? He'd bumped into a man and he said sorry. They could leave and go eat lunch. Oranges, even!

Lord Dalton raised a brow. His eyes were on her for one moment too many (any moment was too many) and then on the child. His red hair, his red eyes, his full cheeks from free meals and stolen sweets, the way he ran wild in the manor, maybe even how tightly knit his tunic was. "You're one of my brother's," he stated.

His brother. As always, she failed her little son. He would not be eating with this kind of upset. Easily, he leaned back into her embrace. "Your brother?" Azel asked.

"The late duke, Victor." How many times had she or the lord referred to him by name around Azel? As so many things did, it slipped her mind, so if he knew it it was from the mouth of a gossip. "That makes me your uncle, boy."

Uncle . She wanted to slap her hands over his ears. "Me and-" me and? wasn't it suppose to be Azel first? the man did not know she existed, "Azel and I are due elsewhere. Come, sweetie."

Lord Dalton ignored her, taking one exaggerated step forward. She dragged him one step back. "It is rude to not introduce yourself. I have been here for a week." Did it matter? Who was Azel? Her little boy who lived in the duchy. His brother, the duke, was a coincidence with no bearing on anything else he did. Well, no, a lie: he ate by the grace of their lord's spot, spent half the week in a dense library, his thick tome repaired the rare times he blew through its uses. She could not do that. The gift of her Arvis.

The man smiled; her stomach curdled. These Velthomers all looked alike. "No shame on you, boy. This happens when children raise themselves."

Her stomach fell into her soles. To her face! Standing still, her disastrous heart hammered. "Give your goodbyes, sweetheart," she said sternly. Her boy nodded, using those manners she knew he had in him. No one else ever complained about him. No one else, no one that mattered. Remembering who she was, she bowed at the waist before they left; Azel dismissed himself.

She took him back inside to their lunch. Is that where that man was going? To their dining room? Their? She wasn't anyone. A woman, barely a maid. The man knew that—he did not see her just now, implying Azel to be kinless.

At least lunch was here, orange sat enticingly on a small plate between their sandwiches. Wonderful. Good tea came recently, and Oran's hands were steady. Lord Dalton. There was time to talk another day; Azel did not need to hear a thing. "Thank you again," she told him, and Oran left with a nod of the head.

Azel sat, peeling the orange with ease. She watched him over her sugared cup, settling her stomach. A few minutes in silence as he ate, a fantastic sight, orange juices running down his chin. Opening her hand, he handed the last slice to her, picking the strings off of it. "I have an uncle," Azel announced. Time for this, huh? Brightly, he carried on. "Uncles mean cousins," he stated, smeared with juice and a crumb stuck to his cheek. She wondered how she'd fallen so hard, and what life would be like without him. Would she still be in Velthomer? How many lies had she told him under the guise of keeping him happy, when he had nothing to be upset about, except when she kept things from him? "Do you have uncles?"

Sunilda nodded. "I have a mother, and a father," last she knew, "and four older sisters. I lived with a cousin, though, because I was an odd girl and food is hard to find." She grabbed a napkin, tilting his head up under the chin and catching the juice. He did not meet her eyes. Every time she tried to keep him happy she—"What matters is I love you," goodness, "Arvis loves you. Okay?"

"Why did no one tell me?"

"Sweetie…" his little jaw shook. "Why fuss over a bunch of people you barely know?"

"You know. Brother knows." Always this.

"I know because I'm old. There's not much the lord doesn't know." Why did everyone crease their brow? The only eight year old in the kingdom with wrinkles. "A lot of stuff happened before you were born that you don't need to know about because it's bad stuff, and whatever Arvis thinks is what he thinks, and I am just happy to have you two." The two of them and her for three.

How had she fallen so helplessly for him? How could anyone not? So worried he'd be despised for a sin he never made, yet here he was, forever tucked away in her heart. "Why can't I know about the bad stuff if it's about me? Is it the dirty word?" The stuff about him. He was innocent, no way he wasn't, and the dirty word wasn't true . As much a son of Velthomer as the lord, and the lord did not lie to her.

Azel. Her darling boy.

She nodded again. "The dirty word and things that send you to a bad place." He worked his jaw out, fixing the way he was clenching his teeth. "I promise. We tell you all the good things. The past is bad and it's ours." They were alone, always, but she leaned in anyway. "And we keep things from Brother, don't we?"

Unless Azel blabbed to him. The servants weren't allowed to, and Azel's errors, undoubtedly hers too, were meant to just be her business. Perfect as he was, there was only so much he could be with her as his mother. His eyes dropped. "…secrets aren't the same," he said.

The orange juice irritated his skin. "Secrets aren't the same."

ii.

Belhalla is not horrible to live in. The air is wetter than Velthomer, but it is nothing I cannot handle. We did not forget to pack anything despite your worry. I hope you and Azel are well, as always, and remind you to tell me if you are not. You are welcome to use the courier freely. I encourage it.

One, two, three. "That's it?" Sunilda asked.

Oran nodded. He turned the paper on the table to right it before her. She leaned forward in her seat, gripping the arm of the chair to steady herself. A small paragraph with the lord's sweet handwriting. "No more, miss." She pressed her lips together. It was never good when the lord went quiet on her; Azel's letter was a full page, yet here she sat with a simple paragraph.

"I…I see. Thank you, Oran." Taking the letter from him in full, she folded it up and slipped it back into its stiff envelope. He'd sealed it with the ring he had since boyhood but she rarely saw. The letter would join its siblings in a box beneath her bed, even if his words were curt. Words from the lord were words from the lord.

Thankfully, too, Oran did not bow or incline his head or anything of the sort. It never felt right, as if she was much of anything. She tapped her fingers against the seal to make sure it stuck again, and then tucked it into the pocket of her dress. It could go in her room later. Her and Azel were meant to leave soon for church. They would miss the busy hour, so her shiny hair could be hidden away with no one to comment on the straggly, thin bangs she never managed to tuck away.

(Who knew old women at church could be so mean? She did not know she had a freckle on her neck until a passing remark!)

Azel was a big boy who bathed himself now, kicking her out of the room. She lingered near of course, and Oran sat himself across from her to start her response to the lord. "May I ask you something, Oran?" she asked; the man nodded. Their one meeting with Lord Dalton a fortnight ago was it, but she always had questions. "It is about Lord Dalton."

He pulled his gloves off. "Dalton?" he echoed. She did not know his exact age, but he was a longtime servant, wrinkled around the eyes. Calling him without a title was fine, surely. "Better of the two boys, that's for certain. He married young enough that we combined it and his coming of age. Three days of partying, then he lived with his wife's kin on and off in Edda. He came for," if they heard Azel, he likely heard them, " his marriage and his death. Why do you ask?"

She wrung her hands. "No reason in particular. Azel and I ran into him a few weeks ago. Kind," enough, "to Azel but very dismissive to me. Which is fine! He need not entertain me, but it's been a bit since someone so plainly ignored me!" Why did it bother her? She knew she wasn't anything. She looked at the quill in his hand. "As I know I haven't done a thing to him."

Oran caught her eye for a moment. "What? Have I?" she asked. "I don't remember if I have."

Unlike the boys, he wrote with his right hand. "The rumor always was Lord Dalton wanted one of the duke's girls. He did not get the chance while he was alive, and didn't get the chance when Lord Arvis exiled them. I never believed it. Dalton married his wife young willingly, but I will not be asking."

"Even then he's married," she blurted, then remembered how little that mattered. It did not matter to dukes (or princes), so why would it matter to a younger brother? Azel was little now, but they'd need to have the girl talk when he was bigger. One girl and one girl only. None of that nonsense. The lord, horribly, was at that age (apparently; she never noticed boys to know the age boys started noticing girls), but she trusted him enough to not do anything stupid off at school. "How is that my fault?"

"I did not say it was." Her, out of all women, yes. She believed it now — Lord Arvis sat on her bed for half a decade — but she was a peasant girl first; Sunilda's memories of those years were fleeting, but she hadn't been wanted like that . A fluke, a girl in the wrong place at the wrong time, plain-faced, gangly limbed, stupid to boot. Nothing about her was worth wanting, unlike the women, unlike her la— "What would you like to tell Lord Arvis?"

Right. That's why they were here. Did anyone remember that day besides her? Did anyone look at Azel and think him rotten? Who knew at this point? "Nothing much. I am always glad to hear from him. If he does need a thing I will do my very best, even up here." Dalton, married young? He came alone with his wife. The only cousins she knew of were from other cousins or grand uncles. "Does Lord Dalton have children?"

"No." Married young.

"Momma!" Azel called. A suspiciously short bath. Hopefully he got everything.

Enough gossiping. "That is all. Excuse me." She opened the door to the washroom, Azel sudsy and sat on the edge of the thin-lipped tub. Knowing, she grabbed his brush and towel from the vanity, finding the dry path of the floor to come to him. Red-shouldered from the water, she handed him his brush over his shoulder. His hair smelled of his oils. "Did you get your knees?" she asked.

He nodded. She took the towel to his hair, ruffling it dry. He tensed up, but it didn't last long. "I gotta get something from my room before we go," the boy said; they needed to get his clothes, too. His now-fine red hair parted easily beneath the brush, bangs curling at his eyebrows. Much like him, his hair was never unruly. "Next time we should go in the morning."

"And why's that?" They'd not been for morning service since the lord left for school. Usually, they tagged along with him, for he was a good young man, absolutely, and gave his thanks to the church. They did not attend every service, wretched as they were; Azel had been too little, for babies did not go to church, and Lord Arvis was (uncomfortably) busy, forever (or wanting her company). He preferred the morning to get it out of the way, returning to whatever trouble he got up to when he wasn't with her. Mornings meant Azel took juice with his supper, though, and kept him up late with a bounce to his knee. Barely old, Sunilda could not keep her eyes open after a big meal.

"More time to play. Things don't get in-ter-rup-ted."

"Afternoon service lets you get your tutoring out of the way and gives you all night to play!" And tuckered him out. She fully believed he was a brilliant, smart boy despite being hers (he was hers; not the duchy's or the gossip's), numbers tired him if he was at them too long. Understandable, of course; numbers were the one thing she did know, less than he did, and they tired her.

He hummed. "Yeah, but church is boring. Boring things first." Church was boring, especially at her age, but she wouldn't encourage that thought. Hair brushed out, she wrapped his slim self in a towel, easing him off the edge of the tub and ushering him out the other door. The hallway their rooms were in were already cleaned by the servants, so no one saw him in his towel. His room was not far, diving to open the door before he could. "You know what's not boring?"

"We cannot buy anything on church days, little boy." She did not work for coin; she'd long been off the pay, and did not want money to take care of her own son. They did not want for a thing; the lord freely gave her money if she asked, almost more than what she was comfortable with. Now, with him gone at school, all she needed to do was ask the butler if their monthly allowances weren't enough. Burning through it felt impossible.

"But we can tomorrow!" She pulled his freshly cleaned, light yellow tunic off the chair, holding the neck open to not disturb the hair she spent so much time on. "I saw some kids playing with marbles. I think it'd be nice." Marbles sounded like a choking hazard; he was beyond that, surely. Didn't she need to be less protective over him? Yes, yes. He was good and deserved freedom and more. He stuffed his head through the hole, falling past his hips, halfway down his thighs.

She raked her fingers through his bangs, fluffing them up. "Nuts and marbles?" Nuts lit his eyes up, nodding, bangs falling back down again. "Trousers on," she said. "Where did you leave your good shoes?" Neat in his own little unique way. He brushed her hands off, hopping into his trousers and stumbling for his shoes out of his closet. Thick-soled, perfectly black, some of the luster was gone, and she took note to polish his shoes later. Handsome and quaint (where did he get it from?), she tried once more on his bangs. "Don't get messy. Momma needs clothes."

Or he could follow; that worked too. He sat on the edge of her bed. The book he clutched in his hands was not a church book, but if she could read she'd ignore the service too. Being nice and kind did not require a priest to tell her that. Letting go of her anger . What anger? Like his brother, Azel was a good child, and good children sat through service. No one really knew who he was, it felt like, so they probably could've gotten away with missing more, but why find trouble while the lord was away?

Why indeed.

She tucked her hair into a bonnet, easily, then into her own good shoes in need of a scrub themselves. Before they left for the evening, she wrapped him in his cloak, pinned with a clasp he still hadn't grown into. For her own tastes, the air was unseasonably wet, so she left her nice gifted one in its box, bundled in her old one. Plucking the book out of his hands—decidedly not appropriate for church ignoring his moving But Momma!, she left it on the den table. "Time to go, Azel. We can read when we get back."

"Blah!"

Normally, they left out a side door for servants; the opening of the front doors was too...pompous, for a little son and a plain-faced maid. He stuck his hand in hers, well practiced. The streets were not packed; the carriage would get them when service ended, dark out. On regular days they were at this hour—hitting supper time, men coming home to wives and children, knights returning to their stoop, the change of guards—but church made people docile and laced.

To a quiet pew near the front but not at the front, she sat him on the inside, then set her useless church book on the other side of him to deter company. Service hadn't started yet. Good. She fixed Azel's hair again. Stubborn. He sulked, picking at his sleeves. He liked his hair up; he said as much. It just didn't always cooperate. Hers wasn't nearly as difficult; over the years it grew out some, but she kept it close to her shoulders, never any longer.

His heels thumped against the wood. If her toes did not touch the floor, she'd do the same thing. Despite his boring thoughts about church (maybe it would be better if they had friends, or kin, or anyone; who wanted to socialize with a random woman and her son? certainly not her) he was sweet as ever. A gift, she told herself, as so many things had been since that night.

Diminishing to think it was a blessing by the gods as an apology for that horrible day, she knew—his kindness was homegrown—but she did not always catch it before it happened. Nothing about that day was about him.

Again, she paid little attention to the afternoon. Her dear boy looked forward, attentive as ever, with a slight bob to his head. When she was a girl, these things had a little more music. The evening brought the wealthier in, she knew (they were here for unrelated reasons), so the father mentioned the suffering of the unfortunate. For too long Grannvaleans wilted under a cruel, crushing thumb, and while many of them did not claim exalted blood, imitating the divine deeds of their ancestors was possible in more mundane ways.

The father spoke next about the categories of the unfortunate. The invalid, the ill, and the young. Her ear perked up at that. Children left in the care of others was familiar, a prominent splotch on her own girlhood she never scrubbed off. Hers was a cousin to be left with, but not all children got cycled through family members. No proof, but she was certain her counting tick would not have lasted long in a holy cot.

…did she have any coins? She placed her hand on her waist, her high pocket. Naturally she did not look for the coin, eyes drifting upwards. On the second level of the church, sat beside Lord Dalton—his church wear fitted with less black than usual—was his wife (she assumed), who was looking at her, long enough to rattle her bones. Curly blonde tufts stuck out from beneath her gold-and-white scarf. Hard brown eyes like the wood of the hearth, her mouth tight. Her gown was tight in the chest, a bit uncouth for where they were, with no sensible coverage to hide her shoulders. Equal sitting height with her husband, Lady Thea rolled her eyes up into her long lashes, focusing then on her short, painted nails instead of the service.

Lord Dalton caught her leering, staring back. She held it as long as she could, two whole counts, before looking down at the banister in front of him. In her belt pocket were a few coins. She'd return later to give more. Later? In the morning: Azel sat somewhere with his tutor for the morning, then they'd both go buy him his nuts and marbles, then stop by when no one else was around. A simple day.

Good and simple.

She moved her eyes away. On her son's lap was the church book; she assumed they were doing something, but he was opened to a completely random page, making nonsense shapes with his fingers. He was not like this when the lord was home, more starry-eyed than distracted. Calm children preferred play over sitting motionless. She dropped her arm around him, bringing him closer to her than the wood. A younger child wailed behind them, so Azel leaned up to conspire about what stars they could look for tonight. One of his books said different seasons brought different stars; on his list, he'd not seen the horse shaped one, so could they find it?

He quieted as the other child did, laying his head on her chest. Fine, fine. He could stay there. Anything for her boy. Tapping the church book to bring her attention, he drew a rough outline of a horse with his nail. "Use your right hand," she whispered. Hair up on the back of her neck, they were being watched. He switched.

Maybe these things needed more pictures. She understood squat about magic, but when they looked over his tome at the dinner table (Azel enjoyed explaining things to her), she abstractly followed the circles. This did that, and that did this. Writing their names did not mean she knew the letters that made them up, so the church book was gibberish.

The service ended without a hitch; the family behind her chatted to the one behind them. An old man sat on the very end of their bench, but no one joined them. Sunilda risked a glance over her shoulder, finding the balcony vacant.

He shut his book, one of the pages eared, hopping down from the bench. "Okay, momma. Time to go." What had she promised the boy? Play, dinner, and now stars. All for him.

"In a moment, honey. This way." He huffed, pretending to be dissatisfied; he hugged both books to his chest, arms struggling to make it around.

Hand on his shoulder, she pushed him towards the front. The church of her youth had a raised podium for the father, but here it was grounded. Now that she was calm, digging her coin out of her belt was easy. Six and one in total.

"Father-" she did not remember his name, abysmal with them. He turned, hands followed before him. "I wanted to -" one of the books slipped out of Azel's arms. The father bent to get the book for him, smiling kindly as he handed it over. The grey of his hair was familiar. How often did churches change fathers? A few years she tried to find some peace in a booth. How could she let go of her anger if she didn't acknowledge it? Where was that tight-faced blue haired sister? "I wanted to give a-"

"Thank you!" Azel said. Well-mannered. He figured out a new way to hold both by giving one of them to her, tucked under her arm. His hand went back into hers.

One, two, three. "It is not much, but I wanted to give alms."

The father smiled. "Of course." She dropped the coins in his outstretched hand, all seven of them. From his hand they immediately went to his podium, wobbling on their sides; a fault, she knew, but she looked; his book remained open, worn, incomprehensible squiggles made worse by his dark scrawl atop it. "I am glad my words reach someone."

"Some-" listening? she did not, and if her ears were closed to her lord, they certainly were to a random man, "-times. I have been in and out of the church since my girlhood."

His eyes drifted to Azel. Good grief. "I am glad to see our orphans can go somewhere great. The gods will forgive the stunt of a lost girl." Her nose crinkled. Our? Her childhood was not in Velthomer! The next donation could go elsewhere.

Sunilda shook her head; it ached. "No, no. I was never an orphan . I was just hungry. There's a difference." She felt Azel's eyes on her, locked onto the side of her face. What did Azel know about her? She gave his hand a careful squeeze, hoping it wasn't bruised; he'd squished it beneath his tome the past week. "My boy and I must be going, father." She almost told him to say goodbye, in spite of his misstep, for it was polite , but the father beat them to it. Where did Azel fit outside of her heart? A stunt. She'd given up on figuring out her emotions sometime around his third birthday.

Leading them outside, their carriage should've been there, but he was not, so she pulled him in front of her, shoulders back against her stomach. Azel spoke, again, since they were alone. "Am I an orphan?" She took her hand back to loosen the knot under her chin.

"No, sweetheart. You have me and the lord."

He hummed. "But I don't have a dad. Everyone else has a dad."

"Your brother does not."

"But I don't have a mom and a dad," the lord had neither, "so am I half-orphan?"

"You are not an orphan by any amount. Knock this off."

"Yes, momma…" oh, she'd gotten a little snappy, hadn't she? She bent to kiss his crown, surely smoothing out that furrow he sported. "It's a funny word."

"It is." A tiny word with immeasurable weight.

iii.

Oran went home for the holidays (for the first time in years, apparently, and she did not have it in her to keep him once he confessed), but she did not think it through entirely, stuck staring at the lord's letter. Part of her dearly hoped the lord opened his heart again to her, so it was best to keep the letter from Azel (who received his own, longer than hers).

Sunilda could not read entirely. Her name stood on the page; the foot of the page was decorated with the crooked way he signed his name this week. In their years together, she told him no enough times, and how could she deny him a letter?

Darn her.

Azel had one more session with his tutor before the year's turn. She asked the lord time back to give her Azel wholly for a week with no tutors, and he gave in.

"Why do you have to get it?" he asked. Their festive, dressed hen sat waiting at the butcher's. Plus, she could find help elsewhere, butler or not. Lord Arvis specified the Ritter for a reason. His letter would say nothing grave (I am fine, you needn't fret, you may do as you please), but Azel was too busy to be burdened by his own lousy mother. Breakfast was finished, so she lost him to the household.

"Do you expect me to sit all day waiting for you?"

"You do that most days."

Fair. What was Azel doing today? Division? She kissed the top of his head. "You can't play anyway. I'll be back before you know."

He pouted. "Have fun, Momma."

"I'll get you candy."

"...fine." A simple boy with no outstanding grudges, something she was grateful for. "I'll miss you." As if she was ever gone long. Well, he couldn't be much clingier than her. One day it would be her downfall eventually when he left her heart.

No need to worry so soon.

He poked her cheek. "You okay to go by yourself?" he asked, low, genuine, but it sounded partly like a lie the way he bled his words.

She smiled. "I'll be okay. No need to worry," she echoed for him. A child of infinite worry, despite her best efforts, so she laid her dry wrist to his forehead. "Momma's fine. Do you think you could show me your numbers later?"

A moment to answer, but he eventually nodded. "I can. You like numbers." Not like , but more easily understood than anything else he did. Twelve split into six, and then into threes, or twos, or going back, fours. Thirteen was a bad number. The thirteenth egg collected from the chickens was always forsaken (she did not have the stomach for it). "Can I have a bath tonight?"

"Sure. We good now?" Another nod, so another kiss. "I'll see you later."

Ritter. The barracks. She hadn't been since the lord was a boy, but she knew the way. She was not completely housebound with only excursions to church or the market. Azel grew bored under the roof most days anyways, boisterous and not to be contained. Despite her promise to Azel, she was chilly with the sun shining. Today, she wore the gifted one, trimmed finely with glass beads, conscious of the day in church—the unshakable feeling someone watched her hadn't left—and the fact she was a random woman wandering into the barracks.

I always run cold. It's why her burning sons were a boon, and tobote, she was getting older, and these things happened when women aged, apparently. She had a small sample size. Bodies (and minds) weren't young forever.

Good clothes or not, she didn't look like she belonged. The Ritter who greeted her offered her a chair while he went to get someone to help her, but she turned it down. Told help would be found from the knights, if she needed anything, so here she was. Was it suppose to be something grave? She did not know, entirely, the lord vague and her curious as to what kind of trouble her and shiny-shoe Azel could find themselves in. Everything was quiet since that night.

Anything for the lord.

She was not kept waiting long. For the best, realistically. The day was hers, but she didn't want to strike the worry in Azel's heart and inspire him to trek out of the house, fire on his heels.

It was a woman who came back with the man. A knight's wife? No, who has the lord mentioned would help her? An Aida, wasn't it? Distinctly feminine of a name.

General Aida was tall for a woman, though Sunilda's perspective was skewed. She took half a step back to better find her brilliant red eyes. Her hair matched them (Sunilda counted, on one hand, the number of people she knew with red hair), sharply angled and lined with black. She wore black too—too much black, for her tastes! Why was everyone perpetually mourning?—and needed to cover her chest a bit. When did dress with the high slit become fashionable? It was not her place to say anything, so she didn't. She barely knew the woman to pass judgement.

"Can I help you?" she asked. There was a sword at her hip (where were they?). She didn't know her weapons, but it looked plain. The closest she got to blades were bread knives.

Talking never came easy, but she wasn't here for her. "I'm—" Sunilda wetted her lips. Who was she? The last thing she needed to do was stick words in Lord Arvis' mouth. "I'm someone in the duke's life, and told me if I need anything, I could ask the Ritter. You are General Aida, aren't you?"

"You're Lord Azel's mother, aren't you?" Everything was an echo, so she nodded. Lord. Her little boy. She forgot it some days. Meteor on high. The woman's hand gripped the hilt of her sword, bowing at the waist. "Of course, Miss Sunilda. Follow me." Miss. She was at that age, wasn't she?

Still, she followed. What else was she going to do? She'd come for a purpose. The general's stride was long, but she knew how to scurry. (Was the lord eating? She was partial to the kitchen here, but he grew tall and strong with good meals.)

It was a quiet walk to her office. The general opened the door for her, offering to take her coat. She kept it on again, and Aida pulled a chair out for her. She'd made certain she had her letter—wouldn't that be embarrassing?—but dug through the pockets of her dress again to be certain. "What brings you here, miss?" General Aida continued, still standing. It was there, alongside the smooth river stones Azel convinced her to buy. Why he couldn't keep things in his pockets was beyond her.

"...am I suppose to tell you to sit?"

"I prefer to stand."

Sunilda moved the rocks out of her pocket. "It'd be a bit easier to talk if you sat, don't you think?" she said offhandedly; she didn't mean for it, but the woman then moved to sit behind her desk. Oh.

She did not tower over her sitting, which was some comfort. "How may I help you today, miss?" she asked again.

Like a child, she was needing help. It was one to admit to the lord, needing him (being needed) for nearly a decade, but to a stranger? General Aida was a stranger the lord trusted with her care, though, and it counted in her heart.

"Oh, to be blunt, I cannot read but the lord writes to me. The man who normally reads for me got the holiday off, Azel cannot read these as we talk about him, and I'd like to say something to him before the road gets wet." She barely knew the girl, the woman, the general, yet she barged in anyway. Given she had no place to be told yes as often as she was, no would be perfectly fine. Picking at her nails would ruin them one of these days.

"It's no problem, Miss Sunilda." Aida did not bow again (it would be impressive sitting down), but she inclined her head; her stomach twisted. She shifted through the contents of her pockets, three times for best luck, gold freely hitting her knuckles. The hen. She couldn't forget that. The letter fit right in her hands, as if she was always meant for a lord's correspondence. She popped the seal again, fitting just in the round part where thumb married palm.

She took one more look, as if between home and here she gleaned the ability to read. Anyone could, perhaps, but she was useless. She pushed the letter across the desk.

The general leaned forward. Under the privacy of her office, plus the half lit hearth, her intimidation was sliced in half from the foyer. Her eyes were softer too, not nearly as defined. "The butler reads it straight," Sunilda said after a moment. "But you may do as you please. You're the one reading it."

Aida said nothing yet. The crease in brow meant she was busy reading, surely, and she'd get her letter read like the worthless maid who didn't. Another wicked part of her found in her little son, the unfortunate way her stomach at the first sign of trouble. How could she hurt her own son so bad? Hopefully he grew less like her.

"Lord Arvis apologizes," she almost stumbled on the word, "for not coming home for the year's end. Perhaps next year. He expected as much, however and there is a gift for Azel in the bottom right drawer of his desk. He is thinking of you two, and your gift should, hopefully, arrive from Azel's hands." Bottom right? Things were normally hidden in the left. (Not that she often dug through it, but while his patterns were different from Azel's, he had them.) "No one in Belhalla knows anything, and the academy's launderers ruined his cloak." Aida cleared her throat, turning the letter so she could see. "And then, it is his name."

Arvis. His poor cloak. He hadn't been to a tailor since he was fourteen, and never on his own. "Thank you, Aida."

The woman said nothing again. The lord wrote to her on white paper, yet Aida's was tinged yellow. Aida gave her no prompt, wetting the quill. She'd have to get him a gift somehow for both the year and his birthday; finding a gift was no easy task either. How much could she tell Aid?. Never much. The sweet parts of the lord stayed for her. "I'm glad he's well. The holiday is fine." Always easier to talk to him than it was to write. "As long as he does something with himself over the holiday I can forgive him."

Her letters were squat. "Do you sign your own name?" she asked.

"I do not. He knows." Who else wrote so casually to him? Aida pressed the letter over three times, sharply folding the creases down with the edge of her nail. "The courier at home can take it," she said, and whatever gold she had left from the hen.

Aida said nothing for a moment. Talking at someone again, it seemed, but if the lord trusted Aida (with her?), she would not shy away. "As you say." Still, the woman tucked it into an envelope for her too. "Do you need anything else?"

"I-" she thought of her precious boy, his precious hen, and how faint she'd felt during breakfast. She touched the inside of her wrist. Chilly. "You can always tell me no, but if you have the time I do need help with an errand."

Aida glanced behind her. The sun outside the window meant she didn't need eyes on her. Never out past dark, but her useless arms couldn't hold her son anymore, let alone a fat, stuffed dead bird. "I can, miss."

Sunilda smiled. "I thank you again. We won't be long."

The general pushed back from her desk. Impeccably dressed. Did she wear makeup? Her eyes were ringed in black and peaked at the corners. She didn't need the liner, she thought.

She pushed her seat back, standing up; she smoothed down the front of her dress. It crinkled easy anymore; she was almost certain she was due for a new one—four years for a daily dress?—but seamstresses worked with the ladies of Velthomer, coins as pretty as their faces and everything she wasn't.

The woman said nothing. She did step around the desk to push her chair in. Had the lord shared her failures? Hopefully not. Why would he do such a thing? But why wouldn't he, if she was expected to burden her in his absence?

Or she was polite.

Polite.

Neither said anything on the way from the barracks to the butcher's. Quiet wasn't wrong, but...did she expect conversation? Sunilda did not have much to give. Manners were something she had to be mindful of, because Azel did as he saw and she was sloppy with hers. Azel was not here, though, and Sunilda did not know what she could say to a woman like this. (Lady knights weren't uncommon, she knew, but they never lasted long; women got married and gave birth, bound to home until the children left.) All she spoke of with the lord were things she or Azel wanted, how the boy was, and while the amount of gold he was willing to give her still made her head spin, taking care of Azel like that came easier everyday. Did he know it? He knew pieces of how she grew up, but what other life did he know?

If Aida wanted conversation, she offered none of it herself. The general opened the door for her, as if she could not, and caught her elbow when she wobbled. Kindness (surely, or the lord told her of her shortcomings—why would he? nonsense).

Still, the general was not kin, and standing there, together, for all she was to the lord (or not), she did not know their habits. The butcher cocked his head, and she pointed to Aida as she dug through her pockets. Someone had run off with her empty purse. The poor little bird was wrapped in cloth upon cloth and bound with twine, she knew (Azel had not been told that, and she'd spent a night helping him pull it free of his greedy baby teeth).

"A hen, miss?"

"Mhmm." Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. "The lord gets one every new year, for he's the lord, and Azel and I were going to forgo it in his absence, but that did not please him and he got us one anyhow. Not that I and Azel can eat a whole one. I wish I could remember why we get one. It might be one of those things we do just because he says so." She looked at the poor, dressed bird as the butcher handed it to her. "I wish he'd asked me before sending for one, but the lord is my lord."

The space was small; the butcher took a step around the counter, so she took one and a half back, bumping into Aida. To her credit, the woman did not stumble. The man was not trying anything, but she'd always had poor reactions. Sixteen pieces of gold for a hen they could not finish. "Have a good day, sir," and, though the woman did not need it, she waited to be sure that her hold on it was fine. "One more errand. I promised the boy candy."

General Aida was not nearly as unnerving as the lord, so talking was easier than she thought. "You needn't follow me though. If you want to drop it off with the cook and get back to your day you ca- you may. The chews he likes are on the way though…"

"It is whatever you please, miss."

Miss. She rarely saw Aida, but she was relatively new to the duchy, was she not? Meteor. The vague Phinora incident. Azel was already a little, talking boy then: who would know her sin besides a few servants, a lord, and her lord? "I'll be quick. Would you like anything?"

"I am alright."

Still, looking at the bird in the general's arms, she did not know what they were going to do with it all. This bird would be cooked tonight, they'd celebrate tomorrow, and hopefully her letter made the post. "General Aida?"

"Miss?"

"I'm sorry if I overstep, but would you like to eat with my boy and I? I don't know what you do for the holiday, but there's bound to be waste, and the rest of the servants go to their homes for the day…" She could be told no , obviously; perhaps she preferred it. Was she pushing her limits? She didn't know Aida well enough, herself, to extend these things, yet she had. Short notice, too. Would dinner company upset Azel? Did Azel know Aida? She wanted her lord home for the holiday, but if he came back so soon she didn't think she could let him go.

Winter, maybe (a dull one), but she still had to squint against the sun. Aida shifted her grip on the hen. "No thank you, miss. I go home."

Miss. "You needn't call me miss. I'm not much of anyone. Just Sunilda is fine."

"Lord Arvis told us knights we are to treat you with the same respect we give him."

Respect. Her head spun. Respecting her! Her! What had she done? Lost to a man and bore a son no one ever suspected was hers. Some great respect she earned! One thing to be miss'd by the butler, but the knights? "No, no, General, that is-" she sighed. Words weren't hers. "I must get my boy his treats, then I will show you to the kitchen."

iv.

The Dozels had boys. Two, in fact; one stood tall—well, both did, but one stood tall like a grown man and the other was still a boy. The boy's hair was comically blue, like the dye used to make dresses. But when did Velthomer have guests? Certainly not by Arvis, excusable due to his age, but a man living here was old enough to make dubious decisions. "Come on, sweetie."

She didn't prompt it, but Azel went hand-and-hand with her. Away from the balcony he brought her too, they disappeared back inside. She slept in this morning, bothered by her head and the first crunch of spring, only to be woken by a boy aching for company, as weird people were about.

The butler did not know a thing about guests, leaning heavily on his new cane at the mouth of the guest hall. "Would you like me to—"

"No, miss."

Sunilda did not push. She and Azel went the other way. "Guests!" Azel said. "I hope they don't drink my teas."

She barely spoke to Lord Dalton or his wife—why would she? He was as outgoing as his nephew, not the wild ways of his deceased brother. They had nothing in common besides the castle they lived in, and her and Azel got up to their own mischief. Most days, it was the same old, now with the added inclusion of General Aida reading her mail. But she knew the man was around (those pesky hairs on the back of her neck spent half the day at attention). Lord Dalton gave Azel a gift for the holiday. The boy's kin.

They went from the second story and down into the main hall. If they weren't quick, the Dozels could be in any moment, so she kept Azel to the wall. Passing by servants—some of them belonging to the Dozels, faces unfamiliar—she brought them to the room the lord would meet company if he had it. Lady Thea did her own things, just like her, and during the day she rarely saw the couple together. Sunilda knew better, standing in the doorway of the room.

"When did the Dozels get in?" she asked. Today, he did not wear black, white on his shoulders. For a grown man, he did not cut an impressive figure.

"Does my nephew let all his servants speak out of turn? It's any wonder this castle stands." Sunilda bit her cheek. She knew better, yes, and knew better than to invite guests into a home that wasn't hers. Lord Dalton turned from the window; through the curtains she saw people outside. "I invited the Dozels, yes. My nephew may prefer a hands-off method, but the rest of Grannvale does not. Shameful to have a grown duke most of the country only knows about through letters, unless there is something about him worth hiding."

Hiding ? The lord did not hide. Distantly she knew it was something to do with the prince—that guardianship he held on the lord until his fifteenth—and how swiftly he went from protected child to a man at school. Where was the time for company? "No." Azel was a tiny boy who, on rough nights, sucked his thumb, only half way to manhood. Gatherings under his eye, if any, were far off. His hand fit just in hers, hopefully even then. "Who made the pick of the Dozels? They are-" gods, where was Dozel? beneath Belhalla, wasn't it? no fan of the prince, but she would take familiar company over anyone else, "-not neighbors."

"No duchy has neighbors. Do your eyes work?" Hot under her dress, she rubbed her thumb across her boy's hand.

"Duchies have neighbors! The ones in the south are much closer to one another," Azel softly added. He knew, of course. Too much time in the library to not.

Lord Dalton smiled. "You have your point, boy. But Velthomer does not." Any kindness squeezed out of his voice, he turned to address her. "Why does it matter to a maid who is brought in?" It did not matter to a maid. "Your duty is the same." Azel made his own bed this morning, so her duty was moot.

Guests in the duchy after many empty seasons. "Lord Arvis does not know," she tried, and before she stumbled her way onto the three reasons that was bad, Lord Dalton steered the conversation.

"You think I am dull enough to go behind his back? Predictably Lord Arvis takes after his late father—"

She blinked. His father? "He does not—" Azel, bravely hiding behind her, gave her hand a squeeze.

"You do not interrupt me." Interrupt him? But he cut her off! Yes, she spoke out of turn, another nothing woman with a bastard glued to her hip, except Azel wasn't a bastard, true like her oldest. "No one was wise enough to train that temper out of him. Most," his eyes slid across her, "are wise enough not to put words in the duke's mouth."

What? When? "I did—"

"You did, yes. I cannot imagine letting a maid run her mouth like this to anyone, but the duchy did not come to my hands. Unless you are more than a maid and simply too moronic to–"

"Shut up," Azel said, as loud as he could make his inside voice; she gave his hand another squeeze. "You don't talk to Momma like that."

One, two, three. Oh, Azel. One, two, three. Lord Dalton took a step forward. Azel stood by her now. "What did you say?"

"You don't talk to my momma like that," he repeated. "No. You don't. Come on, Momma."

Clear as day the conversation was over, with no room for her to decide otherwise, Azel led her by the hand out of the small room. Boyish yet more than her, Lord Dalton did not follow. Why not answer her question? What sort of duchy had secret guests? (She's quiet. Why did she need to be quiet?)

The lord he was by birth, Azel wanted tea, apples and honey. He promised he ate while she napped, and this was just an extra meal. They took it outside, sat at a table beneath a tree. Busy the kitchen was, he was served rapidly. He ate on his knees, honey on the corner of his mouth. Her appetite was elsewhere, so she only managed a slice to keep Azel unaware.

She lived here. For better or worse. Strangers under her roof was in her realm of things to question, and with Lord Arvis gone, someone needed to. Her most recent letter detailed a brief plight in which the lord found his classmates painfully boring (unlike her).

She knew she could overthink things. The months Azel called her home all she did was pace, cry, and clean. She spent all these years being told what she wanted to know, now denied by a man she didn't know.

A man her taciturn son told to shut up. Crass phrasing, yet she found herself unbothered by it.

One more slice of an apple painfully slid down her throat; warm tea did not help. "Sweetie?"

Intuitively, he knew. "It's oh-kay. You and me can figure out why the Dozhels are here and there'll be no mean words! We don't need him," he decided, mouth gummy with honey. Need Lord Dalton? No. But he easily had answers instead of spending a day running away - around. Running around .

Her dear boy. "Alright. Let's finish up here." She brushed his hair back behind his ear so he did not ruin it with honey. He beamed; then they ate in relative silence. He ate most of it, covering his plate with his napkin when he was done. Once they cracked why the Dozels visited, she could finish her nap while her boy sat safely somewhere.

He was patient as ever to let her finish her own. Everyone got fussy when he didn't eat, so it meant everyone had to eat too. Luckily for her and her flighty stomach, he ate most of the apples. As tea mulled in her mouth, she popped the lid back on the jar of honey. Years ago she'd broken a jar of it in the middle of the night and sobbed over it, careful ever since. No punishment came, but she couldn't be wasting something like honey. Sometimes honey from Yngvi of all places accidentally ended up at their table.

"Momma." She did not know where the tea came from. Well, she did — usually local, but Edda's teas matched their jams. "Momma, can we go out later?"

What was today? Nothing he needed to be at. "Sure, honey." He didn't eat at his brother's big birthday, too many people, so he wouldn't eat tonight. Her and her boy again, but who else was there? "We have to stay in tomorrow. You have your tutor coming."

"I know." His magic tutor still only came twice a week; she did not know how he was doing in his studies, as lost to her as proper books, but no one told her he wasn't doing well. "Have all our fun today!"

"Have all our fun today," she agreed. The tea mulled under her tongue. Lingering teas were never her type. Finishing up, wiping his face off was harder than she thought; the honey was stickier than usual, her napkin sticking to his cheek. Mindfully, she pulled it off, and when he was clean enough, he helped her up and pushed her seat in. They did not hold hands this time, but he stuck to her side, holding his plate. She thought of his brother who left his plate on the table; for now, Azel could take his own in,

What was guestfare? A lord met them, fed them, then showed them to their quarters; normally, guests did not arrive so early. Weary from travel, they'd sleep through the night and the entertaining would begin in the morning. The previous duke took too many guests, her mistress took none, and her lord would invite an appropriate amount.

It didn't matter. Her and her boy ignored it all, after all, fine and reserved as always—three meals, shiny shoes, tutors, performers in the arena and mornings in the market; why did it matter that the Dozels visited? She best kept her nose out of everything. This summer Azel was set to learn how to ride horses, sitting on the back of a horse meant for a slim, joyful boy.

She couldn't.

The Dozels were not where they last saw them. One of the newer maids Sunilda did not know the name of told her Lord Dalton did as he should with Lady Thea at his side. No one could point them directly to the Dozels, spun heel on heel around the manor, until the early morning caught up to her and she took herself for a nap. Azel did not need to come, only keep out of the way, but he followed her upstairs.

And then disappeared out of sight while she slept.

It was not late at all; only an hour later, perhaps, but there was no boy or shoes or his cloak, only a forgotten book in her window. Sunilda fixed her hair, straightened her shoes, sneaking out of her room. He was not in his room, the den, or lingering in the library. Ridiculous boy.

The household settled while she napped. A maid she did not know (she did not know many of them, admittedly; servants aged and were replaced) told her Lord Azel (lord!) was outside in the company of the Dozels, having found them all by himself.

The Dozels meant the youngest: The Dozel child dressed simply, but not poorly; a white tunic lined with grey borders that tightened at the waist and flared out after that, dark grey pants that ended in well-scuffed boots, and a clean if road weary face.

The Dozel child was a lord, she reminded herself, like her boy, but Azel did not lord over anyone. He tripped over his shoes, pink in the cheek, as he kept up with the other boy's larger stride, a grass stain on the front of his tunic and his sleeve. Under Azel's slim arm was his ball (rarely played with; she could catch a ball well but did not run), the tail-end of whatever play they'd gotten into while she took a selfish rest.

Sunilda rubbed her sweaty palm off on her thigh. Her eyes slid around the yard; just on the edge of the lawn Lady Thea laid her delicate head on Lord Dalton's chicken-like arm. "Azel?" He stopped, noticing her now, and as he came forward, she came out. The sun had calmed, no longer an assault on her eyes. He dropped his ball, intending for a hug as they usually went for, before remembering they were with company . She did not expect Azel to be shy — how quick he hugged around servants! — but servants were not his age. He stood close enough, so she picked grass off his shoulder. "Are you going to introduce us?" she asked.

"Oh! His name is Lex." She ran her hand through his hair; he gave a smile, missing one of his back teeth for a few weeks now (no crying). "I was gonna come back before you woke up," he promised. Both lord and lady noticed her, wretchedly; Lord Dalton rolled his eyes, his wife chittered something, laughing like the wind as her lips curled in a smile. She dragged her eyes back to her boy, balanced on his toes.

"You're allowed to play, sweetie." Lex — Lord Lex — had not come to join them. A knot in her back crossed bowing off the table, offering the child a smile instead. Used to her boys — who either gave full teeth or barely acknowledged her — Lord Lex's small grin was different. One of his front teeth was missing, adding a charm to it. "I just like knowing where you are." He nodded. He knew his own limits, of course. "Go play."

"Okay!"

And off he went to play. How often did her little boy get to play with another child? Not often. She did her best to keep her doubts reasonable. Lord Lex did not play rough, but like any other boy child; Azel was soft because she was; he was a head shorter, soft-kneed, and pink in the cheek quickly because of her and everything wrong with her . (How many times? From birth to now to tomorrow.)

v.

Over the winter, mice get into their kitchen stores. Oran and Fion (the new head of the kitchen) told her early in the morning. "Well, send them outside, I suppose," she said.

The butler had woken her with a knock on her door, so Sunilda -stumbled out of bed. First she noticed the cold, lingering on the floor; for once, she had the mind to stuff her feet into her slippers. She expected Azel, eyes downward for a little boy who now cleared her hip and more, before remembering that Azel did not knock , only claimed her bed as his, as she awkwardly stared at the butler's stomach. They were over it quickly, Once they were in the kitchen with a new man entirely, she also realized she was only in her knee length nightgown with the short sleeves.

"Send them...outside," Fion echoed.

"I did it as a girl." Mice were a part of life. She dealt with them in her youth — mice came in for the winter, but if you caught the first one and tossed it out (usually hiding by the fireplace to build a nest), it stopped early. Sunida spent one winter nearly by herself, while her cousin went off to do work, and before it ended in almost-disaster, she kept the vermin out. "How many are there?"

Fion glanced at Oran, her, then back to the butler. Two heads taller than her and arms the size of her waist, stopping her would be easy. Oran, old he was, would protect her. She crept over to the pantry, feet sliding on the stone floors. The cellar door was heavy, the metal handle as thick as her wrist, but she pried it up. Dark and stale, her eyes barely made out the sacks of dried grains, confits, preserved fruits and some of the salted meats. Just there in the dark she saw something scurry by, squeaking to itself as it disappeared into an opened bag of wheat. Oh, no.

"Well, he's certainly in there!" Another scurried below, scaling the monumental sack to dive in. A light little life for a mouse. Dark and her eyes poor, she couldn't tell if the mice were compatible, but all it took was two. "Have you found a nest? Lead the mice out to a happy field and burn the nest."

"I know how to-"

"They haven't done a thing to be so coldly-"

Stepping back, she let the door fall. It loudly clattered as it slotted in place. She wiped her hands off on her thighs.

Oran leaned on his cane. Where was his room if she did not hear him clunking around? "There are easier ways to deal with an infestation."

"Do you know its infested?"

"It's mice."

"Why did you ask me here if you are going to ignore me?" A servant by habit, not even a bright one. Her history in the kitchen involved burnt cakes, burnt tea, spilled honey, broken trays...her failures weren't secret to the butler. Did Fion know that? What servants knew her? She certainly didn't know their faces. Maids weren't maidens forever, women grew old. Men kept to their duties in stables.

The butler did not dignify her with an answer to her question. "Mice always return. It is a gift that this is our first problem with them."

"And if they return we release them again. The mice aren't guilty of anything but an empty stomach."

"And emptying your stores," Fion reminded her. Her stores? The household's. "The mice-"

Oran sighed again. "This is ridic-"

"There's more to life than killing."

"They're mice," Fion rebutted.

"And? Is wandering in here a crime?"

"Uninvited? Yes."

"They're mice! Not men. My boy goes with his tutor tomorrow. I will help, should you like. You have to round them up anyhow to…tend to them! It will be easy." Her head ached. The sharp, dull feeling grinding in her head happened often enough. She worked her jaw to get it used to spatting again. Bothering the doctor...she could.

"And what field are you dumping them in?"

Sunilda set her hand on her hip. "I will find one!"

"Miss-"

"If you cannot kill them I will," Fion pressed. He looked good and capable.

"Why do they need to die?"

"They're vermin!"

"They did not come here maliciously!" Oran sighed. To speak like this with anyone... surely the morning was to blame. Their status as peasantry? No one knew her. "Why drag me out of bed if my opinion falls nowhere?" she asked again. Sunilda stepped out of the pantry; logs cracked in the hearth, the lit oven started on bread. A silent, cool start to the day. She didn't miss waking before the sun.

Oran was the head butler when she first came here. He did well for himself, the fine stitch on the edge of his sleeve. "Miss, I woke you," no man lived forever, knuckles tight on the top of his cane, "as I was told—" his words stopped cold, his green eyes sliding towards the back door. Fion did likewise, and she followed.

"What is the yelling about?" Lord Dalton asked. Yelling? She did not yell! By the cut of his slacks and his rucked up hair he was not coming from bed; while she knew nothing of the world when it went dark (purposeful), the tint of wine on his cheeks was unmistakable. They hadn't woken anyone all the way down here. She kept her eyes on him, creeping over to Oran's side.

"Mice, Dalton," he casually answered. Was it just the duke and this man? Sunilda never met the old duchess, nor did anyone talk about her. A changing of the times perhaps, with how few spoke about the duke she wed. How long did people remember one another, let alone a dead man's wife?

Where was this man's wife? This late at night (this early), the carriage would disembark somewhere quiet; she looked past him, outside into the lightening morning, dwindling moonlight catching the sharp edge of the chicken house and the shake of a horse's head. "Why," the butler leaned more on his cane, "I believe the last time we had mice you were getting married."

"One chewed through my marriage coat."

"You had to wear your father's. It barely fit you."

"My wedding was anything but coordinated." Married at fifteen, but how old was he now? Older than her, as they usually were. Arvis barely spoke about the man, and when she mentioned his wife in one of their letters, he had no clue what woman she was talking about. The lord not knowing any member of the house, married in or not, struck her off, but if she could not keep her own family straight, a family three times the size was likely to get jumbled.

Lord Dalton kept quiet as he moved over to the pantry. Friendly with wine, any grace a man of his birth should have had was burdened, but he was steady enough to wedge the cellar door ajar with the toe of his soft boot and three fingers. "Good gods, man. You expect me to believe this happened overnight?" She suppressed the urge to step forward; two mice and some of their kinfolk was not an infestation.

"I noticed when I went for the salt this morning, m'lord," Fion said. Sunilda knew what Lord Dalton's attention felt like, tame it was. It was the most forthright it'd been as he stepped out, as if she invited them in. "The snap must've-"

"You let one in," Lord Dalton left it at. Sunilda bit her cheek, shoved out of the conversation easily. "Flush them out and keep it down. My wife sleeps. An absolutely stupid thing to be argue over."

Yes, she was absolutely stupid down to her mousyself. Eating food that wasn't hers, sleeping in a warm home she had no right to, hiding in corners, any benefit outweighed by the burden. "Miss Sunilda has made her—" Oran started.

Taking a step forward, Lord Dalton held a smidge of that infamous Velthomer temper, the same as his rotting brother. She took a step back, bare elbow caught by Fion. "I was not aware Miss Sunilda had reign of the castle. Flush them out."

She knew, right on top of everything, that she was too old for this sort of thing. Crying over: mice that died everyday, a strange man six steps away from her, a short night's sleep, the frigid morning air curling around her exposed calves, her aching, split eyes, but the tears threatened to pour over anyway. Frozen, the three of them stood until he left, breaking Sunilda of her spell. What was it? The sudden fear, the sudden aches. Fine. No need to fuss.

She left Fion's reach. Never a kitchen worker, she knew her steps around it; she found trays, cups, and a kettle while Oran and Fion discussed quietly amongst each other. Today marked the third day of the week; Azel took no tutor. "Not to be a bother," she said, "but if you must, do it at night." Stupid, stupid. Who rehomed mice? "I must get back to my boy before he wakes. My lord's room needs attention, not to mention my lady's. Be kind to the mice, if you can."

"I will...try my best," Fion promised. She grabbed a box of tea leaves.

"Thank you! How simple that was. Good morning and good day to the both of you."

Leaving the kitchen with her armful of goodies, she went back upstairs to her boy's room. No one else was up; her ear was not as tuned as it used to be, hearing nothing from the servants quarters. Perhaps they slept late. The cold did that, young and old. Putting Azel to bed last night, she didn't foresee a cold snap, but he was warm with or without his quilt. Nudging his door open (no lock), he was wrapped up in his sheet, an open book behind his back. Sunilda lost the urge to cry.

She set water to heat, then tucked him in under one of his blankets. He mumbled something, sweaty at his temples. Oh, good. She leaned down to press her lips to his cool skin, collar of his nightgown clammy and plastered to his skin. He was fine last night, save for skipping dinner and sweets. Poor thing. What happened over night? His turn to be sick; first the lord that odd day, now him. Her turn, one of these days. "Azel? What happened to you?"

He grumbled into his pillow. Alright. She had her own things to do today, but it was early; she hadn't come with the intent of waking him just yet. She ran away from the kitchen; nothing more. She pet his bangs back. Get him nice and warm and chase the sick out of him. If not, he and his tutor could meet again next week. Clever, one missing week wouldn't set him back. Tucking him in under the arms, she watched the breaths fill his chest.

But sitting did not stop her heart; she was more than a mouse; she knew what needed to be done, her light duty intentional, given by the lord himself. Doing what she knew always calmed her, since before having her boy, a lousy servant she may have been.

If Azel hadn't woken sick in the middle of the night to come complain to her, he likely was out . She brushed his hair away from the back of his neck; her sleeping gown had no long sleeves. For all the times he stuck to her, he hadn't been in her lady's room since he was babbling and, truthfully, he didn't need to come. Bad enough her fine son had her for a mother, but to also do servant's work? Before they tumbled into winter, she needed to beat the curtains silly, but he enjoyed that too much to take it from him, and a vacant bed only needed to be laundered at the first sight of spring.

Alright.

She pulled the kettle off, pouring him a cup of it and leaving the leaves to steep on his desk. Leaving him a cooler cup on his nightstand, she gave him another kiss in parting. Sleeping he was, he grumbled into his pillow again, turning away from her. Fine. Cruel child. She rubbed his back, the bumps of his spine beneath her knuckles. Hers and breathing, and what else mattered?

She left him. Early morning, chilly air, she remembered her short nightgown and bare arms, thinking of stopping by her room. Who was up to see her like this? Her thicker dresses weren't winter washed. The cook touched her elbow, and she hadn't shriveled up in fear. A proper dress once the sun broke. Who saw her at this hour?

No one, she reminded herself. Just her, her boy, and her more distant one. No one knew her, wanted her, or needed her outside of what she already knew. One day, hopefully soon, the number bumped up to three.

Lady Cigyun's room stood empty as ever. The door creaked, knob wobbling. Sunilda opened it a crack, squeezing through. Dark, cold, and quiet, a far cry from the women who kept her through several spilled trays of breakfast. Nothing moved here. Sunilda did her best to visit once a month to dust, keeping it easy to tend to, and when seasons bent she did more. How much cleaning did a room need when no one lived with it?

Her canopied bed housed between the two great windows, finely wrought curtains tied shut. Two years ago, Sunilda quit changing the blanket every season; her summer quilt kept her enough. (If Lady Cig - when Lady Cigyun returned, she'd go back to serving her, but not back to sleeping on a pallet; Sunilda liked having her own room.)

The duchess' clothes were packed away (why leave with nothing?), ready to be cleaned and laid out when she returned. One of these days, yes, it would happen, and everything would be good and proper for her. The only thing to change would be how tall her son was, and how many called this place home.

Maybe.

(Why leave? Why not come back? What could bother her? Every birthday Azel had was more proof the woman was gone.)

Her carpet, a marriage gift if she remembered right, dulled, the once bright mulberry swirls lost to time/her own forgetfulness. A warmer day her and Azel could sneak out to a river and beat it square. Women's work, sure, but her boy was stronger than her; what mother didn't need her son's help? Certainly not her.

She was not to her thoughts or with only dust bunnies for company. Azel must have known when she thought about him. She poked at the empty flower beds that hung out of her lady's windows; why not take them down? She had no touch for plants, somewhere in her early grief forgetting about them for at least a year.

She heard the door creak open again. Checking to be certain whoever creeped in was her wanted company, Azel and his sweaty bangs buried themselves in her stomach, arms around her. "Momma," he mumbled. Her hand slipped down his cheek, under his chin. "My head hurts."

He tilted his head up, showing her his eyes, the whites of them red. "And you've got a fever."

"And I've got a fever!" he chimed, throat scratchy. He was in his robe, soft on the inside but undeniably cozy, a dark burgundy. Snotty, too; this time of day she did not have a handkerchief with her. She brushed his bangs out.

"Come help me dust your brother's room, and then we'll sit somewhere, hm?"

He nodded, not budging. Early morning for him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders to pull him in. Her darling boy, away from pain. Did he know what happened in this room three-on-three years ago? Had the duke's words reached him? That he was unwanted? It couldn't have, how much he smiled. She'd been unwanted, plain as day, and did not smile as often. "How come Arvis' momma is a lady and you aren't?" he asked, muffled against her.

"She married a lord."

"And you're not married."

"And I'm not married."

"D'you want to be?" How easy it was to have this conversation! It was not the first time, and her answer hadn't moved.

"D'you want me to be?"

"Nah." Cut from the same cloth.

"Good. I don't want to be either." Who would want to marry her? It was a short list before the duke got to her, even shorter now. Still not strong enough to scoop him up, she stooped to kiss him instead. "Did you drink your tea?" He nodded. "Okay. We'll fix up your brother's room," doing small cleanings instead of a massive one was more manageable in the long run, considering the list of servants allowed in his room was short, "then get you better, huh? A warm bath to clear your nose."

Azel nodded again; his hand gently worked through her dress. "Is it too cold to go outside?"

"Absolutely!" This was an early hour for him. "And Momma's old and will need a nap before lunch."

The little wolf from his storytime, he huffed, cheeks puffed out. "You always take a nap!" he complained. Without the hearth lit, his normally warm cheek was chilly. Nothing got him. Nothing found him. "If we have to," he relented.

(In the afternoon, while Azel read in much warmer air, she returned his breakfast things to the kitchen; the butler and Lord Dalton were gone, and Fion met her at the doorway as a young boy dug through the pantry, room boarded off at knee-level.)

vi.

The rest of the winter passed in ease — no more mice came in. Bitterly cold in the duchy for the first time in fifteen years, she finally packed away her old, thin cloak, taking her gifted one as her daily wear. She got her and her boy gloves for the season, skipping the queue with a heavy fist of gold coins. Tawny and lined with rabbit fur, they were half a finger too big for Azel, but hers fit tightly. They wore them to church, now three pews back from where they normally sat; Sunilda only donated when the father was gone, to the palm of that horrible blue-haired sister.

Most days it got too cold to leave the castle, but the stone walls were not comfortable either. They spent time in the small den with a healthy hearth; Azel read most evenings, books or his frequent letters with the Dozel child, while the boredom of being indoors finally shaved her attempts at knitting into something resembling a pattern.

General Aida was gone to Phinora for the winter, so the butler read her letters from the lord. His new cloak was made of the gruffest cashmere he, a lord of sixteen years, ever experienced, and Belhalla's claims to riches were yet to impress him. The academy launderers continued to use the wrong soap on his towels, so he now hired an external launderer, but fabrics only dried so fast. Knowing him to be fussy, not prissy, she wanted to ask where all his irritation stemmed from, but when she could not pen her own words it was much simpler thought about than done.

Snow came with the holiday. Azel told her first light, sat on the edge of her bed with a bounce to his foot, his first glimpse of it. It was hellish to drag him through the barely ankle high snow to church, which was half empty. Azel's kinfolk made it, and then Azel played outside in the afternoon before curling up in her arms with one of his books. Their mail was late because of it, three weeks behind, and while it did not snow Dozel, Belhalla received enough to reach the lord's calves. Unsurprisingly, he did not enjoy it. The poor weather made their gifts a few weeks late, but they arrived. The lord's birthday passed in a blink without time to get him a gift.

It marked over a year since he left. She and Azel managed to not burn anything down, their lives breezy as ever. Lying did not come easy, so she did not do it: she missed Arvis. Sunilda knew he was fine , boarded at an expensive academy for the well-to-do sons of the land, yet his year seemed to be filled with tiny mishaps that simply did not happen in Velthomer. Sons did not stay forever — he was not hers anyhow, and Azel would grow up one day too.

All his letters sat in a box beneath her bed.

And then there was her boy's kin. She did not go out of her way to speak to them, but she was a servant first, not a member of the family, and needed to be polite when the time called for it. Largely, they kept to themselves, and for being that man's brother, Lord Dalton was...silent. The odd morning he and his wife stumbled in, but it was far from the scandals the last duke had. Nothing wrong with a night out, snow or rain or windy be darned, and she knew she was the odd one out avoiding wine and sticking only with her son. She was not housebound, and had a life before her boy, but who knew her at this point? A small childhood shuffled around, one friend, and now…

Azel rode a pony by himself at the false end of winter with the assistance of a knight. He left very early in the morning, so she sat useless in the window waiting for him to return. The worry was well placed! He was a slight, tender boy who bruised when he tripped, and there was no telling what a grown horse would do to him. He returned safely, of course, not a hair out of place, but with horse riding he'd be grown before she knew it, away from the safety of her frail arms. That day he still flung himself against her, around her waist as ever and looking adoringly up at her. Momma, Momma, Momma! No happier boy in the realm.

All and all, it was a good life.

When early spring settled in — frost on the morning grass, but warm enough come lunch Azel escaped his tutors to the sprawling gardens and did not freeze — General Aida returned from Phinora. She, of all women, received a missive that if she wanted her mail read again, every second day of the week the general had an open lunch. The mild spring meant her letters were on time enough to justify lunch with the woman.

There was one thing she wanted to ask the lord she did not want to bother the butler with, so she went. She thought to get the woman something for being an annoyance, but her scant time with her left her empty-minded on what to possibly gift her, so she stopped thinking about it, gathering her one letter and taking the trek to the barracks.

Winter did not leave General Aida poor; did Phinora stay warm? Sunilda dared not venture to find out. Sharp-eyed, the woman pulled a chair out for her when she arrived; she laid the letter out on the space of the desk between them, seal already broken, drumming her fingers on the flat top. "How are you?" Sunilda asked. Lunch for these types did not always mean meals, rather the hour there was nothing planned, but the general steeped tea on her desk.

"I am well, miss. I was glad to miss the snow." She plucked the letter up with her gloved fingers. None spoke as she read, though Sunilda considered asking her to draw the curtains shut to block out the irritating sunlight; she was the guest; she did not ask. "Lord Arvis has nothing unusual to report. If Lord Azel would like any new books, he should mention them soon." More books! Just what he needed.

Sunilda stopped tapping her fingers, irritated by the sun and the sound of her own fingernails. Small distractions Lord Arvis had in Belhalla, his days, too, were consistent. He was as a good a student as he was anything else, occasionally bothered again by Prince Kurth despite being a man in his own right; he was not at school to make friends, either.

"Would you like a cup?"

It smelled too minty for her tastes, shaking her head. Clear roads hopefully brought her fruity teas back. General Aida drank out of a plain white cup while she stewed and tossed words around her head. What did she want from the lord? She knew.

Aida pulled a sheet of paper out of her desk. Chilly air did not encourage her to cover up. "I would like to visit him. Or he visit. I think Azel is old enough to leave Velthomer, and three years is a very long time to not see someone. I know others manage but…" she sighed. "Truth be told, I tire a little of Velthomer! It is much for a woman like me to ask, I know, but I have been here for quite some time."

"Some time?" General Aida echoed.

"Oh. I have been here since I was...eleven? A few years now." She picked at her fingernails. "I've had my fill of the lord's kin, too."

She was focused on her task at hand, writing out Sunilda's letter for her. "His kin?"

Yes, his kin. "His uncle corners me and tries to make me bow because my boy and I do not belong here and everyone knows it. He does things I know the lord doesn't approve of, but I'm too weak willed to say anything right to his face. He throws parties and chitters with other duchies and I-" her tongue hurt from wagging. "Just little things."

General Aida offered her the new letter to look over, nonsense as ever, so Sunilda nodded off on it. "I'll tell him, miss. He's not hurt you?"

She shook her head. "What? No, no, nothing like that. He just - talks. I cannot follow. I cannot follow most," she admitted, voice low.

"Alright." The lord could not leave them alone for eight months without her botching it. How were they expected to make it three years? Azel was (not) too little to leave her side, but what had he done to be uprooted? The distaste and disgust were for her, after all, if it was real at all. Why keep a barely named maid when the rest of the bas- bastards came from finer cloth?

Nonsense. She squeezed her hand against her thigh. Waiting for the people she loved to come home meant she couldn't be so easily shaken. (Unfortunately, she was.)

"Thank you," she said. "I will see you the next time he writes to me," she promised, standing from her seat, clutching the old letter once more; perhaps one of these days she'd learn. Sunilda went to bow the same time General Aida did, flustered as she fell back into formality.

Two days later, the changing seasons caught Azel. Hoping it was not going to be a trend, she sat with him to play with his hair, listening to his babbling about this or that. He sniffled in between declarations about the average length between duchies, divvied up by days and moons, about when horses needed to stop and rest, and the average knights in a brigade. It all made sense, detailed in a letter he sent his brother as they...discussed the finer points of lordship, or something. Azel did not want his own nights, but they were certainly on his mind. Perhaps, even, he could have a real sword for his birthday, instead of his old, nicked wooden one! (No.) For now, he was a boy with nothing to fear or nothing to want, besides a reprieve from these dastardly, newfound allergies of his.

Sunilda never sat in on his tutoring, but for a few days she stuck close, knitting nearby. He'd emerge from the study, smiley as ever, as she offered him a clean handkerchief for his nose. In his even earlier boyhood, he had an issue with his breathing if he ran too much, but that was long gone. Trees made her sniffle in her youth, another burden from her, but it would clear up in time if it was.

It cleared up by time they went to church, switching seats again. His shoes tapped against the seat, and when they returned to their home, their letters sat waiting. "Y'know," Azel said, managing his thumb against the seal of his letter; she tucked hers under her arm, "I can read."

"And spoil your birthday present?"

His cheeks went red. "Oh! But you aren't always talking about presents! And I know how to read, so I can help you." Yes, yes he could. Try as she did, the lord was reserved in his letters mostly, and she did not think Azel being her reader would help. No proof beside's a woman's useless thought, but the letters seemed slightly more…open, since General Aida took over. How close were the two of them? (Closer than she and the lord.)

"Can you write my mail?"

"Yeah! Duh." He watched for a moment as she gathered her things. "Who's gonna read my mail to you when I'm not here? If I can't read Brother's…"

His mail. Letters from her sweetheart. "And where will you be?" It was one thing for the lord to be, well, the lord, at the tender age he was, and another for Azel to grow up too fast. Not even fifteen, more boy than man, so he would stay with her. "We have a long time before we need to figure this out," but he was busy with his, so they dropped the topic.

The next morning he sniffled and sniffled and sniffled, so she canceled his tutor for the day, tucking him up in a den with his letters and numbers. She left him with a pitcher of water, and, as to not be a distraction, decided to go for the day. Between his thumb and pointer finger he had a little bump, holding his hand. "I am going to see General Aida and then go find you something to chew on."

"General Aida," he said, pouty. Sunilda ignored his grousing, leaning in to give him his goodbye kiss, but he ducked away from her. "My eyes work, Momma."

"And if I spoil your birthday present, your brother will not get it." He sneezed; sighing, she pulled his handkerchief out of her cloak pocket.

"I will be back before you notice."

"I always notice." Sunilda met his working eyes; they stared at each other for a few moments. Brighter, brighter than she could ever be, joyous, peppy. His chubby cheek was ripe for a kiss; worn down by her dull, brown eyes, he offered it with his own sigh. What sort of goodbye would it be without a kiss? "Be quick, Momma."

"I will, I will."

And so she was; she snuck into the barracks to see General Aida, declining her cup of tea this time. She popped the seal, laid it before the woman, and General Aida bit into a tough biscuit, holding it just above a delicate, plain plate.

"Summer is nearly here—it's a hassle for him to return to Velthomer. You and Azel are welcome to visit him. He…he says he was a fool to think he could go three years without seeing you. It's best to counsel you in person." He missed them. How quaint of him to say it out loud. She took the letter from Aida, staring at the letter as if she could glean his open heart. She'd never call him sweet, not when their little Azel so easily took that mantle, yet there was a piece of that boy who couldn't sleep at night still in him. Up until he turned fifteen she kept a spare pillow in her room.

She folded the letter up again, holding it firm between her fingers. Sunilda vaguely scrubbed at her face, not willing to outright call the woman out for the crumb kissing her lip. "Thank you again, Aida. We'll gladly come see him. I know Azel has questions for him anyhow."

"Is that all?"

"It is."

Aida hummed, dabbing the corner of her mouth. Reading people was not her specialty, but one of these days she'd err with the woman, as she usually did. Two more years of letters to read (or until she made a mistake with her lord too). "Or, well, I must pester you one more time. Even I know Belhalla is a few days away, but I won't travel with men," son and lord excluded, of course. "If you don't mind the hassle, naturally. I know lady knights in Velthomer are few and far, but—"

"As you say, miss."

"You don't need -oh, I'll just shush."

Like she was funny, Aida smiled. "I am due to visit Arvis anyway."

Arvis? Who was she— " Arvis?"

"Lord Arvis." Before she pried more, Aida offered. "I have visited him twice since he left for school." Setting her quill off to the side, "If I may be bold, miss, I thought you and Lord Arvis comfortable enough to drop formalities. He speaks fondly of you."

Fondly! Her. "Lord Arvis is my duke and my—" boy-turned-man; her thoughts fizzled out. What could she call him? His mother was a specific woman, yet quite plainly, Lord Arvis was hers, but she wouldn't publicly claim that. "Well, my lord. Nothing less," occasionally more, even when it frustrated him.

"...of course, miss. Nothing less." Sunilda bowed as she left, bought Azel his candied nuts and something to clear his ears, before sneaking back into the manor. Who knew her? Two boys, a general, and —

Lord Dalton. They crossed each other's paths as she headed upstairs to her boy; knowing her place, she stepped heels-back against the bannister for him to pass by. He passed, she carried on, but then the heavy soles of the man's shoes clunked on the stairs, following behind her.

"Where do you go?" he called plainly to her; her shoulders tensed.

Sunilda, historically wobbly, did not answer until she was at the top of the stairs. Three on twelve steps to her boy. "What did you say, Lord Dalton? I fear I did not hear you."

Normally, she did not mind him, but he was a Velthomer, and for a moment his face showed that. Yes. Lords got listened to. "Where do you go all day to leave your little son by his lonesome? Poor boy has no friends and sits pathetically in the window waiting for you like a whipped puppy." Her son? They all waited for each other.

"Get my son out of your mouth," she said, and also remembered her place there. Dry mouthed, "I'm sorry, milord. I take my day in the market when I am not with him and buy him treats. I've left him here today because of his nose."

Lord Dalton, as always, stepped forward; she stepped back. Three and one would stick her to the wall. Her eyes slipped past him. "Is that all you do? Spend my nephew's money?"

"...no, I-"

"You have my brother's son, my nephew's purse, and a room while having no name, and you cannot sit with your son? When I was a boy my nurse never left my side."

Nurse. That word again. Nurse, bastard, bastard's nurse, a maid. Why was it never mother? "I do sit with-"

One step, two steps. "What right do you have to any of this?"

"None. I know-"

"Poor enough that boy has no father, now stuck with an unloving mother."

"I do-"

He finished for her, "-not, I know." He sighed; one maid poked her head out of a guest room, hard-eyed and curly haired, before ducking away.

"Get out of my face."

"Does the duke know the truth about you?"

"The duke is dead."

He stepped closer, clearly in her face. She smelled the fish and cider on his breath, stuck between straight teeth. Her stomach curdled. Thirty-six steps to Azel. Then what? "Wishing death on a fifthteen year old? How do you think he will look at you when he knows you are like the rest of—"

"Out of my face!"

"What have you done to him to snare him around your finger? I have tried to tell him the truth. Some curse on-"

"Out of my face!" she said again. "What have I done for you to-"

"What have you done?" Her teeth clacked as she bit down.

"Leave me be!"

"Where do I begin with what you have done? Out of all the women to throw on her back-"

Thwack.

-on her back! She went on her back for nothing.

Sunilda clutched her hand to her chest. It stung, her only proof she struck him at all, coupled with how his jaw tightened. The grinding of his teeth went straight from her ears to lay axes in her boots. What was she thinking? She stumbled when a boy tripped into her. Grown men did horrible things. Her iron feet took one step back, heel edging along the wall. She was nothing, not even a maid, striking a nobleman, the family of the lord who kept her safe.

Her voice quaked. "I said out of my face. Have a good day, Lord Dalton."