Conrade does indeed arrive to help him dress. John can see how the years have altered the man, creases deepened in his brow, more salt than pepper to his hair. And yet, there is a bounce to his step that John does not remember.

Conrade places a water basin before the mirror. "Good morning, my lord. It is a relief to see you awake and well."

John assesses his former conspirator, crossing to the basin. "Not so well."

"Ah," Conrade regards him, always tactful in his handling of the bastard prince. "Yes, the lady confided your condition to Margaret."

John splashes his face, the action harsher than needed. "The whole household must be burning with the news."

"No doubt, it will be soon. But you need not fear indiscretion. I assure you, sir, you are well-liked among the staff."

Hero implied as much. It still surprises him. It is not that he cannot be charming. One cannot be a bastard and a brute. The dual nature of his birth means he has spent as much time amongst the serving class as he has those of his own noble rank. He knows their troubles, their concerns, what pleases them, what they despise, how to win their favour. Thus, it is not such a surprise that his staff like him.

Except that this is Hero's home, and she cannot be less loved than he. New servants may have been brought on in the last ten years, but many of them will have been there for the wedding scandal. They will know of his villainy and the harm he caused their sweet mistress. They should despise him.

Conrade hands him a towel and he dries his face, at last braving the mirror. He gazes at his reflection. Frowns. Looks closer —

His face appears unchanged, his beard the same if thicker, his hair perhaps an inch or two longer though it is hard to tell with the bandages. He is not as old as Conrade, but he expected some change, proof that he is a different man. Instead, he feels as if he has been transported into someone else's life. And isn't that just like him? Stealing what does not belong to him.

"You look as if you have seen a ghost," Conrade's voice is light.

It breaks the spell. John turns from his reflection. "Only a devil."

Conrade turns solemn and focuses on laying out his master's clothes.

"Have all us villains made their roost in Messina? Should I expect Borachio to crawl from the woodwork?"

The thought is sour on his tongue and the same appears so for Conrade, who stiffens, moustache twitching in displeasure. "No. God knows what became of the lout."

John arches an eyebrow, shirking his sleepwear for a fresh shirt and breeches.

Conrade folds his clothes, not meeting his gaze. "Your wife is a gracious lady. If he were to repent she would forgive him. But he is long in the wind and I do not desire him near. Nor, I think, do you."

"No." John senses there is more than the other man is saying. "I heard you were captured."

Conrade gives a curt nod. "The night before the wedding, the Watch overheard Borachio bragging of the plot to me and took us in for questioning. I admit, I did not make a friend of the local constable but that is settled now."

John noticed his fellows' absence from the wedding but had not concerned himself with their fates, high on his victory. Now, the thought sits ill with him.

"Of the three of us, your only crime was following me."

Conrade looks surprised and his expression shifts with unease. "Sir, that is long behind us. I hold a good position in your house. My past actions, I repent. As I know, do you. We need not speak more of it."

John realises his discomfort stems from shame. Conrade has moved on from the past. Easy enough when you have had ten years to make peace. John's guilt is only a few days old; it snares in his chest, a tangle of thorns.

"I hope I have compensated you well for your loyalty."

Conrade's face relaxes, changing into what John realises is a smile. "Indeed, you are a generous lord."

John shrugs on a waistcoat. "I am sure you have the lady's grace to thank for that."

"You are well-suited to each other."

He frowns. "As well as the dove suits the serpent, I am sure."

"Ah, I remember this man. Any poison in your bite is one you have drunk yourself.

John's gaze cuts to him. Before he would have exploded over such a comment; now he is too tired for that sort of wrath. He speaks, his voice a razor's edge. "You have grown bolder."

Conrade appears to realise his misstep and the clemency afforded. "Forgive me if I speak so. The product of a tolerant master and a spirited wife."

"You are married?"

Conrade's face illuminates in a smile, clear of the past's shadows, and he seems younger, lighter. "I am. We have two sons, around the same age as your eldest."

The strings of John's heart strain at the mention of his children. He sits on the bed, the world pressing in around him.

"Sir?" Conrade's voice rings with concern, distant as if through a narrow tunnel. "Sir, are you well? Shall I fetch the mistress?"

He makes an abortive gesture and Conrade falls silent, accustomed to his master's sullen moods. Or, he used to be. Who is John now? This man, whose face he wears, is as much a stranger to him as the butterfly to the caterpillar.

"How am I here?"

There are many ways Conrade could answer that and some of them sincere. But he has served John longer than the man can remember and he takes a moment to measure his response.

"I ask myself the same sometimes. With my wife in my arms and my sons by my side. I think — how is this right? For me to be so rewarded? I have not lived a pious life. I too had a hand in wickedness…" He pauses, releasing a breath, and his mouth twitches. "Then my wife tells me to stop brooding and do something useful. And, I do." He smiles as he speaks of his wife, before sobering. "You think it is wrong that knaves like us prosper but the justice of the world is this — you reap what you sow. And you, my lord, never balk from hard labour. You toiled for this life. If you marvel at the splendour of the garden, know it was earned, not through any tricks or disguises, but the honest sweat on your back and the dirt beneath your nails. You are here because you made the effort to change, to be a better man. And you are, my lord. You are."

John absorbs these words. Conrade was always prone to preaching, hoping to placate the prince's darker tempers, but never managed the conviction he does now. Bolder indeed.

John rises from the bed. "Conrade, I think your wife a good influence."

Conrade smiles and John never knew the man had dimples. "In that, my lord, we are both blessed."

John's thumb brushes over his ring. "Yes, we are."

:-x-:

Conrade directs him to the dining room. During his previous stay, John had taken pains to avoid his brother and companions, forsaking his hosts and eating meals alone in his room whenever possible. Now, he enters the bustling room.

His gaze finds Hero. She has Tonio in her lap and is dabbing at a smear of jam across his wide grin. Clarissa and Leo are seated opposite each other, squabbling over something as an aged Ursula implores for peace. Beside them, he recognises Hero's father and uncle. The former smiling fondly at the squalling children while Antonio releases a booming guffaw.

At his entrance, the room goes quiet. Clarissa and Leo straighten in their seats, transforming into the perfect children, munching placidly on their breakfast, while the elders regard him like a fox in the henhouse.

Hero meets his gaze, her mouth opening to speak —

Tonio splatters jam across her cheek.

She blinks at her son, shocked by his betrayal. The toddler giggles and the tension snaps, laughter renewed.

Leonato beckons John over with a wide grin; a contrast to the polite slither he offered during their first meeting. Or the furious glare he received upon their last encounter.

His voice is warm and welcoming, "Come, son, sit with us."

Son. John falters.

These people should spit at his feet, not invite him to dine with them.

"I saved you a seat, Papà!" Clarissa calls, gesturing to the empty chair between her and Hero. "Uncle tried to steal it but I shooed him off."

"She is a fierce one," Antonio chuckles. "I look forward to when she is grown and can match her aunt for wit."

"Between her and her cousins, the Heavens will quake," Leonato says with pride.

Clarissa does not appear to understand these speeches but recognises their praise and preens. Next to her, Hero is a steady beacon and John is pulled into her orbit, settling between them.

Tonio is handed to Ursula so Hero can clean herself and she smiles at him shyly. "Hello."

"Hello," he greets, unable to suppress a grimace. Her face turns sympathetic and he wants to crawl out of his skin.

"We are pleased you could join us, John," Leonato says from across the table, the hairs on John's neck standing-on-end. "You gave us quite the scare."

"Father—"

"I wasn't scared," Clarissa cuts in.

"That is because you have the heart of a lion, my dear," Antonio says.

"My name is lion," Leo pipes up, puffing out his chest.

Clarissa scoffs. "You are named after Grandpa, who is an old man."

"Clarissa!" Hero and Ursula admonish, while Antonio roars with laughter, and Leonato chuckles good-naturedly.

"Ol'man," Tonio gurgles.

"NO! I am a lion!" Leo insists and makes a clawing motion, growling at Tonio. "RAH! I am going to eat you!"

His brother giggles, mirroring his actions. "Rah!"

"Goodness!" Ursula pretends to cower. "What ferocious beasts!"

"It is a pity animals are not allowed at the table, Leo," Hero croons, setting a plate of food in front of John.

"Thank you," he murmurs, picking at the meal.

She gives him a gentle smile.

"I may be old now," Leonato rejoins, "But when I was younger, I was a venerated soldier. I could show you a thing or two."

This has Leo bolting up excitedly, "Ooh! Please!"

"Father, please. No more accidents."

"We will not use real steel," Leonato assures his daughter.

Her nostrils flare. "No. I hope you will not hand my five-year-old a sword."

"Accidents are how they learn, niece," Antonio jokes.

She pins him with what is best described as the stink-eye and John is fascinated by her change from meak, abiding daughter to this indomitable lady of the house.

"Aunt Bea says a sharp witch is better than a sharp sword," Clarissa pronounces.

Leo scrunches his nose. "What, like magic?"

"I think you mean wit, princess," Ursula corrects gently. "It means clever."

"I will chop down any witch with my sword!" Leo declares, slashing the air with a butter knife.

Ursula recoils, shielding Tonio.

Leonato chuckles nervously and reaches for the knife. "Ah, best give that to me, lad."

"I will cast a spell on you!" Clarissa returns, brandishing a bread roll as Leo jabs his blade in her direction.

"Leo, put that knife down," Hero commands, her tone brooking no argument.

The boy falters, glancing between his mother and sister, conflicted.

John leans back in his chair. "I believe a morning stroll to the woods will do wonders for the children."

The knife clatters to the table, both children settling in their seats, the picture of innocence. The adults breathe a sigh of relief and nod to John in approval. He lowers his gaze, mouth tasting of ash.

The conversation turns, the children soon enlivened, but this time no knives are wielded. The elders laugh along, indulging and needling their juniors in equal bouts. It makes for a cosy, family scene. John has not felt so out of place since he joined his father's household. It crosses his mind that this must be how Judas felt at the last supper.

Fingers brush his fist and he flinches, glancing up at his own martyr reborn, a soft question in her gaze. There is no answer he can give her and he casts his eyes to his half-eaten meal. The mask presses in around his face, cutting into bone. Yet her fingers do not leave his, caressing white knuckles.

There is a tug on his arm, Clarissa's doe eyes imploring. "You will play Princess Court with me today, won't you, Papà?"

John opens his mouth, voice stalling.

Hero answers for him. "Later, perhaps, Clarissa. If he is feeling well enough."

"But you promised!"

"I will play with you," Antonio intercedes and Leonato sounds his agreement.

Clarissa does not deign them with a glance, eyes narrowing on John. "I want to play with Papà!"

"Me too!" Leo exclaims.

"Papà!" Tonio claps his hands.

Hero's expression tightens. "You know your father has business to attend. And you have your lessons."

"Ugh!" Leo slumps in his chair.

"But after?" Clarissa persists, formidable for a six-year-old.

"Then we will play," John promises.

She brightens and allows Ursula to lead her from the room along with the others. Antonio follows after them, leaving John alone with Hero and Leonato.

The latter's jovial expression slips into something sombre as he regards them. "How bad is it?"

Hero inhales, glancing at John. He assumes from the others' earlier reactions that Hero must have informed them of his condition to a degree.

He does not beat about the bush. "My memories end with my first visit here. It gets… blurred around your daughter's revival."

She holds his hand, steadfast. He should return the gesture, but he knows how fast things turn to sand when he reaches for them.

The lines in Leonato's weathered face deepen, showing his age. "This must be confusing."

The corner of John's mouth twitches. "It is that."

"Any past disputes are long behind us. This is as much your home as it is ours."

John swallows, tasting blood. "I… thank you…" He grimaces as he echoes those words from their first encounter, before he repaid his host's kindness in mourning garb.

Leonato's gaze slides to his daughter and John does not look to see what passes between them. "We should speak later about the management of the estate, but I can assist whilst you are — not yourself. Hero knows what to do, regardless."

He rises from his chair, gripping a cane. John stands, uncertain if he should help, but Margaret materialises, offering her arm, which the old man accepts. "Thank you, my dear."

If Margaret suffered any repercussions in the wake of John and Borachio's deception, there is no evidence in this pleasant exchange. Then again, if the family can welcome the villain of the plot at their table, they can forgive one unwitting serving maid.

Leonato nods to the pair as he departs. "As always, I leave you in my daughter's capable hands."

"Sir," John returns and then he is alone with Hero.

She is still seated, appearing in deep contemplation.

"My lady?"

She shakes from thought, eyes lifting to his. Her mouth curves but her smile is faded, like a veil cast over the sun. He tells himself it is the least he deserves. But John has never been able to escape that gnawing hunger in his chest and, having glimpsed the stars, he cannot content himself with shadows.

She rises. "Will you walk with me in the garden?"

He nods. They exit the room, together but apart, leaving the servants to clear the remains of the familial scene.