Chapter 4: Fall, the Line of Succession

If the de Clermont family were a body, it would be fair to say that Philippe de Clermont was the brain. And it would also be fair to say that his two eldest sons were each of the body's hands. One, outstretched in a gesture of goodwill. The other, a clenched fist. A warning to those who would think to cross its brother.

There was one beating heart among them, and ample debate about who exactly occupied that role. Ysabeau would think it befitting of herself, of course. While Verin and Godfrey would argue that it was one of them who occupied such a central role in the family body. Philippe would never say so to his wife or his beloved children, but he was of the opinion that the heart of their family was their home – Sept-Tours.

This, he was smart enough not to say aloud, though he liked to think that deep down each one of them already knew.

Every member of the de Clermont family had a role – for better or for worse. Each role sought dominance in the body. The outstretched hand would always feel hindered by the clenched fist. The fist would always feel weakened by the giving hand. The heart and the lungs would always debate who was more essential. The blood and the nerves would always feel slighted, though without them the body could not move, and the heart and brain could not live.

It was a constant ebb and flow. A precarious give and take.

This is the bargain one makes, Philippe supposed, when those who are living try to remain alive. Life is a selfish existence. And to live long is to live more selfishly, in a more self-serving manner, than others. It was a dirty business, staying alive for as long as they had. And he had taught his children well.

It was a miracle of chaos really that balance somehow came from this ebb and flow. One of the many wonders of the world – an unspoken one – that those who selfishly wish to remain living, work together despite themselves in order to survive. An equilibrium forms. An equilibrium that requires careful maintenance, and constant attention.

This balance can – in most circumstances – be credited to the tireless work and dedication of the brain.

But even brains are prone to their shortcomings. Even the brain who began it all, and controls it all, and balances it all can give way to its own fatal flaws. In the brain's pursuit of strength and survival, it can accidentally hinder its body from time to time. And, Philippe de Clermont, in his capacity as the head of his family, unintentionally hindered that family's body.

In pursuit of strength, he failed to accommodate weakness. The flaw of the de Clermont family, of the body created by Philippe, began and ended with a fear of being vulnerable.

Philippe de Clermont raised warriors. He raised diplomats, spies, and assassins. Sharp-edged manjasangs, all of them, whether they were young or very, very old.

He raised armies and policies, kingdoms, and saints. He formed empires out of salt and sand and sent negligent rulers on their way. He armed his body to the teeth with weapons and armor, resources, and prestige.

And then one day he sent a letter. A letter to a grandson who would one day inherit this sharp-edged family, and the body they had formed. A grandson who would one day take this family and learn how to lead it.

He sent a letter, and he received no reply. He checked his sources and found there was no grandson left for him to find.

Eric Ragnall Brendan William Sorley de Clermont had fallen into shadow. He had fallen and Philippe had not even known.

No one had seen the young de Clermont. No one had seen him in months. The boy on whose shoulders would one day rest the balance of the world had up and disappeared.

And this...

This did not bode well for the body. This did not bode well for their kind. De Clermont children did not just disappear. It wasn't permissible, it wasn't tolerated. It simply wasn't done.

Though he was loathe to admit it, his grandson's disappearance unsettled Philippe de Clermont.

It shook something deep down in his bones.

So, he set out to find him. He set out to find him like he was searching for a lost but essential limb. And he knew there was only one place he could start. He went to the first place he could think of. The last place his grandson had been.

At his back were Baldwin and Godfrey. A clenched fist and an open nerve, respectively.

Together they had crossed the border into Navarre. And the young knights, Balder and Guillaume, had met them there, on a lonely path along the Way of St. James, filled with remorse.

There, beneath the peak of a mountain, in a kingdom caught between France and Spain, Philippe de Clermont found first his eldest son. His exiled son. His favorite.

Hugh sat quietly waiting. He was waiting for his father, for he knew his father would come. He was waiting for his brothers, for he knew his father would not come alone.

But what was more concerning, was that Hugh – like Philippe – was waiting for his son.

At La Ithuriana where the air was sweet, and clear, and the sky was an eternal sort of blue, this family body had suffered a terrible wound.

And it was at La Ithuriana where Philippe discovered, with a clenched fist and an outstretched hand, that those sharp-edged manjasangs he had raised... they were in a terrible state.

And there was nothing he could do to change that. He was powerless against the pain they suffered now. There was nothing anyone could do but wait. They had to wait for this wound to either fester or heal. Wait for the wound to close itself or become terminal.

The men had torn apart the mountain weeks before Philippe had arrived, searching for a ghost who no longer existed on this plane. The ghost of a young girl he'd never heard of. The ghost of a young girl who had suffered the most peculiar fate.

Hugh had sat in his study, a hard look in his eye and a clenched fist that did not suit him, while his mate and his son held vigil over an empty chamber like that chamber was a grave.

And Philippe de Clermont had a decision to make.

He saw his son then – a wounded and defensive hand. He saw him, and he was alone. He was alone, and he carried the weight of two other heartbroken men. And Philippe knew he would have to make a choice.

There were only three options.

They could treat the wound.

They could chop off something vital.

Or they could let it fester. They could succumb to this wound. And together it would eat them alive.

The young Fernanda was a wound. She was a wound in his family's side. So long as she was gone, they would keep bleeding. She would keep tearing at them no matter how much time went by. And their blood would fester by her memory, which clung to their unsutured skin like a thick coat of grime.

So long as the girl existed, untreated, she would leech out of them every last second of their eternal life.

He could clean the wound that had been dealt to his family. He could suture it. Attempt a gentle touch. But so long as she was gone, the stitches would keep bursting. The blood would keep bleeding. The loss would still keel them over with pain.

Philippe de Clermont could not chop off his own hand. He would know. He tried it once, and he had failed. A crippled body was no body at all as far as he was concerned. And a clenched fist without an open palm to balance it could be unforgiving and brutal. It would be a terrible fate for the world, to deliver only Baldwin without Hugh to balance him.

He knew what he and his second eldest son were capable of. Philippe and Baldwin had the same vein of steel in them that made them dangerous if left unchecked. That is why he waited patiently for Hugh's return.

No crime could go unpunished – no insult unaddressed – not by Philippe de Clermont. Especially not a crime committed by his most trusted son – the son who would one day succeed him. Many centuries ago, an example needed to be set.

Hugh had known what would become of him when he disobeyed his father that day so many lifetimes ago. And Philippe had long known the boy would disobey him.

They were cut from the same cloth, Hugh and Philippe, though it may be hard to see it that way. The day Fernando became a concern was the day Philippe knew he would one day send his son away. From the moment Hugh set his sights on the inevitable, Philippe began carefully counting the days until his son would return to his place by his father's side.

Hugh hadn't known it then, but long before he'd even left his family, long before he'd even thought that leaving was an option, Philippe was already waiting on bated breath for him to come home.

They edged closer and closer to the end of Hugh's exile now. Closer and closer to the moment they all had silently wished for, with the exception of, perhaps, Fernando. And Philippe had hated the weakness. Hated the vulnerability.

He hated the wound.

He hated that his son had betrayed his direct orders. He hated that his grandson had been crippled by fate. He hated that there was only uncertainty surrounding the young Fernanda. He hated that she was the daughter of Hugh's mate.

He hated all of this, and he feared it. And he also held within him a taciturn sort of respect.

For his son. For his grandson. For Fernando.

For the wound.

It was not often Philippe de Clermont was taken off guard by weakness. It had been many centuries since someone had dealt him a mortal blow.

Now all he could do was wait and watch how his family body festered. Wait for the wound to heal. Wait for it to lay them all low.

And then one night, the waiting came to an end.

Just days ago, Baldwin returned home. The guards shouted. The gates protested. Horses clamored loudly in the night.

Baldwin and Godfrey – a clenched fist and an open nerve – came home, but they were not alone. Wrapped up between them, bleeding and cold, scared, and unsure, was the little open wound that had left them all hurting fifty years before.

But this time Philippe was prepared.

He had known that someday this day would come.

He had known since the day he had stepped through La Ithuriana's unguarded doors.

All men must die. But some men – men like Philippe – knew that death could be denied. It could not claim them if they simply refused to be taken.

Philippe de Clermont had spent ages cheating death.

And so, he lifted the girl from Baldwin's horse, and set her on her feet in his own courtyard. He stared down at her, trying to glimpse the person behind the wound. He tried to ascertain whether the weakness had been worth the wait.

She met him head on. This was unexpected, but not unwelcome.

She met him with a mind sharply turning, and eyes that glinted in the firelight like bronze forged in an ancient flame. She met him head on, not in challenge, but still discerning. And it took her longer than most to look away.

Intriguing. Weak. Scared. Human.

She looked away. He knelt down to meet her. He understood what his grandson meant about the mettle in her eyes. It simmered there beneath the surface, behind the fear and the dirt and the bloodstains. If you were looking for it, it was there for you to see.

And Philippe knew that something more was happening here. Something for which he had no words. The presence of this girl was no accident.

Once is an accident. She fell and became Malvina. She'd known his grandson when he was human. She'd suffered a terrible fate.

Twice was a coincidence. An unsettling occurrence that could not be explained, but for the fact that Fernanda was Eric's mate.

And now, she came to them for a third time. And Philippe was not one to mock the fates. He was not one to question their reasons. To subvert their plans. Even one as powerful as the de Clermont knew that some divine interventions were simply meant to be obeyed.

So, he tilted her chin, and he caught her eye again. And wisely, the young wound – the young survivor – the young Fernanda – had the wherewithal to avert her gaze. Her instincts were honed enough to recognize a predator, but Philippe was startled to realize that Fernanda was not prey.

If the family was a body and Philippe was a brain and Fernanda was a wound. Then the brain knew the wound must be handled with care. The wound must be washed and dressed and treated properly. She must be stabilized and looked after and hopefully after all this care; she would learn how to heal. Hopefully one day, she would toughen into a scar. She would remind the body that it had survived. And she would find her place in the network he had created. Her weakness – her vulnerability – would become an asset. A strength in its own right. A reminder that death had come knocking, and it had been refused at the door.

If the look in her eyes and the set of her shoulders was anything to go by, then Philippe de Clermont would wager that scar tissue had already begun to form.


Knight,

We have spoken at length on the matter of the girl. And though we planned for her, I must echo the words you wrote to me so many years ago. No one could have anticipated Fernanda. There is magic in the air, and no witch to be found. She is plain. Mortal. Entirely unremarkable, and yet she is here. This makes her significant, as you warned me once before. She is safe, but as you well know there are many forces at work within these walls. You know where she is. She has no allies. She has no friends. With or without invite, you may have no choice but to come.

Familia supra omnia,

Rook

Back in Bourges, Hugh sat in his study and contemplated his options. He considered the calendar. The one that told him he had a meager forty-five years left before he was allowed back home.

He considered the ramifications.

He had defied his father once. He had chosen Fernando though Philippe had forbidden it. He had sired a son without his father's blessing. He had put the entire line of succession at risk.

Philippe had responded thus far with leniency. Exile was a slap on the wrist compared to other more final measures of discipline. Manjasang sires could be brutal in their pursuit of obedience. Philippe could easily have taken his head. His siblings could have demanded Philippe kill Hugh and Fernando that day more than five centuries ago.

If they had demanded such a thing, Hugh was none the wiser. None had come for his head, and many had welcomed him into their homes in the time he'd been away. He supposed this spoke well of their opinions regarding him and his mate.

Exile had been a transient life, but not without comfort or family. There had not been an absence of purpose or belonging in all the time he had spent away. But there had been a question – an eternal coin up and spinning in the air, waiting to hit the ground. The question of when he would return, of what he would return to and whether or not his father would change his mind about Hugh before he did.

Hugh folded Rook's letter and tapped it against his desk. He had defied his father once. Tested him more times than he could count. He had sired Eric without a blessing. And so far, circumstances had played into his hands. His luck had been favorable. But if Hugh knew anything, he knew that luck only existed so that it could one day run out.

Could he afford to test Philippe again? Could he afford to return before his exile had ended? Could he afford to circumvent the terms they had agreed to more than five centuries ago? Would his luck favor him now?

Jean Luc knocked on the door and entered. In his hand, clasped tightly, was an unsealed bit of parchment. Hugh waved him forward, and the other man dipped his head into an informal bow, before stepping forward and pressing the parchment into Hugh's hand.

"From her ladyship, Fernanda Gonçalves, for her father, the Chevalier Gonçalves," he said, more formally than was necessary. His solemnity only served to mark the occasion as unusual, and the circumstances of the upmost importance.

Hugh narrowed his eyes and looked down at the unsealed letter.

"Did you break the seal?"

"She delivered it to me without one," came Jean Luc's reply. "It seems we overlooked the nuances of correspondence during the short education she received at La Ithuriana."

"It seems we did, indeed," Hugh agreed and unfolded the parchment to read what she had written. "Tell me of Sept-Tours."

"Sieur Philippe and Madame Ysabeau are in residence, as are milords Baldwin and Godfrey. I neither saw nor heard tell of milord Matthieu, but they have erected a scaffolding around his tower so I suspect he may return at the very least for the sake of repairs," Jean Luc said.

Hugh noted all of this with an absent nod. He reached for a spare signet ring with Fernando's initials on it, and a stick of wax.

"See to it that she receives these," he murmured, and passed them to Jean Luc, before waving his hand for the other man to continue while he read on.

She was very well written, Hugh decided, if a bit informal. And she did have that perplexing habit of turning her 'f's into 'h's. He itched to correct her spelling. The girl's Castilian had most certainly not improved in her time away. He did not care that she insisted it was without flaws.

Jean Luc continued while he read.

"She seems to be in good health," he said. "I spoke with Lord Godfrey on the matter of her arrival. He insists she did not arrive at Sept-Tours—"

Hugh's eyes snapped up in alarm. Jean Luc's face had twisted into a displeased frown.

"How did she find her way there then?" Hugh asked.

"They found her hiding in the trees, just off the main road," Jean Luc informed him, lowering his voice so that any passing servants would not overhear his admission.

"Alone?"

"Yes, my lord."

"In the day?"

"In the dark of night."

Hugh grimaced and turned his face in frustration at this news. He'd need to speak with her. This was a deviation. She had arrived by way of his courtyard some fifty years before.

"And what is her account of things?" He asked.

"She misses her father," Jean Luc said. "She had not anticipated arriving at Sept-Tours—"

Hugh hummed his agreement with her sentiments and reached for a quill, carefully redacting any mention of the family, of her ignorance of modern custom, or her travels. It would not do to have someone discover her secrets by way of her correspondence should this letter fall into the wrong hands. She had enough concerns as it was, there was no need to include the prying eyes of king's men, witches or foreign manjasangs.

Once Hugh had successfully censored the girl's more incriminating revelations, he reached for a blank piece of parchment and detailed a letter of his own before tucking hers inside of it.

"She appeared quite tired, my lord," Jean Luc said. "She does not like the food they serve her, but her chambers are more than agreeable."

"They've placed her in my tower?"

"Yes, sir."

Hugh nodded and melted wax over their combined letters, pressing his signet into it to create a seal.

"And they have been kind?"

"With the exception of Godfrey, or so I have been told."

Hugh rolled his eyes. "What did he do?"

"He insisted he has treated her according to the code..."

"And she says?"

"I dare not say it, my lord."

Hugh scoffed and fixed him with an incredulous look.

"I do not wish to reflect poorly on the—" Jean Luc began but Hugh cut him off.

"Young lady who tromped around La Ithuriana burning her fillets and wearing men's clothing?"

Jean Luc let out a startled laugh.

"She called him a self-interested dick that talks too much and threatened to leave her lying there in the road," he said.

Hugh snorted and brought his hand up to rub at his tired eyes.

"Shall I speak with him on the matter?" Jean Luc asked.

Hugh shook his head.

"No, thank you," he said. "I'll write him myself."

He passed both letters for Fernando over to Jean Luc before reaching for another sheet of parchment and once again taking up his quill.

"Give those to your fastest messenger," he said.

Jean Luc nodded and bowed before quietly taking his leave.


It was easy to fall into a routine at Sept-Tours. There were so many people – and so much always seemed to be happening – that Addison reveled in her ability to get lost in the crowd.

There was privacy in numbers, and once you understood the current, it was easy to ride the waves. There was a method to the madness of this place, and she thought she was getting the hang of it.

Day three was nothing like day two, but day two had been so different from day one. Still the pattern had begun to take shape. She woke, she dressed, she broke her fast with the household, and Philippe, who ate only marginally, but put on a good show. She wandered aimlessly on her own and considered many times sneaking out the gates again while the family was busy, so she could go to the gardens. But Addison had yet to work up the nerve. Godfrey would leave her alone so long as she followed the rules. And Baldwin's lecture about watering holes, and lions and wolves... while a bit much... had unfortunately painted a pretty gruesome picture.

Addison had never really thought about Fernando having enemies. And once again she wished she knew more about the man who had adopted her. At the very least, she wished she knew how long he'd been alive. It seemed a fair thing to know about your parent, how old they were. And it felt a bit juvenile to not be able to say.

She brushed her hand over her pocket out of instinct though there was no letter left inside. She had sent it with Jean Luc, and he had promised to deliver it to Hugh, and she could only hope that Hugh would send it to Fernando.

Instead, all on its lonesome, a little mirror sat in her pocket. She traced her thumb over the swallow and the scales.

The visiting priest – who may or may not have been a prisoner – had blessed her again this morning. This time, for long life and vitality. Not knowing how to respond, Addison had stuttered out an awkward thanks and quickly hurried away.

Addison had woven her way through every corridor, avoided towers full of people she didn't know, eyed the guards with no small amount of trepidation, and stood in the middle of the courtyard considering whether or not she had the balls to run away.

She didn't, but it was always an idea worth revisiting.

And that's how she met Bijou.

Bijou wasn't actually his name of course. He didn't have a name. He was simply another dog among dogs here at Sept-Tours.

The great beast of a mastiff, now officially called Bijou, stood as tall as her hips and as thick around the middle as a troll.

A cute, drooly, terrifying, sharp toothed troll.

It was apparently common for medieval households to keep several hounds. There were house dogs, and hunting dogs, herding dogs and others as well.

Bijou was a house dog and the way he grunted and snorted and slobbered about left her no doubt that he did his job quite well.

The kennel master was a hefty human man named Lambert. And when Bijou, the otherwise nameless mastiff, had ambled up to her, Lambert had introduced himself and the great slobbery beast.

"Apologies, my lady," Lambert said, out of breath as he jogged up to grab the dog by his scruff and offer a quick bow. "He's a stubborn one, but he'll not do you harm."

Addison had been torn between drawing back in fear of the unfamiliar dog, and wanting desperately to scrunch his chunky face in her hands. She smiled at Lambert and shook her head, waving off his apologies.

"No harm done," she said.

"I've already introduced him to your scent, my lady," he said reassuringly, and this Addison thought quite odd.

"My..." she trailed off as her eyes flitted uncertainly between Lambert and the dog. "My...scent?"

"Oh yes. It's his job to keep watch over the comings and goings of the household," Lambert informed her, grunting as Bijou whined and tried to break free.

"Oh—" Addison didn't know what to say to that. "Well..."

Lambert offered her an understanding grin and held the dog more securely. Bijou finally gave up and sat with a grunt and a groan.

"He knows the family by scent—"

"And how exactly did you..."

"Introduce him to your scent?" the kennel master asked.

"Yes," Addison said with a wince.

Lambert chuckled. "Lord Philippe gave me a strip of cloth with your scent on it. It's common practice, my lady, I assure you. And this one here," he said and gestured to the dog. "He's as soft as a loaf of bread once he knows you're part of his pack. If you're not careful, my lady, he'll be nudging into your chambers to steal your blankets and take up space by your hearth."

Addison let out a laugh and held out a tentative hand for the great mastiff to sniff. "And he won't..."

"He won't bite you, my lady," Lambert said. "But I cannot say as much for the guests. They all know not to pet him. You understand."

Bijou sniffed Addison's hand before giving her a long lick, leaving behind a line of drool that connected her hand to his jowls in a sort of halfhearted claim. Lambert blushed and apologized; Addison laughed.

"Oh, Bijou," she said and scrunched the dog's face lovingly. "You and I are gonna have some fun."

And so, Bijou became her shadow.

It was early days, of course, they'd only met a few hours ago, but where Addison went the great chunk of a dog followed and she liked to think he was happy that a human had finally been added to the household. She couldn't imagine it had been much fun for him to protect his natural predator.

So now the flow of traffic at Sept-Tours parted for the young Lady Fernanda and her faithful companion and no one batted an eye.

But Addison had questions. Questions that needed answering. And there was no one around who could answer them.

That was the annoying thing about vampires. Well, it was one of many annoying things about vampires, she had found. They could find you when they needed you, but when you needed them, it was all in their own time, at their own speed, entirely at their own pleasure.

Between the entrance hall and the great hall, on either side of the massive doors, was a corridor. And in the corridor existed the network of administrative offices that effectively ran Sept-Tours, and most likely several other households, the knights Templar, the knights of Lazarus, and probably a few kingdoms as well if she had to venture a guess.

Here was her destination. It was full of men. Men with important robes, armor, decorative swords and very, very real ones.

Alain had told her in brief about each of the doors in this corridor and who might be working behind them. But most of it was a blur. She could say that Baldwin's study was down the corridor to the left. And Philippe's was to the right.

Men fluctuated between bowing before her and staring at her confusion as she placed a reassuring hand on the back of Bijou's neck. She turned right, looking for the study that housed Philippe.

She knew it by sight almost as soon as she'd turned, for outside of the doors was a gaggle of men. Some calm, some angry, some desperate, some in good humor though those of the latter category were few and far between.

Addison sucked in a breath, curled her fingers in the rolls of Bijou's neck and cut the line.

Before the door were two guards. At her back were a series of men who shouted and gasped and critiqued her lack of propriety.

The guards' eyes flickered in recognition of her, but they did not bow. Their duty was to the de Clermont, and so in their capacity, his needs outranked her. Addison didn't care.

"I would like to speak with Sieur Philippe," she informed them.

Someone scoffed behind her. Another chuckled and there were a series of angry retorts.

One man had the audacity to reach for her, to pull her back, and either force her to the back of the line or subject her to his impatience and anger.

But Bijou snapped his teeth in warning. The guards hit the floor once with their staffs, and a sharp crack of warning echoed through the corridor. The men fell silent. The man drew his hand back.

And then Alain opened the door.

Addison could see enough through the gap to know Philippe was not alone. And the way someone inside covered a map told her all she needed to know. This was a familiar scene for Fernanda Gonçalves. She knew it well.

"My lady," Alain bowed.

Addison offered him a tense smile, not unaware of the angry eyes that burned holes in the back of her head. She imagined they'd been trying to get in here for hours, if not days. And she wondered if any of them had tried tampering with the wine to get their way. She'd found it to be quite effective once.

"Alain," Addison said after a beat.

"My Lord Philippe asks whether the matter can wait?"

"I'd prefer it didn't," she answered honestly with a shrug.

Alain nodded and opened his mouth to speak when he was cut off by a familiar baritone.

"She may enter, Alain," Philippe called out.

There was a series of gasps, and shouts and comments behind her. Vitriol and impatience from the gaggle of important men. Alain bowed and stepped back so she could enter, and Addison made him wait to close the door until Bijou had followed her in.

Philippe's study was eclectic. Far more so than she had anticipated. There were books on every shelf and scrolls that littered tables that were set up in strategic places around the room. There was an hourglass on his desk that looked to have recently been turned, for there was an abundance of falling sand at the top. A crossbow sat in the corner. And a wheel missing two spokes was propped against the far wall.

As Addison had expected, Philippe de Clermont was not alone. He was seated in a sturdy looking wooden chair. Standing across from him and hovering over the map – carefully covered – was Baldwin de Clermont who stared at his father in frustration rather than looking at her when she entered the room. And lounging in a chair by window was Godfrey who had turned from the view to study her with equal parts intrigue and disdain.

Bijou snuffed and licked his chops, dripping slobber on the rich stone floor.

"I see you've found a companion," Philippe noted amicably.

Addison looked down at the mastiff whose joints clicked as he laid down on the floor, his head on her feet.

"Yes," she said. "I hope you don't mind."

Philippe shook his head. "Not at all," he said and gestured to an empty seat.

Addison considered taking the seat he offered but decided against it. For one thing, Bijou was resting on her shoes. And for the other, if she sat, she feared she'd lose her nerve.

"I prefer to stand, thank you," she said.

At this, Baldwin arched an eyebrow and turned his head imperceptibly to the side so he could look at her too.

Philippe grinned. Godfrey rolled his eyes.

"I understand you wish to speak with me," Philippe prompted her.

Addison bit down on the inside of her cheek and resisted the urge to reach for the mirror she kept in her pocket.

"Yes" she said. "I have asked to see my father. You haven't refused, but I doubt you've sent word to him either. I've asked to see Eric, and you've said you would tell him when the time was right. Whatever that means."

Now Baldwin was staring at her in full. Godfrey was pressing his knuckles into his temple. And Philippe was waiting patiently for her to proceed.

"You've been generous I suppose. When I met your son – Godfrey that is – he threatened to drink my blood and have me exposed as a witch. So, I mean it quite honestly when I say I am grateful for your generosity and the lack of death threats. It's been a great..."

She flickered her eyes pointedly to Godfrey and then back to Philippe. "...comfort... to me."

The de Clermont's teeth were sharp when he smiled at her, and, in his eyes, glittered the fire from the hearth. Her eyes began to burn from looking at him, so she averted her gaze to the hourglass and the map on his desk.

"You have given much, and I've asked for only two things. And both of those things have been denied to me. So now I will ask you for a third, and I hope that you can find it in yourself to provide it."

"Will you, indeed?" Philippe asked with a sharp grin. "And what, pray tell, would that be, my lady?"

"My education."

Godfrey let out a disbelieving scoff. Philippe sat back in his seat, intrigued. Baldwin did not change in demeanor.

Then, Bijou snorted and lifted his head from her feet.

Addison took the opportunity to turn about the room. She ran her fingers over ancient tomes in languages she didn't speak. She poked at a trinket whose use and name were unknown to her. She paused by the hearth and allowed it to warm her. And then moved on to other pieces in the study, to papers and maps, and tools that she may one day need.

"An education?" Philippe asked after a beat.

"Yes," she said. "Or is there someone more qualified on this matter that I can speak to?"

"Ladies do not receive an education, Fernanda" Godfrey commented dryly.

"Everyone receives an education," she retorted, stopping by Godfrey and looking down at him in scrutiny. His scowl deepened and he stood, rising to the bait, and not liking her attempt at intimidation.

Addison smirked and took his seat. She crossed her ankles, and sat with impeccable posture, she placed her hands primly in her lap and fixed Godfrey with her most neutral expression, and then in perfect Gaelic she continued.

"How else would you explain me?" She asked him. "Once I was a girl who could not speak Gaelic. I did not know the first thing about surviving in such times or places as these. And then I was a girl who was not meant to be a lady. And yet here I am, residing in a tower built for a future king, in a bed intended for a future queen, in a chair in a study before three men who cannot die. I require my lessons. I've learned much, but I don't know enough. Since you refuse to call on my father, and I do not know how to reach him, I must ask for your help no matter how much it pains me to do so."

Godfrey sputtered and gaped down at her.

"You're in my chair," he insisted and waved his hand about. "You're—" he turned from her to his father. "She's taken my chair."

"No, son," Philippe intoned, caught between boredom with Godfrey and a million thoughts Addison could not read. "You have given up your seat."

Baldwin snorted. Godfrey fell silent, perhaps chastised for a moment, though Addison didn't think the attitude adjustment would last.

"While I appreciate your bid for an education, Lady Fernanda," Philippe said. "Matters of comportment and morality are for Ysabeau to manage. If you wish to learn today's customs and etiquette, you should take your request to her."

"But I'm not talking about matters of comportment and morality," she said, and this was too much even for Philippe.

His face became impatient. Baldwin stifled a grin. Godfrey stared resentfully down at the girl who'd taken his chair.

"I'm talking about books. Languages. I'm talking about how to survive in the woods on my own. How to tell north from south. Those kinds of things. I don't know how to feed myself outside of your carefully constructed walls."

Philippe held up a hand. "Of these things, Fernanda," he said. "You have no need. Everything is provided for you here. Books are a man's pursuit. Regarding language, for now, you know plenty. The rest is not for young ladies of import like yourself to learn. You ask after skills that do not suit a woman of your station."

Addison opened her mouth to argue but a stern look from Philippe had her falling wisely silent. She knew enough to know when she'd pushed her luck. She knew enough to know when silence was her best friend, though it could feel like her worst enemy.

She closed her mouth and stood from her chair. She snapped her fingers and Bijou stood, content to follow her toward the door.

When it opened, by way of Alain, she turned once more to face the de Clermonts who remained in the study.

She curtsied.

She kept her eyes carefully cast down to the floor.

She thanked them for their time.

And then she turned once more, in silence and contemplation, to make her way back down the corridor. The line of men waiting for an audience with Philippe had grown longer, and their patience had grown even thinner during her time on the other side of the door. Addison wondered about their bids for the de Clermont's precious time and his powerful ear. She wondered about what they could possibly need, and whether Philippe would grant it to them. She wondered what they were speaking about before she'd interrupted them, and what was happening on the map they'd covered before she could look for herself and see.

Addison wondered about her admittance into Philippe de Clermont's study. She wondered about her father, and Eric. Where they were and what they were doing. She thought about Navarre and wondered if that was where she'd still find Hugh.

With Bijou on her heels, she made her way down the corridor. Into the entrance hall she wandered, and then she left the great metal plated doors that guarded Sept-Tours. She strode past the footmen and down the steps, past the guards and down into the courtyard. She weaved through the servants and the tradesmen, the guests and their horses.

Addison made her way for the gates, with their giant teeth that had been raised. When her feet hit the path, something inside of Addison released. Her ribs expanded as she took a breath of free air, and she relished in the soft thud of the ground beneath her feet. She made her way down the path toward the village.

It was the middle of the day, and the family was busy. She had nothing to do and no one to keep her company. Addison would go to Ysabeau after dinner, and she would ask her for lessons in comportment and morality. They were good things to know, and her knowledge was woefully out of date. It was not what she'd hoped for, but it would be enough for now to help her find her footing.

She knew that she had broken the rules. She knew she wasn't meant to leave the gates. But Addison didn't care. Why should she care about their rules and their cautionary tales? Why should she care for the lectures she'd received from Godfrey and Baldwin about little cubs that wandered away from their dens?

If they did not listen to her, she would not listen to them. Addison shoved her hand in her pocket and extracted a little mirror gifted to her by Eric once six months, or fifty years, ago depending on who you asked. She ran her thumb over the swallow and the scales before tucking it back into her skirts for safety.

She'd go to the village. She'd see what there was to see. She'd return to Sept-Tours, and no one need be the wiser.


There was no other word for the village but thriving.

The smiths were all hard at work, with smokestacks rising high from their chimneys and lines of customers milling about their doors. The tanner and his apprentice were busy stretching out a hide so that they may treat it properly. The peasant farmers had long since taken to their fields, and she could see the last of the barley crop being scythed before winter.

Today would be the last of the harvest by the looks of it. Next, they would butcher the livestock that they couldn't afford to feed through winter into spring. It was a gruesome business, Addison knew. But she also knew the value of meat in the dead of December, and she couldn't begrudge anyone their need to survive.

In the distance, outside someone's house, a pig squealed and snorted while someone dumped a handful of scraps into her pen. And Addison reached down to secure a hand in Bijou's scruff, hoping he wouldn't get any ideas and run off where she couldn't find him. Lambert had assured her he would follow her around though, and she was inclined to believe the kennel master.

The village was a labyrinth of stone and wooden housing, a mix of different structures from many eras all piled on top of each other and perfected to make an eclectic, effective, lively looking set of homes. Thatched rooves covered lower lying homes, while stone rooves or wooden rooves covered others.

Outside of one house was a broken plow. Two men stood over it, mumbling to each other about how best to approach its repairs. Two little girls ran underfoot with baskets of root vegetables and an abundance of fall berries, as they no doubt hurried to return these items to their mother for preserving.

Some people stopped and stared at her. Some in recognition. Others in suspicion. She was not from here, and most of the peasants that resided in the village had not spent any time at all behind the fortress walls of Sept-Tours. They knew their lord and perhaps his sons. They knew Ysabeau. But it had only been a handful of days, and they did not know Addison.

She smiled softly at them and kept moving. That was okay, she thought. They didn't need to know her.

Those who did recognize her had either been in the church when she and Ysabeau went to mass the day she arrived or had dined with the family in the great hall at some point over the course of the week. Those who did recognize her, removed their caps and bowed, or they curtsied and offered a polite "my lady," as she passed. And Addison did her best to take it all in stride.

It was unnerving to have this constant attention. To have a constant show of deference. These people did not need to curtsy or bow for her. Had they met her just a year ago, had they found her face-down in the mud outside their tavern, in a pair of jeans and a Henley without a lick of their language to her name, they would have known that she was not someone they should bow to. They would have known the truth, and they would not have deferred to her.

Had they met her then, she would have been lucky if they picked her up and handed her off to a tired, but benevolent widow, with too many mouths to feed and not enough food to go around.

But that had been a hundred years ago now, and they didn't know her as she had once been. They only saw Lady Fernanda Gonçalves, here. They only saw the young de Clermont's mate. That's who she was and who she would continue to be for now, until Addison no doubt became someone else entirely new in another lifetime that was yet to come.

Somewhere near here was the baker. Addison could tell because the air was rich with the scent of rising bread. And she smiled at the woman outside the alehouse, who had her sleeves rolled up and a scarf over her hair. The strong scent of warm hops colored the air around her as she took a break in the cool November air. The woman wiped her forehead and nodded at Addison, looking her up and down in blatant intrigue before turning back to her work for the day.

On the church steps, a man lounged. He had dark eyes and broad shoulders, and an unsettling stare. He did not belong in the picture of the village, she decided. This man was out of place. He watched her from the steps, having noticed immediately when her gaze drifted over to him. But Addison kept moving, a hand in Bijou's scruff, and her skin prickling with the urge to run.

Dark eyes and a half grin, he quirked his head at her, and Addison jolted.

His grin became a little sharper, and his eyes became a little duller too. He nodded in her direction and then turned his face to regard the road behind her, the road that led to Sept-Tours.

Free from the weight of his gaze, Addison let out a shaky breath and snapped for Bijou to hurry up his pace. She took the nearest turn she could find and allowed herself to sag in relief once there was a building carefully placed between her and the man outside the church.

"My lady?"

Addison jumped and turned.

A familiar smile – one missing tooth – and a blush on her cheeks. The baker's wife.

"Agatha," Addison said with a relieved smile.

"I didn't mean to startle you," the other woman said. She had a basket on her hip, covered with a cloth but no doubt piled high with bread.

"No harm done," Addison assured her and stared at her basket curiously. Agatha followed her gaze and hefted the basket a little higher for good measure.

"For the farmers, my lady," she told her.

"Oh," Addison said. "Are you delivering them?"

Agatha nodded. "I've got this batch and then another I'll come back for."

Addison shook her head and reached for the basket. "Hand it over," she said. "I'll go with you."

Agatha's eyes widened and she looked around nervously. "Oh no, my lady, there really is no need."

"Of course, there is," Addison laughed and gestured for her to hand the bread over.

"I couldn't possibly—"

"You'd be doing me a favor," Addison told her gently. "The household is so busy and I'm afraid I have found myself idle. Too idle."

Agatha eyed her warily.

"Please," Addison intoned. The other woman sighed and shifted the basket.

"Oh alright," she said. "Follow me then, if you will, my lady."

Addison grinned at her and hurried to follow Agatha back the way she came. Back to the bakery and the other basket of bread.

Two sturdy wooden structures made up Agatha's home. One for sleeping, the other for baking. Agatha ducked through an open doorway, and Addison followed her in.

A man stood at a table, kneading a lump of dough the size of Addison's abdomen. He didn't look up from his work when Agatha entered.

"Back already, love?" he asked her, out of breath from his labor but no less skeptical.

"We have a guest, Gerard," Agatha said, her voice pitched too high and too politely to be anything but alarming to her great brute of a husband.

The man slowed his kneading to look up at his wife with his eyebrows furrowed and a question on his tongue.

"What do you mean we have a—"

Agatha gestured to Addison and the man turned to her in surprise. The kneading stopped, and he stood up a little straighter with dough on his hands and a shocked sound of embarrassment.

"M-my lady," he said, and turned to find a cloth to wipe his hands. "I apologize. I didn't realize—"

"There's no need to apologize," she said with a polite grin. "I didn't mean to interrupt your work. Only I was looking for a way to keep busy for the moment, and your wife has kindly allowed me to help her carry bread to the farmers in the fields."

"Oh," the man sputtered and then turned from Addison to Agatha with a cautious look in his eye. Agatha's face was wholly pleading and just as bewildered as Gerard himself was.

"I hope it's not too much trouble," Addison intoned, trying not to drool at the honey cakes that sat in a basket on the far table, or the pain de campagne that was still rising in the ovens behind the baker and his wife.

"No, my lady," Gerard said after a beat. "No trouble at all. It's very kind of you to offer. Very kind."

He looked between his wife and Addison, visibly flustered. And Agatha, bless her, passed a basket over to Addison before scooping up her other.

"That's the lot then," she said, and Addison noted how her eyes crinkled when she grinned. Addison had a feeling she'd provided the baker and his wife a good deal of entertainment by showing up and asking for work. She pressed her lips together, trying to keep in her laughter, but she knew they could see one traitorous dimple appear on her cheek.

"If you'll follow me, my lady," Agatha said and made for the door.

Addison turned to follow her, but not before calling back to Gerard, to tell him that it had been a pleasure to meet him and that the bread smelled amazing.

Behind her a stuttering mess of a baker, sputtered out his thanks, and ahead of her Agatha's shoulders shook as she succumbed to her laughter. And Addison was happy to see them in such good spirits.

She didn't remember having a baker in the little village at the edge of the woods. She only ever got bread when she went to the castle. And she had never ventured away from La Ithuriana the fall before. Roncesvalles was worlds away as far she had been concerned back then. But it was nice to hear laughter. To see smiles. And an abundance of food.

The village beyond the walls of Sept-Tours was unlike any village she'd known in this place and time. And a lightness pervaded her chest at this knowledge. She hiked up her basket and picked up her pace, following Agatha to the fields where the farmer's waited for their daily bread.


Ysabeau was waiting for her when she returned.

The sun had begun to set on the horizon, and back in the village Addison had left behind a friend in Agatha and a field full of happily fed farmers.

Addison had been determined to enjoy her day and so enjoy it she had. She relished in the remaining sunshine and the last vestiges of warmth in the air, though it was getting colder and colder by the minute and the day.

Winter was on its way. And the village was preparing for snow, and long nights. For hunger and frozen limbs. For sickness and boredom.

Sept-Tours was preparing for the same.

All around her everyone had a purpose. Most had families, and others had friends.

Addison had a slobbery old mastiff, a single gown to her name, a room in a tower and the family of her mate. Though where he was, she didn't know.

The cold air on her skin brought memories of the corridor outside of Sorley's chambers. It brought back the memory of ice on the steps by the windows, and his silhouette appearing in the doorway while she cleaned.

Now, as she climbed the steps toward the great doors that opened into Sept-Tours, where the guards pulled themselves to attention, and the footmen made way for her entrance, Addison could feel the ice of Ysabeau's stare on her skin as she ascended.

She looked up briefly to meet the other woman's gaze.

"Madame," she said, polite but neutral.

The blonde pursed her lips and studied her with a critical eye. They were alone in the entrance hall, in their own little bubble, completely untouched by the bustling bodies that worked tirelessly along the edges of the room. The servants were adept at turning a deaf ear and a blind eye.

"Did you enjoy your little excursion?" Ysabeau asked.

Addison pressed her lips together in annoyance. Ysabeau didn't have to stay within the gates. Ysabeau could tell north from south. Ysabeau could feed herself no matter where she was. A little pocket of resentment opened itself deep down in Addison's gut and it burned something fierce.

"I did," Addison said. "Thank you for asking."

"Hmm," came Ysabeau's reply.

Addison remained silent. She fixed her face into a wholly pleasant expression, relaxed into her posture, and waited for the other woman to proceed.

After a beat, Ysabeau sighed. "My husband tells me you are in need of lessons."

"I am," Addison said.

Ysabeau nodded and then gestured in the direction of the drawing room, down the corridor, off to the side of the great hall.

"Come," she said.

Addison nodded and dipped into a curtsy before rising up again to follow behind.


Though seemingly impossible, the days passed more quickly after that. She woke, she dressed, she ate, she learned the ropes from Ysabeau. They reviewed her etiquette. They reviewed her devotionals. They went down to the church for mass when the next Sunday arrived.

This time around, they went down to the church in the morning as was expected of them. And they were joined by Philippe when they did.

Ysabeau taught her the new laws of propriety, the expectations of a woman of standing in a household such as this, as well as the dos and don'ts of high society and court. Though the matriarch of the de Clermont family and Addison had shared a rare moment of solidarity when they agreed she had no business anywhere near King Louis' court, the stewardship of his son, Prince Philip, or the influence of his brother the Comte Alphonse of Poitiers who also, coincidentally, maintained influence over the Auvergne.

It was the closest she'd ever felt to the unreadable Ysabeau, that moment, and it had flooded her with relief. Addison may be a lady by adoption. She may be Eric de Clermont's mate. But she'd sooner pitch herself from the ramparts than be caught dead in the French king's court, even if he wasn't home.

They would eat her alive there.

After her lessons, she was set loose to roam, but absolutely forbidden from leaving the gates on her own. And no one offered to leave with her. No one offered her a guard.

The line of men outside Philippe's study grew and shortened by day, as he held audience with some, disregarded others, and sent his sons, and his squire Alain, to deal with the rest.

Marthe still dressed her in the mornings and prepared her for her evening meals. And it only took that first week for the village seamstress to complete several gowns for her and send them up to the house for her to try.

Addison had cringed in disbelief at the speed with which each immaculate dress had been completed.

In total, she had acquired a wardrobe full of silk, velvet, wool, linen, cotton, lace, and brocade depending on its use and occasion. She desperately hoped that the seamstress she'd met the week before had a small army of apprentices to help her with her workload. Addison was not the only girl in need clothes before winter, and she knew she had jumped the line of those waiting for supplies. She tried to bite back her discomfort – there was no question that the family had pulled several strings for her. Addison's wardrobe should have taken months with all that had been delivered.

Now, in her chambers, hung neatly and out of view, were several gowns of incomparable quality. Her favorite was a black gown with gold needlework, heavy and soft, and rich looking. It screamed de Clermont money to all who saw it. And though she had her reservations about the family, she wouldn't take those reservations out on a poor, defenseless piece of clothing. Just because she couldn't reach her father, and she didn't know where Eric was, and she had neither seen hide nor hair of Hugh didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the finer aspects of the family's wealth and the skill of their seamstress.

Her other dresses were more modest than the black and gold one. Finely done, but more appropriate for daily use. There was another green dress, the same color as the one she had arrived in but designed in the appropriate style for the era. There was a red dress made of velvet, and lace. A marigold dress with white laces at the back. Another blue gown, though this one was lighter and softer looking than the black and navy one they'd dressed her in the day she arrived.

She had also acquired several new cotton and linen shifts, and a cotton apron. A dark grey wool dress. A rich brown wool dress with black decorative patterns along the skirts. She received three cloaks. One for travel, though she had to laugh at the idea she'd be going anywhere. One for daily use and another for special occasions. The third was black as night, soft and of the highest quality wool. If she were to wear it in the darkness, Addison was certain it would make her disappear. And she got the feeling that was part of the purpose of this particular item of clothing.

This cloak was kept on its own, along with the black and gold dress, and a brooch with an ouroboros on it. Marthe had patted these items reverently and informed her that she'd store them away for special occasions.

Addison had nothing else to do but nod at that and accept it.

She was given a newer softer pair of slippers. Two pairs of boots that should get her through winter and into spring. Stockings. Ribbons. Lace. Jewels. Chains. And other assortments of goods she had no use for, but she knew enough not to turn away.

Ysabeau had informed her as the maids laid out her jewelry that the items were on loan from the family vault. That she would be expected to return them. It was only as a courtesy that the family allowed her to wear such valuable pieces while in residence at Sept-Tours. Addison did her best not to let her alarm show while she was the subject of the other woman's scrutiny. She did not care that all this extravagance was hers only to borrow. It was such frivolous concern, and Addison was more relieved to have a roof over her head, a warm fire burning, and food in her belly at night before she went to sleep.


On her eighth night at Sept-Tours, after the house had completed their evening meal and the revelry had continued in the great hall, Addison excused herself for bed. The family hadn't batted an eye at this. She had been busy, and she was human, and frankly they cared little for her comings and goings so long as she remained within the gates.

Marthe had seen her to bed. The maid had readied her for sleep and blown out the candles before leaving her tucked tightly under her covers.

The door drifted shut with a soft snick, and Addison waited with even breath and closed eyes. She waited and waited and waited until at last her gut told her Marthe had turned a deaf ear.

Addison threw back her covers, grabbed the iron by the fire and crawled under her bed. She marked the passage of time in a series of lines on the wall, carefully scratching in line number eight. Then she reached for her little leather bag with her mace and her toothbrush, her wound wash, and her bandages.

She extracted the toothbrush and toothpaste and crawled out from under her bed. She returned the iron to its place by the fire, and then made her way to the bowl by her vanity. The bowl was a vibrant ceramic piece full of fresh water for her to use as she pleased in the middle of the night, whether that involved cleaning her teeth or washing her hands or face.

Addison dipped the brush into the bowl, before applying a small dab of toothpaste. Sighing into the brush, she began to scrub her teeth and tongue. She had used these items sparingly and opted for medieval hygiene fifty percent of the time. But it felt good to use something fresh and familiar now.

She finished brushing her teeth and reached for a cloth to wipe her face before making her way back to her bedside and taking a long pull of the now cool water she'd asked the kitchen staff to boil before delivering to her room.

Setting her goblet aside, Addison turned and reached for her nearest dressing gown. It was silk on the outside but lined with thick padded cotton on the inside to keep her warm as the weather cooled. She wrapped the garment tightly around her middle and made her way to her door.

Quietly and carefully Addison turned the latch, wincing when the door released from its lock and creaked a bit when it opened. She held her breath before listening and waiting for the arrival of a nosy manjasang. When no one came she stepped out onto the landing, in the winding stairwell of Hugh's tower. Softly she closed her door behind her before turning and climbing the steps.


The closest door to her own was a handful of steps above her.

Gallowglass, something inside of her sang.

It was an ordinary door, made of brown wood that did not creak when she pushed it open, and part of her was genuinely surprised it wasn't locked. But then she supposed it would be near suicide for someone to break into the room of a de Clermont. And the maids needed regular access for dusting and general upkeep.

The door swung open without a sound, and she thought it fitting that only her door in this tower would be the one to creak.

Addison rolled her eyes. She threw one last glance at the stairwell behind her before stepping in.

It was cold in Eric's chambers. And it was dark. She should have brought a candle, but she hadn't thought of it until it was too late to turn back.

His bed was bigger than hers. Built for a king, she supposed. And his hearth nearly took up a whole wall on the far side of the room.

There were two windows in this room, and while her chambers were situated to overlook the courtyard, his had a clear sightline of the paddock, a guard tower in the distance and the tree line beyond. The other window was a direct line to one of the lower rooves, and just big enough for a body of his size to fit through.

Above the mantle were three coats of arms. One, she did not recognize. One was the de Clermont's. And the third was one she had seen many times before. It belonged to Hugh and Fernando's family. Her family. Theirs. The Gonçalves de Clermont crest. Above his mantle was a heraldry as long and as vast and as complicated as the man himself could sometimes be.

Addison wandered over to his desk, unused but absent of dust thanks to the maids. She pulled at drawer handles and found most of them to be locked, and the room to be absent of a key. But the top drawer gave easily, and Addison jolted at the sight left inside. Carefully pressed and preserved was a little forget-me-not, blue as the day he'd no doubt freed it from the ground.

Addison sucked in a breath and felt that little spool of thread in her belly begin once again to unwind. God, she wished he was here. She wished she knew where he was.

She plucked the flower from the drawer and twirled it gently between her fingertips as she stood once again from his desk to wander around. His shelves were lined with books and scrolls and sketches, some complete and some half-finished.

There was a small hourglass that had run out of sand. There was a dagger that was plain and weighted, with a leather-bound hilt and a sharp edge. There was a black cloak in the wardrobe as well as several tunics, a discarded pair of grieves, a finely crafted pair of leather boots, a hauberk, and a dressing gown.

Addison startled and reached forward. She knew this gown. It was hers.

It was the one she'd worn the night he found her at La Ithuriana. The golden dressing gown, decorated with rich green and brown vines. Silk and soft and just as cozy, just as rich as the night he had found her again.

The little spool unwound faster now, and a lump caught in her throat. Addison blinked a few times to clear her eyes which stung now with tears.

God, she missed him.

If she closed her eyes, with the silk of the dressing gown clenched in her fist, and the little forget-me-not twirling gently between her fingers she could almost feel the weight of his gaze behind her. She could almost feel his rough skin against her own. The brush of his hair as he bent to kiss her hand. The velvet press of his lips on her skin, on her cheek, on her mouth, and the pleasant scratch of his beard when they did.

Why was it always so hard to stay this way? She had married him once in a different lifetime, and she told herself that as long as she had him, they would both be okay.

But having Sorley had become so monumentally difficult.

And time had become impossible. Now, she was here, closer to him than ever, and he was worlds away. And she just—

Addison gritted her teeth and clenched her fist around the silk, watching it wrinkle and bunch.

She just wanted to be okay. She just wanted him. She just wanted time. They never had any time. She envied the world for the time it spent with Sorley in absence of her. She envied his family for having him eternally when she couldn't even stay long enough to make a year.

She wanted him to hold her. And she wanted him to tell her stories of all that she missed while she'd been away. She wanted to tell him how hard it had been to leave him. And she didn't know if he'd heard her call his name.

She didn't get to say goodbye.

Addison's lip wavered and her nose burned, and her eyes stung, and she wanted to scream. She opened her mouth, and she stretched her face around a scream she couldn't release. And angry tears leaked down her face. She held her breath for as long as she dared before letting it all out in a great, tired heap of air.

She took another softer breath as she felt her whole body sag. And then she placed the forget-me-not in his wardrobe beside the wrinkled fabric of her old dressing gown.

She sucked in another breath and leaned forward. She pressed her face into the metal of his discarded grieves. And she wished he was here.

There was so much she would tell him if he was here. So much she wanted to do with him by her side.

She couldn't tell Fernando about the man who had grabbed her at the bus stop near Jenny's house. For some reason, she couldn't tell her father. And though she knew there was nothing Eric could do either – no matter how much he would want to; no matter how much she wanted him to – she wanted to tell him. She wanted him to know.

There was nothing he could do, but she wanted so desperately for him to understand that part of her life. To hear it and see it and know it and love her through it. She wanted to tell him about the heat of the summer. The unbearable heat that made her wonder if she would survive. She wanted to tell him about the man and the car and the hunger and fear. She wanted him to know every dream. She wanted him to know about the chess board and the fallen pieces. She wanted him to help her make sense of that senseless gameboard that haunted her at night in her sleep.

She wondered what he would say if she told him there were vampires in the future too.

She wondered what he would do if she told him they'd found her, and she didn't know who they were, but they knew who she was, and that she was scared.

But he wasn't here and there was never any time. And his room was cold. And she didn't know where to find him. He wasn't home. This wasn't her home.

Addison sighed and stood.

She went back over to his desk and grabbed up a bit of parchment that lay on top. She snatched his quill and an unopened inkwell, before taking her seat and beginning to write.

By moonlight she told him the truth.

Addison told him that she loved him, and she missed him, and she hoped he missed her. In the dark of his chambers, alone at Sept-Tours, Addison revealed to him her horrible fear. That he would not come for her. That he had not waited the promised fifty years. She revealed that she struggled sometimes to think of him, because thinking of him made her want him, and wanting him was hard when she could not have him how she wished to. And she hoped he didn't think less of her for it.

She told him his family was odd, and strict and impossible to read. And she thanked him for not being that way with her. She thanked him for his kindness and his gentle ways and his good humor.

She told him of Bijou, the slobbery mastiff who'd become her only friend. She told him of the kindness of Marthe. Her lessons with Ysabeau and the strange man she'd seen at the church in the village. She told him of the road she'd landed on and her fear of one day disappearing and not being found. She told him how she wished to know how to take care of herself, and her fear that their family would never be together again. That six months would pass, and she would still be here, and they would be wherever they were, and they would lose each other again before she could even see them. Before they even knew she had returned.

She signed the letter with love and a kiss. And then she folded it and placed it in his wardrobe with the forget-me-not and her dressing gown, his fine leather boots, and his discarded pair of grieves.


They came in waves. Black cloaks on black horses. Large wooden carts pulled by draft horses. Not a single familiar face among them but they knew her and treated her accordingly.

She couldn't count the numbers of people and chests and supplies that arrived the next day in the courtyard at Sept-Tours, but they had worked efficiently and diligently. And Philippe had not been surprised.

Alain and Marthe had rushed out to meet them and promptly began ordering people about. Fighting men were directed to barracks and ranking officers. Maids were directed downstairs to the servants' quarters and others with a million purposes Addison couldn't even guess at were sent on their way to places Addison couldn't even begin to name.

It was only later – much later – during dinner, when Addison had asked after the new arrivals and their purpose here, that Godfrey had looked at her like she was an idiot and informed her that they were her household staff.

Perplexed, Addison had turned from Godfrey to Philippe and Ysabeau with a furrowed brow.

"What does that mean?"

"They were sent by your family," Philippe clarified.

"My family?" Addison choked around the words, a heavy, lonely, hopeful feeling in her chest. "My family sent them?"

"But of course, they did," Godfrey sighed from his place down the table. "We have no need of them otherwise."

"But why?"

"Not this again," Godfrey muttered just as Philippe cut in.

"I suspect they are meant to act as a precursor," he said, and his voice had taken on an odd quality. Baldwin's eyes flickered and Addison couldn't help but stare at him as a million emotions passed through him though none of them were accessible to her.

He met her gaze, and his face once again became the picture of neutrality. He lifted his goblet to his lips and looked away as he took a pull of blood. Of course, they would know her, the de Clermonts asserted, she was the only member of her scion in residence at Sept-Tours.

"A precursor?" Addison asked Philippe, still watching Baldwin who now stared pointedly at the doors. "A precursor for what?"

Philippe was silent and Addison turned from Baldwin to look the de Clermont's way. He was focused intently on her. And he was just as dark, just as full of steel, as the night she had met him. His gaze was too bright for her to hold for long, and she found that once again the aura that surrounded him had passed into shadow.

"For more," he said. "They are precursor for more yet to come."

Addison had gaped at the man in alarm. More?

Who else could they possibly send? What on earth would more look like? And why hadn't anyone told her? She made to stand, but a sharp look from Ysabeau had her sitting quickly back down again.

She hadn't been prepared for them. How does one prepare for an entire staff to show up on their doorstep? Was she meant to secure them food and lodging? Had she left them to wander around hungry and confused? How much did she need to plan for? What the hell was she supposed to do?

Knowing the source of her alarm, Ysabeau fixed her with a stern look. "Compose yourself, child."

Addison gritted her teeth, sucked in a few deep breaths, and tried to quiet her spinning mind.

"I don't know what to do—" Addison started but Ysabeau held up a silencing hand.

"Marthe and Alain will see to them for now," Ysabeau said. "Tomorrow is a new day. We will address how best you will proceed in the morning."

It sounded so simple when she said it like that, but Addison wasn't convinced. The other woman gestured to Addison's plate. She hadn't touched her meat again. Addison felt her stomach turn. Again, it was rare. More than rare, it was blue.

She cringed and nudged it with her fork, before opting instead for grapes and bread and cheese.

Ysabeau frowned and sniffed in annoyance at Addison's rejection of her food, before turning back to her wine and her husband and her view of the household who dined and laughed and drank together quite happily. It seemed Madame de Clermont was content, for the moment, to ignore the anomaly of a human girl who sat by her husband's side.


The first day had been the fighting men and the downstairs staff. With them came armor, and weapons, linens and wardrobes. With them came a supply of food that spoke a gesture of goodwill to the de Clermont household.

On the second day, Addison woke to Marthe and Ysabeau. While the maid dressed her and fixed her hair, Ysabeau rattled off a list of duties that Addison would now have to attend to. And Addison, in her overwhelm, found herself wishing for a pen and paper. How Ysabeau expected her to keep track of this verbal clusterfuck, she had no idea.

They descended the stairs together as a formidable group of three. Well... a formidable pair of vampires, and one alarmed Fernanda Gonçalves. The corridor was more crowded than Addison had ever seen it. Previous guests had been reallocated to other corridors where members of the family were not in residence. Chambers had been cleaned, beds stripped, floors swept and mopped, and valuables polished to make way for new arrivals who seemed at this point to be an inevitability.

Philippe had called the first wave a precursor, and Addison was beginning to understand.

Here was the downstairs staff. The staff that existed outside of the household as well. Extra guards were a sign of goodwill, but also a sign of Hugh stacking the men-at-arms in his family's favor. Guaranteeing them a loyal contingent of armed men of their own, who already knew how to coexist with Philippe's.

As they walked down the corridor, they received the same treatment from the staff as they had received during the week prior. But it was different now. There would always be deference for Ysabeau. There would always be respect set aside for her. But this time, these people focused on Addison above the imperious Madame de Clermont.

Addison was the ranking lady of her household, and these people deferred to her. She felt the bile rise in her throat at the realization, and she had to hold her breath so she wouldn't heave and vomit all over the freshly mopped floors.

Ysabeau, seeing her struggle, had wrapped her arm tightly through Addison's and guided her to the great hall for breakfast, rattling off more information as they moved.

The corridor would be reserved for personal staff of the family. To the left and right of the entrance to the stairwell Addison shared with Eric, and Hugh, would be the chambers of Hugh's manservant Jean Luc and Addison's maid, Jacqueline.

On either side of them would be Hugh's chosen advisors, favored friends of the family, ranking guards chosen to reside near the tower and anyone else the Gonçalves de Clermont family should choose.

Ysabeau had deposited her at the table beside her husband and shared a look with Philippe who seemed unlike his usual self. There was something simmering beneath the surface of the de Clermont sieur and Addison couldn't even bring herself to glance at him this morning. Her entire being sung with nerves, caught up between the powerful pair of manjasangs.

"If you'll excuse us, child," Ysabeau's smooth voice intoned.

Philippe kicked back his chair and stood. No one looked at the high table. It seemed Addison wasn't the only human afraid of staring at the perplexing man caught beneath a heavy cloud of thunder and rain.

He pressed a heavy hand on the back of her chair, a silent acknowledgement in parting, before the de Clermont and his wife disappeared.

Addison didn't feel much like eating, but she choked down a few bites before a call from the courtyard caught her ear. The shout for the gates to open. The protest of horses. The clatter and clamor of the guards and the groan of iron as it lifted its teeth from the cobblestone ground.

Addison jolted out of her seat, jostling the table, and lifting her skirts so she did not trip as she launched herself down the steps of the platform and out the doors.

She bolted past the footmen, out of breath, and full of concern. Ysabeau and Philippe were gone, and she had no idea what to do with these new arrivals. She had no idea what was expected of her.

She stood at the top of the steps, leaning over a low wall that overlooked the courtyard below. At her back were the footmen, and along the stairs were a contingent of guards. And there before her, were even more people who belonged to her house. Members of her family's staff.

The second wave was significantly smaller. But what it lacked in quantity, it made up for in worth. For there at the front of the group, dismounting his horse, was a familiar manservant with a scholar's hands and a fighter's build.

"Jean Luc!" Addison called out as she bolted down the stairs to greet him.

The squire turned and bowed to her in greeting, and Addison couldn't help but show her relief. She was positively flooded with it, giddy to the point of impropriety at the sight of a familiar face and a trusted member of her household. She hadn't thought he would come back.

"What's happening?" she asked him. "Ysabeau explained but it was too much at once and I didn't retain half of it. Have you spoken with my father? And what of Hugh? And—"

"My lady," Jean Luc murmured, and Addison stuttered to a stop.

She was suddenly aware of the people in the courtyard who blatantly watched her exchange with Hugh's squire in equal parts curiosity, suspicion, and amusement.

"Sorry," she whispered.

He shook his head.

"There is no need," he reassured her, and then he turned to those who arrived with him. A farrier, by the looks of it. A messenger, bearing the Gonçalves de Clermont seal. And another Addison couldn't even begin to identify.

"Find Alain, he will direct you to your lodgings," he told them. "And then report to me before you begin your work for the day."

The men acknowledged Jean Luc's orders, before bowing to Addison and turning to do as Hugh's squire bade them.

Jean Luc turned back to her. From his pocket, he pulled a letter. It was heavy with something folded inside of its pages and sealed with red wax.

"A letter from Lord Hugh, my lady," he said.

Addison held the letter tightly and stared back at him in surprise. It felt so real, and so fragile there in the palm of her hand. Just a bit of paper and wax, pulled from a pocket in a courtyard. It was unremarkable, but she'd never felt so seen. She'd never felt so heard.

Jean Luc was here. He was here and with him he brought word from Hugh.

"Thank you," she said, smiling genuinely for the first time in days.

"Perhaps we can discuss the rest in private?" he asked her. "Lord Hugh has extended the use of his private study to your ladyship while he is away."


On her eleventh day at Sept-Tours – the third day of new arrivals – Addison used Fernando's signet ring to seal her first official letter as Lady Fernanda Gonçalves.

She met the maids who had traveled with the first wave two days before. She met the farrier who would personally tend to Gonçalves de Clermont horses, to lighten the load on the primary farrier that lived at Sept-Tours.

She met the messenger who had arrived with Jean Luc, and she proudly passed him that letter she had sealed, and asked him to deliver it to Hugh.

Most of her day though had been spent cloistered away in Hugh's study, learning the ropes while the other members of her small family were away.

With Bijou at her feet and Jean Luc over her shoulder she pored over the budget that had been spared for her during her time at Sept-Tours. And between her lessons from fifty years ago, and a few helpful pieces of advice from Jean Luc, she began to understand the accounts the family had allotted for her. She began to understand how to keep track of travel expenses, lodging, horse maintenance, wagon upkeep, the value of important metals such as gold, lead, iron, bronze, and others as well.

Once she and Jean Luc had gotten their household staff settled and properly integrated into the flow of Sept-Tours, Addison was called into the drawing room for her lessons with Ysabeau.

There she practiced her elocution. She practiced her posture, manners, and dinner etiquette as well. Ysabeau began working with her on maintaining neutrality in all that she did, and Addison – while still prone to projecting her emotions plainly across her face – had taken the lessons to heart. It was a brutal business, neutrality. It was cutting and lonesome and hollow, but she understood that it unfortunately had its place. The more Addison became acquainted with vampires, the more she wished she could hide her vulnerabilities from display.

They spoke on matters of court, and high society. They spoke of sumptuary laws and morality. They spoke of the latest fashions and household concerns. And it was only through talk of the household that Addison fully began to understand the politics and the economics that came with running a house of this size and stature.

Addison learned that the chef did not approve of women in the kitchen, but Ysabeau insisted on employing a handful of diligent kitchen maids. This, mostly, because they served as Ysabeau's spies during times of strife. She learned that the heads of housekeeping did not think it moral to house the laundry maids, for laundry maids were often likened to prostitutes in this day and age. The laundry maids earned higher wages for their long hours and backbreaking labor, and this caused resentment among the others who lived downstairs.

She learned that the blacksmith and the farrier were on the outs, and it had slowed the supply of horseshoes and crossbow bolts leading up to winter. Ysabeau had rolled her eyes at the sensitivities of skilled tradesmen, which apparently was a common issue, but otherwise moved the conversation along.

She spoke of the resident priest and his complicated situation. She spoke of dignitaries in the west wing of the house where Addison was not to wander alone. And on and on the stories continued to come.

At some point during the conversation, Addison had come to be in possession of a key to the food stores.

"It's the only one," Ysabeau informed her. "Do not lose it."

"But what am I meant to do with it?"

"Jean Luc will help you, of course," Ysabeau waved her hand.

The matriarch of the family returned the rest of her heavy household keys to the tie around her waist.

"You will take stock of the food stores three times a week with the help of the chef and Jean Luc. The chef will no doubt take offense, but it is the only way you will learn so I'm afraid he will have to adjust and accept it."

"How am I supposed to take stock?" Addison stuttered and clenched the key in a nervous fist. Ysabeau studied her with a shrewd eye.

"Marthe and Chef both have an inventory. Marthe will give her list to you. Jean Luc will know how to teach you. Keep in mind that our stores are meant to last through winter. Any final decisions, you will bring to me for approval, but the rest will be up to you to maintain, plan and ration accordingly."

Addison felt her stomach hollow out in disbelief. They couldn't possibly expect her to maintain the food stores for all of Sept-Tours. Her palms felt suddenly hot and cold. Clammy, so grossly clammy. She rubbed her hands on her skirts and tried not to show how she was overcome by jitters. Memories of her time as Malvina flooded her mind, and it was all she could do not to turn her face. Like she was hitting the brakes on the flood of hunger and despair and disbelief and all the rest.

She wondered about the people of the village and whether any of them would truly be full bellied and warm by the time spring came back around again. She thought of the maids downstairs and wondered if there was enough fruit available to make sure each of them received a daily pear.

Ysabeau arched an eyebrow, and a knock sounded on the drawing room door. Addison jolted out of her seat and stood, turning toward the door as a footman pulled it open, and Marthe entered with Jean Luc and Alain behind her.

Marthe curtsied, the men bowed. Each of them vocalizing the appropriate greeting to Madame de Clermont and Lady Gonçalves.

"The last of milord Hugh's household have arrived, madame," Marthe said to Ysabeau.

Finally, the matriarch of the family stood, and she stood with grace. Addison envied her calmness. She envied her composure.

When Ysabeau made to leave the room, she was followed by Marthe and Alain.

Addison knew she should follow, but the key Ysabeau had given her weighed heavily in her palm. And she thought of another set of keys, months ago. Years ago. A lifetime ago, and yet the blink of an eye. Those keys, Addison had dropped at Fernando's feet. They hadn't suited her. Not after all she had done.

She couldn't do what they asked of her. It hurt to even think about. She felt something ugly twist inside of her, and the key was heavy, and then that little pocket of resentment and pain opened up once again in her belly. It throbbed and Addison couldn't help the way her breathing shallowed to accommodate the pain.

It hurt and Addison was tired. And she hated.

She hated and she wanted Eric back. She wanted him here. Fuck the servants. Fuck the family. Fuck it all. She wanted Eric and she wanted to go home. Back to La Ithuriana. Back to the lonely mountain with its quiet drawing room, and her small little family of strays.

She didn't want to be here, and this key did not suit her, and she shouldn't oversee every single person's ration of food. She should not be in charge of anything, but she was and—

"My lady," Jean Luc called.

Addison's head snapped up. The water had risen again, high over her head, and she could barely hear him over the flood in her ears.

"Shall we?" He asked and indicated toward the door where Ysabeau, Marthe and Alain had already disappeared.

She held the key in her palm. It was clunky and awkward and useless this way. She looked back down at it, and Jean Luc followed her gaze.

"I don't know what to do," she told him honestly, and she hated how her nose burned at the admission. She hated how her voice caught and her eyes stung with unshed tears.

"That's why I am here, my lady," Jean Luc told her.

His voice was calm. His eyes were kind. He lost some of the edge of neutrality for the barest of moments, and Addison was relieved to see sympathy from the man behind his usually impenetrable façade.

"What you do not know, I will teach you while your family is not here to do so."

"You said these people were my family now," she told him, feeling tense and contrary.

He cracked a grin and dipped his head into a halfhearted bow. "So, I did, my lady," he said and rose back up to grin at her. "So, I did."

Addison arched an eyebrow at the man who clearly found amusement in this predicament she was in, before letting out an annoyed sigh.

"I suppose we should get this over with," she gestured toward the door.

"The only way out is through, my lady, or so they say."

Addison rolled her eyes.

Jean Luc kept grinning like an idiot.

She turned from him and made her way to the door.

He, of course, turned to follow.

Together, the lady of House Gonçalves de Clermont and Hugh's most faithful manservant made their way into the corridor. They waded into the chaos, and once again succumbed to the current that moved every living being there at the heart of Sept-Tours.


"Not now, Marthe," Addison groaned when the curtains were pulled open on the twelfth morning. "It's too cold to get out of bed."

The sound of steps crossing the stone floor, soft on her plethora of richly woven rugs came closer to her, and Addison groaned again, rolling away from the approaching maid and scrunching her face more tightly. Defiant to the light and the inevitability of morning.

"Please, Marthe," Addison groaned. "Just this once. Tell Ysabeau I'm sick or something."

A tray was set on Addison's bedside table, and the rustle of fabric sounded as today's gown was laid out next to a clean shift and a warm pair of wool stockings. The hearth was already blazing and warm across the room, and the scent of mint wafted toward her from the tea by her bed.

Still, Marthe didn't say a word.

Addison frowned, but diligently kept her eyes closed. Maybe it was working. Maybe Addison would actually get her way. Maybe Ysabeau had decided to show her just an ounce of mercy for one blessed—

The covers ripped back toward the foot of the bed, and a stern pat on the mattress told Addison it was time to get up.

Addison sighed.

Fine.

She sat up and opened her eyes, blinking a few times until the figure across the room became less of a blur and started to take shape.

Addison squinted and shook herself.

That wasn't Marthe.

She reached up to rub the sleep out of her eyes.

The maid hadn't stopped moving. The maids never stopped moving. Addison rolled her eyes. She'd been a shitty maid. It was near impossible to keep her moving back when she was Malvina. No wonder everyone had always been annoyed.

When the maid did finally pause her work to turn back to her lady, Addison felt as though she was waking into a dream. Blonde hair and eyes the color of warm honey. A soft smile and a royal blue scarf tucked daintily around her braid.

"Good morning, my lady," Jacqueline said, and Addison gaped.

"H-how—" she started just as Jacqueline began to speak.

"We've got a busy day ahead of us, so I've gone ahead and asked the chef to prepare a snack for you, so you do not go hungry. And I've asked him to put an extra pot on to boil so you may have your water as you prefer to drink it. I've mended the hole in your stockings, and taken the liberty of selecting the green dress for you this morning as it is the warmest and there is frost on the ground outside—"

"Jacqueline," Addison croaked, trying to interrupt the maid but Jacqueline kept on speaking.

"Madame Ysabeau's maid, Marthe, has informed me that you have been given the key to the food stores. And she has also updated me on the progress of your lessons. I've taken the liberty of recording this in a letter for Lord Hugh but have refrained from sending it until I have your approval. Marthe has also informed me that you are not eating properly at mealtimes, which I know Don Fernando will wish to hear about if he is able—"

"Jacqueline—" Addison tried again but the maid seemed intent on soldiering on. Addison threw her feet over the edge of the bed and hissed as the cold seeped up from the stone flooring to permeate her skin.

The maid was suddenly knelt before her with a pair of slippers and a scolding on the tip of her tongue.

"Please, my lady," she rambled. "I know it has been some time, but there is no reason to break from custom now. Allow me to help you with your slippers—"

"Jacqueline," Addison said this time, and wrapped her hands over the maid's.

The other woman finally fell silent, looking suddenly frazzled and nothing at all like the girl Addison remembered from before. The silent, diligent, calm maid who followed the rules and maintained the upmost level of propriety. She seemed flustered, and unsure and—

"Hi," Addison said, and she felt tears gather at the corners of her eyes.

"Hello, my lady," Jacqueline said, still fidgeting with Addison's slippers but not breaking the younger girl's hold on her hands.

"I've missed you so much," Addison whispered. Jacqueline's eyes welled with tears, blood red and defiant against the older girl's once steely composure.

"You did not say goodbye, my lady," Jacqueline whispered back.

Addison couldn't stop the way her face contorted. Her throat burned with the strain of that memory. When she cried, she knew there was nothing that could stop the tears.

"I didn't want to go—" she choked.

"Oh no, my lady," Jacqueline cooed, somehow keeping those blood red tears of hers skillfully at bay. She stood and wrapped Addison up in a tight hold, and they rocked each other back and forth and when Jacqueline tried to pull away Addison couldn't let her go.

"No, my lady. It's okay, we all know," she murmured into Addison's hair.

"I tried—" Addison started.

"I've missed you too, my lady."

"I wanted so badly to go home."

"You're home now, my lady."

"This isn't my home."

"I know it may feel that way."

"It does," Addison said.

"I understand," Jacqueline pulled back and nodded resolutely down at the human girl who had once been her friend.

"I didn't know if you were still my maid," Addison shrugged, her lips twisting against the sad feeling in her chest, eyes turning down to the ground.

"I did not know if you would still wish for me to be," Jacqueline responded in kind.

"Of course," Addison said. "Only that I would want you more as a friend than a maid if I had to choose and—"

"We shall strive for both then, my lady," Jacqueline smiled back at her kindly, giving her hands a squeeze. "As we once promised to do."

"Philippe says it's been fifty years—"

"Fifty long years."

"Were they?" Addison asked. "Long, that is?"

"The longest I've experienced in some time," Jacqueline assured her, her eyes grave and her face stern. "And somehow, here you are before me, just as the day you left. And I cannot say why this surprises me so, my lady. It is not uncommon among manjasangs, to not see each other for such a length of time, but with a human..."

Jacqueline shook her head and Addison smiled awkwardly back at her. It was a hard thing to comprehend, that it had been fifty years. Since she'd met Gallowglass a year ago, when he was still human, she'd lost a century of time and he'd become a vampire.

Jacqueline saw this and sighed.

"Was it very long for you, my lady?"

"Yes," Addison said, her voice hoarse from so many words left unsaid. "The longest six months of my life, and yet..."

Jacqueline's eyes softened and she had the grace to look down, as though she too was mourning the young Fernanda's odd twist of fate.

"And yet," she repeated in solemn resignation.

"How did you know I was here?" Addison asked. "How did you get here? When did you even arrive?"

"I arrived just this morning," Jacqueline told her with a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.

She ducked her head closer to her mistress and Addison took that as her cue to lean in as well.

"There are changes in the air, my lady. I've only heard rumors and I dare not repeat gossip that involves the family, but I assure you, changes are coming. Big changes. The likes of which none have seen in many centuries."

"What does that mean?" Addison asked her, brow furrowed, and shaking her head.

Jacqueline smiled broadly at her, unable to keep her excitement from showing.

"All I can say, my lady—"

"Fernanda," Addison cut her off. "Call me Fernanda."

Jacqueline narrowed her eyes and shook her head. "I dare not, my lady."

"I insist."

"I cannot."

"But I want you to—"

"Not here, my lady," Jacqueline said. "Madame Ysabeau would not approve."

"It doesn't matter if she does.

"But it does matter," Jacqueline murmured. "This is not La Ithuriana. The rules are much stricter here, and even there I would not have dared."

"But—" Addison started, quickly falling silent at the strict look in the older girl's eyes. "Fine," Addison sighed and nodded for her to continue.

"All I can say, is that over a week ago Sir Balder arrived in Bourges with urgent news for Lord Hugh. The next day, as Jean Luc departed to meet you here, Balder rode out but I know not where for. I have my suspicions, and I have heard whispers, but I cannot say for certain where he was sent to or who he spoke to while he was away."

Addison shook her head, opening her mouth to tell Jacqueline to speak more clearly but the maid gave her another silencing look. Honestly, Addison rolled her eyes, of the two of them Jacqueline would make the better de Clermont through and through.

"Then a messenger arrived, the day after Jean Luc departed, and he bore a letter with a familiar seal. Rumor has it, Lord Hugh keeps correspondence with a nameless individual. That they trade secrets, but no one knows enough to confirm. Lord Hugh read the letter, and then Jean Luc returned with news of you. That's when Lord Hugh sent the command to prepare the servants—"

"Prepare the servants?" Addison asked.

Jacqueline nodded.

"The household, my lady," Jacqueline said.

"I don't understand."

"He emptied the Bourges house of all but a few. He emptied the house he lives in, and he sent everyone here. He sent them to you."

"To me?" Addison asked as she tried to comprehend. She imagined the Bourges house as another La Ithuriana. She couldn't comprehend how Hugh could empty that entire estate and send it to another one. It didn't make any sense.

"But why would he send all those people here to me? Doesn't he need them to run the estate where he is?" Addison asked.

"Only if he planned to remain there, yes," Jacqueline said as though this was the point of intrigue.

"But who takes care of the Bourges house when he is gone?" Addison asked, thinking of all the new arrivals.

"The remaining staff, of course," Jacqueline shrugged.

"But you said he emptied the house."

"He did," Jacqueline said.

"It feels like we're talking in circles here," Addison said archly.

Jacqueline stared at her for a beat and then gasped, her eyes lighting up in realization. "But of course, I forget you do not know—"

Addison fixed her with a flat look and Jacqueline smiled apologetically.

"At every house, there is a fixed staff. Members of the household who remain no matter who is in residence, no matter the season, or the circumstances of the age. These are people like Señora de Medina, back at La Ithuriana... you remember...?"

Addison did, she nodded for Jacqueline to continue.

"But there is also the staff that moves with the family. These include retainers like Jean Luc, and ladies' maids like myself. The blacksmith is a fixed member of the staff; he often stays with his forge. But farriers, we keep two. One who stays and one who travels. This continues on with many, many others. The list of staff members who travel each time a family member moves houses is long and extensive. I can have such a list drawn up for you if you prefer."

Addison arched an eyebrow and nodded. It seemed excessive, but she also knew such a document would be useful to have.

"So, Hugh has emptied his house in Bourges as though he is moving..." Addison said, just to clarify.

Jacqueline's eyes lit up and she nodded enthusiastically.

"And he sent all those people who usually travel with him..." Addison started and trailed off, staring in disbelief at Jacqueline.

"Here to you, my lady. He sent them all to you."

Addison tried to wrap her mind around this tidbit. Tried to make sense of what all that could mean. Philippe's words from dinner the other evening drifted back to her clear as day, and Addison thought she was beginning to understand.

"A precursor..." she said, repeating the words the de Clermont had murmured.

Jacqueline paused for a beat and Addison looked up to see that light of anticipation glimmering in her honey eyes.

"A precursor, indeed, my lady."

"So how did you come to be here then?" Addison asked her.

"Balder, of course."

"Balder?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Balder is here?"

"Of course, he is, my lady. He swore an oath."

"And it was just you and him?"

"For now, I assume," Jacqueline told her with a secretive grin. "And Jean Luc of course."

"Of course," Addison said archly. Jacqueline's smile widened.

"An oath?" Addison asked after a beat.

"To protect you," Jacqueline told her like she was simple.

"Protect me?"

"The vow my lady," Jacqueline nudged her. "Surely you remember."

Addison did remember. The courtyard in Navarre, and the departure of all their guests. Guillaume and Balder, their oaths taken on bended knee before her, sworn on a blade and sealed in blood. And there had been Godfrey and Bertrand and Miriam there too. And—

Addison sucked in a sharp breath.

And Gallowglass.

She hadn't wanted him to go. It had been so sudden, and she was so afraid that she wouldn't see him again. So afraid he'd be gone for years. But it had been her in the end that left for too long, without warning or a goodbye. She had kept him waiting.

"I remember," Addison whispered, and she succumbed a bit then to the autumn cold. Her body was wracked with shivers and Jacqueline was quick to fetch her dressing gown.

"And—" Addison started but cut herself off. She wanted to ask after Eric. Where he was. What he was doing. If he would come for her.

Jacqueline waited, so full of patience. Patience and knowing. There was a glimmer in her eyes that Addison didn't know what to do with.

She imagined him. That giant gall óglaigh with his tawny hair and his teasing blue eyes. His gentle hands and the solidness of him by her side, the steady press of his hand on the small of her back as he guided her through the gardens, through the trees, or further into his study.

The press of his fingers over the keys of the harpsichord. The weight of his lips on hers when he kissed her.

And her mind, the traitor that it was, happily filled in the blanks of the last fifty years. And the picture it painted was not a pretty sight. For in her absence, fear and insecurity had painted another woman by his side. A tall woman that could match his height. A woman with perfect skin. And grace. And a neutral expression that his family would approve of. A woman that he could have. A woman that stayed. For fifty years she had stayed, and Addison—

Addison...

She...

Well...

She didn't know what to say—

"And Guillaume?" She choked out instead. "How has he—"

"He is well," Jacqueline told her softly and tilted her head to the side, studying her. She knew that was not the name the young Fernanda had wanted to speak. Jacqueline knew that her mate had not been the first man to cross her lady's mind. "He is well, and he has missed you dearly."

Addison frowned and twisted her hands in her skirts. Unable to erase the image of Eric with another woman. Unable to erase the idea that he had forgotten her. That he had perhaps not missed her at all.

"Guillaume did?" Addison asked, feeling stupid and nervous and entirely exposed before Jacqueline.

"Guillaume hoped to see you as well, yes," Jacqueline smiled at her sadly. "But I assure you, my lady, he missed you. And he awaited your return. And when you see him again, it will feel as though you have not lost a single day between you."

"Oh," Addison said, quiet and full of tears.

"Come, my lady," Jacqueline said. "Let's get you ready for the day ahead of you. It's a busy one, or so I've been told."


When Addison and Jacqueline emerged from her chambers, they were free of tears and no longer humming with nervous energy. There would be no space for that in the day they had ahead of them.

Leaning against the wall, across from her door, Addison was startled to see the surly knight Balder, with his dark furrowed eyebrows and his stern expression.

She drew to a halt, with Jacqueline behind her, and suddenly didn't know what to do with her hands. He had been so withdrawn and polite the night she arrived. And she had been so excited, so relieved, to see him in the courtyard.

His neutrality had stung. Then he had disappeared. And she had not, for a second, considered that he would come back.

But here he was, Eric's old friend. A familiar face from those winter days at La Ithuriana. And not only had he returned, but he had run himself ragged all over the place, telling Hugh of her arrival, and spreading the word to places and people yet unknown to her. He had disappeared, but he had returned with Jacqueline in tow. And now he was here, leaning against the wall in her stairwell, cradling his hand to himself like he was wounded, and glaring down at Bijou who was staring up at him with disdain.

"Stupid mutt bit me," Balder grumbled, dipping into a bow for the young Fernanda and nodding at Jacqueline.

He swiped his hand down his tunic, leaving a last trace of blood there before the wound disappeared. Addison startled at his admission, looking between him and Bijou in alarm. Jacqueline hummed dispassionately, turning to close her lady's door.

"Did you bite him back then?" the blonde asked, as though the solution were simple.

"No," Balder grumbled. "Should have though—"

"There is still time," Jacqueline shrugged.

Addison gasped and looked between the pair. "No," she said. "Absolutely not. No biting my dog."

"Your dog?" Balder arched an eyebrow.

Jacqueline studied her lady with a knowing expression. "He is Sieur Philippe's dog. And he should not go around biting vampires."

"Bijou wouldn't bite unless he was provoked," Addison said a touch defensively.

"Bijou?" Jacqueline's laugh was bell like and disbelieving as she stepped aside, gesturing for her lady to lead their group down the stairs as was proper.

"He wasn't provoked," Balder said. "I just shooed him away."

"You shooed him away?" Addison asked, looking back at him in alarm as she descended the stairs.

"My lady," Jacqueline was scolding. "Please watch where you step. You always trip on your skirts when you are walking down."

"Always?" Addison asked, voice laced with dismissal. "It's been fifty years. How would you know—"

She gasped as her foot caught on her skirt, causing her to pitch forward and stumble. A strong hand came out and gripped her arm, righting her on the steps and holding her still until she was steady.

Addison squirmed awkwardly, and Balder let her go. Jacqueline's silence screamed her opinion on the matter and Addison couldn't find the dignity to look back at her maid and face her silent 'I told you so.'

"He shouldn't be bothering you," Balder said, returning to the matter of Bijou.

"Who says he's bothering me?" Addison asked, holding her skirts a little higher off the ground, and stepping with care.

The maid, the knight and the dog followed her slow descent with ease.

"He was outside your door," Balder shrugged.

"He's my friend."

The two vampires at her back fell silent, exchanging a look she could not see.

"It's not weird," She snapped back at them. "And don't do that."

"Do what, my lady?" Jacqueline hummed.

"You know what you did," Addison grumbled. "It's perfectly normal to make friends with dogs."

"Of course, my lady," Jacqueline said, her voice carefully neutral though Addison could hear the smirk on her lips.

"Yes," Balder agreed. His gruff voice doing poorly to disguise his humor. "Of course, my lady."

Addison sighed and rolled her eyes. When she hit the bottom step, she turned on her heel to fix them with a stern look.

"No biting my dog."

They both had the grace to look down at their feet and pretend they weren't laughing at her as they did.

"Of course, my lady," the pair said in unison.

Addison narrowed her eyes at them before turning to make her way down the corridor. Wading more naturally into the ebb and flow of an overflowing Sept-Tours. This time, when the world parted for her, it parted for a dog, a maid, and a knight too.

Addison cringed as the bubble of space around her grew larger, and the stares of others grew more blatant and harder to ignore. There was privacy in numbers, but apparently some numbers made you more conspicuous when you lived at the heart of Sept-Tours.


Her routine carried on similarly to the one she had maintained for days before. But this time, Addison felt as though the ground was slowly returning to its place beneath her feet. She had Jacqueline and Jean Luc by her side, and Balder at her back. And sometimes Bijou at her feet as well.

Addison had proceeded with her morning as she had done for the last twelve days. She ate breakfast at the high table, though this time she ate alone. Philippe and Ysabeau were conspicuously absent, and Godfrey and Baldwin never joined the household for the morning meal.

This meant more scrutiny, more blatant staring from the people at the lower tables, but Addison was also relieved to note that she was slowly becoming commonplace to them. Still new and shiny and fascinating and foreign, but less of a spectacle at the same time.

After breakfast, Jacqueline met her at the bottom of the platform that held the high table. She curtsied as was proper for her to do in public, and then they carried on their way, out the doors of the great hall where Balder waited for them.

As they walked, Jacqueline continued to update her on her itinerary.

"Madame de Clermont will not be available for your lessons today, but I have spoken at length with Don Fernando since your departure and have some ideas for your lessons in lieu of what Madame is teaching you," she told her quietly.

Addison turned toward her in intrigue, moving out of the way of a mason and his apprentice as they lumbered into the entrance hall carrying a large flat of limestone.

Jacqueline took this as her cue to continue. "He would like for you to continue your lessons in currency and accounting. I know Madame de Clermont has offered you the key to the food stores, so I believe that would be a good start for your lessons in household management – at least until Madame or Don Fernando say otherwise. There is also a matter of correspondence and geography that has been brought to my attention..."

Jacqueline looked at her to gauge her reaction and Addison could only wince and shrug. "I didn't know how to seal a letter until Jean Luc returned."

Jacqueline frowned at her. "I apologize for the oversight, my lady, we should have covered that much sooner when you were at La Ithuriana."

Addison smiled awkwardly and waved her off. "There was a lot going on, Jacqueline."

"Very well, then," Jacqueline continued promptly. "I think, if you would like, we will let etiquette and elocution rest for a day while Madame is away. And instead, we should reconvene with Jean Luc who often manages the household when my lords are away."

Addison nodded and motioned for her maid to lead the way.


Addison stared down at last year's record of food inventoried at Sept-Tours. They hadn't even gotten to the list made for this coming winter. Jean Luc was over her right shoulder, as was custom for a retainer while aiding in matters of importance. Jacqueline was perched on a chair near her mistress while the pair worked. Balder had set himself up outside the door to Hugh's study, barring entrance to any who would seek to come in without his lady's permission.

Bijou was at Addison's feet, slobbering and snoring contentedly.

And she could not comprehend the numbers she was seeing.

70,000 loaves of bread, in one year, consumed here at Sept-Tours. 10,000 wheels of cheese. 35 casks of Red Herring. 811 carcasses of beef. 10 wild boars. 203 carcasses of pork. 178 carcasses of mutton. 300 carcasses of venison. 15 pounds of saffron. 20 pounds of raisins. 3,400 gallons of red and white wine.

And she didn't even want to think about the number attached to their sugar stores.

Jean Luc had informed her that most of the sugar was not for consumption, as it was rancid with camel sweat. But it was a valuable investment for the estate, and it was stored near the kitchens.

She hadn't even gotten to the roots and tubers, the dried fruits, the preserves, the honey from the bees kept nearby. This did not include grain stores. This was only final product.

And the list went on and on to include eggs and geese and chickens and fish, and pheasant, and other spices purchased and accumulated off the silk trade.

Once Addison had gaped sufficiently down at last year's record, Jean Luc dutifully switched that document with the new one. The one she was meant to maintain and adjust as the months wore on.

Addison opened her mouth to let out a sound of misery, in lieu of a coherent question, when a knock sounded at the door and Balder appeared.

"Alain requests an audience, my lady," Balder said.

Addison's eyebrows shot up in her hairline.

"He doesn't have to ask..." she said uncertainly.

Jean Luc leaned down toward her ear. "It is proper for him to request an audience when you are acting in the capacity of Lord Hugh."

"Oh," Addison said and turned back to Balder. "You can let him in."

He nodded once and disappeared, allowing Alain to pass him.

Alain bowed promptly and stepped forward.

"My lady," he said.

"H-how can I help you?" she asked.

"Sieur Philippe asks that you receive a pair of villagers to take a complaint," he informed her. "There are no other members of the family able to accommodate the request at this time."

"Me?" Addison asked and turned from Alain who was being incredibly formal, so that she could look first to Jacqueline and then to Jean Luc. Jacqueline seemed polite, if wary of the request. Of anyone, Addison trusted her friend to understand her reservations.

But Jean Luc seemed carefully composed, entirely neutral, and more like the man who enforced Hugh's rule of law every single day. He stared down at her, waiting for her to respond to Alain, and the look in his eye told her that she could only respond in one way. The way she didn't like. The way she didn't want to. He was waiting for her to answer, and his eyes gave her the answer she sought.

A little pocket of dread opened up in her stomach as she stared up at Hugh's faithful retainer, and he nodded once, and she resisted the urge to shake her head. She sucked in a sharp breath and let it out in one long resigned sigh.

She turned back to Alain.

"Who is it?" she asked, trying to delay the inevitable.

Alain looked as though he approved of her delay.

"The blacksmith and the farrier, my lady."

Addison arched a dubious eyebrow. She'd heard about these two from Ysabeau herself, and their feud had been ongoing for years. It was unlikely to be resolved today. And she wondered why Philippe would send them to her.

"And what is their concern?" Addison asked Alain.

Philippe's squire nearly rolled his eyes but composed himself at the last second. "They have had quite a few over the years, if I am being honest, my lady. I could not say what today's complaint is regarding."

Addison pressed her lips together in displeasure. "I see," she said, leaning back in her seat already exhausted. "And Philippe thought it best that I..."

She trailed off and Alain nodded without her finishing her question. "You are the only member of the family available, my lady."

She bit the inside of her cheek and nodded. "Then I guess we should get this over with."

Alain bowed again and retreated. Balder arched a skeptical eyebrow at Jean Luc from the doorway and Jacqueline stared at the young Fernanda in concern.

"My lady..." she started but was cut off by Jean Luc.

"May I offer a word of advice, my lady," he asked.

"Please, for the love of God, tell me everything you know," she said back, looking up at him with wide panicked eyes.

"In the face of conflict, neutrality is your best friend. The family needs both the blacksmith and the farrier, so first and foremost you must not offend, and you must never show bias even if bias is there."

Addison nodded. This all made sense.

"When they enter, remain seated. A lady of the House Gonçalves de Clermont does not stand for those who are beneath her—"

Addison balked at his language, but he silenced her with a look. She knew the look. It was the one that said you don't have to agree, but you must listen and abide. She rolled her eyes and heard as their voices carried down the corridor toward her. She waved him on hurriedly.

"If they do not offer a quick explanation, prompt them," he said. "And then listen. If the matter is complicated – too complicated for you to resolve immediately – then tap your finger three times against your wrist and I will step in to adjourn the matter peacefully, so that we may consult in private and return to them with a reasonable solution."

Addison ran a shaky hand over her hair, hissing when it caught and tugged at her braid. Jacqueline made a noise of protest, but Addison shot her a look and the other woman fell wisely silent. The men were at the door now. Alain was gone. Long gone. And Balder was holding them off until she called for them to enter.

Jean Luc offered a rare show of solidarity, squeezing her shoulder once to ground her, before releasing and stepping back to the place he occupied out of duty.

"Let them in, Balder," Addison said softly, knowing the other man could hear her outside the door.

The latch turned. The door opened, and the blacksmith and farrier strode bullheadedly through the door.

And stopped.

Startled.

The two men stared down at her, and then at Jean Luc, and then at each other, and then back her.

"M-my lady," one man said.

Followed quickly by the other man, who stuttered the same.

They dropped into long, nervous bows before standing back up to their full heights.

"B-begging you pardon, my lady," the first man said. "We were not expecting—"

"—that is to say," the second man cut off the first. "We thought that you would be—"

And then the first continued. "We thought we held an audience with Lord Hugh..."

And then the second man. "That is to say, Sir Alain informed us that this was his study, and we were not expecting..."

Addison smiled. "You weren't expecting me," she said.

The men glanced at each other and then away. One blushed. The other removed his cap. Neither could hold her gaze.

They were of a similar age she could tell. With similar features and mannerisms and—

"I apologize but are you... brothers?" Addison asked, looking between the nearly indistinguishable pair.

"We are, my lady," the first man spoke.

"But only in blood," the second man retorted, voice laced with vitriol.

Addison's eyebrows shot into her hairline as she glanced back and forth between the odd pair of men.

"Please have a seat," she told them, and they jumped looking startled.

"M-my lady?" the second man asked.

Jean Luc leaned forward and whispered. "Common men are not meant to sit in your presence, my lady."

Addison rolled her eyes. "I won't tell if you don't," she snarked. The two men before her looked alarmed. Jean Luc maintained his neutrality, but she liked to imagine he wanted to roll his eyes. Jacqueline shot her a warning look. Balder snorted outside the door.

"Please," she said. "I don't like to have men towering over me and sitting is good for conflict I've been told. So, sit, or you may resolve your issue amongst yourselves."

Jacqueline's eyes widened behind the men. And Addison skillfully ignored her maid's shock. Waiting for the pair to obey.

They both looked to Jean Luc who no doubt was annoyed, but not showing it. He gestured for them to sit. After all, it would be far worse for them to deliberately disobey her than it would be for them to sit down in her presence.

"Now," Addison said, turning to the first man. "It would be best if you both introduced yourselves. I'm new here and I do not your names or who is who."

Again, the first man blushed.

"I am Hubert, Lady Fernanda," he said. "The blacksmith."

And then his brother, the second man, spoke. "And I am Hardwin, my lady, the farrier."


The root of the problems that existed between Hubert and Hardwin seemed to have started in the cradle, not that either of the men had been able to say so. This, Addison ascertained rather quickly regardless.

Hardwin, the farrier, was the eldest of the two, but it was his younger brother, Hubert, who had inherited his father's forge.

This was just another problem among many between the two men, but despite the laundry list of issues they had with each other, this one caused the most strife.

By all accounts, the forge should have gone to Hardwin, the elder, rather than Hubert, the younger, and only the brothers and their deceased father knew the real reasons as to why it had not been so.

Addison pressed her fingers to her temples and rubbed at the tension beginning to form there. Ysabeau had been right. These two knew how to bicker, and bicker, and bicker. They were bickering now. Loudly, and incessantly, with no apparent cause and no end in sight.

Even Jean Luc had begun to shift agitatedly from foot to foot. Balder had left his post outside the door so he could lounge inside the study with the ragtag group and watch the two brothers spar verbally like he was watching a tennis match.

Their voices raised louder, and their threats got more creative, and Addison would have been impressed but for the migraine that had begun to form behind her eyes.

"Enough," she cried out in exasperation, smacking her palms down onto the table to get their attention again. Addison pushed herself up out of her seat so she could hover over the bickering men.

The men stuttered to a stop, gaped at her in shock, and then hurried to stand so as to not appear disrespectful.

They towered over her again, but the young Fernanda loomed like a shadow.

"You have yet to issue your complaint," she said.

"M-my lady?" Hubert, the blacksmith, asked.

"Your complaint," she said again. "What is the problem so that we may resolve it and send you on your way?"

"The poleaxe, my lady," Hardwin supplied.

"The poleaxe?" Addison asked. "What the fu—"

Jean Luc coughed. Balder smirked. The two men looked at her in alarm.

"I mean," she said, taking a deep breath and speaking more sweetly. "What, pray tell, is a poleaxe."

"A weapon, my lady," Jean Luc supplied from behind her.

"A weapon?" Addison arched an eyebrow. "And what is so important about this weapon?"

"Well, Lady Fernanda," Hubert, the blacksmith, supplied. "It's a very versatile piece of weaponry. See, it has the qualities of a spear, and an axe but also a—"

"That's not what I meant," she waved him off and turned to his brother. "Why are you fighting over it?"

The farrier coughed and flushed. "Well, it was gifted by our father see," Hardwin said.

"And...?" Addison prompted, narrowing her eyes at both men.

"He had dictated his last will and testament to a monk in the village, my lady," Hardwin continued.

"That it should go to his son, the blacksmith," Hubert cut in with a snide look at his brother, as though this alone proved his argument superior.

Hardwin huffed and worked his jaw angrily. "But he said my name. He said 'my eldest son, Hardwin, the blacksmith.' And then he went and gave the forge to you. But I'm his eldest! He named me!"

"And he said it was meant for his son the blacksmith, by the by," Hubert crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head at his brother before turning back to her. "Lady Fernanda, you must forgive my brother his insolence. He wastes your time with—"

Addison closed her eyes and held up a hand, silencing both men completely.

When she opened them again. The whole room was watching and waiting to see what she would do.

"I think..." she said and drummed her hands on the desk as she thought it over. Her gut told her to do one thing, and it also told her it would cause more hysterics than it might be worth. She sighed and turned to look at Jean Luc who remained neutral over her shoulder. His eyes flickered to hers, but she didn't tap her finger to her wrist three times so he would not intervene on her behalf.

"Do either of you have children?" she asked, suddenly.

Both men looked surprised, and utterly disarmed.

"Yes, my lady," Hubert, the blacksmith, said.

"Of course, your ladyship," said Hardwin.

"Sons?" Addison asked.

"Daughters," Hardwin supplied. "The both of us."

Addison hummed and nodded, looking down at the desk, and wondering what she should do.

"Are there any other siblings?"

"Our sister, my lady."

"And she...?"

"Has two sons," Hubert said quietly, flushed and not liking where this conversation was heading.

Addison nodded and sat back down. The men made to follow but she shook her head and insisted they remain standing.

"I believe the poleaxe shall be passed on to your sister—"

Hubert let out a strangled sound. Hardwin had the grace not to argue, but his face turned a bit purple around the edges with his aggravation. He did not think her decision fair.

"Would you like to hear why?" Addison asked, arching an eyebrow, and waiting for them to take the opportunity she presented them.

"If your ladyship would be so kind," Hubert said gruffly. Chest puffing a bit with pride and hurt feelings.

"I think the two of you need to learn how to get along," she said honestly and offered them a halfhearted smile. "I have spent too much time this morning listening to a pair of grown men bicker about decisions made by a man who is no longer alive to answer for them. Now, you're punishing yourselves and each other for things that are beyond your control."

Hardwin sputtered. Hubert remained wisely silent.

"It is a matter of honor, my lady!" Hardwin finally snapped, pitching forward a bit in anger. Hubert looked to him in alarm.

Balder arched an unamused eyebrow and Jean Luc made to intervene. It was more than improper for a common man to raise his voice before a lady of House de Clermont, even if she was a Gonçalves first.

Addison shot Balder a look and held up a hand to hold off Jean Luc. It was fine.

"And do you not think being a farrier to Sieur Philippe's house is a matter of honor?" she asked Hardwin.

He had the grace to look abashed by that. "Is being a farrier so bad?" she asked when he did not respond.

"No," he said. "It is honest work, my lady."

"And you make an honest wage?" she asked him.

"Yes, my lady, of course."

"And you," Addison turned to Hubert. "You would take the forge and the poleaxe without a single thought or care for your brother's wounded pride?"

"What of my pride, my lady?" Hubert asked her, quieter than his brother but defiant still.

"Tell you what," Addison said, ignoring the blacksmith's childish retort. "The poleaxe will pass into your sister's care. If the two of you can make it a month without fighting amongst yourselves, we can revisit the issue. If you do not learn how to get along, however, then the poleaxe will pass to one of her sons. She may choose which for I do not care. Do you understand?"


"Do you think Jean Luc disapproved of my decision?" Addison asked Jacqueline as they strolled around the duck pond which was bare but for a handful of stubborn geese.

"I do not think it was for him to approve or disapprove, my lady," Jacqueline answered honestly, passing her a bit of bread from the basket on her arm when her stomach growled.

Addison thanked her and tore off a chunk from the roll, pressing the food in her mouth and chewing it a bit contemplatively. Behind them, a handful of paces back, and about as conspicuous as a bear, was Balder who seemed intent on following the young Fernanda everywhere she went.

"But..." Addison said after a beat. "He's far more qualified than I am at handling disputes."

Jacqueline hummed but didn't comment. Addison turned to her in askance.

"He is a servant, my lady. Same as me. It is not for him to have an opinion once your decision has been made. If you want him to tell you what he thinks, you must ask him to. And he would not cross you once you have voiced your thoughts. It would be highly—"

"Irregular," Addison cut her off with a sigh. She knew the spiel.

"But what of Philippe then?" Addison asked. "Do you think he will be okay with what I decided?"

"I couldn't possibly presume to speak for the de Clermont, my lady. I'm sure he will tell you what he thinks on the matter, if it is something he wishes to speak to you about."

Addison frowned and shivered as the cold autumn breeze came down to greet them from the peaks of the mountains that surrounded their valley on all sides.

"Well..." Addison said and reached for the basket when she ran out of bread. Jaqueline beat her hand away and produced some nuts and cheese. Addison rolled her eyes at the maid but accepted her offer. Popping a walnut in her mouth as they turned again about the pond.

"What did you think?"

Addison's voice was much smaller than she would have liked for it to sound. Jacqueline came to a halt and turned to look at her. Addison fought the urge to stare at the ground.

"Sieur Philippe would not think it proper for me to share my opinion on such a matter, my lady."

"But you are my maid, not his," Addison shrugged. "And you are my friend. One of my only friends in this world. If I can't ask you for your honest opinion, who can I ask?"

Jacqueline smiled sadly back at her and caved.

"I thought it quite entertaining, my lady, to see two grown men scolded like little boys. And I thought it surprising, but not unpleasant, that you would send the poleaxe to their sister."

Addison let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"It makes me uncomfortable, being in charge of people's lives and belongings like that," she admitted nervously.

"From what I have heard, my lady," Jacqueline said and followed as Addison continued her trek around the pond. "It will get easier with time. And the discomfort proves you less likely to abuse the power you have been given."

Addison's lips twisted down at the thought. She didn't not know if it would ever get easier. And she did not think it proved what Jacqueline said it did.

It was just a thing she had to do now. And it was a thing she didn't like. And it was a thing she hadn't earned.

But she'd do it, and she supposed she'd learn from it, and she hoped it wouldn't cause too much damage if she made a few mistakes along the way.


Dinner that night was quieter than normal. Balder waited for her and Jacqueline outside of her chambers while they prepared for the evening meal, and Addison fought the urge to ask him when he intended to rest.

Together, the group of three descended the stairs of Hugh's tower, and her maid and her guard escorted her to the great hall.

She entered alone.

She would always enter alone, it seemed.

But she knew Jacqueline and Balder waited behind her as she did. And she knew they would follow once the appropriate distance had been observed.

They would sit at the lower tables near to other servants and retainers like them. Among knights and guards and guests and all the rest that made Sept-Tours the bustling fortress that it was.

But Addison would sit at the high table. The high table at the far end of the room. And it appeared it would be a lonely affair this evening, for the table was empty but for two men.

Baldwin and Godfrey.

The proverbial mountain, and his brother, the thorn in her side.

There was no Philippe. No Ysabeau.

Jacqueline had technically warned her that they would be busy today, but Addison had been flustered and half listening, and she hadn't stopped to consider what that meant for dinner.

Did she continue sitting alone, in her seat to the right of Philippe's chair?

Did she greet the elusive de Clermont brothers?

The answer came in the form of them standing from their chairs.

A hand came out to help her up the steps, and Addison quietly thanked Baldwin as she climbed.

Once on the platform she curtsied as was proper.

"Come," Baldwin said, in a matter-of-fact kind of way. "Sit next to me and Godfrey for the evening. My father is away."

"Of course," Addison said softly, with an awkward smile.

She preferred sitting next to Philippe. People had a harder time looking at him than they did with Baldwin and Godfrey. And frankly, she didn't want to engage with Hugh's terrifying siblings.

Not for the first time, Addison wished she could dine in her room.


Addison couldn't sleep.

Her chambers were dark but for the light creeping in along the edges of her curtains. It was night, she knew, but the courtyard was so busy it was often lit to look like day. Torchlight drifted up toward her chambers from below, and though the men downstairs were mostly quiet she could hear the occasional clop of hooves on cobblestone or the rattle of armor, or the echo of metal as it was drawn or returned to its sheath.

She was sick too. Sick to her stomach from the food Godfrey insisted she finish at dinner. Even Baldwin had remained silent on this matter. They thought it rude she never finished the meat on her plate. Ysabeau very clearly disapproved, and while Philippe was tactful enough to not look insulted or comment on the matter, she knew it must irk him too.

But the meat here was different than it had been at La Ithuriana. Rare and near crawling off her plate.

Addison groaned and turned under her covers, trying to fight back the twist in her belly and the heavy feeling of sickness in her chest. Her throat tensed and convulsed as though it was preparing to heave, and she let out a miserable sound, pressing her face into her pillow. Uncertain whether she should hold her breath until passed or try to breathe through it.

Another twist. And she could feel the pressure of the bile rising in her throat, and her traitor mind reconjured the image of the venison and the slimy way it had coated her mouth, gamey and bleeding and nearly raw.

Addison heaved.

She threw back her covers and pitched herself onto the floor. Hissing when her knees made impact with stone. She snatched her chamber pot, and bent over the bowl, before puking up the night's disgusting meal.

As Addison heaved, a clamor sounded from the courtyard.

Her body shook with sickness, and her head throbbed, and the shouting of men came from below. The protest of workhorses. The groan of the gate.

Addison heaved again for good measure, her body aching and full of spite for Godfrey, for venison, and for the stomach acid that forced its way up and out of her, burning her throat raw.

Her nose burned too, and her eyes watered. And she reached for the pouch under bed. Shaky hands withdrew a toothbrush and toothpaste, and from the courtyard she registered the shouts of men.

"Portcullis!" they shouted, and Addison moved to the vanity, dipping her brush into the bowl of water.

"Portcullis!" others shouted back, and she could hear the horses groan.

She squeezed a bit of toothpaste on the brush and sighed into the taste of mint, glad for it as it cleaned away the sickness.

"Make way!" they shouted, and Addison heard the clamor of hooves.

She spit her toothpaste, and rinsed her mouth, and then she registered something else in the shouts.

But it couldn't be. Her heart jolted. Her hands shook, but this time not from sickness. They shook and she could not believe—

"Make way for the young de Clermont!"

Addison made a noise of disbelief, and her throat tightened, and her hands shook, and she shook her head and couldn't believe—

The clamor of hooves. The slowing of men. The portcullis began its journey back down to the ground, and Addison ran for her window. She threw back the curtains, and her room flooded with torchlight. She pressed her face to the glass and looked down.

Heart stalled in her chest, refusing to beat again until she knew it was true.

A flash of tawny hair. The glint of chainmail. His immense frame was undeniable, but Addison couldn't quite believe.

He dismounted. Guards saluted. Servants bowed. And then from the entrance hall emerged Philippe.

They embraced with clasped forearms. Grandfather and grandson greeted each other with nods and laughter. And when they pulled apart, Addison caught a flash of a familiar grin, a familiar glint from his eyes that were too far away, but she knew him. She knew him. She knew him.

She knew those eyes.

Those impossible blue eyes.

She couldn't breathe and she couldn't believe, and her hands were shaking and—and—

Addison turned.

There was a knock on her door.

Jacqueline entered without her leave, but Addison was too busy shaking and trying to find something other than her shift to wear.

Another call from the courtyard – another call for all who could hear them – to make way for the young de Clermont heir.

Jacqueline tried to help, but Addison brushed her off.

He was here. He was here and she— she—

Addison shook herself.

She was too far away.

She scrambled for the door.

Jacqueline called for her to slow down.

She scrambled and then stalled and turned back. Not listening to her maid, but entirely unprepared.

She was too far away, and she was—

Indecent.

Addison stared down at her shift, sheer linen that left nothing for the imagination when the light caught it. She was in her pajamas.

She was in her pajamas and Jacqueline told her to slow down. Addison scrambled for her dressing gown, long and satin, heavily patterned and very, very opaque. The maid held it up and she shoved her arms through it. Hopping into a pair of slippers, Addison stumbled now for the door.

A series of boots stomped heavily up the stairs, and she tore at the latch.

The door flew open with a bang.

Out of breath and giddy, Addison's head was spinning.

Her head was spinning, and her hands were shaking, and her heart was beating too fast, or not at all, she couldn't tell. But she needed to get downstairs.

He was here. And she was here. And he was too far away. And she needed to be where he was. She needed him.

He was here.

A series of servants sprinted past her, further up the tower to ready his chambers. Brooms and linens, fur pelts and buckets were hauled up quickly as they rushed to prepare the tower for an unexpected lord.

She felt Jacqueline pull her back before she was trampled. And Addison tried to take a full breath, but it was caught in her throat. Her belly twisted and the servants passed, and Addison hiked up her skirts before breaking Jacqueline's hold.

And then she ran.

She tore down the spiral staircase as fast as her legs could carry her. Desperate to get to the great entrance hall as quickly as possible.

Desperate to get downstairs.

Desperate to see him.

It couldn't have been him. It couldn't be. How had he known – how could he have gotten here—how—

Addison shook herself and ran. Out of breath.

No. It was him. There was no mistaking him for anyone else. She'd know him anywhere.

So rapid was her descent, with Jacqueline on her heels, that Addison took very little care. She bounced off of walls in her haste to reach him. She stumbled on her skirts that were far too long.

And she didn't have time. She didn't have time to slow. She didn't have time to wait. She didn't have time to reach him.

She was so afraid he would disappear, so she ran, and she stumbled, and she shook, and she didn't have time.

There was no time when she stumbled. No time when her foot missed the final step. No time when she fell.

The ground rose up to meet her. She gasped, and she stumbled.

Jacqueline made a noise of protest. Addison's heart stalled in her chest and still she didn't have time.

She flinched back, still falling. Her arms shot out to protect her. But the stairs were made of stone. She closed her eyes and braced for impact, but impact never came.

A pair of sturdy hands caught her round the middle, and Addison found herself locked in a familiar embrace. Enfolded in a pair of familiar arms. She felt the brush of his unruly hair against her cheek as he cradled her, and Addison opened her eyes.

Dazed by the fall, she blinked in disbelief. For still it was hard to believe.

It couldn't be him, but his eyes were warm and blue. They glittered down at her. And a sound escaped her. A pathetic sound. One of love and heartache, and disbelief and the kind of happiness that made you want to curl up in a ball and cry.

"I see you found the trick step," he rumbled in greeting.

His words drew teary laugh from her throat, and Addison's eyes welled with tears.

He chuckled lowly, face split wide around his grin. She shook her head and her face ached, but she couldn't stop herself from grinning up at him.

"Christ lass," he muttered and held her a little tighter.

"Gallowglass," she laughed in disbelief, bringing her fingers up to curl into the fabric of his surcoat.

She said it as though she'd never left at all, and as though it had been the longest eternity without him. She drew her hand up to his face to feel that he was real, fingers catching in his beard and dragging along his jaw. She traced the evidence of him and committed him to memory once more.

She said his name, and he held her tightly. And it was as though he hadn't spent the last fifty years without her by his side. As though she'd just stepped into the other room for a moment, instead of half a century. As though the last six months hadn't happened to her at all.

He smiled softly down at her and pressed a kiss to her cheek, resting his forehead against her own.

"You didn't tell me your grandfather lived in a castle," she whispered quietly in his ear.

"It's a chateau," he whispered back.

Addison scoffed and smacked his shoulder, still caught up in his embrace, before dissolving again into quiet laughter while he shook his head and pressed a kiss to her nose.

"You are a sight for the sorest of eyes, mo chridhe," Eric murmured.

"You have no idea how much I've missed you," she murmured back.

Her hands shook as she tried to blink back the tears that tried to fall from her eyes. And then she noticed that he too had blood red tears collecting in his, though they did not fall, and he didn't seem to care if they did.

He grinned down at her, and they stayed that way for a moment. Frozen together in space and time, just below the trick step that had nearly sent her sprawling, at the base of a tower built for a future king.

They stayed that way, tipped over each other at the bottom of the stairs.

Her back still bent toward the ground, supported only by his unbreakable hold. Stupid, satisfied grins stretched wide across their faces.

The long silence of two lovers, who could speak without ever exchanging a single word, stretched comfortably between them.

And then a throat cleared loudly from somewhere behind Eric's significant frame. Addison jolted at the sound. Struggling to see behind him, unwilling to break his hold.

Eric's smile twitched and fell as he remembered where he was, and the company they were in.

He stood, pulling her with him as he did. She righted her dress, and Eric helped her settle her skirts, before stepping back and away to reveal the entirety of his family at his back.

His grandfather grinned wildly at the two of them, and Ysabeau beside him had arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. When she met Addison's eyes, she looked her appraisingly up and down before turning away.

Baldwin looked on the scene with no small amount of intrigue – calculating, always calculating – he never seemed to stop studying people as though they may one day go from ally to enemy.

Godfrey just seemed bored.

Eric led her fully into the corridor where the family had congregated to welcome him home, and she flushed under the weight of so many eyes on her.

It had been a long day. And she'd been sick just moment's ago in her room. She felt like trash, and she felt like she was floating. And she didn't know what to think, but with Eric by her side, she felt a little more grounded around these people. A little more secure in her place in this room.

She stared at Philippe as Eric led her to his family. She stared and stared, and he stared back just as brightly – just as full of shadow – as the day she had met him, when he led her into Sept-Tours.

He was still grinning and though his teeth were intimidating she did not feel any fear. This felt like a test of some kind, though what he was tempted to measure in her was impossible to gauge. Perhaps that's why she stared at him now, perhaps that's why she found it so hard to look away. She felt she was being tested, and in his eyes, she was searching for answers. She held out for as long as she could, but when Eric pulled her to halt beside him, among his family, Addison's eyes began to water.

She averted her gaze.

Remembering her lessons perhaps for the millionth time since she arrived, Addison dipped down into a curtsy, and when she rose back up to her full height, she still puzzled over the de Clermont. She puzzled over him, but she raised her chin at the speculative look in his eyes.

Eric squeezed her hand, a silent question between them. His curiosity piqued by her and his grandfather's silent exchange.

Turning from Philippe, she met him with a smile, bumping Eric's arm with her own and still clinging to his hand. The little spool of thread in her belly tightened and begin to unfurl, and she felt some of the tension of the last few days leave her. The pressure in her ribs released, and Addison felt herself once again begin to breathe.

He grinned down at her, and he tugged her closer to his side, tucking her carefully under his arm.

And Addison found she didn't mind the intrigued look in his eyes. Whatever he was thinking, she'd ask him later.

Philippe's grin grew wider as his gaze flickered between the pair. And if she wasn't listening closely, she wouldn't have heard it when Baldwin turned to his father and murmured, "She'll do."

But even if she hadn't heard Baldwin's comment, there would have been no mistaking Godfrey's displeasure when he sounded off after quietly simmering.

"Do we have a choice?" the pompous blonde de Clermont scoffed.

Addison rolled her eyes when Godfrey turned up his nose.

Eric held her a little tighter, and she felt his body rumble with a growl, but she couldn't help but laugh at Godfrey's poor timing when Baldwin shot out a hand and clipped his brother over the head.