"Aunt Joan?" Most of the room said together. The majority looked…...very confused. Smalls had a vague look of remembrance on his face, but he clearly did not remember her very well.

"She was an ancient doctor back at Half-Wind." Emma explained. "She was, uh, a character, to say the least. But she was a Drekker, I know it."

"How?" Kylen asked.

"She told me." Emma said. "I'm not sure why, but she always did tell people strange things. She babbled on to Heather about some sort of miracle elixir and that turned out to be important, didn't it?"

"Yes, it did." Heather narrowed her eyes at the scroll. "But how?"

"Dreams! Dreams dear Heather!" They all turned to the door, where Joan herself stood, wobbling on a cane. The look on Smalls' face was indescrible. Heather hurried forward to help the old doe across the room. "Great dreams, my dear!" Joan echoed. Heather was tempted to laugh. She was as eccentric as usual, but Heather was worried, suddenly, by what she meant of 'dreams'.

"Aunt Joan, why did you tell me you were a Drekker when you wouldn't tell anyone else?" Emma questioned. Joan didn't respond immediately, taking a handkerchief from her pocket and mopping her forehead with it. Then she gazed for a long time at the scroll.

"For a moment like this." Joan's voice had changed, suddenly, going quiet and solemn. "Flint? Flint, they say is back? I thought he would be." Again, her voice changed, turning sharp, as she whipped around to Smalls "Where is his sword? What did you do with it?" Her voice was not angry; but it was urgent and demanding. Smalls was startled by this sudden turn of events but quickly regained his wits and answered,

"In the treasury; why?"

Joan shook her head, her right ear twitching as she tapped her cane aggressively on the ground.

"Not good, not good." She muttered.

"The sword doesn't have any power left; it's broken." Smalls said, disconcerted by this doe's behavior.

"Lies, lies. Not true." Joan shook her head. "That isn't true, lad! Not true at all! Get rid of it, get rid of it now!" Her voice rose, claiming authority over the room. "Before you doom us all!" Her eyes were wild and bright as the sun, and it seemed that, for just a very, very brief moment the room was alive with that light. Then the veil was pulled back over, and whatever greater thing they had seen vanished back into the unknown.

"She's insane." Kylen muttered.

"I'm not insane, princeling!" Joan rebuked. "You simply don't know how to see!" Joan gestured wildly to Heather, almost smacking her in the face in the process. "She can-She can, but she won't! She won't!" Heather scooted further away while Joan rambled on and on about how to see and who would and wouldn't. Everyone stared at her like she was crazy. Heather picked up the parchment, examining it once more, and then tossed it down with a sound of frustration. Joan went on rambling, but nothing else was getting done. Kylen and Evan were arguing, Asher and Picket locked into a discussion about northern defenses, Smalls was gazing down at different maps and charts, face growing more anxious by the moment, and Emma and Wilfred were watching Joan, shaking their heads.

"Aunt Joan, please, be quiet." Heather tried. Joan didn't listen. Suddenly Heather was angry. She was tired, and exhausted, and Joan wasn't helping anything. "Aunt Joan," She tried again, but no response was elicited. "Aunt Joan!" This time, it wasn't just Joan who was silenced, but everyone in the room. The only one who had ever heard Heather raise her voice was Picket, and even he looked surprised. Then, to everyone's further shock, Joan collapsed.

Emma and Heather were by her side in a moment. It was heart attack, or that was Heather's immediate diagnosis. Evan was the one to call for help, which arrived quickly. But it was too late. Joan was dead before anything could be done.

The palace descended into chaos once more. Joan's body was carried out, and everything that had taken place was labeled 'classified', and everyone who had been present agreed not to speak of it outside of that group. Joan's death was sudden and shocking, and everyone who had remained after the meeting quickly disappeared, taking with them all different accounts of what happened. Heather went to the hospital along with Emma, absent-minded and tired. She tried to ignore the guilt and grief she had at Joan's death-it almost felt as if the old doe had traded her life for Heather's. Emma wasn't in a much better mood but snapped into work mode once they crossed the threshold of the hospice.

Heather went to work, distracting herself by intermittently seeing to the sick, and pulling out that blasted scroll and studying it till the words swam before her eyes. She came close to crying several times and squinted through the tears at whatever her job was at the time, refusing to be overcome by her silly emotions.

Late afternoon came, and Heather found herself on a short break. She walked to Edward's room. She'd already seen him twice that day-and the note had been right; he was worse. He was feverish and woke frequently in fits, and the wound on his forehead was infected. She wished she knew what had done this to him, but everyone was at a loss. Heather sat in one of the chairs and put her head in her hands. A migraine had been throbbing in the back of her head all day, and it was only growing worse. She missed Joan, and her heart ached with the loss. The old doe had been half-mad, yes, but she had lived a long life of healing and compassion. She hadn't deserved to die like that.

"Heather?" At her name Heather jumped, startled. Smalls sat down beside her, his face one of tender concern. There was a long pause, and then Heather said, crumpling a piece of paper in her hand,

"Nothing. I can't find anything, Smalls. If anything ever did exist, it doesn't anymore." Her frustration boiled over. "It's like someone went and destroyed half of our history-but why, why I can't figure out."

"Heather-Heather it's alright." Smalls cut her off before she could say anything else, taking both her hands and squeezing them tightly. Heather shook her head.

"It isn't fine, Smalls. This is important, I can feel it and-"

"Let's take a walk." Smalls said abruptly. Heather let out a sigh.

"Okay."

The temperature had dropped again suddenly, and clouds were gathering overhead. Whether or not they would turn storm remained to be seen. For a while neither of them said anything. Smalls had offered her his arm early on, but aside from that they hadn't communicated. Heather was tense and tired, her mind running in a thousand directions at once. Smalls stared off into the distance, exhaustion and worry plain on his face. At length they came to a quiet, private place, and Smalls stopped. Heather paused, and looked back at him, and said softly,

"I don't know what to do, Smalls."

"I don't either." He sighed. "So much is going on that I can barely keep track." There was another silence, but it wasn't a difficult or charged one. Silences like that had never been uncomfortable between them. Heather rested her head on his shoulder.

"It can't last forever." She said at last.

"No." Smalls agreed. "Nothing can." He put an arm around her, letting out a sigh. The real question is; how long can we bear it?