In the snowy cemetery, two nearly identical black clad figures stood alone, watching. In the distance a full NYPD funeral was in progress. It was impressive to watch.all the officers in their dress uniforms, the music, the flowers, all the people dressed in black just like them. Ian stood silently, watching the procession, watching Sara where she stood by her Aunt, her face expressionless, closed off from the outside world. Ian shut his eyes and tried to reach out to her, but the shot the doctor had given him had left him unable to. He felt strange being disconnected from the only two people he had ever felt connected to in the first place. He wondered what she was feeling, longed to be able to talk to her, to let her know that he at least would always be there, would never leave her. But he could not, not yet. His father told him that he had to wait until the time was right, and he always knew what was best, for both of them.

Ian stared through the window into the small bedroom watching Sara cry. He had been there in the cold and the dark for over an hour, just watching her, wishing he could help, knowing he could not. This was her test and she needed to pass it alone. Irons had explained that it would give her the strength necessary to handle the 'blade and her destiny. It fascinated him, all of their emotionalism, all the people crying and talking below, while they sat alone. He knew emotions were to be controlled, to be kept from ruling the mind. It was a part of what made some stronger than others, and the strong always took the weak.predator and prey. So was that why she seemed so strong to him, because like him, she only released her emotions in private? His father would be proud of her if he knew, but he knew he could not tell him. He was not supposed to be here, not supposed to leave the Estate alone at all. But here he was watching her, and was that not also part of his duty? After all, he had not been specifically forbidden to come, and his father was out for the evening. Soon he would have to leave her, to get back before Irons returned, but he could not tear himself away from the window.

He heard a knock and watched as Sara dried her eyes and put her mask back on before leaving the room. One more thing to do and then back home, he thought. Slipping the window catch easily, he crept silently into the room.

It was after midnight when Ian made his way silently through the darkened house. He was content with what he had achieved this evening, and if he were honest with himself, he would have been forced to admit he was happy. He walked into his room and closed the door quietly behind him.

"Good evening, young Nottingham," a quiet voice, emotionless and tightly controlled, emerged from the semi- darkness. Ian was startled and stopped for a moment, his heart sinking into his boots, trying to get his thoughts under control through the cold sweat of fear. He walked slowly and carefully to stand behind the chair from which the voice had come. He had thought that he was safe, his father out for one of his long evenings, apparently not.

"Good evening Sir," he said quietly, placing himself properly by his father's left hand. He ran quickly through the things that he could say to the questions he knew would follow.

Kenneth Irons sat quietly, trying to calm his own anger and fear. He had come home briefly between his evening's plans to check on his son and found him missing. He had quickly called and cancelled the rest, leaving a pleasant evening in tatters. He had been waiting about an hour, hoping that his son would come home safely, wanting more than anything to throw his arms around him, hold him close and reassure himself they were both safe. He tried not to think about the others, the friends and family that had left and never returned, people that he had not thought of in a lifetime. He swore that he would never again lose someone, that he would never feel that pain, that loss again. He was torn between his anger and his love, and his admiration at what Ian had accomplished. He took a moment to calm himself, to get his emotions locked down, to present the same calm façade he expected of his son.

"Where have you been tonight?" he asked finally.

"I went to see her, Sir. I wanted to see how she was," he told his father quietly. "I had no other duties that I was aware of."

"So you took it upon yourself to leave the Estate and travel across the city alone, at night, without letting anyone know?" he said, an edge in his voice. He rose and faced Ian in the half-light. "Did you wish to deliberately anger me?" He said, a dangerous edge to his voice. He raised his hand as if to strike, but held himself back with an effort as his son stood firm in front of him, head bowed, making no move. He had never struck Ian in anger before, he would not do so now. Instead he reached out and lifted the boy's chin towards him. His face was closed off, showing no fear, no defiance.

"No Sir, you were not here and as you had left no instructions." he trailed off and lowered his eyes, would have lowered his head as well but for his father's cool hand on his face. He knew he was risking Irons' anger, his reasoning sounded specious in his own ears. At least he had been impeccable in his actions, in no way violating any specific orders.

Irons raised his hand to his forehead in reaction to the oncoming headache. He had been caught in his own words and he knew it. He would have to be more careful of his instructions in the future. Ian was learning his lessons too fast and too well. "And did you go in; speak to her?"

"No Sir, you have told me that I may not do so until the time is right," deliberately misunderstanding the question and its implications.

"And how will you know when the time is right, hmmmm?" he asked him softly, almost playfully, testing him.

"When I have been told to do so by you," he answered, flicking his eyes up and quickly away. Irons relaxed a little, releasing his son. Maybe he would not be too angry with the boy.

"Very well, but I will amend your orders now, you are not to leave the Estate alone unless I give you permission. Do you understand? And I think that perhaps you should be restricted to the Estate for the remainder of your visit."

"But, Sir." he started to protest, looking up suddenly. He did not want to defy his father, but also did not wanting to be kept away from her.

"You dare to question me?" He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"No Sir, I merely wish to inquire how I am supposed to continue my training?" he said, knowing that he treading dangerous ground, daring his father's anger, but not willing to lose what time he had.

"You will continue by learning a lesson in obedience," he said sharply. He returned to the chair and motioned to Ian to sit by his feet, continuing in a softer tone. "Now, tell me precisely how you left the Estate and what you observed. We shall see what you learned this evening," Ian knelt down beside his father; grateful for the time he was being given, knowing however, that it was a double-edged sword. Irons would not be so careless of his instructions again. The loophole he had found would be closed to him in future. He settled in and began his tale.

Sara Pezzini returned to her new room in her aunt's house, worn out from grief. She did not want to stay downstairs with the guests any longer than she had to, preferring to mourn alone. On her pillow, she found one white rose and a small scrap of paper. She picked both of them up, wondering who had left them here rather than sending flowers to the funeral. On the paper, in a very clear old fashioned hand were two words, 'for Sara'. She wondered which of the guests had given it to her, intrigued and a little flattered that someone had remembered her in this madhouse. She slipped the paper into her desk and pulled out a heavy dictionary, pressing the rose between its pages, before turning to prepare for bed.