***If I haven't made it clear: these are semi-separate scenes. Please don't get your hopes up for a continuing plot. There isn't one.

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***Lady Sandrilene: why do you keep returning to this worthless story?

Once again: I do not own this. I do not want to own this. I am not trying to supplant Tamora Pierce's books. I am not trying to offend die-hard fans.

Curfew

"My lady?" The guard's voice was respectful but insistent. "Lady Sandrilene, you'd best be leaving now.

"It's not even nine o'clock yet, Oama," Sandry complained, "I've only been here a few hours."

"It's my head that will be sitting a-top Traitor's Gate if His Grace is angry, my lady," she was reminded softly, "please; won't you go back?"

"No." The young noblewoman was firm. "I have my uncle's permission to be here and his trust in my judgement to leave at the appropriate time. I do not require a nursemaid as well." It was a clear dismissal; the older woman bowed slightly and retreated.

Sandry turned back to her companion, relieved. "I'm so sorry," she apologized, "everyone around me seems to think that I'm still six years old." The man nodded. "The Unmagic you worked, you are saying?" He asked hesitantly. Sandry sighed. The man was a dedicate from a temple in a remote part of Capchen. His Common was terrible. In fact, he probably hadn't had the faintest idea what she had just said. Not for the first time that evening, she wished her foster-sister Trisana Chandler were there. But Tris refused to go to parties, even to talk to other mages. She preferred to frequent the vast libraries of Winding Circle for magical discussion. Pushing that thought aside, Sandry slowly began to explain again her experience with the strange substance of Unmagic.

The hours always flew by at such gatherings, and tonight they made no exception. Before she knew it, Sandry was hearing a distant clock strike. Idly, at first, she counted the strokes. Ten and a quarter hours past midday. She quickly calculated: her curfew was half past nine. An hour and a quarter late. No, an hour and three-quarters, accounting for the time it would take her to reach the citadel. The young woman's heart sank. I'll explain it to him,' she rationalized, I'll tell him that I was keeping track of the time, but it got from me. He'll understand when I tell him that I was wrapped up in the conversation and didn't realize how late it was. And it isn't that late.'

The citadel was silent, as it often was at this hour, or at any. The duke customarily retired early, as did his staff. Perhaps,' Sandry thought to herself as she climbed the stairs, I can sneak in and no one the wiser.' It would, at least, put off the inevitable until tomorrow morning when her uncle, she knew, would question her guards as to the time of her return. She ordered her clothes to be silent as she passed the door to the ducal study.

"So, Sandrilene," said a voice from inside the room, "You see it fit to return at long last." Bracing herself, Sandry entered. Her uncle was sitting at his desk, apparently reading. He did not motion for her to seat herself, but instead let her continue to stand before him.

"What have you to say for yourself?" The duke asked.

Sandry was silent for a moment, trying to phrase her excuses in a way to make them sound less childish.

"Did it, perchance, occur in your mind to think that I might have been worried for you?" He continued, his voice boring into her ears. "Thus you show yourself a girl without thought or consideration."

"Uncle" Sandry began, "Uncle, I'm really sorry. I was thinking about the time-" No', a nasty little voice in her mind said, Oama was thinking about the time and you ignored her.' She pushed the nasty voice aside. "I was talking to a mage from Capchen and I didn't realize how late it had gotten. It won't happen again, I promise," she finished earnestly.

"Too many times you have returned at an unduly late hour, Sandrilene," the duke said gravely.

"Once before," Sandry corrected, "I've been late only once before this."

"In that instance, I was lenient," he said. "I hoped that my forbearance would be an impetus to your better behavior, but I see now that I was erroneous in that placement of my trust."

"Cut me some slack, Uncle," Sandry pleaded, "I really didn't mean it."

"I have told you a thousand times and more that I forbid the use of such base vulgarisms, Sandrilene," the prince reminded her severely, "you will reiterate your statement in less coarse terms."

Sandry rolled her eyes. "Will you please be less harsh in you no-doubtfully entirely justified punishment of me due to the fact that I am very sorry for my fault," she restated with exaggerated politeness.

"You are not to be to so insolent," he ordered. "Your contrition," Vedris continued, leaning back in his seat, at least, as much as it was possible to lean back in one of the perfectly straight-backed, cushion-less chairs that were the only sort permitted in the citadel, "Is meritorious. Notwithstanding, we do not emancipate the malefactor for the reason that he is repentant. I ought not to have been so clement in the last instance of your dilatoriness, as it has set a disquietsome precedent." It took Sandry a moment to discern his meaning. It was late and she was tired, having been on her feet all evening.

"Can you please make it quick, Uncle," she requested, "I'm exhausted."

"You were not so fatigued when you overstayed at that soiree seven quarters of an hour," he observed impassively.

"I was only an hour and three quarters late," Sandry protested. Her uncle looked at her, and she turned red, realizing her mistake. "Can I at least sit down?" She asked, "otherwise I'll collapse."

"Did you sit at the gathering of mages?"

"No-o."

"Did you collapse there?"

"No. But Uncle, that was earlier."

"Your constitution has withstood you throughout the night thus far," was the duke's stern reply; "it will not desert you now." Sandry leaned on his desk, wondering if it would rest her feet to lift them one at a time.

"Stand straightly, Sandrilene." She hated that didactic tone!

"I'm too tired," she complained.

"Do not whine, Sandrilene," he instructed, "it is the habit of an urchin, not a noblewoman. And erect yourself!" He snapped, "Do not slouch like an overworked chambermaid!"

Sandry gave him a weak glare. "Since you are so wearied after these occasions," the duke continued. "You have no longer my permission to present yourself thither."

"Then I'll go without your permission," Sandry threatened wildly. Her saner self began to beat her unruly tongue with a measuring stick.

"You are overtired, my dear," Vedris said, "you will ask my pardon for your contumacy, and that will be the end of this subject. As chastisement for tonight's belatedness, I confine you to your room for the week. It is a wholly mild punishment and will most readily facilitate your correction."

Sandry's sane self would have told her to curtsey and apologize. However, her sane self sometimes deserted her for a moment at times when she was the least bit tired. She simply stared at the her uncle for a moment, then turned and shuffled out and up the stairs to her own room. The duke stood, and went after her. Grabbing his niece by the shoulder, he turned her to face him.

"You are a disobedient and recalcitrant girl," he told her through clenched teeth. "But you will defer to my will." Slowly, he forced her to her knees. Sandry looked up at her uncle. He was very tall from the ground. "Apologize!" He commanded. Sandry gave in. She just wanted to go to bed.

"Uncle," she said, "I truly and fully beg your pardon for my insolence." If the prince noticed her apology was somewhat forced, he gave no sign of it.

"And I fully pardon it," he answered, raising her. Now get you to bed, Sandrilene."