Ragnall & Astraea, 1269-1270 CE

by The Modern Typewriter

Sometimes going home is harder than we think. Family isn't always how we imagine it will be. Sometimes the paths we take in life are simply beyond our choosing. There is more at stake now than ever for the Gonçalves de Clermont scion, and Addison finds herself once again caught up in the rapidly changing tides of history, wondering how on earth she'll make it through to spring.

6. Fall, the Prodigal Son

Thank you guys so much for reading and following this story! It was a bit of a long chapter this time so I decided to split it up rather than taking longer to finish it. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Six: Fall, The Prodigal Son

After the events of the last few days, three things had become abundantly clear to the young Fernanda Gonçalves.

One: The chef was bound and determined to evade her, and thus far was succeeding.

Two: There was something hidden in the west wing of Sept-Tours, and the family wanted her to leave it alone.

And three: She had made a mistake fifty years ago, last spring, when she'd listened to Godfrey, Fernando, and Hugh.

And now, Godfrey was worried. Eric was too.

Dinner that night was tense.

Lines had been drawn, but Addison couldn't tell for the life of her who had drawn them or where they'd been placed. The seating arrangement stayed the same at the high table. After all, the family had their reputation to maintain. Disagreements and subterfuge were private affairs, not meant to be displayed.

The fact of the matter was quite plain.

Godfrey had been in possession of a sensitive document. And that document held the legal contents of her fate. Once, she had been in a grey area, protected by an oath taken and her father's commitment to the Templar cause.

Now, she was a secret criminal. Not because she had broken a law exactly, but because, as Godfrey had stated, the law had changed. Or, more specifically, too many women had been caught trying to join the Templar cause... in secret... dressed in men's clothing. Violating papal decrees and compromising the vows of chastity made by the Church's holy warriors.

And that, apparently, the Church and its Catholic kings simply could not abide.

So, a law had been added. It was adopted across the continent and ordained by the pope. And that was that as far as everyone was concerned.

But for the matter of her.

Fernanda was a secret her family had kept carefully guarded thus far. She was a secret they could not protect from the world forever though they had tried rather valiantly to do so anyway.

But, outside of Eric, Fernando and Hugh, it was hard to tell who else was part of that safe secret keeping bubble that had formed around her. It was hard to tell, at first glance, who was a part of the world they were trying so hard to protect her from. It was hard to tell the threat from the safety.

She was once again reminded of Baldwin's metaphor all those weeks ago. The lions and the wolves, and the cubs that wander away from their pride.

Sitting at the high table, with Philippe to her left and Eric to her right. She could not help but wonder if Philippe was a lion or a wolf by her side.

What they had failed to explain to her, fifty years ago, last spring, was that they'd made her something dangerous in order to protect her from the dangers of the world. They made her a living, breathing chink in the armor of the Knights of Lazarus.

They made her a weakness that Philippe de Clermont could not afford.

And he didn't even know they had done it.

She was sitting at the high table. She was sitting right there by his side, and she had a secret she could not afford to keep. A secret she could not afford for him to know. And that secret had been stolen by someone in this castle.

Or so Godfrey had feared.

They made her the Ninth Knight of the Way of St. James – a secret known only to the men who had been in the room on the night it had occurred. Not even Eric knew. At least, he hadn't known until just a few hours ago in Godfrey's study.

Lady Fernanda Gonçalves was a woman quietly ushered into an order reserved for men.

A blaspheme who would dare declare herself a knight.

In the eyes of the law, it was heresy.

And Addison... If things weren't so tense, Addison would have given way to hysterical laughter. It was such a ridiculous claim.

The little checklist she'd kept in her mind for two years now, flipped open and turned a new page. Of all the ways she had feared she could one day die in the Middle Ages this had never once crossed her mind.

Her? A Knight?

What the fuck had they been thinking?

She wasn't a fucking knight. She wasn't a fighter. She had barely pulled off being a maid, for Christ's sake. And there was no way in hell she was ever going to wield a blade.

But it wouldn't matter in the end because Addison was intimately aware of what had happened that night in Hugh's study. She was intimately aware of what had taken place inside the walls of La Ithuriana that day fifty years ago. She was intimately aware of the fact that she'd knelt before Godfrey, with Fernando by her side.

She had shed blood that night.

She'd sworn an oath on the bare metal of a blade.

And all the pieces fell into place, in a way they should have done long before now.

Addison St. James – the young Lady Fernanda Gonçalves – had become a knight. And not just any knight, she had become a Knight of Lazarus.

A female knight in an order full of undying men.

She couldn't even deny it. Addison had agreed to this.

She had agreed. And she had said the words they told her to say. She, alone, had sealed her fate.

A bitter knife twisted in her gut, and Addison fought the urge to sneer. She should have refused. She should never have agreed. It was a risk she wouldn't have taken if she'd known truly what they'd asked of her. But she'd trusted Fernando and done as she was told.

If that document fell into the wrong hands, she'd be a proverbial Joan of Arc. Without all the fighting and rallying and violence. There would just be the threat of death with no conviction. There would just be her against the law, with no heroics for anyone to speak of.

She was not a holy warrior. She was not a warrior. She was just... her.

She was just her, trying to survive.

It was just her with a title she had not earned, in a life she should not have survived long enough to live through. And yet here she was, living and breathing, somehow still.

But Godfrey was frantic. And Eric was grim. And the law was clear. And she was a woman.

And that...

That didn't bode well for her, to be frank.

Even worse was the giant question mark hanging over all their heads.

Where had the document gone? Who had been in Godfrey's study? Had it, in fact, been stolen? Or just misplaced sometime in the last half century?

So many questions, and no one to answer them but the shadows that stretched along the walls of Sept-Tours.

Eric had waited for her on the landing outside of her chambers to escort her to their evening meal. He'd placed a possessive hand on the small of her back when he led her down the stairs. He'd guided her to the great hall, for dinner with his family and his household and their guests. Behind him, Balder and Guillaume were grimmer than usual, and when Jacqueline had dressed her, alone in her chambers, her friend had been quick, and efficient, without a smile to spare.

The maid had helped her dress as though she were arming her for battle. And the tone of the others suggested they were ready for war.

But Addison didn't understand.

Or, at least, she hadn't understood until she entered the great hall.

The guests were normal. The servants too. All around them there was drink and revelry and music. People came and went freely, and they were happy for good company and good food to eat.

But the air was wrong.

She sensed it before she stepped through the doors.

Eric's hand flexed at the small of her back, and Addison held her breath when they crossed the threshold. He shifted to offer her his arm and she accepted. Her chest, tightly constricting as she did.

Together, they made their way across the room to the platform where Philippe, Ysabeau and Baldwin had already gathered.

She held her breath and stepped carefully. She didn't pay any mind to the people who stopped to curtsy or pay their respects. Her eyes were locked on Eric's family, and their eyes were locked on her.

The high table loomed like an omen. Behind the de Clermont, shadows lingered. With a flame in the hearth at her back, she saw ahead of her the last vestiges of darkness in a well-lit room. Her stomach twisted; her heart fluttered, but there was nothing she could do.

She curtsied when she reached them and clung to Eric's arm, knuckles losing all blood and color with the force of her hold. There was little comfort he could offer here, before his family, in full view of his house, but he guided her to her seat and urged her to claim it.

"Lady Fernanda," Philippe said politely, and though he was kind, Addison saw only shadows when she looked into his eyes.

Godfrey arrived, late and disheveled, his curly blonde hair in a state of disarray.

He strode purposefully from the doors to the high table.

An arm settled itself behind her, between her back and the back of her chair, and Addison turned from the sight of Godfrey to look at Eric. A question hung in the air between them.

His eyes were dark, but he was careful to keep an easy grin on his face as though he had not a care in the world. His gaze flickered from her to his family beside her, to his uncle across the room, and then to an empty chair. As though he were taking stock and calculating risk.

Addison followed his gaze, surprised to see an extra arrangement set out though no other member of the family was in sight. She frowned at the sight of it, before nudging him, but Eric only shook his head, begging her silence with his eyes.

Addison pursed her lips. Still chafing from the way he had spoken to her earlier in the day. Still hurt by the secrets, and the lies that had cycled their way back into the space between them. But she was befuddled enough by the tension in the room that she had no choice but to let it slide.

Godfrey stomped up the steps of the platform, striding to his seat, and shooting daggers at the backs of his family's heads. He claimed his chair at the far end of the table, directly to Baldwin's left.

"Godfrey," Ysabeau murmured sweetly in greeting.

The blonde de Clermont brother met her with disdain. Philippe shot him a warning look over his wife's head, but Godfrey only eyed his father distrustfully. Like a child who'd been forced to share his toys with a sibling, Addison thought, Godfrey was having a fit.

The family treated him accordingly – largely ignoring him and leaving him to sulk on his own. Though, Addison noted, there was something smug about the look in Ysabeau's eyes. And Philippe, while polite, was grim.

Curiously, Baldwin remained unchanged.

He ate in silence – food he'd probably prefer not to eat – and watched the door with boredom. He diligently worked his way through each meal as though dinner was a sentence to be served, and freedom, a reward that would come from his suffering when the meal was done.

His eyes were flat and though she had no doubt he'd noticed her stare; he did not glance in her direction. He did not indulge his pouting brother. He did not speak to his nephew, his father, or Ysabeau.

Baldwin de Clermont was silent, and this did not sit well with the young Fernanda Gonçalves.

---

Philippe's study was empty for once. Eric stood at attention before his grandfather. His eyes were fixed on the wall over the seated de Clermont's head. His shoulders were back. His chest was heavy.

Eric had left Fernanda in the pastures. He couldn't clear his mind of the hurt that had colored her face. He had spoken true, when he said what he'd said. But she'd reeled back as though he'd struck her. And there had been no time to recover. He could not think of how best to explain.

Eric pressed his lips together in a grim line, and worked his jaw, doing his best to keep his distraction from display.

Philippe sat at the desk before him.

A glower on his face, and a vein of steel in his expression. Guillaume waited his turn, just outside.

Eric had known this moment was coming. Of course, he had. He'd known from the moment Guillaume arrived in courtyard days before.

Dereliction of duty. They'd abandoned their posts.

Penance for a such an act often came at a heavy price.

He'd already been read the riot act. He'd been accused of every incompetence under the sun. A poor example, he had set, Philippe had simmered. Disrespectful of the brotherhood. A poor reflection on his father. A poor leader. An incompetent child.

Eric had heard it all this day, and he had taken it on the chin.

When Philippe had calmed, he had sat heavily in his chair, with a sigh.

He pressed a fist into his temple. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, he met Eric with a tired look. A contemplative frown.

"Guillaume cannot be faulted for your poor example," he said after a beat. "You were negligent in your orders, and he followed them, albeit misguidedly."

Eric kept his mouth shut. He understood. He nodded his head.

"Anyone else would return to their post with marks on their backs and shame on their family name. Anyone else would receive the highest sentence for their callousness, for so shamelessly acting on impulse and abandoning their post—"

Eric's lips turned down into a frown. He found he could not meet his grandfather's gaze. He cleared his throat and looked instead to the bare bit of parchment that sat on Philippe's desk.

"Your grandmother has begged your case," Philippe said. "I expect you'll seek her out and express your gratitude. There would be no lenience but for her, you understand?"

"I do," Eric said softly.

Philippe's jaw ticked and he nodded curtly. "Anyone else would be sent packing. I had half a mind to send you back to Rome tonight to clean up your mess."

Eric's eyes ticked up to meet his grandfather's. He was full of remorse, yes, but he could not leave. Not with Fernanda here. He couldn't very well go back to Rome when she was—

He opened his mouth to protest, but a sharp look from his grandfather had him closing his mouth and minding his tongue.

"Am I to go back then, sieur?" Eric asked instead, working his jaw, and staring in resignation at the ground.

His grandfather's silence stretched long in the space between them, but he could feel the weight of his gaze bearing down on him, willing his spine to bend into submission. And he could feel the press of the looming shadows in the room, urging him instead to stand upright and strong. Reminding him of his fate and the many obligations that had been placed on his shoulders.

Eric sighed and glanced up at Philippe. His grandfather leaned back in his seat and studied him. His eyes glittered in the firelight. Though it was daylight out, the curtains were closed, and darkness prevailed. Philippe preferred to work as though he were in the depths of a cave.

His grandfather had lost all anger, and vitriol, as soon as he had expressed it. And Eric was remorseful, in his way.

He had not meant for Guillaume to follow his orders. He had not intended to abandon his post.

He hadn't, that is, until he had.

Eric had found that he would cast much aside if it meant doing right by Fernanda. He had learned his lesson fifty years ago when he had let Benjamin live in order to keep his mate alive and safe.

He apologized to his grandfather, and he had been sincere, but he had to admit even then that he had no regret for the decision he had made. He would choose his mate every day for as long as he lived. He would choose her, and no man, no controversy, no kingdom nor even the papacy would ever get in the way of that.

Philippe saw this in his grandson too. Perhaps it bothered him. Eric would put money on that it did. Perhaps his mind spun with a million designs meant to end this farce and be done with Fernanda once and for all. He had tried this once with his father and Fernando, and Eric wouldn't put anything past his family in the end.

But if his grandfather was anything, he was unpredictable, and so Philippe cocked his head to the side and his eyes glinted in the firelight and he did not smile but he wasn't unkind.

"If anyone else were to do what you had done..." Philippe repeated and shook his head before turning to study the wheel that sat in the corner of the room. It was missing two spokes, and yet, it had not been mended.

"You're not going back to Rome."

Eric's brow furrowed as he studied his grandfather and the wheel. He shook his head in incomprehension.

"Grandfather?" he asked.

Philippe turned back to him.

"You're expected on the battlements for the long watch this evening," Philippe said, and he sounded about as old as he was for once. "And every evening from now until I say otherwise. Guillaume will join you there. You will take it upon yourself each week to shine the armor of a fellow knight – one of a lesser rank than you – who is expected to follow your command. You will humble yourself before him and apologize for your negligence and disrespect for the order. You will help in the armory at the beginning and end of each week. And you will help Ampelius in the stables on Sundays. This, in addition to your regular duties."

Eric felt his frustration rise at this punishment, though it was but a slap on the wrist compared to perhaps what he deserved for abandoning his post. He had precious little time with Fernanda, and this would rob him of it all.

He had come here to see her. To see her after fifty years apart. And now, she was to be carefully kept out of reach of him, all because of his own dereliction of duty. It was an impossible choice, an impossible play. And Philippe knew that.

It was either, go to Rome and stay there until a new pope was elected, or stay here, and be near Fernanda, but never within reach of her – to see her only in passing while he wasted his days attending an overabundance of duties that Philippe tossed his way.

He worked his jaw and tried not to glare at his grandfather in this moment of lenience. For, no matter, how it irked him, lenience it was. Philippe was correct. Anyone else would have gotten the lash for such an act. It would not do to provoke his grandfather's ire now when he had shown him a rare bit of much-needed mercy.

"Have you an objection?" Philippe asked, his voice dry.

He had obviously observed his grandson's frustration.

Eric bit down on his silence. Holding onto it, desperately, lest he forget himself and dig himself an even deeper hole to crawl out of.

"Speak, Eric," Philippe commanded. "Passivity does not suit you."

"With the addition of these new duties," Eric gritted out. "I will have no time left for my mate."

Philippe was silent and Eric risked a glance up at him. His grandfather was nodding thoughtfully at his desk, as though he had considered this already but was finding the best possible way to respond.

Eric stared, and Philippe's eyes snapped up and caught him. The man before Eric was perhaps as old as the sun itself, and, caught in his gaze, the young de Clermont was quick to remember how easily such a man could burn you.

"You are not the only man in this order who makes sacrifices for duty," Philippe said. "We have men stationed in many places across the world where their mates and families cannot go. Your own father's mate is in Marrakesh though I have no doubt he'd much rather be home with Hugh, if not with his daughter who has long been gone from him..."

"Yes," Eric hissed. "He is."

Philippe arched an eyebrow. "And yet there he remains," he said. "Because he made a vow to the brotherhood, and he does not take such promises lightly. He goes where duty asks him to go—"

"Where you asked him to go," Eric countered.

"Aye," Philippe said. "Fernando was the wise choice, but I'll have you remember he did not go alone."

Eric pressed his lips together and nodded, chest twisting in sympathy for his stepfather and yet chafing at his grandfather's words. He did hate when Philippe was right. Fernando had not been the only man ordered to Morocco to witness the fall of the Almohad caliphate. And no one had anticipated the assassination of the last Almohad king. The Knights of Lazarus still had interests in the area, and there were none quite like Fernando who could get a feel for the powers that would rise from the ashes of a dynastic fall.

"The men who are with him have mates too," Philippe continued sternly. "They have wives and children waiting for them at home."

Eric nodded but remained silent. In his chest, flared a brief flash of shame which mixed rather painfully with a selfish desire for time. Time with his mate. Time that he had thus far been deprived of.

"This displeases you," Philippe supplied, half curious for more.

He was a good read, Philippe de Clermont, but his grandson was as perplexing as they came. He was easy going and bullheaded. Impulsive to the point of sin, and defiant too, but introspective, and most of the time, very respectful of his duties. Hugh de Clermont had found himself a most intriguing son and heir, and though Philippe did not say it often, he did, in fact, approve of the boy.

"You speak true, grandfather," Eric conceded, stamping down his displeasure. "I cannot deny it."

"And yet," Philippe supplied easily. "This displeases you."

Eric's jaw ticked as he worked to suppress hidden emotion.

"I've had no time," he said. "I've all the time in the world since I turned, and yet—"

Philippe waited for Eric to collect himself. Unable to meet the older man's gaze, his grandson turned instead to stare at the wheel in the corner, tempted to ask Phillipe why he did not replace the missing spokes.

"She'll be gone again before I can blink," Eric said. "And I'll feel once again as though I'm mad for the loss. If I cannot hold her with my own hands – in my own arms – hear her voice with my own two ears... If I cannot feel the pulse of her life in the air that surrounds me..."

Eric hissed and turned back to Philippe, a pained look in his eye, one fist clenched over an invisible wound in his chest.

"I fear it will be as though she never existed at all," he said. "And I... granddad... I don't know how to..."

Philippe stood then. His chair grated against the cold stone floor beneath it. He made his way over to his grandson.

Eric shook his head, and averted his gaze, but Philippe was adamant, and he pulled Eric into an embrace, holding him securely by the back of his neck and sighing in remorse when the younger man buried his face into his shoulder.

"I understand," Philippe said.

Eric cleared his throat and pulled back. Philippe let him, looking away and allowing his grandson a moment to collect himself.

They stood together like that, half awkwardly in the middle of the room. Eric had never been receptive to his grandfather's affections in such a way. And Philippe understood this was a result of his and Hugh's division. The young man before him did not know how to fit himself into the void created by the family rift.

"I cannot allow you to go forward without atonement," Philippe supplied quietly. "It would not be fair to the other men. And my judgement stands. This is what you will do to make amends for your negligence. You must hold yourself to the same standards to which you hold your fellow men."

Eric cleared his throat and nodded. Accepting his fate for what it was.

"But it does not mean you will never see her," Philippe said. "I'll not keep you from your mate, Eric, but it is for you to see how such time with her is won. If she is as important to you as you claim, you will find a way to make it work. I won't stand in your way when you do."

When Eric left his grandfather, Guillaume entered the study and closed the door behind him. Eric lingered in the corridor, with his back to the wall. He closed his eyes and released a long, drawn-out sigh.

The day had started so well. But he'd left Fernanda in the pastures and—

"Eric," Balder called. He strode toward the young de Clermont with a grim look on his face.

Eric pushed off the wall, eyes flitting around the corridor, looking for Fernanda.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Where is Fernanda?"

"Milord Godfrey has taken her to his tower," Balder murmured too low for even Philippe's ears. "Something is wrong. She has sent for you."

When dinner ended that night, Eric led Fernanda back to their family's corridor. He had but a few minutes before he needed to report to the battlements for the long watch, but he wanted to see her safely to her chambers first.

She had gone along with him quietly. Although much had happened, and Godfrey had explained the situation hours ago in his study, Eric wondered how much his mate understood about what had occurred here this day.

He wondered if she could sense the tension in the great hall this evening between the members of his family. He'd have to speak with her about it, on the off chance this hadn't been the case. It had been a long while since he'd seen Godfrey so agitated. And he felt resentment turn in his chest now that he understood why.

What in the seven hells had they been thinking? He had suspected, somewhere deep down, that they had resorted to this that night fifty years ago, but Fernando had asked him to allow Fernanda her secrets, and Eric had little ground upon which he could refuse.

Women burned at the stake these days for a crime such as this. Taking the vows of the brotherhood under false pretenses. Compromising the integrity of the order. Women were not meant to become knights, and the church had made its stance abundantly clear. Women burned for this. It was rare, but Eric had seen it done. And he would not have such an accusation directed anywhere near his mate.

Eric turned his face. He gritted his teeth and held her tighter before releasing her and gesturing toward the stairs. Indicating that she should begin her climb.

Fernanda glanced up at him, curious and guarded. She sighed before turning to climb the stairs to her chambers. Eric patiently followed behind.

When they reached her door, she turned the latch and pushed it open, but Fernanda didn't step inside.

"Mo chridhe..." Eric started.

Fernanda was at war with herself. He could tell. It took her a minute before she decided to meet his eyes. He frowned.

"I wish to apologize..."

"Don't," she said.

"But—"

Fernanda held up a hand. "You shouldn't apologize unless you actually mean it—"

"I do mean it, mo chridhe," he said softly. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Fernanda frowned. "But you meant what you said."

Eric opened his mouth to say something – anything – but what could he say? He was within his rights not to tell her his reasoning about the west wing. More than that, the west wing held secrets he was honor bound to keep. All he could do was ask her to avoid it, but he could not explain why.

It would be a violation of someone else's privacy. It would be a—

"See," she said softly.

Eric sighed. "I wish I could explain..."

"I've heard that before."

"I know," he said.

Fernanda wrapped her arms around herself and looked to the floor. "It was hurtful," she said. "Even if it was true."

"I know," Eric said. "And for that I am truly sorry."

Fernanda shrugged and glanced over her shoulder at the chambers behind her. "I should get some sleep."

Eric nodded; eyes turned down with regret. "Aye," he said. "I understand."

She sniffed and turned to go, but before she could leave him, he reached out and caught her hand. Fernanda glanced back, and Eric bent to kiss her knuckles.

"Before you go," he said.

She waited for him to continue.

"I want you to know," he said. "If you have need of me... I will not be in the tower this evening."

"What?" she asked, stepping toward him in confusion, holding a little more tightly to his hand. "Why not?"

Eric gave her a wry little smile. "I'll be on the battlements, mo chridhe."

"The battlements?"

"Aye," he said. "Punishment for the stunt we pulled in Rome, I'm afraid."

Fernanda shook her head. "What do you mean? What's on the battlements? Is it dangerous—"

"Och, no it's not dangerous," Eric chuckled. "Freezing cold, half the time, or so the humans say. A bit boring too if I'm being honest."

"Oh," Fernanda replied, frowning up at him, an uncertain look in her eye. "Well... thank you..." she said haltingly. "For letting me know, that is. It's kind of you... I appreciate it."

Eric nodded, giving her hand another squeeze before letting her go and stepping back further into the stairwell.

"Sleep well, mo chridhe," he said.

Fernanda twisted her lips, and one traitorous dimple appeared on her cheek. "Goodnight, Gallowglass."

---

Fernando is not dead.

Fernando is not dead.

Fernando is not dead.

Addison awoke the next morning from a terrible dream. But it hadn't been true. It was just her brain playing tricks on her. Yesterday had been a long day.

It was midday now, and Jacqueline had left her to her own devices while she attended other chores.

Her father was not dead. He was in Marrakesh.

She could not write to him, but he was not dead. Addison clenched her hand into a fist, curling her fingers into her palm and digging her nails into her ragged old scars.

She sucked in a breath and deliberately released, reaching instead for the little pocket mirror that hung from its chain on her vanity. The little mirror with the swallow and the scales. She plucked it from its perch and ran her thumb over the smooth surface. Allowing the cold of the metal to permeate her skin.

She flipped the mirror open and gazed down at her own reflection.

Her eyes were the same. Her face, unchanged.

Nothing had changed.

She snapped the mirror shut and clenched her fist around it. She drew her lip between her teeth and gnawed anxiously away. Leaning back in her seat, Addison stared at her vanity instead.

There was an ivory comb laying on the smooth wooden surface. And a wooden comb next to that. A series of ribbons were neatly set to one side, and Addison had spent many a morning running her fingers over their silky surfaces while Jacqueline fixed her hair.

Her hair, Addison noted, had grown longer in the last two years. She hadn't really noticed until now. The braid she wore was long today, rather than twisted up on the top of her head. It was thick and hung neatly over her shoulder, with a long lavender ribbon woven into the plaiting.

She smiled and toyed with the small purple pansy Eric had plucked for her sometime in the night. Jaqueline had delivered it on a tray this morning with tea and a note from her mate.

She ran her finger over the delicate petals, smiling softly to herself at the memory, before pulling her hand away and drumming her fingers anxiously on the surface before her.

No, she sighed. Fernando was not dead.

He wasn't dead. She just missed him was all. She missed him and—

A knock sounded at her door. Addison sat up straighter and turned. When no one entered, she knew it couldn't be Marthe or Jacqueline.

"Who is it?" she called, standing from her seat.

"Mary, milady," came a quiet reply.

Addison's heart jolted in surprise, and she couldn't help her smile. Good, she thought. She could get the chef out of the way, at least.

She turned the latch and pulled her door open. Mary stood before her, with her hands twisted nervously in front of her, and a stutter on her breath. She dipped into a curtsy and fixed Fernanda with her most respectful look.

"The Chef is in the kitchens, milady," she said. "He's preparing to attend the food stores, momentarily."

Addison's heart thumped in her chest. She let out a small, delighted laugh and nodded at Mary.

"That's amazing, Mary," she said and stepped out into the hall. "Thank you. Come on, let's head down there now."

"Yes, milady," came Mary's reply.

They descended the stairs together, and when they hit the bottom, they were met by Jacqueline.

"Is everything all right, my lady?" Jacqueline asked, eyes flitting between the pair.

"Yes," Addison grinned at Jacqueline. "Come with us, we are meeting the chef in the kitchens."

Jacqueline's eyes lit up in surprise, before she too matched the young Fernanda's grin.

"Of course, my lady."

---

They didn't make it very far.

"Why is there a kitchen maid in my entry?" Ysabeau asked in a wry manner.

The maid in question squeaked and curtsied, but she didn't speak other than to utter a quick "madame."

"I asked her to come find me," Addison said.

"I see" Ysabeau hummed, and her eyes flickered carefully over the faces of the odd collection of girls.

"Come, Fernanda, I have need of you."

"But—" Addison began but Ysabeau was not yet finished.

"Jacqueline, see to it that Mary does not lose herself on her way back to the kitchens."

"But..." Addison tried again.

Ysabeau waved the maids off, ignoring the young Fernanda's weak protestations, and Mary hurried to do as she had been instructed.

Jacqueline hesitated only for a second, but the flash of displeasure in Ysabeau's eyes suggested it was a second too long.

"Madame," Addison tried again, this time a bit more politely, and a bit flustered too.

But Ysabeau did not acknowledge her, choosing instead to stare down the blonde lady's maid who had yet to leave Fernanda's side. Jacqueline averted her gaze. She touched Addison's arm in askance. Addison bit down on the inside of her cheek. She sighed frustratedly through her nose and turned to Jacqueline. She nodded for her to do as Ysabeau told her.

Jacqueline's shoulders drooped in relief before she dipped into a practiced curtsy. When she rose, she hurried to catch up with Mary, who had already taken her leave.

Addison watched them go. Ysabeau watched her watch them with shrewd eyes. Her voice was silver, and while it was not unkind, it was neither friendly when she repeated, "Come, Fernanda," and turned on her heel to leave.

"But Ysabeau..." Addison said, voice cracking a bit in her reluctance.

The blonde matriarch turned sharply on her heel to regard her charge. She arched one immaculate eyebrow, and her lips turned down into a delicate frown.

"Have you misplaced all sense of manner and decorum today, Lady Fernanda?" she asked, "Or do you simply seek to test me?"

"No," Addison started earnestly, wringing her hands in her skirts, and stopping just as quickly when Ysabeau's hawk like eyes snapped down to watch them. "It's just that..."

Addison coughed and gestured to the maids.

"Yes...?"

"I'm meant to meet the chef in the kitchens at the moment," Addison supplied.

Ysabeau fixed her with an incredulous look.

"Then he will have to wait, child," she said. Ysabeau shook her head as though the answer were obvious.

"But..." Addison started, but she quickly stopped.

Ysabeau fixed her with a look that perhaps everyone in the world knew at some level. It was the look of a mother who was about done with a child and would not tolerate any more of their antics. Addison knew the look well, and she knew it was meant to be obeyed.

"The food stores will be there in an hour, Fernanda," Ysabeau said. "Chef can hardly expect a lady of your station to subject herself to the whims of his schedule. I know your father has undoubtedly filled your head with all kinds of disagreeable notions, but surely, he has not raised you to lower yourself to the wills of the staff. The chef will wait, and at your convenience, he will serve. The matter will be postponed, and I am sure he will accept this change with grace—"

Addison sighed at Ysabeau's words – something the older woman noted sharply.

"Or is there something you wish to tell me?" Ysabeau asked though it felt more like a challenge than an inquiry at this point.

Addison was careful not to let her discomfort show.

She couldn't very well tell her that she hadn't yet checked the food stores. She couldn't very well tell this woman, of all women, that the inventory had been neglected for weeks now. Fall had almost ended. Winter was near. And Addison had this one job. Just this one. And she hadn't done it yet.

She couldn't very well tell Ysabeau that the chef had insulted her and called her an incompetent child. That he refused to work with her and had thus far given her the slip.

Her lack of progress was damning enough evidence to suggest that the chef was right. She did not know if Ysabeau would meet this news with vitriol or pity or shame. She didn't know what kind of judgement the other woman had in store for her, and, frankly, she just couldn't give Ysabeau the satisfaction. She couldn't admit that she wasn't up for the challenge of being Eric de Clermont's mate. And she certainly couldn't let Ysabeau use this as another mark against Fernando's name.

She just couldn't do it. There had to be another way.

And she couldn't tell Eric.

He'd just fix it all for her. He'd solve the problem. He would sweep her lies under the rug. Sure, he'd protect her from Ysabeau... but he'd protect her from work too. And he was already keeping secrets, Addison chafed, thinking once again to the mystery of the west wing.

But most of all, Addison wanted to learn. She knew she had the tools in her belt, but she didn't know how to use them. She wanted to solve this her way. Somehow. Maybe with a little teensy bit of help from Jacqueline, but that's it. She didn't want to be swept aside so everyone else could manage things for her.

She had been given a task. She wanted to see it through.

Eventually.

Somehow.

If she could just get away from Ysabeau.

If she could just corner the goddamn chef and make him work with her.

"No," Addison sighed. "You're right of course, Madame. I apologize. I seem to have forgotten myself for a moment."

---

Ysabeau led her to the drawing room.

It was light and airy there with great windows that took up large swathes of space along the walls, and ancient looking mirrors that reflected light in the places where the windows could not reach.

As per usual, Ysabeau swept her way gracefully through the room. Taking stock of her surroundings and staking a claim on the space through sheer presence alone.

Addison didn't bother to compete.

She made her way to the sofas in the center of the room, and quietly took her seat. She waited patiently for Ysabeau to tell her why she was here while the other woman fussed and fluffed and reorganized to her heart's content.

"Winter is coming soon," Ysabeau said finally.

She was standing across the room, toying with a small wooden box, thoughtfully.

"It is," Addison agreed, turning her face to stare out the windows.

The drawing room overlooked the pastures to one side. And she could see a small herd of horses out in the dying grasses, quietly grazing.

Ysabeau turned to watch her. "Tell me," she said. "How do you feel you've been adjusting?"

Addison frowned. She studied Ysabeau, unable to hide her curiosity.

"Um—"

The other woman narrowed her eyes. "Speak properly, child."

Addison bit back a sigh and tried not to roll her eyes. "I've been adjusting... fine... I guess."

"Fine?" Ysabeau asked. "You guess?"

Addison cringed. The blonde across the room fixed her with a dull look and put the box she was holding down. She made her way over to the sofas where Addison sat and perched herself on the one across from her. Hawklike eyes watched her shrewdly. And Addison thought absently that the other woman did actually look like a lethal little bird sitting primly on the edge of her seat.

"Yes," Addison replied. "It took a little while to adjust, but I am happy that Eric is here. And Jacqueline has made it significantly less..."

"Less?"

"Lonely," Addison shrugged.

Ysabeau pursed her lips and nodded. "I see."

Addison nodded back, twisting her hands in her skirts, and clearing her throat awkwardly. Ysabeau continued.

"Philippe mentioned that you held an audience with the blacksmith and farrier some time ago."

"Yes," Addison nodded. "There was no one else available and—"

"I do not know what you said to the men," Ysabeau continued. "But they seem to have put their squabbles aside for now."

Addison's eyebrows shot up in surprise. She didn't know what she had been expecting, but it hadn't been this. "Oh?"

"Yes," Ysabeau continued. Her eyes flickered with some hidden emotion that Addison couldn't even pretend to read.

"Well..." Addison started and trailed off.

She tried not to fidget in her seat. She tried not to look too pleased. Addison had a feeling Ysabeau would not appreciate an overly passionate display.

"That's good to hear," she said instead.

Ysabeau hummed, still studying her.

"And the nobleman you greeted," Ysabeau continued.

Addison nodded.

"He was positively charmed."

This time, Addison couldn't hide her surprise. "I barely did anything," she shook her head. "I just said hello and had a footman take him to his chambers."

Ysabeau smiled. "Yes," she said. "Men are funny creatures in that way."

Addison's brow crinkled in confusion. "In what way?"

Ysabeau laughed, and it was a smooth silvery sound. She leaned back a bit in her seat and smiled bemusedly at the young human across from her.

"You dangle a pretty thing before them, to give them attention, and cater to their needs, and they take it as the highest form of flattery."

Addison blanched. She didn't know what to think. It wasn't a compliment per se, but it was equally surprising to hear that Ysabeau considered her pretty. She felt a bit nauseated at the idea of some old nobleman finding her attractive in any capacity. And even more so that it had been openly discussed.

Flustered, Addison pressed an uncertain hand to her face. Ysabeau's smile faded slightly, and her eyes dulled in understanding.

"It is an unfortunate side effect of our birth," she said blithely. "That such beauty acts as an asset and a curse, is it not?"

Addison sucked in a shaky breath and offered her a half-hearted smile.

Ysabeau didn't return it. Her face was serious as she watched her. Her eyes dark. Her mouth turned slightly down.

"Baldwin seems to be of the impression that you do not understand your role," she said finally after a long stretch of silence.

Addison shook her head, uncomprehending. "But I do..."

"Do you?"

"I—" Addison started and stopped; she looked around her at the drawing room. Full of sunlight and cool air, but she couldn't help but feel as though something in the room was darkening. "I think so."

"You think so?"

"Yes..." Addison said.

"Hmm."

Ysabeau sat up straighter and called for the footman who waited dutifully outside. The man entered with a bow and waited in silence for her orders.

"Bring wine," she said to him, and then to Fernanda. "Such conversations are not meant to be had without a drink in hand."

Addison gaped at her, flustered, and she turned to watch the footman go. She looked back to Ysabeau, and the older woman arched an eyebrow. The matriarch of the family turned for a small deck of cards on the table beside her.

And then she looked to Fernanda.

"Do you play?"

Addison glanced down at the deck and shook her head. "I'm not sure..."

"Pity," Ysabeau said, and set them on the table between them. "I suppose you will have to learn then."

Addison sat forward when Ysabeau gestured for her to do so and watched curiously as Ysabeau dealt the cards.

"We don't have enough players, but two will do for now," she said. "We'll start with something easy."

"Easy?" Addison asked, hand sliding over the pair of cards that Ysabeau sent in her direction.

"Yes," Ysabeau said. "I prefer to play Picket, but for now we will settle for Knave and Fool."

"Oh," Addison said and went to look at her cards. Ysabeau made a noise of protest, and Addison snapped her hand back, looking up at the blonde in alarm.

"Not yet," the older woman scolded. "Let me explain the rules, child."

---

They were halfway through their game, and several cups into their wine, when Philippe arrived in the drawing room.

It was odd, Addison decided, seeing him standing there in a room that was so full of light. She realized rather belatedly that she's only ever really encountered Philippe in the dark of night, or in the closed windowless rooms located in the heart of Sept-Tours.

She had never realized how fair he was. Though his hair was dark, his eyes were lighter than she'd realized. They were more the color of ochre when he stood there in the full light of a bright sun.

He entered without fanfare. He was quiet, and purposeful as he strode across the room.

He grabbed a book from a shelf in the corner before he even glanced in their direction. Smiling, when he caught her eye, he made his way over to the pair.

"And what are you two up to?" he asked.

"Knave and Fool," Ysabeau murmured, flipping her cards over and gesturing for Fernanda to do the same.

Philippe snorted and leaned down to kiss Ysabeau on the cheek. The only acknowledgement from his wife, a slight tilt of her face to give him better access when he did.

Philippe looked at Fernanda and winked. "Don't let her play you for a fool, Lady Fernanda," he said. "She's incorrigible enough as it is."

Addison offered him a slight smile but did not laugh at his jest. Ysabeau still terrified the hell out of her, and there were some things that Philippe could get away with that Addison wouldn't dare try to.

Addison flipped her cards and found herself holding the losing hand. Philippe tsked in sympathy, and Addison laughed softly, passing Ysabeau her cards.

"I was just explaining to Fernanda the impact her beauty is having on our guests," Ysabeau murmured.

Philippe's eyes flashed in alarm. He stood up a little straighter and turned from Fernanda to stare down at Ysabeau.

"Oh?" he asked, though his tone sounded less than pleased.

Ysabeau looked up then and smiled sharply at her husband. Addison sat back a bit, stomach turning at their silent exchange.

Ysabeau had only mentioned a few things to her while they played. And nothing specifically regarding her impact on the social sphere of Sept-Tours. She had enlightened Addison to a few customs of the time regarding young ladies of importance, and how their maidenhood was an important political tool for men of power, though this was something Addison had already known at some level. It was uncomfortable to acknowledge, but it was hardly a surprise.

"Yes," Ysabeau murmured smugly.

Philippe narrowed his eyes at his wife, before turning to look inquiringly at Fernanda. He tilted his head and deliberately softened toward her. It was very skillful, but Addison had seen this trick before. Hugh was also talented in changing his demeanor from person to person at any given moment. It made him impossible to read, and it was unsettling to observe.

"And what have you learned so far, my lady?" Philippe asked Fernanda, voice laced with curiosity though his eyes read concern.

Addison cleared her throat and toyed with the cards Ysabeau dealt her.

"Just that ladies of my age and station are often married by now," she said. "And that people may think it odd if one is not. That people may call her guardianship into question. And that... fathers can often expect to entertain bids for a lady's hand in marriage."

Philippe's eyebrows shot into his hairline, and he whirled around to stare once again at his wife. "Is that all then?" he asked.

Ysabeau smiled sweetly up at him. Addison felt her belly flip in uncertainty.

"Of course," Ysabeau said. And Addison felt her heart sink with dread.

What on earth did that mean? Of course. Ysabeau was too smooth about it. Too smug. Philippe's nostrils flared but when he turned back to Fernanda, he fixed her only with an easy grin.

"An unfortunate lesson to learn, so late in life, my lady," he said. "Is it not this way for you, where you come from?"

Addison's eyes shifted between the pair warily before she cleared her throat and offered him a forced little grin.

"No," she said. "No... things are very... different back home."

"Are they?" Philippe asked, genuinely intrigued.

Addison nodded; voice caught in her throat. What was Ysabeau playing at? Why had she brought her here, really? Surely, they both had better things to do than play cards in the middle of the day and talk about medieval marriage customs.

"Well," Philippe said, amenably. "Perhaps you can tell me about them some time."

Addison cleared her throat again, trying to dislodge the nerves that had gotten caught there. "Of course," she croaked quietly.

Philippe nodded and something in the room seemed to shift. He pulled himself to his full height. Fixed himself with a jovial grin and the room seemed to relax around them as though it were releasing a long held breath.

The tension in the air dissipated as if by force, and Addison found herself reeling from the odd exchange.

"I am sorry to disrupt your game, my lady," Philippe apologized to Fernanda. "But I need to borrow my wife."

He turned and fixed Ysabeau with a sharp look that would have sent Fernanda into a panic had it been directed at her. His wife, however, kept her face carefully neutral. She seemed entirely unperturbed. And there was still a smugness leftover in her eyes that made something in Addison twist in dismay.

"Of course, husband," she said primly before collecting the cards on the table and stacking them neatly off to one side.

Ysabeau stood and Addison followed awkwardly. Ysabeau's lips quirked, and Philippe glanced at Fernanda one last time, sympathy clouding his expression.

The footman appeared and Addison turned, slightly stilted and unnerved. She departed the drawing room with a quiet goodbye. She could feel their eyes burning holes into her back as she did.

---

With nothing else to do for the moment, and no one to mind her or tell her what to do, Addison decided to explore. She'd only been in the main parts of Sept-Tours. There were still alcoves and passages left yet to discover. She had seen neither hide nor hair of the library though she had heard it was one of the most expansive collections outside of the royal courts.

Addison passed by guests and tradesmen, smiling, and greeting them as was appropriate but otherwise she kept her distance. The conversation with Ysabeau in the drawing room had left her unnerved, and Philippe's reaction to it was even more unsettling. She itched for a cloak, or a shawl or something to cover herself, to obscure her body even more from view.

She didn't want the random attentions of the men who stayed here.

No one had told her such would be the case. She hadn't considered that other people aside from Eric would take an interest in her, whether for her looks or her father's money.

Addison shuddered and turned away from such thoughts before they ate up valuable space in her mind. It would do no good to dwell on it. And Fernando wasn't here, so no one would be marrying her as far as the law was concerned.

She turned a corner, and then another. She took a passage and then wandered up a set of stairs. She wandered around in circles, and never ended up in the same place twice. Faces became less familiar. And then they became scarcer too.

Somehow, in the middle of the chaos of Sept-Tours, Addison had not only found herself unattended, but she found herself alone.

Like, actually alone.

There was nothing here but the sound of her breath and the creaking of the wind against the windows and walls of the chateau.

A cat scurried somewhere out of sight and a mouse squealed as it fled its feline huntress.

And Addison was standing before an archway.

And on the floor beneath the archway, inlayed in the stone, was a compass rose.

She furrowed her brow and stepped closer, ducking down to get a better look. Ahead of her, the rose marked west. And Addison jolted back, looking up from the floor to stare down the corridor in alarm.

Was this...?

Could it really be...?

The west wing of Sept-Tours was empty as a grave. Dark as one too.

The air here was colder, and the light of the corridor was tinted slightly blue. There was no direct sunlight here at this time of day.

At the far end of the long corridor a scaffolding had been erected. It shadowed the windows and loomed higher than the doors. There was a layer of dust on the ground from stonework and carpentry that had yet to be mopped up. And there were tarps, raggedly cut from cheap cloth, hanging here and there, obscuring alcoves, and covering paintings that hung on the walls of the corridor.

It was absent of all life. It was absent of light, and people. Addison gazed down the length of the corridor, reticent but intrigued.

This was the place everyone was so worried about?

There wasn't a dignitary in sight.

And Eric had been right. It was undergoing repairs.

But still, the air was heavy here.

Her nose itched from the dust. And her spine tingled with an odd sensation, as though she was being watched from somewhere in the shadows. As though, despite the emptiness of the hallway, she was not alone here. At the far end of the corridor, behind a maze of tarps, and woodwork, obscured by the giant scaffolding was an arch. And Addison knew deep down in her gut that arch housed a stairwell. A stairwell much like the one she lived in, in a tower built for Eric and Hugh.

And her brain clicked. She thought back to the archways. To the many towers she'd seen on her tour of the chateau. And she wracked her brain for every one she knew by memory, every name of every sibling who lived in each of those. And she could only name six.

Where she lived there were six towers. But six towers did not make up the excessive height of this fortress.

Addison's mouth popped open in a shocked little 'oh.'

This was the seventh tower.

This was the final tower that gave the name to Sept-Tours. This was the tower she had not been shown on her first day when Alain had given her a tour.

Glancing around to see if anyone had spotted her here, Addison was unsettled to note that still she was entirely alone. After so many weeks caught up in the perpetual traffic of the de Clermont family home, the quiet was unnerving. Something about the emptiness felt unnatural here, and Addison felt Eric's warnings now straight down to her bones.

But, her mind whispered. There was no one here. She had the west wing before her. Empty and open. It would be so easy to just... peek in. So easy to explore. No one need be any the wiser.

Here were the answers she wanted so desperately to know.

Sucking in a breath, Addison stepped through the archway. She walked quietly into the corridor. She ran her fingers along a ragged cloth, draped over a painting. She ducked under another that hung from the ceiling.

Slowly, and methodically, Addison made her way toward the stairs. A creak sounded from somewhere above her and her head snapped up to eye the scaffolding. It swayed precariously. It's wooden pallets and beams, moving haphazardly against the current of a phantom breeze.

Addison blew out a nervous breath and shook herself.

No one was here.

A shiver shot down her spine, but Addison ignored it. Ducking into the archway, she grinned to herself in triumph when she saw a familiar kind of staircase.

She had been right.

It was a tower.

She mounted the bottom step and began to climb.

And she climbed and climbed. Into the darkness she climbed as the stairs wound higher.

Unlike Hugh's tower, there were no candles here.

She felt her way upwards, with her hand sliding along the inner wall.

It was cold in this tower too.

Colder than the one she lived in with Eric.

Unlike Hugh's tower, this tower was outfitted along the outer wall, not with doors to bedrooms, nor with windows that looked down on the view below, but with small slats in the stonework. Slats only big enough to poke a stick through.

Arrows, her mind whispered. They were made for arrows to fit through. In case of a siege.

The steps were colder here, and a bit slippery in places too as the autumn air wafted through the slats, unencumbered by heavy walls of stone.

Addison held her breath as she climbed and stepped as carefully as she could. It would not do to fall here. She cringed, and her spine sung with nerves at the idea.

It would be a long way down. She wondered idly how long it would take them to find her here, but she quickly shook her head.

She wouldn't fall. She just had to be careful.

But the darkness only got darker the higher she went, and her stomach twisted with a persistent sense of dread.

There was a landing near the top.

Addison stopped in surprise.

She didn't know what she had expected, but she hadn't expected a door.

One door, with a light glowing beneath it. Just a small sliver of light to suggest there was more on the other side.

Hugh's tower sported a handful of landings and doors that made up his family's living quarters. But this landing and this door were alone.

Made for just one person. Or perhaps just one purpose.

She didn't know.

Addison coughed, feeling more than uncertain. She looked back once more at the shadows behind her, the cold stone walls, and the slippery steps.

She swallowed, filled suddenly with a pang of regret.

Why exactly had Eric asked her not to come here? What was so dangerous about an empty corridor?

What on earth was behind that door?

The voice in the back of her mind screamed for her to leave it. To turn around and head back the way she came. To listen to Eric and Baldwin and Ysabeau's warnings. Her gut urged her to leave here and figure it out a different way.

But while that voice was screaming and her stomach was turning and her throat was bobbing with an abundance of nerves, her hand was reaching and her feet were stepping, and before she knew it, she'd turned the latch and opened the door.

It swung open in silence. The wooden door swept inward with a whisper of sound, and the thud it made on the stone wall of the room before her was loud.

But Addison barely heard it – trepidation giving way to surprise.

It was a study.

Addison reeled at the normalcy of it all. It was... cozy... even.

She stepped inside.

It was warm.

There was a fire in the hearth, and it cast the room in a subtle orange glow. A large desk sat in the middle of the study. There was a chair tucked in, facing the door. There were scrolls on the surface of the desk, and bits of parchment unfolded. Their wax seals, broken. And there was a quill dipped in ink, as well. It dripped black splotches onto the floor.

There were bookshelves on every wall, filled with texts mostly, but the occasional memento too.

Addison stood in the middle of the room and turned, in a state of wonder, taking it all in.

What on earth was so dangerous about this place?

It was just another study, in another tower. This was practically commonplace by now, and—

Addison stopped midturn, as she caught sight of another set of stairs. Off to the side, just there... just hidden from view... Another pocket of a stairwell that led somewhere... else.

And she wondered what could possibly be hidden up there. She wondered why these stairs were hidden by the study door. She wondered why this tower was built differently than the ones that had been built for Godfrey and Hugh?

Overcome by the urge to explore, she made her way to the staircase, but before she could hit the bottom step and begin to climb, a breeze filled the room.

The fire in the hearth died out into darkness.

Addison yelped.

She turned.

There was a clamor behind her. And then the clamor came from her right. And then a breeze rushed past her. It flew up the stairs.

And Addison was alone. Caught in the darkness. Blinded by the absence of light.

But she didn't linger.

No.

She had felt this fear before. And she knew never to linger.

Addison ran.

She ran for the door with her hands outstretched before her. She hit the wall with a groan, and then she stumbled onto the landing.

She stumbled quickly down the steps.

The only sound in the tower was the hitch in her breath and the pounding of her heart.

She stumbled and she tripped. Addison grunted. She couldn't see a thing.

She lost her footing. She slid down a few steps but caught herself. Once again stumbling. Once again, face first into a wall.

Addison hissed. She shook herself and tried to stop her spinning head.

It was just a breeze, she tried to reason. It was just a breeze.

It was a breeze from the slats in the walls—

Addison stopped. Just for a moment. She forced herself to stop. To stop and look down.

The slats, she huffed.

The light from the slats—

She was not caught in total darkness. She only needed to watch her step.

She picked her way more carefully now, down the stairs. But then the door slammed somewhere above her. And Addison nearly jumped out of her skin. She picked up her pace, stumbling faster downward. She held her breath. Desperate to hit the bottom step.

---

Addison hit the corridor with a gasp and a stumble. Her heart thudded hard in her chest, and her ribs ached from the exertion. Her face throbbed from where she had smacked into the tower wall, but she didn't stop to catch her breath.

She fled down the corridor, winding her way through the labyrinth of repairs, desperate to make it back to the main entrance hall as quickly as possible.

A noise sounded behind her, and her skin crawled over itself in fear. The back of her neck prickled, and she imagined herself a set of eyes. A set of eyes that watched her from the shadows. Eyes she could not see. But they were watching. Always watching.

She glanced back behind her, but shadows were all she could see. She didn't really notice when she cleared the archway. She didn't notice when she'd left the corridor. She didn't notice she was back to safety until—

"My lady?"

Addison yelped and turned just in time to collide with Balder. He reached out and caught her before she could fall, but Addison still stumbled, out of breath and trembling.

Eric's friend stared down at her, his dark brow furrowed as he looked her over. Addison took another shaky breath.

"Thanks," she breathed.

Balder nodded once, but his eyes snapped up to study the corridor she'd fled from. She could see his mind turning, as he pieced together her fear and the corridor she'd fled from. And then something clicked in his eyes.

His expression was very grave.

"Has something happened, my lady?" Balder asked.

Addison sucked in another breath, trying desperately to calm her rapidly beating heart. And she stepped back, just a bit, just enough to loosen Balder of his hold. She cleared her throat and glanced back at the corridor. She smoothed her skirts anxiously and shook her head.

"No," she said. "Nothing's happened."

"My lady..." Balder said, disbelievingly.

Addison turned to look back at him, and his eyes were earnest though his expression was stern.

"Are you injured?"

It was Addison's turn to furrow her brow. "Injured?" she asked.

"Aye," Balder said. "Have you been harmed in some way?"

"No," Addison said though her adamance was perhaps a bit too forceful.

He didn't appear convinced. Balder never took many liberties to touch her, but he did so now. Reaching up to brush her cheek with his thumb, arching an eyebrow when she flinched.

Addison smiled awkwardly though the smile did not reach her eyes. "Clumsy me," she said. "Ran into a wall."

"Oh?" Balder asked.

"Yeah," she laughed nervously. "Stupid really."

"I see," Balder said.

"Mhmm," Addison hummed, turning to stare back at the empty corridor, and then turning back to Balder. Popping up on the balls of her feet once to release her excess energy, before moving around him, to continue back toward the more populated parts of the chateau.

Balder easily kept pace with her as she not so subtly fled the awkward moment she'd found herself in.

"And why, exactly, were you running then?" he asked.

Addison's step faltered before she once again picked up her face. "No reason, Balder," she said. "I just... got spooked."

"Spooked?" he asked, unfamiliar with the term.

"Yes," she gritted out, shooting him a look as he stepped up to walk beside her. "Spooked. Frightened. Startled. Afraid. Spooked."

"Ah," he said. "I see."

"Do you?" she asked, annoyed.

"Aye, my lady," he said with a sharp grin. "I do."

"Well then—" she started but he cut her off.

"So, uh, what spooked you then?" he asked, looking far too knowing for his own good. Addison shot him a glare.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" he asked.

"That's right," she said. "Nothing."

"Huh," he replied.

"What?" she asked.

He glanced at her out the corner of his eye. "In a fortress full of vampires, I've never seen someone so committed to the lie."

"I'm not lying," she bit out.

"Oh, I'd say you are."

"I told you, there was nothing. It was just my mind. I spooked myself."

"Hmm."

"Hmm?"

Balder grinned down at her, though his eyes were dark, and his hand rested gently on the hilt of his blade.

"You were in the west wing."

"No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were."

"I promised Eric I wouldn't."

"Yes, you did," Balder said. "And still, there you were."

Addison opened her mouth to argue but the surly knight held up his hand and shook his head.

"All due respect my lady, Guillaume and I didn't expect you to leave it alone," he said.

"But I wasn't—"

He arched an eyebrow and stared down at her darkly, and even though she was technically in charge, Addison suddenly felt the disparity in their ages. She wondered how many years exactly Balder had over her. She cringed. He sighed.

"Lady Fernanda..." he started and stepped aside so she could lead him out into the main corridors of Sept Tours.

She made her way into the flow of traffic and waited for him to return to his place by her side. He lowered his voice and stooped just slightly so that he could speak with her more privately still as they walked. The world parted for Lady Fernanda and her guard as it always seemed to do these days.

"You entered a forbidden area of the household, and found only darkness I presume—"

"Darkness and a study..." she muttered. His resulting silence was even louder than his words had been. Far more critical and foreboding.

"And perhaps you have told yourself that there was nothing there but shadows," he supplied. "Perhaps you have convinced yourself that you were alone in that tower..."

"I was alone in that tower," she argued, coming to a halt in the middle of traffic.

Balder stopped as well, and the flow of people broke around the pair. Like water parting around rocks in a stream. She stared up at Balder in defiance, and he stared down at her in pity.

"My lady..."

"No, Balder," she rolled her eyes. "Stop. Whatever you're trying to do, it's not gonna work. I mean it. I know, Eric didn't want me in that corridor. I don't know why. But I was alone there. There was nothing there but a study, and me—"

"I have been that nothing about which you speak, my lady," Balder told her gravely.

"What?" She asked.

Addison shook her head at him. What the hell did that mean?

He cocked his head and waited patiently for her to catch on. When she didn't, he continued.

"This is not a normal household, Lady Fernanda. And not everyone here is human."

Addison rolled her eyes. "Yes, I know."

"And yet you insist you were alone in that corridor—"

"What, are you saying it was a ghost that scared me?" she scoffed. "Are ghosts real now too?"

Balder sighed and shook his head. He fixed her with a look of resignation.

"No," he said. "It was not a ghost."

"Right," she nodded, jutting her chin, and turning to make her way back toward Hugh's corridor. Back to his study and the rest of her duties for the day.

Balder scowled impatiently at her back. He rolled his neck, eyes turning hopelessly toward the ceiling. And then, as he was duty-bound to do, Balder followed Lady Fernanda back to the safety of her family's section of the household.

---

When Hugh de Clermont was human, he fought favoring his left side. He had never been a particularly combative man, but he had been a man nonetheless, and he had grown to fight accordingly. On the farm amongst his brothers, when he was but a child. In the polis among fellow citizens, as he trained to defend his people from kingdoms full of other men.

He had trained and trained for many years as was his duty, in back alleys and side streets, in open fields and when he was conscripted into the army.

But he'd never shaken himself of the habit.

The human he had once been, was forever cursed to favor his weaker arm – to guard it from a heavy-handed attack. He was forever cursed to preserve this lesser side of himself so that it may live to rally another day.

Hugh de Clermont had lived many lives.

His first life had been that of a farmer's son. His second, that of a scribe in the great House of Alkaios. And on and on, Hugh de Clermont had shifted and grown to match every challenge set to him.

He was a quiet conqueror, Hugh. Quietly he conquered demons, and weaknesses, challenges, adversity, his own shortcomings, and the trials of the mind.

Perhaps this was what Philippe de Clermont had seen in him all those centuries ago.

And yet, Hugh's mind countered contemplatively, perhaps not.

Whatever his father's motivations, it was easiest for Hugh to believe that Philippe had never encountered anyone quite like him before. His father was intrigued by this passive son of a farmer that Hugh had once been. He was intrigued by this student of Aristoteles, this scribe for a great poet, and later for an even greater Macedonian king.

Philippe was intrigued, and vexed, by the young man who fought with a staff and made no secret of the weakness he held in his left side.

Hugh would never understand the mind of his father, but he knew that weakness in himself had driven Philippe mad for understanding.

And that, his mind turned, was perhaps another reason – perhaps the reason – Hugh had been turned into a manjasang.

Philippe had needed to know. He had needed to understand. He needed to see through Hugh's own eyes how such a man could guard a weakness and yet not choose to hide it. Philippe could not fathom the inner workings of Hugh's mind.

And there was only one way to attain that kind of knowledge.

This had been a time before consent.

And Philippe had not asked his eldest son's permission before he made him into something more.

He simply took what was there to be taken.

Whether Philippe found the answers he sought in Hugh's blood, the eldest son would never know. He would never know if it was a need for understanding that motivated Philippe to turn him into a manjasang, or whether it was a thirst for more, or whether it was something else entirely.

The inner workings of Philippe's mind were not known to him.

He would never know if he became what he was because his father had found the answer that he'd sought in his blood, or because he had not. He would never know if he was still a mystery to Philippe – one his father wished so desperately would unfurl. Hugh did not stop to ponder this very often. Perhaps Philippe had turned him, because when blood had not revealed Hugh's secret, Philippe hoped that time would prevail.

He would never know why, but when it was over, and Philippe had taken everything, he gave back what he had in him to provide.

Hugh had been nearly forty then. An old man by ancient standards, but still fit and sharp. A worthy opponent by the blade and by the mind. He'd had no children. No wife. Philippe had not questioned this, and then he had no reason to question, for, in the taking of Hugh's blood, he had known.

There had been women.

And later on, Philippe had taken his share. Hugh had also indulged once, but it brought him little satisfaction. So, then there were men. Philippe had asserted this interest was beneath him. After all, Hugh was a man, and he should pursue women, not other men. He had received many a lecture on how such acts should be saved for the great masters and their students, or for the soldiers in their barracks, but not for one such as him.

Philippe was adamant that such an act was not for Hugh.

But it was a long existence. And a lonely one too.

And Philippe had never said it, but Hugh suspected his father was relieved that he'd found a way to pass the time. Regardless of any reservations.

Because there was so much time.

An incomprehensible passage of time.

It stretched before him and behind him, far beyond thought or reason or the reach of the eye.

Hugh had grown listless. Apathetic. He had grown bored.

Thoroughly dissatisfied with the long life he lived.

And he mourned himself. He mourned for so long the loss of his right to die.

He begrudged his father this curse on his body. He begrudged his mind its curse on his soul.

And Philippe, much older than Hugh, himself, and dispossessed of any reason as to why they were what they were, could only throw men at him to mitigate the ache of the years.

Though his father did not understand his taste for men, he seemed to be possessed of a need to keep Hugh alive.

And many a morning, as Hugh sat on a lonesome hill, watching the sun rise, but finding no light left for him in the world, he wondered just how old Philippe de Clermont was.

As old as Cronos himself, or perhaps just a breath younger, Hugh sometimes supposed.

For his father had found him, already ancient, with eyes that had seen impossible things and hands that could never be unbloodied.

His father had come to him, a man caught in the tides of war, though the world of men had been in a period of peace and prosperity.

But Philippe could not see peace in eternity.

Philippe sought peace eternally but could not find it anywhere he looked.

He had inherited the blood and shit, the metal and rust and dust and fire of war. It had molded him. Shaped him. Turned something in him to permanent darkness.

Perhaps he had looked at Hugh and seen lightness.

Perhaps that is why he searched for the source of the impossible light in the human Hugh's eyes and mind.

Perhaps that is why he killed him.

Perhaps that is why he chose to make him his son.

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

Perhaps.

Hugh sighed, and clicked his horse forward, leaving the Bourges house behind him.

Perhaps would get him nowhere.

He would never know the innermost workings of his father's mind.

Now, Hugh de Clermont rode for the borders of the kingdom he'd help Saint Louis unite. Just a hair's breadth and a few days ride from Sept-Tours. His back was rigid, and though he had not been physically weak in many centuries, he favored his left side once again as though he were no more than a human boy.

His heart lurched in his chest, and he felt himself overcome by sudden, unnamable sensation. His voice was caught though he uttered no words. His eyes misted though he shed no tears. His mind spun, and his eyes flickered as they tracked the memories. Tracked the thoughts and the worries and the unspoken questions, the unanswerable things. He shook his head and muttered to himself and sat back in the saddle and took this feeling in stride.

He was awash with newness and oldness, discomfort, and an abundance of the familiar.

The sun was rising on the horizon as he descended a lonesome hill.

There had been lightness in exile.

There had been darkness too.

He had not seen as much or done as much as his father had done in this world. He could not liken himself to a man who had perhaps witnessed the first rising of the sun on the horizon so many lifetimes ago.

Hugh de Clermont was a man, made eternal, but his father was infinite.

His father was the beginning of things, as far as he was concerned.

No, he could not claim to understand Philippe de Clermont.

But he thought, now, that perhaps he understood why Philippe had tried so hard to keep him alive once, when the two of them had wandered alone.

Exile had been darkness, but for Fernando.

And then he'd found Sorley.

He couldn't claim to know his father's motivations, but through his son, Hugh found, he understood more now than he once could ever have hoped to know.

---

He rode alone. A black cloaked rider, on a steed black as the night that had once consumed him. Darker than any light he had ever known, but for the glint of a clasp. The catch of metal in the light of the morning sun – the shift of silver beneath the glow of a waning moon. The only light left to see in him, an ouroboros and the hilt of his blade. Small marks of eternity carefully molded and wielded, in order to keep the darkness at bay.

Hugh de Clermont had been here before.

He had wandered these hills. Hunted beneath these trees. He had traversed every river, memorized every stream. There was the mountain they climbed when they were Roman. There was the ditch they'd dug in the Battle of Poitiers. There was the path to the temple of Artemis. The mountain he'd taken in Fernando's name.

His nose itched with the scent of wheat grain and smoke from the humble fires lit in the common houses along the road.

He knew the moment it greeted him, the scent of peat moss and the sharp aroma of freshly tilled earth.

Salt rested in the valley, generously coating recently butchered meat, which the villagers hurried no doubt to preserve.

The heady aroma of wine mixed with the earthy stench of ale. And then, of course, there was incense on the wind, wafting toward him from the church. He guided his horse from the trees into the valley – into the great basin that housed the many towered fortress his family had commissioned and called home. The seven towered behemoth they called Sept-Tours.

Hugh rode forward, allowing his horse to amble down the path at a leisurely pace.

There was a watchtower to the northwest of him, and another to the southeast. He could see armored bodies turning, banners waving, helmets being donned as the men of the watchtowers considered whether he came with the intent of war.

A laughable concern, Hugh thought, glancing around him. For they could see, quite plainly, he came alone.

Riders broke out of each tower, galloping full tilt toward the gates of the fort. Fires lit up above him. They burned brightly despite the light of day. Both watchtowers blazed in warning, seeing to it the people of the village and the men at the gates had been properly alerted.

High on the hill, the fortress loomed. A massive gatehouse, and a great wall no doubt teeming with men at arms, stood between him and his destination.

He could hear the clamor even from here.

The alarm had been raised. Men and guards sent scrambling.

Hugh de Clermont was early. He was early by about fifty years.

And perhaps, he considered, relaxing into the seat of his horse, perhaps he was right on time.

The pastures were green but fading as they turned toward winter, weakened by autumn's persistent chill.

The animals were hunkered down in their herds, lying together in sun patches and munching on the little greenery there was left to find. They called out to each other contentedly, unaware of the man who had arrived in their valley, sending their human masters into a state of confusion and disarray.

Villagers scrambled around him as he rode slowly up the path through the village.

The prodigal son had returned.

Hugh considered the changes to the village. It never ceased to amaze him how creative humanity could be. The village was different than it had been five hundred years ago. This was a different world he was wandering into. It had changed – change was to be expected – but it was the same somehow too.

The fabric of the Auvergne had not changed. Not really. Not from his particular point of view.

He clicked his horse forward, while peasants closed windows and barred their doors.

A few manjasang faces peered out at him with mixed expressions. Some of them smiling, some of them unsure.

Hugh dipped his head at them in passing, but otherwise left the villagers undisturbed.

The lookouts were at the gates now, far ahead and up the hill. Warning their fellow men of his approach. And in each warning, he bore a different character. A different name. Some said the eldest de Clermont had returned. Others, the exile. Some, the stranger. Occasionally, the heir.

He smiled wryly to himself.

Hugh de Clermont was a man most of these people had never seen before, and a figure who those vampires among them had not seen in at least half a millennium.

There was a shadow in the window as he passed by the church. Hugh nodded in the shadow's direction as he rode through, smiling wryly to himself when the figure drew back and disappeared from view.

His father's home had changed in five hundred years, but this he'd already known. He had been here once before, briefly, in the dark of the night after his son's first one hundred days. And he had left just as quickly once the customs and formalities had been observed.

That had been nearly a century ago now, and his son had become a part of this world separate from Hugh. With Philippe's blessing, Eric had become embedded into the landscape and tradition here in a way Hugh had once been too.

When he reached the gates, they were open, though the tradesmen and servants had all but disappeared. Hugh chuckled to himself. The courtyard was all but abandoned. He knew this tactic well. Guests were quietly redirected sometime during his approach.

Now he was met only by guards. Guards and gatesmen, workhorses and footmen. Those were the men who gathered to witness the arrival of the long absent de Clermont heir.

Hugh entered the courtyard, his horse plodding along at a slow meandering gait.

He passed through the tunnel as though he possessed not a care in the world, though his breath caught at the sight of it. His old home stood there, tall, and menacing and proud, in the bright light of the day.

He shook himself.

How long had it been? How long—

He eyed the portcullis warily, as though waiting for the teeth to drop down upon him and end him once and for all. But he passed through unhindered and though the shadows stretched long, Hugh allowed himself a tired grin.

He dismounted without fanfare.

Ampelius emerged from the stables.

Hugh handed him his reins.

The old stablemaster was older than he was. Taciturn now, and silent as the grave. He knew Hugh was playing a risky game. The de Clermont thanked him when he took his horse. Ampelius nodded and led the beast quietly away.

The only sound in the courtyard was that of hooves on cobblestone, and wind whipping de Clermont banners hard against the cold stone gatehouse walls.

Hugh looked around one last time at the empty courtyard and the guards that looked down on him from the battlements and the gatehouse. Standing at attention. Their sharp eyes were fixated entirely on him.

Hugh dipped his head slightly in their direction.

No one budged.

He chuckled.

The courtyard echoed with the sound.

He turned his back to the men and made his way over to the entry.

Up the steps, on either side of an old familiar set of doors, were two footmen.

One, a human man, no older than twenty winters. The other, a familiar face, a manjasang he had known for many years – a good man and a loyal servant to the family.

"Armand," Hugh said softly, relieving himself of his gloves, and fixing the other man with a familiar smile.

Armand's throat bobbed, though his eyes remained a practiced neutral, and his stance remained unmoved.

"Milord," Armand finally said.

Hugh nodded again as though to acknowledge the other man had done a hard thing bravely. Armand's shoulders sagged slightly in relief.

Hugh's eyes flickered over to the other footman – the human who stood by Armand's side. The boy swallowed down his unease – all too aware of the de Clermont's eyes and how they were fixed on him. The weight of his position, no doubt, felt heavier now that Philippe de Clermont's exiled son had returned fifty years too early, and without so much as a by your leave.

Hugh smirked at the nerves of the boy, the stench of his fear, and the unanticipated nature of his arrival. Perhaps, he should have sent word ahead to Philippe.

Perhaps—

But he had supposed the waves of servants he'd sent ahead of him would be all the warning a man like his father could possibly need.

Hugh de Clermont was coming whether they wanted him to or not.

And now...

Hugh looked between the footmen and then stared pointedly at the doors they had yet to open, indicating that he would very much like to go inside.

Now, he was here.

Now, he was here, and Fernando's daughter was somewhere in there. And they would all have to accept the position they'd found themselves in.

He did not envy the footmen. He took pity on them. Truly, he did.

They'd been placed in an impossible position.

They were the final defense. The final stance between the rule of Philippe's law, and the power of his rebelling heir. They'd received no orders. And the guards at the gates had folded, Hugh supposed, for they let him enter the belly of the beast uncontested, and without any fanfare.

Hugh stared expectantly at the footmen, patient but firm, and he did not take pity on the human when a drop of sweat rolled down from his hairline and dripped into his eye. The boy cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably, and Armand remained neutral despite the uncertain look in his eyes.

Inside, a voice sounded.

"Let him in, Armand. He has been expected."

The voice was cold as a bell, and just as beautiful too. She spoke just loud enough for the two vampires to hear.

Armand clipped his head down into a bow. The human sagged in relief as Armand motioned for him to open the doors.

Hugh smiled.

Ysabeau.

He could not say whether he'd longed for this moment or dreaded it with every fiber of his being, but he was overcome by the weight of it as the metal creaked, and the wood groaned. The men made their job seem effortless, though Hugh knew intimately how heavy those doors could be.

The rush of warmth and the scent of fresh herbs rushed out to meet him in a blast of warm air carefully trapped inside. And the rays of sunlight that streamed in from all heights and windows, caught specks of dust in their beams as the cold breeze swept into the entry.

He did not step in immediately.

For some reason, Hugh found, he did not know how.

The floors were clean and swept. The rugs were newer and a richer shade of red than they had been once before. They'd replaced the chandelier in the last century. He could see it, from where he stood, just a handful of paces outside the open doors.

Above him, and looking down at her household, Ysabeau lingered at the top of the grand staircase. The stairs, he noted, still wrapped themselves along the edges of the room.

"Philippe would not like me to greet you before he himself can welcome you home," she said matter-of-factly.

Hugh looked up at Ysabeau with a barely-there smile, unable to keep the amusement from his eyes.

"I'm afraid you may be right," he said, and crossed the threshold.

His stepmother descended the stairs into the entrance hall, her lips twisted into a smirk. Hugh took his place in the center of the room.

"Your father is a very particular man," she said.

"The most particular," Hugh agreed, holding out a hand to her when she neared him.

"It makes him..."

"Difficult?" Hugh supplied.

"Insufferable," Ysabeau rolled her eyes.

"Commandeering," Hugh shrugged and squeezed her hand when it landed in his.

"Impossible," she laughed, and squeezed his hand back.

"Indeed," Hugh nodded solemnly, dipping his head into a respectful bow.

"Would you find an embrace to be far too forward after so long?" She asked, eyes careful and searching, relearning the son she had met and lost so many years before.

Hugh smiled softly and shook his head. "Only if you think me too forward for calling you maman," he said.

Ysabeau held out her arms and accepted the taller man's embrace, cursing him teasingly under her breath.

"Madame will do well enough, thank you," she said.

He laughed. She pulled away.

"But I am glad you are home. And I am glad to call you son, still, after such an absence as yours. I have to say I am surprised..."

She glanced around the entry, empty but for her, Hugh, and the footmen.

"I thought surely Fernando would join your homecoming," she said. "I had a stall prepared for his horse and Marthe set aside a man to attend him in the event he did not bring his own."

Hugh nodded and offered a grateful look.

"That is very kind of you, madame," he said.

She pursed her lips, waiting for an explanation.

"Fernando has been delayed," Hugh informed her. "But it is not for me to explain."

She arched an eyebrow, and he held up an appeasing hand.

"If you wish to know more you will have to ask my father, I'm afraid," Hugh told her. "It is not my place."

Ysabeau studied him for a beat before pursing her lips and nodding her acceptance. Matters such as these were not so foreign to her. And secrecy was commonplace in households such as these. Ysabeau had spent a long time married to Philippe. She knew when to push and when to let it lie. She had secrets of her own to worry about. And her husband's dealings with Hugh's husband were of little importance to one such as her.

"Not your place, hmm?" she asked, ever the casual skeptic.

He grinned but said nothing. Ysabeau hummed.

"If only your brother had shown that kind of restraint with Caesar, we'd still live at the base of the Aventine where the weather was more agreeable."

Hugh chuckled but wisely held his tongue. Ysabeau had thrived in Rome, and she would perhaps never forgive Baldwin's involvement in the death of the emperor. Let alone for his later involvement in the fall of the empire itself.

"Either way," she sighed and waved a dismissive hand. "We look forward to Fernando's presence."

It was Hugh's turn to arch a skeptical brow. She scoffed at his look and shook her head.

"Come," she said, tucking a hand into his elbow and guiding him back out the way he came. "Your father is down at the mill, meddling in matters that are far beyond his capabilities."

"Is he?" Hugh asked, only mildly curious, and filled with trepidation.

Philippe was often prone to extreme boredom and a need to keep busy. Often offering a helpful hand to villagers he thought may need him, and more often than not... unintentionally... sending workmen into nervous fits and delaying labor and productivity quite significantly.

"Of course, dear," Ysabeau sighed. "The mill is jammed again and will not turn. When your father heard of it, he marched down there to offer his aid before the messenger could even manage to remove his cap and offer a proper bow. The poor boy was stuttering and ducking at your father's back. He looked at me as though I was about to rip off his head—"

Hugh snorted. "Were you?"

"Was I what?"

He shot her a look.

"Why on earth would I want to rip off his head?" she asked, putting on a proper show of offense.

Hugh just grinned down at her before turning back to the old familiar path he'd walked a million times before. Together, they moved on to meet his father. And Hugh could only hope the other man would welcome him after five centuries gone. He feared the alternative, if things took a turn for the worst.

---

They were halfway to the mill. Hugh and Ysabeau had walked mainly in silence, breaking the quiet of the afternoon only on occasion with brief exchanges of small talk and formality. They had not been so odd a pair, once, to see wandering around the estate together. Hugh and his stepmother had often gotten on well in the past, but their encounters were usually punctuated by tension just as well.

Ysabeau was a formidable woman, and she did not take the power of others lightly. Hugh was equal parts a worthy ally, and an uncontainable threat to her. He was the future of the family, somehow still, despite his choosing of Fernando so many centuries ago.

With his position as his father's heir, he held power over her bloodline too. This, despite her role as the matriarch of the family. She was only in her power so long as Philippe was alive and in charge. And then her fate would fall into Hugh's hands. She relied on his benevolence, and she feared the prospect of his betrayal.

Now, she held his mate's daughter in her hands. Here, at Sept-Tours, Philippe had passed the care of Fernanda on to her. And Ysabeau knew the valuable card she'd been dealt. If Hugh knew anything about the woman beside him, he knew she would not be able to resist playing her hand.

"Where is she?" he asked.

He kept his voice light though it did little to cut the tension that filled the space between them as they walked.

"Oh," Ysabeau shrugged. "She is here and there."

She gestured boredly to the horizon as though she had not a care in the world. But Hugh saw the set of her shoulders, the shift in her eyes. Even in neutrality, he knew how to read his stepmother down to the smallest twitch. Hugh pressed his lips together and sighed.

He stopped. And with him, he drew Ysabeau to a halt. Ysabeau looked affronted. Hugh looked her directly in the eye.

"I require an audience with my son's mate."

"They are not yet mated," Ysabeau said blithely, waving her hand as though to brush the statement away – trying to unsettle his claim on the girl.

"My mate's daughter then," Hugh clipped.

His eyes flashed with warning. He did not enjoy these little games. He never had.

Ysabeau's face remained carefully blank as she patted his hand and unwound herself carefully from his grip, suddenly wary of their proximity during this game she had decided to play.

"I did not sense a blood vow on the girl," she said though she knew she had lost valuable ground.

Hugh bared his teeth at the horizon in aggravation, smart enough not to do so directly at Ysabeau. His displeasure was clear regardless.

"She is Fernando's legal daughter," he continued. "And I intend to see her."

"Of course," Ysabeau said in that way she did.

Hugh stared down at her, a tick in his jaw, and a shadow in his expression. Her eyes flickered and she resisted the urge to laugh darkly at the turn in him. Hugh de Clermont was his father's son through and through.

A shout from the mill down the way — the groan of wood, and a rush of water as the wheel began its slow turning once again.

"That'll be your father, then," she said.

She glanced at him once more, as though considering whether it was safe to turn her back. Whatever she saw in him made her spine straighten, but she still found it in herself to turn away.

Ysabeau strode away from Hugh. Leaving him on the path behind her, as she made her way over to her mate. Unlike Philippe who had seen him fifty years ago in Navarre, it had been centuries since Ysabeau had encountered the eldest de Clermont child in person.

She seemed to have forgotten the reasons he was still considered Philippe's heir. That is, she had forgotten until today.

Regarding Fernanda, there would be no games.

Hugh's presence here and his demeanor during their exchange had unsettled the matriarch of the family. She retreated now to the mill – to Philippe and the shelter only he could provide her.

Hugh was answerable to no one here. He was answerable to no one, that is, but to the man who had sired him.

Hugh felt a pang of pity for the woman he called his stepmother. She was formidable, yes. And a survivor too. She had been long before she met Philippe. Long before she met Hugh.

But she would not make a pawn of Fernando's daughter. This, he would not abide.

Hugh's presence reminded Ysabeau of the uncertainty of the future. He was a fate she could not even begin to fathom, for he was the living reminder that her husband could die one day. That Philippe could leave her alone in the world.

That one day she would be answerable to Hugh.

It was a precarious existence – Hugh would know – he felt it too. From the day he'd been made eternal. From the day he met Baldwin. And Ysabeau as well. All throughout his exile, Hugh had known this uncertainty. And he doubted that it was ever a feeling he'd be able to shake. He doubted she would ever shake it, either.

That was the funny thing about family. They reminded you of how much you had to lose.

Hugh watched Ysabeau retreat with a knowing expression. He waited a beat to calm himself before following dutifully behind. He made his way down to the mill, to meet his father once again, in his own land, for the first time in half a millennium, and fifty years too soon.

---

Addison was in her chambers, sitting beneath her window and looking down on the courtyard below, when she saw Jean Luc jog into the stables and saddle his horse.

She sat up straighter in her seat, leaning forward to press her face against the glass, when Hugh's most faithful manservant tore out of the stables, and then out of the gates. He headed at speed down the path to the village.

Heart hammering in her chest, in alarm, Addison stood and brushed her shawl off her shoulders, letting it fall haphazardly to the floor.

She turned for her door, leaving her room quickly. Mind spinning with a million questions. Wracking her brain for any reason Jean Luc would act so out of character. She'd never seen him in such a hurry before.

She jogged down the stairs and out into the courtyard, surprised to find it so empty. There was no one around but the guards on the walls and the footmen at her back. She turned and looked back at Sept-Tours, but nothing else seemed to be out of order. Inside, no one else was in a hurry to get anywhere. No one else seemed concerned.

Addison let out an unsettled breath and turned again toward the gates, wanting very much to follow him, but knowing that she wouldn't get away with it.

The sun was setting on the horizon. Evening had fallen and the gates would close soon. It would not do to be caught on the wrong side of them when darkness fell. And she was not supposed to wander without the accompaniment of a guard but...

She stepped toward the tunnel cautiously. More than aware of the all-seeing eyes of the guards on the wall. They were watching her, and they too knew the rules. She couldn't slip past them when there was literally no one else to look at but her. She couldn't sneak through with the crowds this time.

They'd never let it slide.

Addison blew a stray hair out of her face when it fell from her braid and whirled around to face the house in frustration.

What the hell was wrong with Jean Luc? Had something happened? Was there something wrong?

Had there been word from Fernando? Or Hugh?

Her belly flipped and her heart thudded hard in her chest and—

"My lady?" Ampelius asked, appearing in the entrance of the stables. "Are you well?"

Addison offered him an unsettled grin, but the vampire didn't seem to buy it. She cleared her throat.

"Have you seen Lord Eric, by any chance?"

Ampelius studied her and nodded his head warily. "Aye, my lady," he said. "Around back, training the new recruits."

Around back...

Addison's eyes turned her gaze in the direction he indicated. The training fields were beyond the gates. She bit back an aggravated groan.

Logically, she knew, she should go back inside and wait for news. She should go back inside as literally everyone she knew would want her to do, but Addison couldn't do that. Something was wrong. She needed to find Eric. He would know what was happening with Jean Luc.

It couldn't be far, right? She turned from Ampelius and eyed the gates. How far could it be really to get to the training fields and back before dark?

How bad would it be if she just... went?

And besides... if she found Eric... then she wouldn't be breaking any rules.

Seeming to pick up on her thoughts, the stablemaster stepped out of the stables and offered his aid.

"I'd be happy to escort you, Lady Fernanda," he said. "There is another path, on the other side of the estate. It will be quicker that way."

Addison couldn't hide her gratitude. "Thank you, Ampelius," she said and gestured for him to lead the way.

---

Eric was in the middle of correcting a young soldier's footwork when he caught a familiar scent on the breeze. His head snapped up in alarm, and he almost forgot to duck when the boy swung for him. Eric cursed and stepped back, reaching up and grabbing the dull edge of the blade before it met his face, halting the boy's swing mid-arc.

A gasp sounded, and the familiar stutter of an all too familiar heart.

"Fernanda?" he whispered.

The boy was apologizing profusely, but Eric waved him off. He released the blade, wiped a line of blood on his tunic and gestured for Guillaume to step in and take over.

The knight in question had also turned in surprise at seeing the young Fernanda, not only beyond the gates so late in the evening, but here on the training grounds.

She was off to the side of the field, standing beside the stablemaster, Ampelius. Her hair had been undone sometime since Eric had last seen her and now it flowed long and free down her back, catching in the breeze and impossible to contain.

He frowned.

What on earth was she doing here?

She should be indoors.

It was late and near time for dinner. She should be in her chambers with Jacqueline, not out here of all places. It wasn't safe this late in the evening. It wasn't—

Eric shook his head at her in disbelief. He had made his way close enough now that she could read the bewildered look in his eyes. She watched him with an anxious expression and fidgeted with her unruly hair, shivering a bit from the cold.

Where on earth was her cloak?

She'd freeze out here.

"Mo chridhe—" he started.

"What's happening?" she asked abruptly.

"What?" he asked.

"With Jean Luc—" she started. Ampelius beside her looked suddenly alarmed and then immensely uncomfortable. He glanced at Eric and then away just as quickly.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb, please," she insisted, reaching for his hand and squeezing his fingers.

"Christ lass, your hands are ice."

She sniffed impatiently. "You can tell me, Eric."

Eric shook his head, stepping closer to her and rubbing her arms though he doubted it would do much for her. His body ran too cold to warm her without a cloak.

"I would, Fernanda," he insisted. "But I don't know what you're asking me. Where's Jean Luc? What's happened?"

She hugged herself around the middle and shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "I just saw him bolt out of the courtyard on his horse. It looked like something was wrong—"

Eric stared down at her. Mind turning. That was abnormal. He turned instead to Ampelius.

"What news?" he asked.

Ampelius met his eyes, gravely. "I'm unclear on what I am allowed to divulge, my lord. Might I suggest seeking an audience with Sieur Philippe?"

Eric's jaw ticked, but he nodded at the old stablemaster, turning to address the men in the field behind him.

"Balder," he called. "Guillaume."

The two knights in question stopped what they were doing and turned toward Eric.

"Leave them with the master-at-arms," he said. "You're needed elsewhere."

---

Addison had seen vampires fight once before.

And even then, she hadn't actually seen anything. She had heard the snarls. The singing metal of their blades. The hisses of pain. She'd felt the earth shake once when they felled a massive oak tree, but she'd never actually seen vampires fight with her own eyes. She had never seen men fight at all. She'd never seen a knight wield a blade.

They took the long way around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Hugh's squire while they made their way back into Sept-Tours, but their efforts were in vain.

Eric and Fernanda entered the courtyard with Balder, Guillaume and Ampelius at their backs. But nothing could have prepared them for the sight that greeted them when they did.

Darkness had fallen on the valley, and firelit torches cast shadows along the walls. Behind them the groan of metal sounded, and men shouted as the portcullis was quickly lowered. The gates were closed.

Addison startled at the sound, nerves grating at the trapped feeling that overcame her. No longer free to come and go. She heard iron teeth meet stonework at the far end of the tunnel. It echoed in the night – a great, beastly sound.

But her eyes were glued to the sight before her. A sight that was near impossible to behold.

Baldwin stood in a makeshift circle. A broadsword in his hands. All she could see was the broad expanse of his back. His opponent was hidden by the sheer size of his frame. There was long slash in the back of his tunic. The fabric itself hung from him in tatters and shreds. And his muscles flexed and rippled alarmingly as he adjusted his grip on his weapon.

Addison gasped and Eric gently pulled her to stand back behind him.

A crowd had gathered, and he surveyed the situation quickly. His grandfather was on the steps, with Ysabeau standing rigidly by his side. They looked down on the proceedings with neutral expressions, unreadable emotions in their eyes.

He noted Jean Luc at the far end of the ring that had formed around the fighting men in the center. The blonde retainer met Eric's eyes. He shook his head just slightly at the young de Clermont – warning him.

Eric frowned. Warning him against what?

His father's retainer signaled for him to stay his course, to keep his head about him. And Eric shook his head in response.

"Speak plainly, man," he muttered quietly, too quiet for anyone but another vampire to hear.

Jean Luc didn't get the chance to respond. For two blades clashed again in the circle. The men collided at speed, with force. And the courtyard trembled with every blow.

Baldwin shifted.

Fernanda's breath caught in her throat, and she jolted forward as if to run into the fray, but Eric caught her around the middle. He held her fast, shaking his head in disbelief at the display.

His mind spun, but Jean Luc was calm, and Eric now knew why the other man had begged his restraint.

There, in the middle of the ring, was his father.

Baldwin was fighting Hugh.

Eric held his mate tightly to his chest, and for once he was at a complete loss for what to think or what to do.

His father shouldn't be here.

Hugh's exile had not yet come to a end. Being here... it was a death sentence. It was—

Eric shook his head. Fernanda clung to him, unable to hide her distress.

His father should never have come. He shouldn't be here—

Fernanda was frozen in Eric's arms, pitched forward as though to run, but unable to move, unable to make sense of what she was seeing.

So much had changed since she'd seen Hugh fifty years ago, last spring. So much had changed and now he was here. He was here.

He was just there.

Right there.

But he had a mark on his cheek. He had a slash down his sleeve.

And he was fighting with Baldwin.

He was fighting Baldwin, and Fernanda didn't know what to think. Eric held her close, unwilling to let her go. He watched with sharp eyes as his father and uncle came to blows.

And it was a truly terrible display.

"Hugh," she croaked out, finally finding her voice.

Hugh's head snapped up when she called him, and Baldwin's blade swung down. And then Hugh was on his knees. His sword clattered to the ground.

---

Hugh knew the moment his son and Fernanda had entered the courtyard. Baldwin had sensed it to. The second son smirked at his brother and cocked his head to the side. Baiting him, willing him to give in to distraction.

Hugh rolled his eyes. He weighed his blade halfheartedly in his left hand and swung it a few times for good measure. He couldn't see them. His brother was a proverbial mountain between him and the youngest of his kin.

He considered the broad sword in Baldwin's hand, and the pile of weapons that lay discarded around them. They were even so far. Fifty-fifty, split straight down the middle. They'd moved fast and efficiently, and behind him he heard Godfrey place a bet on their brother.

It was fair enough, Hugh supposed. They were evenly matched on a good day. But Baldwin had always had a more untamable thirst for conflict, and Hugh's priorities admittedly lied elsewhere.

He tired of these games, even if he had missed sparring with his brother for sport. Most importantly, he was here for Fernando's daughter.

He had been surprised to learn that Eric was here. Though now that he'd been apprised of his son's situation, he knew he needed to speak with the boy. They had important matters to discuss. Dereliction of duty, chief among them.

Hugh chafed at his son's impulses. His brother noted his distraction and took this as his cue.

Baldwin attacked.

Hugh blocked him. He put up enough of a fight, he supposed.

It was nearly dinner time. And the young Fernanda was only human after all. He'd not be the reason she was late for her evening meal.

So, when his brother met him, he parried and feinted. He put on the necessary display. But he was startled by the terror in Fernanda's voice when she called out his name. His head snapped up in alarm.

Then Baldwin's blade knocked his. Hugh rolled his eyes and dropped his sword. He watched the blade clatter to the ground. He hit his knees, and held fast, unflinching when Baldwin swung. And then his throat was met by sharp metal.

Baldwin was a man of impeccable restraint.

He stopped his blade on a dime. He left his brother with only the smallest mark on his flesh. With the drawing of blood, their match finally ended. Hugh felt the substance well up and stain his skin.

Behind Baldwin, Fernanda stifled a scream. And it was only then that Hugh realized no one had told her what was happening. She didn't know that Hugh would not die this day by his brother's hand.

Hugh hissed a quiet curse, and Baldwin chuckled. He removed his blade from his older brother's throat. He held out a hand, and Hugh accepted. Allowing the other man to haul him up off the ground. He patted Baldwin on the back good-naturedly and nodded toward a few familiar faces that had gathered to watch their row.

Baldwin sheathed his sword and set about picking up the other discarded weapons they'd left lying about. And Hugh turned his attention to the small group that had gathered at the mouth of the tunnel – the young Fernanda among them, eyes wide with horror, hands trembling with fear.

---

Addison couldn't feel her fingers. Her heart thudded erratically in her chest. It pounded painfully in her ears. Shadows danced on the walls of the courtyard, and Hugh was alive.

Hugh was alive and he was walking toward her.

Her nails had dug little crescents into Eric's arms. He held her fast still, even though the danger had passed, concerned about the way she trembled so violently.

"It was but a sparring session, mo chridhe," Eric murmured in her ear.

Jean Luc had taken his place by Hugh's side, and a guard intercepted the pair to offer his hand and introduce himself to the de Clermont heir. Hugh spoke with him graciously before Jean Luc intercepted and cut off their exchange.

"No harm done," Eric continued. "See?"

"Why the fuck would anyone—" she started but behind her Balder was chuckling and Guillaume was passing Ampelius a handful of coins. She whirled around to stare at them.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What?" Balder asked. Guillaume stood frozen, his hand still outstretched, one last gold piece in his fist. Ampelius offered her a sympathetic smile.

"It was a good fight, my lady," Ampelius told her gently.

"A good fight?" Balder turned to the other man incredulously. "We barely saw a thing. A fight like that and we don't see anything but the tail end of it? Hugh bloody de Clermont against a beast like Baldwin. Tell me, old man, when the hell was the last time you saw a fight like that? It's been five bloody centuries. And of course, we would miss it. It's just our luck—"

Addison shook her head at the surly Viking. Uncertain whether she was more taken aback by the words he spoke or the fact that this was the most he'd ever actually said around her in one sitting.

They couldn't be serious.

Eric leaned down and murmured in her ear. "All is well, Fernanda," he said. "I promise. My father was in no real danger."

Addison opened her mouth to object, but a voice cut her off before she could speak.

"I hope you haven't been too unsettled by the events of the evening, child," Hugh said.

Addison whirled around and Eric loosened his hold on her when she did.

Hugh was standing there. He had a hole in the sleeve of his tunic, and a line of blood on his throat. His hair was tussled, and his eyes were tired. But his smile was familiar, and Addison felt herself deflate.

She let out a shaky breath and raked her hands through her hair, which had long since fallen out of its braid.

She opened her mouth to say something – anything – but no sound came out. She couldn't speak and— there were people everywhere. It was freezing. And Hugh was here. And Baldwin hadn't killed him which was great—but—

She pressed her lips together.

But—

A sob tried to force its way out of her throat, but she refused to let it. She sniffed and her eyes burned with tears. Frustrated, and shaky, and overwhelmed, Addison turned her face.

She couldn't look at him like this. She couldn't look at anyone.

She didn't know what was wrong with her. She didn't know what was wrong. She didn't know what to think or what to do with her hands and she thought he was going to die and—

Hugh frowned and stepped forward.

"Come here, Fernanda," he said.

But Addison shook her head. Unable to meet his gaze. Her hands were shaking, and she felt strung up on an impossible string. High up in the air, strung up by her belly.

Everyone else was fine. But Addison wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and cry. Her face burned. Absolutely mortified.

Hugh sighed and reached for her. Pulling her tightly into his chest. And Addison couldn't even protest. She just kind of sagged against him and closed her eyes.

Hugh wasn't dead. Baldwin didn't kill him. It hadn't been a serious fight. Everything was fine.

Hugh murmured something too quietly for her to hear. And the courtyard was loud with men's shouts and laughter. The clamor of metal and the protests of workhorses. The wind whipped de Clermont banners hard against every wall. And the world itself seemed to tilt on its axis – caught somewhere between the darkness and the light. The sun was gone, but the moon was bright. And the people around her seemed to have livened by firelight. There was savagery here. Her mind flashed back to the fallen blade. But another wave of laughter washed over the courtyard from the men who were gathered and Addison sucked in another shuddering breath. There was camaraderie too.

Her eyes burned, and her nose ran unattractively. And she was soaking his shirt, but she couldn't let him go. And Hugh didn't make her.

"Sorry," she whispered into his shirt.

Hugh scoffed and looked down at her. "Whatever for?"

"I don't know," she mumbled, and released an anxious breath. She held him a little tighter and wished with all her might that she could disappear into the floor.

He chuckled and squeezed her a little tighter before releasing her and pulling back. Hugh's features were lined with remorse.

"Better?" he asked.

She sniffed and wiped her face with her sleeve, before giving him a halfhearted shrug. He smiled sympathetically and then he looked her over. His lips turned down into a frown.

"Where on earth is your cloak?" he asked.

Addison shrugged again. Hugh looked around in alarm.

"You there," he said to a guard. The man stopped and stared at him in shock, unsure how to act around the mysterious de Clermont heir he'd never met before. "Your cloak."

"My cloak, sir?" the other man asked.

Hugh arched an eyebrow and waved his hand impatiently. "Yes," he said. "Hand it over."

The guard did as he ordered, quickly, and it was all Addison could do not to gape.

"That's not necessary—"

"Nonsense," Hugh said, wrapping her up in the other man's garment.

"But—"

He fixed her with a look, and she knew better than to argue. She turned instead to the guard and tried to convey some sort of apology, but the guard, having realized who his cloak had been taken for, only flushed, and stuttered. He insisted that it was an honor to be of assistance to her, before dipping into a deep, unnecessary bow.

Addison drew back, alarmed. But the other man paid her reaction little mind. He took his leave, happy for some reason, to leave his cloak with her despite the chill on the evening breeze.

That was... odd, Addison thought.

But a hand landed on her back, possessively, and she turned to look up at Eric who watched the guard retreat. He could barely keep his annoyance off his face.

"Really?" she asked, arching a disbelieving brow.

Eric glanced down at her, frowning. "Well, he didna have to look so pleased about it."

Someone snorted behind him. Her money was on Balder. And Hugh placed a hand on her elbow.

She looked back to Eric's father and watched as Jean Luc pressed something into his hand.

And then Hugh held it out for her, a soft look in his eyes and a smile toying at the edge of his lips.

"For you," he said.

Addison drew back in surprise. She looked down at the item he offered her, before snapping her head up in disbelief.

A folded bit of parchment, right there in his hand. And it was thick too, held together by a small circle of wax and an old familiar seal.

F.G.

Fernando Gonçalves.

Her heart stalled in her chest. She—she didn't know what to do.

It was a letter.

It was a letter... from Fernando.

A letter from her father.

How on earth—

Addison shook her head and snatched the letter out of Hugh's hands.

"Are you serious?" she asked with an incredulous burst of laughter.

His only response was to offer her a self-satisfied grin. Addison screeched, and launched herself at him, wrapping him up in a bear hug and squeezing as hard as she could.

"Thank you!" she laughed. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You have no idea—just thank you!"

"It was the least I could do," came Hugh's quiet reply.