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.

3. Fall, Sept-Tours

Chapter Three: Fall, Sept-Tours

Hugh's tower was the second highest at Sept-Tours. Philippe had guided her into the heart of the de Clermont family's literal fortress with a steady arm and a kind demeanor. This was not the welcome she had expected from the de Clermont, especially not after Godfrey had reacted so fervently against her in the spring.

Where were the threats and suspicion? Where was the vitriol and the demand for her blood? Was no one going to accuse her of being a witch?

No. Apparently, not.

Instead of any of these things, she was led to a tower and directed to a room located almost all the way at the top. They passed one room, and then another. They passed a series of windows that looked down on the courtyard below and still they climbed.

Philippe took the stairs with ease. Addison stumbled over the skirts of her gown and heaved a bit with the effort of the climb. The de Clermont ignored her struggles with tact and grace, holding her a little tighter when she stumbled before reaching a landing and stopping at a door.

"Your chambers," he said and turned the latch.

Addison watched the door swing open, unable to deny that she was intrigued.

It was almost as though they'd been prepared for this eventuality. It was almost as though Philippe had factored her into his household.

The room was humble by de Clermont standards, she supposed. It was smaller than the room she'd occupied at La Ithuriana. But it was extravagant still and far more excessive than she'd ever really felt entitled to.

Inside, the walls were made of stone. As were the floors. Warm brown and dark grey stone that looked as rich as the day they'd no doubt cut it from the earth years and years ago. Covering the stone were a series of thick, patterned rugs, tightly woven in beautiful hues of black and silver and blue. The bed had no posts, unlike the one she'd slept in at La Ithuriana, but it was large and cozy looking with soft cotton sheets, a thick royal blue quilt and a dark brown fur pelt draped over the edge.

Unlike her room at La Ithuriana, there was no bench beneath the windows on the far wall, but Addison was relieved to see large ornate windows even still. Their glass was as clear as the glass back home in Navarre. It was outlined by thick black iron frames and softened by delicately patterned curtains that would no doubt shield her from unwanted sunlight in the early morning. From the sounds that carried up the tower toward her room, she'd venture a guess that they overlooked the courtyard below.

Now, with the curtains drawn back, moonlight filtered in. It cast the entire space in a soft silver glow. Addison took one hesitant step into the room. She cast an uncertain glance back at Philippe as she did. His expression was kind if inscrutable, but he nodded for her to continue. She was surprised, and relieved to see that he waited politely in the corridor while she ventured further.

She did not know what to think of Philippe. She didn't really know what her family thought of him either. Just that he was important, and he was in charge, and she was vulnerable and without her father here. She was without Eric too. Addison pressed her lips together to keep them from wavering and brought a hand up to her ribcage to hold the place over her unsettled heart.

There was a vanity in the corner. And a hearth already burning with a soft, barely-there flame. Before the hearth were a set of cozy-looking chairs, a knitted blanket, and a footrest next to which sat a basket with utensils for needlepoint should she desire to sew. Near the windows, instead of a bench, was a small desk for writing. It had two drawers with nothing in them, and a surface bare of supplies.

Addison turned about the room, carefully cataloguing this new space, before a knock sounded from the open doorway. Addison looked back at the place she'd left Philippe and saw he had drawn back to make room for a pair of maids.

Between them they carried buckets of water. Behind them were two teenage boys carrying a giant wooden tub. They waited patiently for her to tell them to enter, and Addison belatedly remembered who she was and the power she held here. Quietly she ushered them in.

"Thank you," she said as the boys set down the tub and the girls set the water to boil.

"A pleasure, my lady," one of the girls murmured.

They both curtsied as a sign of respect, and something jolted inside of Addison at the sight. She'd never been comfortable as a member of Fernando's social sphere, and she felt much the same in the world of the de Clermont. She'd spent many months at La Ithuriana wishing she could hide away and be invisible downstairs with the rest of the staff. And when she had finally absconded to the imagined safety of the servants' quarters, her differentness from them only highlighted how much she had changed, how much space existed between her and them, and how much she wasn't a member of the staff.

It had been a lonely feeling then. It was a lonely feeling now.

Addison was the young Lady Gonçalves once again, and she watched through detached eyes as the boys bowed and bid her farewell. Watched as the girls worked diligently for her.

The boys left quickly to attend to other chores, but the girls remained, preparing Addison's chambers for the typical nighttime routine expected for a lady of her station.

Addison turned to Philippe.

"Thank you," she murmured.

She felt it was a fair thing to say. Whether or not she could read what was happening behind his eyes; whether he was acting nice or truly kind; whether there was a catch waiting around the corner for her to find it, she supposed he deserved her gratitude even still.

She shuddered to think of what would have happened if the blade pressed to her throat on the road had not belonged to Godfrey.

He nodded at her in acceptance of her thanks and cocked his head when she did not flinch from the considering look in his eye.

"If you have need," he said. "You may call for me or one of the maids. My wife, Ysabeau, is away for the evening, but she will return in the morning and will no doubt be eager to meet you. Her maid, Marthe, will assist you until we can acquire you one of your own—"

"Oh, that won't be necessary—" Addison cut him off with a little shake of her head.

Philippe arched an eyebrow. "A lady needs a maid, Lady Fernanda," he said.

"I—" Addison winced, "I have a maid..." she trailed off and cringed.

She didn't actually know whether this was still true. She'd had a maid fifty years ago, and she had no idea where Jacqueline was now or what she was doing. Or if she even wanted to be her maid still.

"Do you indeed?" Philippe asked her.

"I do," she said, though her voice wavered, and his eyes narrowed, and she knew she couldn't sell it. "And either way, once my father knows I'm here, I'm sure he'll come to take me off your hands. I won't be here long enough to burden you with the search for a new maid."

Philippe's expression was not unkind, but it was impossible to make sense of.

"Yes," he said. "Of course."

And the way he said of course, told Addison that he and her were not on the same page in the slightest. That something in what she had said was not guaranteed. And she was unsettled to realize that all the things she had listed were not only expected, but essential for her in this life, in this world. She needed her father. And she was beginning to realize that she might need Jacqueline. There could be no uncertainty. She needed them to be a guarantee.

"Her name is Jacqueline," Addison said despite her doubts. "Jacqueline..." she didn't know her last name. Did she have a last name? "Daughter of Alaric."

Philippe's eyes lit up in recognition at the old stablemaster's name.

"Alaric was a good man," he said. "I've not met his daughter. Has she served you long?"

Addison winced. Time was a fickle thing. "Depends on who you ask, I suppose."

Philippe nodded in understanding. Vampires tended to accept her odd relationship with time rather easily. She liked this about them. And she was glad for the easy acceptance from Philippe.

"Speaking of which..." Addison started and studied him uncertainly. "Could you tell me..."

She stopped and Philippe waited for her to speak.

"Well... you wouldn't happen to know how long I've been away?"

His eyes softened, and a small sad smile played across his lips. This was not the first time Addison had been confronted by another person's pity, but, still, it didn't sit well with her.

"The year is 1269, child," he said. "And last I heard... you disappeared in 1220."

"Fifty years," she murmured.

"Fifty years," he replied.

There was a pocket somewhere inside of her. A wound she had carefully worked to seal. Once it had been raw and gaping, invisible but near constantly bleeding. Now it was a pocket. A dark, little pocket that sometimes gave an unpleasant throb.

It throbbed now. And Addison felt a tightness in her chest that had long become familiar. And ache in her brain that was not so new anymore. Her eyes grew a little heavy though they did not sting with tears.

She sucked in a tired breath and let it out in a resigned little sigh. She'd ask for parchment later. She'd pen a letter to her father. She'd find herself a messenger. There was no need to include Philippe in this at all.

He had been kind. He had been generous. Godfrey hadn't killed her, and Baldwin could have been worse she supposed. She had a bed in a room in a tower built for Hugh. She had a bath waiting for her. They'd no doubt bring her food – Addison's stomach rumbled, and her nose throbbed.

It would be okay.

It had been fifty years as she had expected, and as she had feared.

She was where she wanted to be, give or take a few kingdoms in between.

She was with people who so far hadn't tried to kill her or harm her... well aside from that small incident with Godfrey.

Balder was around somewhere, even if he was neutral and he wasn't her friend. Even if, after he saw her, he had quickly disappeared.

Her stomach rumbled louder now, and the throbbing in her nose began to spread into her cheeks and eyes.

The maids poured hot water into the bathtub and there were a series of shouts outside from the men at the gate.

Philippe noted all of this completely at ease and nodded before turning to take his leave.

"I'll leave you to the maids," he said and then he turned to one of the girls who had set out a bar of soap for Addison and was now folding her a fresh linen to dry herself with after she bathed.

"See to it that Lady Fernanda is provided with food and drink," he said. "Notify Marthe of our guest when she returns. And send word to the seamstress in the village that her presence is required tomorrow after midday. Take Lady Fernanda's gown and find her something more up to date—"

"I'd like to keep it—" Addison cut in.

Philippe's eyes shot to her. The maid's eyes dipped to the ground as she waited for the rest of her instructions.

"Pardon?" Philippe asked.

"I don't want my belongings to be disposed of..." she told him quietly, unable to look him in the eye. "They may be out of fashion, but they have value to me, and I'd like to keep them."

"Very well," Philippe agreed easily and turned back to the maid. "Take the lady's dress and have it cleaned and returned to her chambers when the rest has been properly attended to."

"Yes, sieur," the maid dipped into a curtsy. Philippe left and the girls went back to work. The door closed and Addison carefully stripped herself of her belongings, standing in her shift in the middle of the room.

She handed the maid her gown, wrapped her leather pouch and mirror tightly in Sorley's plaid and held the items defiantly to her chest so that the girls would not take them. When they accepted her refusal, she tucked them safely into the chest beside her vanity, then she allowed the maids to brush out her hair, strip her of her shift and help her into the tub.

Once she was settled, they dropped oils into the bath to soften her skin, added a log to the fire to keep the room warm, and pulled the bed covers down to ready the room for sleep.

They left her to her bath with a promise to return with food and drink, and a poultice for her nose that had slowly begun to bruise.

---

"Thank you," Addison said to the maid who placed a tray of tea and freshly boiled water on her nightstand.

The maid dipped her head in quiet acknowledgment. "You're welcome, my lady," she said.

Addison considered her for a moment before asking. "I was hoping to acquire a bit of parchment to pen a letter."

The maid looked up from where she added a dollop of honey to Addison's drink and considered the young Lady Gonçalves carefully.

"I will ask Alain, my lady. Lord Philippe's squire oversees such items."

"That would be wonderful, thank you," Addison said and offered the girl another smile though slowly she felt her heart sink. If this man – Alain – was Philippe's squire then her request would no doubt make it to the de Clermont's ears. Already her brain whirred to life at the beginnings of a new challenge, and she thought back to the tactics she'd resorted to last spring.

She had a feeling civil disobedience would not be tolerated here at the heart of Sept-Tours. Now, it was only a matter of deciding whether or not she cared.

The maid smiled back at Addison, ignorant to her dilemma, and nodded her head before turning to catalogue the state of the room.

"Is there anything else you require this evening, my lady?" she asked.

"No," Addison said. "That will be all."

"Very well," the girl said. "Goodnight, Lady Fernanda."

"Goodnight," Addison called back just as the girl closed the door.

Once enough time had passed for the maid to leave her and the vampires to turn a deaf ear, Addison slipped out of bed as quietly as she could manage. She went to the desk and opened the drawers wincing at the creaking and scraping of the wood in its frame, searching unsuccessfully for a letter opener or a blade. Addison cringed when she came up empty handed and pressed a hand to her forehead which ached in sympathy for her plight. She turned to stare at her room, trying not to give into her rising distress.

There had to be something somewhere. Her eyes flitted over every nook and cranny. From the bed to the tapestry on the wall to the coat of arms over her door—Addison was startled to see it belonged to her father's house and not the de Clermont's. She studied Fernando's standard and felt her chest tighten with grief. He didn't know she was here. She had no paper. No quill. No ink.

She had no friends here.

Addison worried her lip and turned to look instead at the vanity. But a quick perusal told her the same thing. There was nothing sharp left to find in this room.

She had a routine. A routine that had quickly become tradition. A tradition that had become vital to keeping her head in moments of distress. She just needed something sharp. She just needed— her eye caught the fire in the hearth.

Addison held her breath and turned.

An unassuming metal poker, sharp and black and entirely forgotten there in the corner beside a softly burning flame.

Addison stepped lightly, and she drew the length of metal as gently as she could, before turning toward her bed, and dropping down to the floor – crawling underneath it.

Carefully she used the end of the poker to carve one little line into the stone wall of her chambers, there in the heart of Sept-Tours. Addison carved herself into the wall. With just one line, just one tally mark, she kept track of the passage of time. With just one line, she told the world she had been here. She had existed here. She told the world that, for a time, this space had been hers.

Something settled inside of her as she studied her handiwork. With that tiny action, she released a part of herself that could only exist here on her belly on the floor beneath a bed in a past she'd never thought she'd yearn for. Addison grunted and scooted back out from under her bed. She returned the poker to its place by the fire before reaching for Sorley's plaid.

She unfolded the items she'd hidden there from the maids' prying eyes. She took the leather pouch and tucked it under the bed, just far enough that it would be safe from view. Then she took the mirror Eric had given her and walked over to her vanity, draping it prettily over the larger mirror that sat atop the smooth wooden surface.

Toying with the chain for a second, Addison drew her fingers down the length of thin metal before running her thumb over the swallow and the scales. In the chest remained only Sorley's plaid. And there she wished it could remain. Addison reached for it, pressing her face into the fabric and resisting the urge to scream. She sucked in a breath, and sucked in another, and felt tears begin to prick at the corners of her eyes.

It still smelled of him. Fresh mint and fallen leaves. It smelled a little of home, back in the twenty first century. While she no longer longed for the loneliness that came with that place, she did miss the familiarity.

Now, Sorley's scent mixed with the twenty first century. It mixed with the smoke from the fire Rupert set to Ailios's hut. It mixed with dirt and metal. It was stained with her blood and tainted by her sweat and the aroma of Baldwin's horse and armor.

She pressed her face harder into the fabric and let out one long, silent, throat turning scream, and she knew that someone somewhere no doubt heard her forceful, desperate gust of air. But not a sound came from her. She couldn't scream here.

She wouldn't dare.

She didn't know these people. But she knew enough to know that even a squeak from her could bring the whole house down on her chambers, in curiosity if not in concern. The men below who shouted and clamored and clopped and marched and stared... as long as they were them and she was whoever she had become, they would be honor-bound to protect her. Even if from herself. Even if from the memories brought on by Sorley's desecrated plaid.

There would no screaming. No crying. No anything without her family here to protect her interests. There would no privacy either.

Here, like La Ithuriana, the walls and the floors had ears. The servants saw everything. Their masters did too. Even now as she moved about her room – even now after having taken so much care to contain everything that was bubbling to the surface – Addison knew someone somewhere in this fortress was listening to every sound and wondering what on earth she was up to.

With nothing else to do, Addison pulled her face from the plaid and stared down at it, exhausted and aching, anxious and unsure.

She sniffed and unfolded the fabric just to refold it again. She hugged it to her chest and walked over to the chair by the hearth. She gave the plaid one final squeeze before setting it carefully on the chair. She patted it once before turning back to her bed.

The maids would find it in the morning. They would wash it and return it to her. But the thought made Addison's stomach turn. Sorley's plaid belonged to her. It was hers and he'd given it to her when he was human, and she was Malvina. It meant more to her than words could describe, and the thought of other people's hands tending the wool – beating it and treating it and hanging it out to dry...

She pressed her lips together and climbed into bed. She worried her lip between her teeth and pulled the blankets up to her chin. She sniffed and laid down her weary head. Addison closed her eyes and she thought of Sorley. And when she dreamed, she dreamed only of good things. Of forget me nots, and hadnfastings, of garden strolls in the dark, and his quiet company in the early morning. She dreamed of his lion's mane hair and his piercing blue eyes, of his easy grin and his kind heart and mind.

---

Balder's horse clamored into the courtyard of a grand house on the outskirts of the merchant city of Bourges. The knight had ridden hard in the darkness to reach this place which was quiet but for the presence of a few early rising servants. The sun had peaked just over the horizon, as the surly Viking had left the Auvergne behind him. His steed gave an exhausted snort and halted with some great difficulty when he tugged on her reins. His heart lurched for the loyal beast he had ridden without mercy, so dire had his news been for the man whose audience he came to seek.

A tired looking stableboy came running. The knight dismounted and handed off his reins. Without pomp or fanfare, he made his way up the path that led to the main entrance. There were no footmen outside, and he did not hesitate to throw open the heavy doors.

Two human guards lazed inside, apparently tired from a nightlong shift. He ushered past them when they rose with a cry of alarm. Balder paid them little mind. He bullied his way toward the drawing room doors.

Jean Luc appeared at the sound of the commotion, and Balder fixed him with a dark look.

"Where is he?" he asked.

Jean Luc arched an eyebrow. "My Lord Hugh is not to be disturbed."

"Oh, I think he'll want to hear this," Balder said.

Jean Luc waited, unmoved, for the other man to say more.

---

Hugh de Clermont sat in the drawing room of the Bourges house, carefully considering his next move.

Balder's news was not unwelcome. And it was not a surprise. She had returned, and Hugh had to admit, he was glad she had not appeared in a more precarious place. He was glad she had not landed before Fernando, in the middle of a collapsing dynasty. He was glad she had not landed before Eric who had the curia nipping pettily at his heels.

But he was concerned.

He had not expected this. He had not considered Sept-Tours.

Hugh had hoped she would land here safely with him, at the edges of St. Louis' kingdom, where she could be safe among the merchants of Bourges. It had been a best possible outcome, and he had been foolish to wish for such fortune. But he had, and Fernando had as well.

And now, well...

He considered Balder.

"You made a vow once," Hugh said and swirled the blood in his goblet around a few times. "Fifty years ago, to a girl who barely understood its meaning."

"I did," Balder said.

"Why?"

"I was moved to," Balder replied.

Hugh turned to him; his face fixed into a neutral expression. "In what capacity?"

"Sir?" Balder asked, uncertain of his meaning.

"What was it that moved you in the end? Was it money? Did my son ask it of you?" Hugh asked and arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps something else?"

But Balder was already shaking his head in denial. "No sir," he said. "I felt that it was the right thing to do."

Hugh arched an eyebrow, a silent command for the other man to say more. Balder met him with his own look of staunch neutrality.

"There are no words to explain, my lord," he said. Balder was a man of few words. This was well known. "I knew inside of me what the right thing was to do. And I met that feeling with action."

Whether Hugh de Clermont was satisfied by this response perhaps Balder would never know. As it was, the de Clermont's eyes flickered as he studied the younger man and then he turned and considered his goblet.

"And should your vow to my son's mate conflict with your vow to the Knights of Lazarus?"

"With respect," Balder said, near unflappable in the face of Hugh's scrutiny. "I do not believe such will be the case, if in fact it is possible at all."

"How so?"

"Her best interest is interwoven with the family's, sir. With your son's most of all. One day he is bound to lead the family, and the order. For the future de Clermont to be in a capacity to lead, he must be able to turn his back on his mate without fearing for her safety. If I, in my way, can assuage such fears then it serves the de Clermont and the order to do so. In protecting her, I protect my brothers."

"And you will stand by her now," Hugh said, and Balder knew it was equal parts question and order.

Hugh was calling him on his word while Fernando was away and unable to do so. The young Lady Fernanda was in dire need of allies, especially while she resided at the heart of Sept-Tours.

"I will do as I have sworn to do," Balder said. "For eternity or until death releases me from my fate."

---

The next morning Addison woke to the pleasant humming of a woman she didn't know. The woman entered without knocking. She strode across the rich stone floor, drew the curtains back and flooded the room with soft morning light. The woman hummed as she set about straightening an already immaculate room, and opening the window to allow a crisp autumn breeze to drift in.

Addison squinted, blinking a few times at the blurry figure who moved about at a quick, efficient pace. Lifting pillows to fluff them. Setting out a gown on a chair. Placing several items on the vanity and poking at the fire before turning toward her.

"Good morning, my lady," the woman said with a grin. Her cheeks were rosy, and she had an endearing double chin.

Addison yawned and stretched before sitting up and considering the woman in front of her. The maid had brought her a tray of tea. She was now diligently mixing together some herbs and setting them to steep.

"Good morning," Addison returned after a beat.

The woman's sharp eyes snapped up to hers and her grin seemed genuine enough.

"I am Marthe," she said. "And I am Madame Ysabeau's maid."

Addison nodded and fixed Marthe with a small smile. She'd figured as much.

"Hello Marthe," she said.

The maid offered her the cup of tea and Addison brought it to her nose sniffing it curiously.

'For the pain, dear," Marthe said and tutted over the state of Addison's face. Bruised no doubt from left eye to right, and a crooked nose in the middle to show off the road's unforgiving handiwork.

Addison winced.

"Oh, don't you trouble your mind," the maid said. "A bit of herbs for the pain and a few days rest and recovery. The bruising will be gone before you know it."

Addison expressed her thanks and sighed into her tea. She took a cautious sip and then another before a knock sounded at her door. Addison startled though Marthe seemed unperturbed. The maid was busy humming to herself and had already moved away, laying out a pair of long linen stockings for the girl who still lay in bed.

The door opened without her call to enter.

Startled, Addison returned her tea to its tray and sat up a little straighter.

A blonde woman glided into her chambers. Her hair was long and flowing, and her gown was a deep burgundy with golden trim. A richly colored belt was draped around her waist, cinching her around the middle and highlighting her figure.

Ysabeau de Clermont.

Madame de Clermont, Addison silently corrected herself.

Eric's grandmother. Philippe's wife. Hugh's stepmother. The woman who ran Sept-Tours. Possibly the single most powerful woman in the Middle Ages.

She needed no introduction. Prudhomme had ensured very early on that Addison recognized this woman immediately. And even more, she had made sure that Addison knew her place. Now, in the presence of the matriarch of the de Clermont family, Addison didn't know how she felt about meeting her at all.

What she did know was that her own braid was in complete disarray from a night of sleep. What she did know was that she had bruises on her face and scars on her hands. All she could think about was her morning breath and her growling stomach.

She knew for a fact her eyes were crusty and dry from a night of hard sleep. And though the bath last night had done wonders for her sore muscles and the dirt she'd picked up on the road, Addison still felt as though she was covered in a thin layer of grime.

The woman took in the state of things with a shrewd eye, and Addison self consciously pulled her covers a little closer to her chest.

"Oh good," Ysabeau said, and glanced around the room. She turned a pair of sharp eyes on Addison. "You're awake."

Addison blinked. The blonde's lips turned down as she studied her.

"I thought I heard your breathing change but, in a house this big, it's hard to tell the humans upstairs from the humans down."

Addison blinked again as Marthe came over and pulled her covers back, pressing her cup of tea back into her hand and turning her legs out to put slippers on her feet.

Addison gasped when the tea sloshed out and soaked part of her nightgown, not even bothering to pull her foot away from Marthe. She knew it wouldn't work. This song and dance was an old one by now, and she knew enough to know not to get between a maid and her duties.

"Either way," Ysabeau continued, turning about the room.

She ran her fingers over the mantle. She touched an inquisitive hand to the iron Addison used the night before to deface the wall beneath her bed. She studied the little mirror Eric had given her once – the one Addison had hung from her vanity last night – before making her way over to the windows and taking in the view.

Once she'd taken stock of things, Ysabeau stopped at the foot of Addison's bed. Once again, she fixed her with an unrelenting gaze.

"I won't bother asking whether you know who I am. Seeing as Louisa's maid educated you – before you had her dismissed that is – I imagine no introductions are needed."

She was right, Addison knew exactly who she was. There was no need for an introduction. Ysabeau's reputation preceded her. But she still froze in alarm at the mention of Prudhomme. And she could do nothing more than blink again at Ysabeau, feeling a bit like an owl perched there on the edge of her bed. Ysabeau blinked back but said nothing as she waited for a response from Addison.

When none was provided, Ysabeau arched an eyebrow. Addison couldn't say whether it was impressed or unimpressed, intrigued or terribly bored. Ysabeau was a blank canvas in the face of even the most innocent scrutiny.

They stared at each other. Not in challenge. Not in consideration. Addison was entirely flummoxed about how best to proceed – she'd only ever really met one other lady in this time period and that lady had been the enigmatic Miriam le Pâtre.

Fernando had, of course, had his work cut out for him when he took her on as his daughter, but... well... he'd really dropped the ball on teaching her how to socialize with terrifying manjasang women. Addison averted her eyes and her lips turned down into a bitter frown.

She really missed her father. Even if he was shit at explaining things.

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the impervious Marthe who continued to hum. Addison's eyes flickered back up to Ysabeau's. She felt as though she'd lost her voice. And, as it had with Philippe, her mind blanked on what exactly she was meant to say or do or think.

They stared at each other. Ysabeau, incredibly neutral. Addison, anxious and unsure what to say or do. She was still in bed. In a sodden nightgown with two black eyes and an aching nose, and Ysabeau had all the time in the world to wait.

Marthe drew her eye then, holding up the dress she had selected for her and raising both eyebrows as though to ask for her approval. Addison nodded, feeling a bit clumsy under the combined weight of the two vampires' gazes. Her nose throbbed and her brain ticked, and Addison felt the tides of pressure rising once again over her head. She drew her lip between her teeth and gnawed on it to rein in the overwhelm.

"Well?" Yseabeau asked finally. "Are you going to stay in bed all day?"

Addison released her lip. Sucked in a breath, tried to speak, but reduced herself to a stuttering mess. She looked down at her lap, then back to Ysabeau, then to Marthe, then to Ysabeau again. The fire crackled in the hearth and her nose throbbed something fierce.

The blonde quirked an eyebrow.

"Are you going to answer?"

"Uh—" Addison replied rather eloquently – doing her best not to cringe.

Ysabeau sighed. Marthe fixed her with a sympathetic look and Addison found a spot over Ysabeau's shoulder to cringe at instead.

"Up," Ysabeau commanded lightly, she reached for the blankets and gave them a gentle tug to make her point. Addison wisely closed her mouth and delicately stepped out of bed.

Her nose throbbed again, and she couldn't stop herself from reaching up to hold it, which was a massive mistake. The throb sharpened into something more and shot up the bridge of her nose. Pain radiated across her forehead. The pressure from her hand increased the dull pressure in her eyes and Addison's breath caught in her throat.

Marthe tsked and reached for her hand to pull it a way. Kind, matronly eyes catalogued her injuries and Addison heard her murmur something about a poultice and some ice.

A knock sounded at the door, and a maid popped in, curtsying first to Ysabeau and then to Addison before offering Marthe her requested items.

"You will wear this while you dress," she said to Addison sternly. Addison could only nod along.

She flinched back as Marthe applied the poultice, but Marthe was fast and deft and skillful in the art of healing apparently for she applied the medicine and pressed a cloth full of chunks of ice into Addison's hand.

"Hold," she commanded, and Addison obeyed.

"Arm," she said and patted the arm that was still hanging by Addison's side.

Addison lifted her arm obediently and the woman began the careful process of undressing her. Instructing her how to move and when. And telling her when to shift the ice from one hand to the other so the process of disrobing could be completed on her other side.

Once Addison was completely naked before them, Marthe took the ice and set it aside. Dressing her quickly, first in a new linen shift, and then in rich navy gown, decorated across the bodice in a soft black brocade.

Ysabeau watched the process in judgement and approval.

"Good," she nodded and then pointed to the vanity. "Now sit so Marthe can fix your hair."

Addison made her way over to her seat obediently, accepting the ice again from Marthe when she handed it to her, and applying it to her nose without instruction.

"You'll have to hurry through your meal," Ysabeau said and gestured to the humble tray of fruit and cheese Marthe had brought up before she arrived. "Idleness is not looked on lightly at Sept-Tours. After last night, we made an exception, but in the future, you'll be expected to wake with the rest of the household and break your fast with the rest in the great hall."

Addison met her eyes in the mirror and nodded her understanding.

Only married women were allowed to eat in their beds, typically. And most often it was only the ranking lady of the house who was allowed such a privilege. Addison may be the Lady Fernanda Goncalves, here, but she was neither married nor was she the woman in charge. She would be expected to abide by Ysabeau's rules so long as she lived here.

"You've missed the morning mass, but Father Maynard favors me despite his better judgement, and he has graciously overlooked your absence."

Her absence? Addison startled. She'd arrived in the dead of night. How the hell did the priest in the village already know she was here? And what did she matter in the grand scheme of things? How did everyone already know who she was?

Addison stared at Ysabeau in the mirror and her alarm must have showed quite clearly. Marthe was busy combing out her long tresses and twisting them into an immaculate braid, interwoven with a royal blue ribbon that contrasted nicely with her dark hair when it caught in the light.

Ysabeau turned to study the courtyard from the window, and it was impossible to tell whether she noticed Addison's stare.

"I've never..." Addison started and trailed off.

She'd been about to say that she'd never been to mass before, but that hadn't gone over well when she'd revealed as much to Prudhomme in a different life fifty years before. Too late to escape Ysabeau's attention, but too fearful to finish her thought, Addison fell silent.

The blonde turned to her with a look of... not impatience necessarily... but a general air of detachment and critique.

"I'm well aware of your unique approach to religion," she said. "However your father chose to raise you in his household was his own affair, but this household is a Catholic household, and we are the vassals of a Catholic king. We attend mass, if not out of faith, then as a sign of good favor. As a member of the family, you are expected to show your face."

Addison had heard the spiel before – from Fernando himself – on more than one occasion. The matter of Christianity was culturally a far more significant thing to people in this place and time, and it was far more casual as well. This wasn't what gave her pause. Ysabeau including her as a member of the family on the other hand...

She understood her role within the fabric of the de Clermont structure thanks in part to the terrible Prudhomme, and in even larger part, thanks to Eric's explanation of mating and courtship rituals. But she hadn't expected to be lumped in with the family so quickly after arriving. And not by Madame de Clermont herself.

Addison felt the question catch at the back of her throat. She didn't know how to ask. And she took little comfort in being lumped in with the family so quickly. She held her tongue, uncertain as to whether it was an appropriate question to ask of Ysabeau.

On the one hand, the woman had just included her as a member of the family. And on the other, she had only just met her moments ago when she invited herself into Addison's room.

Addison was spared from deciding what to do with her questions by Marthe's sound of approval, and the draping of her braid neatly over her shoulder.

"There," the kindly woman said. "All done."

Addison stared at herself in the mirror, shocked and pleased by the intricate style Marthe had achieved.

"Thank you," she said to the maid, a genuine flutter of gratitude and pleasure flooding her chest. Marthe grinned at her and nodded, beginning to wash the poultice away from her face. And Addison, being Addison, couldn't help but ask—

"No wimple?"

The question escaped her before she could catch it and shove it back in. Why the fuck would she ask if they didn't require it?

"A wimple?" Ysabeau snapped, whirling around to stare at Addison, appalled. "Heavens no. Those went out of fashion ages ago."

"Ages?" Addison asked, curiously.

"Thirty years at least," Ysabeau waved her hand at the question dismissively.

Marthe nodded and fixed Addison with a sympathetic look. "At least."

---

While La Ithuriana had one grand staircase and several smaller private staircases; and Castle Sween had a labyrinth of oppressive winding stairwells; Sept-Tours was a network of staircases, grand and private, winding and straight, spiral, and u-shaped all depending on where you were and what purpose they served.

What Addison could ascertain is that these many staircases seemed to keep the flow of traffic in perpetual motion. And there was a lot of traffic. There was constant motion.

Addison followed Ysabeau down the spiral staircase that connected the many chambers of Hugh's tower. When they emerged, it was into a large corridor that Philippe had led her through the night before. Inside the corridor were several other doorways, alcoves, stairwells, and windows that led to places yet unknown to the young Lady Gonçalves.

She felt a shift in the air as she and Ysabeau hit the bottom step and strode down the length of the corridor. The foot traffic around Hugh's division of Sept-Tours stuttered but did not stop as Madame de Clermont and the Lady Fernanda Gonçalves made their way toward the main entrance hall.

There was a silent give and take between deference and efficiency here. Ysabeau's presence seemed to Addison both commonplace and grand to those who moved around her now. Maids stopped to curtsy; workmen and pages paused to bow; knights drew themselves to taller heights and ducked their heads down in terse but no less deferential bows; cupboys slowed their paces to an appropriate walk; and tradesman worked a little more diligently.

A visiting priest – not Father Maynard apparently - made the sign of the cross in their direction and murmured a blessing for their health.

Addison hadn't known how to respond to that, but Ysabeau's fast pace left little time for her to flounder. Before she knew it, they had already moved along, and the priest and the maids and the knights and pages were already moving on to their own destinations.

Traffic parted for Ysabeau like the red sea, and Addison was quick to trail in her wake. Intimately aware of the attention she attracted. Sometime in the night, while she had been ignorantly sleeping, news of her arrival had spread. Everyone knew exactly who she was. And Addison... Addison wasn't quite sure what to do with that knowledge.

She didn't know anyone here. She didn't know anything about this place. She hated having all these eyes on her.

She wanted to go home.

She picked up her pace so as to not lose Ysabeau in the tides of the household. If anyone noticed her panic or overwhelm, they were wise enough not to say.

The corridor bled out into the entrance hall which housed several other archways like the one she'd just emerged from. Each archway led to a corridor of its own, with its own tower and its own network of rooms.

Directly across from the heavily guarded entrance she'd come through last night, were a massive series of archways and another set of doors that led into a great hall. There, the household and guests were expected to dine together. This, Philippe had told her in passing, but his words were a bit of a blur. Addison wracked her brain now to make sense of the few things she now realized would have been good for her to learn.

She turned her head to take in the serving boys with their solid silver trays, and goblets full of blood or wine depending on the person they were serving. The maids dusted and swept and polished and hurried about with piles of laundry or mending. A carpenter was sanding down a newly mended mantlepiece, and a blacksmith's apprentice was studying a bit of iron that appeared to have been crushed by something very strong and very heavy.

Ysabaeu stopped and turned to fix her with an impatient look. "If we tarry any longer you will miss the afternoon mass Father Maynard has organized in your honor."

Addison didn't think she'd seen this many people since the Knights of Lazarus had come to La Ithuriana in the spring. And her skin pricked, feeling suddenly sensitive. Something inside of her gave an uncertain throb, and her nose hurt, and her spine felt—it felt—

Wrong.

She felt wrong. And—and—

Addison clenched a shaky fist and opened her mouth to apologize, though for what she was a little unclear.

She'd never been to mass before. She didn't know these people. And she wanted to go home, and where was her father? Or—

She stared back at Ysabeau, her teeth clenched tightly, and her breath caught in her throat. She felt wrong. Ysabeau's eyes narrowed in response.

Eric.

She wanted Eric.

She wanted Eric and her father, and she wanted—

Where was Hugh? Surely, he should be here. It's his father's house after all and—

Ysabeau's hand came down on the small of her back. Addison tried to suck in a breath, but she couldn't and everything was suddenly very warm and—

"We shall discuss as we walk," Ysabeau said. "Come."

She guided Addison toward the exit at a much quicker pace than before.

The footmen pulled open the massive, metal plated doors, and the room was flooded with sunlight and fresh air. Bright and crisp and still holding just enough warmth as though it was in denial that fall had come.

Together Madame de Clermont and the young Lady Gonçalves stepped out into the courtyard. Around them, guards straightened with an audible thump of metal and leather. Boots hit the ground and swords and spears clamored as well. And then silence as those who were on duty held themselves at attention.

Ysabeau paid them no mind. Addison stared straight ahead, afraid to look any of them in the eyes.

They descended the stairs together. Ysabeau glided. Addison... did not. But she moved quickly and with Ysabeau pressing her forward she moved with relative ease, as though the woman's grace for the time being had robbed her of her ability to be clumsy. While she didn't know how Eric's grandmother had accomplished it, she knew this was most likely by design.

She knew enough to know that the way she carried herself mattered. It had mattered to Fernando. It had mattered to the terrible Prudhomme. Of course, it would matter to the matriarch of the de Clermont family, especially while Addison was courting Eric.

The courtyard was just as formidable in the daylight. The cobblestone ground was freshly swept and still shiny somehow despite a seemingly constant stream of heavy use. The wall that guarded Sept-Tours from the world beyond was the highest wall she'd ever seen in her life. And the gates she had ridden through last night, or most likely in the dark hours of the early morning, were still just as sharp and beastly in the light as they had been in shadow.

Though now, Addison noted curiously, in the light of day the giant portcullis was raised high, and people passed in and out of the tunnel freely, unencumbered by the looming presence of a contingent of heavily armored guards. Addison followed the point of their helmets and spears upward, past the de Clermont standards that still whipped in the wind, up the wall even higher still to see more men at arms walking in an almost choreographed precision along the length of the ramparts watching the village and the horizon for potential threats.

Horses stamped around her in the hands of stableboys or being ridden by knights and messengers who seemed to come and go constantly. Two men fought in a makeshift ring some ways away. She didn't know their faces, and they fought without armor. Their movements a bit too quick to be human, but still a bit too slow to give them away as manjasangs.

A cart rolled passed her stacked high with bales of hay, and a man followed behind it, hauling on his back a bag of grain. A maid lowered a bucket down into a well, and beside her another girl chatted with a man of a nondescript status.

Ysabeau guided her toward the gates. Together they joined the flow of people that were making their way to the outer bounds of the estate, or further on down toward the village. Some people bowed or curtsied, but most seemed to just carry on their way. Still, Addison noted, there was a distinct pocket of space around her and Ysabeau that no one else seemed to have. A silent accommodation for their place in the fabric of things. This, Addison should have expected, but still it felt rather odd and foreign to her.

The road to the village was wide and compact, with enough space for carts and horses, foot traffic and other moving goods and machinery. Dust kicked up around them from wheels and hooves, and the heavy tread of too many boots coming and going, and Addison wrinkled her nose to keep from sneezing.

The sky was blue and full of great white clouds. The sun was bright, and it warmed her skin when it hit her, but it was not quite warm enough to beat back November's chill.

From this vantage point in the light of day she could see what she hadn't been able to see in the dark of the night. They were located in a valley, flatlands for miles around, but broken up by massive mountain peaks that shot up randomly on all sides of them. Peaks that stood taller than the clouds.

The world was green and brown and more alpine than she'd expected.

And despite all of this, Addison had the oddest sensation of being stuck in a fishbowl. The valley Sept-Tours occupied resembled a shallow basin. And she had the oddest sensation that, from the gap in the peaks, there would come a great flood to wash them all away. She felt impossibly tiny here. And impossibly large too. Just because she was learning to ride the current, didn't mean she was made for the water. And with Ysabeau by her side and the de Clermont at her back, Addison was beginning to realize that the water was an inevitability.

"Now," Ysabeau said and turned to Addison, adjusting the ties on her black wool cloak. "You remember your devotionals?"

Addison nodded. Ysabeau offered her a rare smile of approval before fixing her face back into an immaculate, neutral mask.

"And have you ever been in a church?"

"Not often," she replied apologetically.

"Of course," Ysabeau said.

Her voice had a quality to it that could wick off snow or rain, displeasure, or approval. It was entirely impossible to tell what this woman thought about anything. And everything she said took on an unsettling quality of nothingness. You could never tell what she meant even with the simplest of words.

"When you enter," Ysabeau said and turned her toward the path that led to the village. "Walk down the aisle and then curtsy before the altar. As members of the family, we sit in the front. Stand when I stand. Sit when I sit. Sing when you know the words. Pretend to sing when you do not. Bow your head as I do. Accept the body, but do not consume it, until you have taken the blood. Cross yourself as I do, and curtsy again at the altar before you leave."

Addison stumbled to keep up with these instructions, and mentally ran over them again and again in her head. She smiled her understanding a bit manically in Ysabeau's direction and Ysabeau sighed.

"And please," she said. "Try not to display every thought so clearly across your face, child. Show restraint. Neutrality is best in situations such as these."

Addison narrowed her eyes at Ysabeau in bemusement and the other woman quirked her lips. Addison knew intimately the weapon that neutrality could be in the face of human emotion. This family and the members of their household wielded it well. Neutrality could be far more cutting than a blade if you knew how to use it.

Ysabeau laughed softly and tucked her arm through Addison's.

"Follow my lead and before you know it, we will be through."

---

At Sept-Tours, two things became abundantly clear. You either ask for what you want or get bowled over, and you make yourself useful or you get out of the way. No one was idle here. No one, without purpose.

She was left in the capable hands of a man named Alain after mass. Ysabeau having had other matters to attend to. Addison had seen neither hide nor hair from Philippe, Godfrey or Baldwin since she'd left them the night before, and now Philippe's squire solemnly gave her a tour of the grounds. He introduced her to anyone she may need to know, all of whom already knew her.

He started in the courtyard, pointing out the hidden stairwells that led up to the ramparts and indicating to her that the top of the wall was a place that would be highly irregular for her to go. Then he indicated to two buildings located directly on either side of the gate.

"Those are the barracks, my lady," he said. "For the men at arms, and other knights who stop here while they are passing through."

Addison had nodded her understanding and pressed her lips together in partial amusement when he fixed her with a stern eye.

"I would not recommend your ladyship spend time in such a place, either" he said. "Sieur Philippe would not like it, and it would be—"

"Highly irregular?" Addison supplied; her voice laced with humor.

Alain arched an eyebrow and offered a begrudging smile. "Yes, my lady."

From the courtyard he took her to the outer bounds of the estate. First to the gardens, and then to the paddock where a mare and her foal had been taken to graze. He showed her the medicinal gardens, the kitchen gardens, the blacksmith and the tanner. He pointed out essential roads and explained the places they led to.

Alain introduced her to the stablemaster who promised to find her a docile mount, and Addison had been wise enough not to protest when Philippe's squire shot her a look of warning. Ladies of import required well bred steeds just like anyone else. Addison was not to refuse.

Then he took her back inside the walls of the de Clermont fortress.

In the entrance hall he pointed to the footmen and named them, and as they were on duty, they did not so much as budge an inch when he said their names. He stopped at the archway to each corridor that led to its own tower and named the family members who resided there when they were in the Auvergne. And then he led her into the great hall, where he pointed to the high table that sat on a platform at the far end of the room, perpendicular to five others lined up in rows beneath it.

At the center of the high table were two high backed chairs that were quite obviously for Ysabeau and Philippe. Alain explained typical seating arrangements but informed her that such placements could change on Sieur Philippe's whim, especially in the case of a guest of honor.

When he said guest of honor Alain looked quite pointedly at her, and startled, Addison drew back.

"Me?"

"Of course, my lady," Alain assured her.

"But what does that mean?"

"For this evening's meal," he said. "You will sit to the right of Sieur Philippe as is custom."

Addison had pressed her lips together and resisted the urge to refuse. She didn't want to sit at the high table. She didn't want to eat before the entire household, subject of their gaze and fascination. She did not want the attention that came with being honored by Philippe.

Addison – though she knew it was not allowed – wanted desperately to eat alone in her room. She wanted to pen a letter to Fernando. She wanted Eric to appear around the corner over there.

She looked around in vain and knew she was not lucky enough for that to happen.

Alain urged her on and they continued her tour, and she tried to retain as much as possible. But that was near impossible when you resided in a place like Sept-Tours.

---

Addison returned to her chambers that evening, fully exhausted straight down to her bones. Her nose ached, and her head was spinning, and she couldn't remember half the things Alain had told her during her tour of the grounds.

She'd run into Baldwin though she almost hadn't recognized him without his armor, or his horse, or frankly his dickish younger brother.

But he knew her, and he had greeted her politely before moving on his way with several other men armed to the teeth with crossbows and blades. She had remembered herself belatedly and dropped down into a curtsy, and he noticed her stumble with a small smile she couldn't fully explain.

Addison knew going into this that de Clermonts were impossible to read. She'd been introduced to them by way of the enigmatic Hugh, and while she cared for him... she could definitely see the family resemblance.

She sat with a huff in one of the chairs by the hearth in her chambers and relaxed into her first real moment of solitude since she'd landed on that road the night before. And then she jolted when she remembered Sorley's plaid. Addison sat up a bit straighter and looked around to see if the maids had returned with it yet.

And then she caught sight of her desk.

In disbelief, her heart caught in her chest. She hadn't thought they'd pull through. She hadn't expected—not for a second – not when she realized word would get back to Philippe.

But there on her desk was a pile of parchment. A quill freshly sharpened, and a tiny well of ink.

She rose from her chair and wondered if there would be a catch, before deciding that she didn't care. She pulled out her chair and sat, took up her quill and began to write.

Dear Apá, the letter began.

And once it began, she feared it wouldn't stop. She had so much to say, and so many questions to ask. And he wasn't here to answer them. She had no idea where he was or what he was doing, but she hoped he would come for her. She hoped she would see him soon.

When she finished her letter, she folded it carefully and wondered how on earth she was meant to send it. Wondered how on earth it was supposed to stay private and safe and concealed.

There were no envelopes here that she knew of, though that would perhaps be a good question to ask. She thought about writing that also in her letter and then quickly thought better of it. There had to be someone here who could answer such questions. But who? And how did she know she could trust them? And yes, everyone knew her, but did they all know the truth about her circumstances? Did they all know she was from the future?

Her mind spun and her nose throbbed. Her eyes hurt. Addison sighed.

Too many questions.

She sucked in a sharp breath and held it before releasing. She thought back to Lala's house. To the bad dreams. To the car across the street. To Hugh's voice telling her to run.

She stared down at her letter.

That part of things hadn't made it in. What did it matter? She was here in the past with her family. Or she would be with her family, hopefully, soon. Why trouble them with the future when it was a place they couldn't get to?

She worried her lip between her teeth and rose when a knock sounded at her door. Addison tucked the letter into a hidden pocket in her skirts and smiled kindly at Marthe when she entered to ready her for the evening meal.

---

The next morning began similarly to the one before.

Though this time Addison rose earlier. Still with the help of Marthe, Ysabeau's lady's maid. It was convenient, she supposed, that Ysabeau was a vampire and could be attended to by her servants at all hours of the night so that Addison could borrow her maid when she needed her in the mornings.

And she liked Marthe, she decided. The woman was excessively kind. Incredibly sharp. And full of juicy stories Fernando would never let Jacqueline share with her.

Perhaps vampires weren't meant to tell tales, but Marthe seemed impervious to the taboo. Though Addison was intimately aware of the fact that the maid never mentioned a single member of the family in her gossip. This was not an accident. Addison recognized the loyalty in her silence on that front. And she was equally respectful and wary of the ties Marthe had to Ysabeau and Philippe.

She wore the same dress as yesterday, since Addison had slept through her meeting with the seamstress the day before. But that was to be remedied after breakfast, she'd been told.

Together, Addison and Marthe made their way down the stairs and into the flow of Sept-Tours. Addison allowed herself to be guided back toward the great hall she had dined in the night before with the family and the rest of their household.

Her stomach turned at the memory, and then grumbled with hunger.

Dinner had been venison. Rare to the point Addison had almost named it Bambi. She'd barely choked it down. If anyone noticed, no one commented.

She had sat to the right of Philippe as Alain had predicted, and while unsettling, it had also been a source of comfort. It turns out Addison was not alone in finding the de Clermont sieur difficult to look at. And while she drew many curious gazes, most had to avert their eyes rather quickly for fear of going blind by way of Philippe's inexplicable aura.

Now, she was to break her fast with the rest of the family. At least, that's what Ysabeau had told her the day before.

She took her seat at the high table.

Philippe was there for some reason, and he gestured for her to take the same seat as before. The one to his right. There beside him sat a plate already been piled high with bread and fruit and cheese.

"My grandson mentioned you have a fondness for pears," he told her and gestured to the even slices that sat before her.

Addison fixed him with a small smile. "I do," she said. And her mind conjured the image of Sorley – young and human – sitting with her in the grass outside Ailios's hut holding a pear out for her to take. "Thank you."

Philippe nodded his acknowledgement of her thanks, and Addison saw that no other members of the family would be joining them.

Philippe followed her gaze to the empty chairs and fixed her with a grin.

"Finicky eaters," he explained and offered a conspiratorial look.

Addison huffed out a laugh and shook her head before turning to her meal and digging in. The letter in the pocket of her dress weighed heavily on her as she ate, and she considered for the barest of moments asking Philippe to help her send it.

But she couldn't bring herself to for some reason.

Her mind conjured the chess board from her dreams.

Queen. Knight. Bishop. Rook. King.

And the letter felt a little heavier, and her silence felt a little louder.

Philippe was content to observe the young lady sitting next to him, as well as to take in the ebb and flow of his household as they partook in their morning routines.

But Addison didn't ask him about a messenger. About how to seal her letter. About her father, or Eric or Hugh.

She kept her mouth shut, and she kept things cordial. And she resigned herself to finding another way to see things through.

---

After breakfast, and her fitting with the seamstress, she had been left to her own devices to brave the fray that was daily life at Sept-Tours.

She had made her way out into the courtyard, hoping to find some peace in fresh air.

But the chaos of all the traffic quickly consumed her, and she'd had no choice but to duck off to the side and press her back against the cold stone wall while people weaved about, working, and tending their chores.

It was there, with her back to the wall and a view of the courtyard, that Addison saw Baldwin again. She'd known he was tall even on the road. But now to see him towering above many of the others who resided in his family's home, she understood how mountainlike he truly was.

In his hand was a letter that looked to be sealed by something though... she had to squint... how it had been sealed was still unclear.

He strode up to a gaggle of men who were tending various horses and passed the letter on to one of them. The man in question took the letter, tucked it out of view, bowed his head and readied his horse.

A messenger.

Addison perked up and watched the exchange. Her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of it all, and how best she should proceed.

Baldwin turned away, and as he did, Addison was startled to see him glance in her direction.

She drew herself up a little straighter and crossed her arms over her chest as a poor form of self-defense.

He nodded to her, and she remembered, again belatedly, that she was meant to curtsy. She cringed and dipped down in deference to his position in the family. And he didn't smile or laugh but she got the feeling that he was laughing at her somehow. She didn't know how to explain it.

Addison frowned. Baldwin disappeared back into the fray, off to see to whatever duties required his attention in a day. And Addison brought her hand down to the letter in her pocket.

She watched the messenger ride away with Baldwin's letter, and she did not know what to do. The moment passed. The idea froze in her mind. And she couldn't bring herself to cross the great divide between her and the messengers who returned their attention to their steeds.

---

The answer came later in the day. Addison had taken herself to the gardens, searching for a place she could hide away from the chaos of Sept-Tours. But where there were gardens there tended to be people who maintained them. And she found she couldn't relax fully here like she had at La Ithuriana the fall before.

There was a constant buzz in the air. Of energy and constant change. No two seconds were alike at Sept-Tours. And she was quickly realizing that no two days would ever look the same either. This was not that kind of place.

It was the heart of something vital.

The constant ebb and flow here had a purpose, and Addison could only guess at pieces of what that purpose was. She found herself a tree that overlooked the gardens and the staff that worked in them, and, glancing around, she ducked around the other side, just out of view.

From here she could look down on the farmland that surrounded Sept-Tours where the peasants below were harvesting one patch of land, and readying another for winter planting.

There was a bare patch of earth on the other side of Sept-Tours, she knew, and this was farmland as well. But it had been left to rewild itself for a season, or so Alain had explained during her tour. This, so the soil did not lose its vitality to the crops they needed to survive.

Addison sighed and lowered herself down onto a raised root of the tree, watching workhorses and plows, and men and women all tend to the earth and ready themselves for the coming winter.

She'd seen bits of this in her time as Malvina, though no crop had been so abundant back then in the little village at the edge of the woods. And what they had been doing was not so well explained as it had been this time by Philippe's squire. But she took a strange sort of comfort in watching it all unfold now.

Then from the bottom of the hill, deep in the valley they were tucked into, a horse and a rider emerged from the trees. They rode at a fast, but not harried pace, up the road and through the farmland. Past the peasants who did not stop to look at the rider for men such as him were commonplace here.

Addison leaned forward a bit, hoping to catch a glimpse of the rider, but to no avail. She frowned. He was too far away, but her letter still sat in her pocket. So, it couldn't be Fernando. It couldn't be Eric. She doubted even Hugh.

"There you are!"

The most dreaded voice in all the world sounded.

Addison felt her whole body deflate. Her eyes drooped in dissatisfaction.

"What on earth are you doing out here? Huh? Behind this tree of all places?" Godfrey asked her, his voice laced with skepticism.

"Sitting," Addison commented drily.

Godfrey sputtered and Addison turned to look at him.

"What do you want Godfrey?" she asked, trying really hard not to sound like she was whining.

Godfrey arched an eyebrow, but he seemed sedated somehow. More withdrawn. More like the man she had seen in Hugh's study the night she took an oath on a blade with blood on her lips and hands.

"You know," he said. "You're supposed to curtsy."

"Honestly," she groaned. "Why on earth are you—"

He waved his hand in a haughty fashion and Addison rolled her eyes, tucking her foot behind her ankle and dropping down into a curtsy before popping back up quickly and without grace.

"Come," he said. "You've been missed."

"Missed?" she asked. "Who—"

"Everyone," Godfrey intoned and held out his arm for her to take. She eyed it skeptically before brushing past him, lifting her skirts so she didn't trip when she hopped down from the ledge that held the tree.

"I don't understand," she said.

Godfrey let out a series of scathing curses that seemed to be less scathing somehow than they had been in her past life at La Ithuriana or even two nights ago when he found her on the road.

"Hopeless," he grumbled.

He hated when she didn't understand things. But Addison hated when he failed to explain the things she didn't understand.

And then he continued. "You cannot just disappear," he said.

"I didn't disappear," she replied with more attitude than perhaps was justified.

He seemed off, but she couldn't figure out why. The letter was heavy in her pocket, and she resisted the urge to brush her hand against it. Godfrey had sharp eyes and a suspicious mind. And he was entitled. That much she remembered quite well.

He would have no qualms about snatching the letter from her skirts the moment she gave away its location. But it wasn't meant for him. It was meant for her father. No one else would read it but him.

She could tell Godfrey was biting back a scathing remark. "Fernanda," he said.

"It's my lady, to you," she sniffed.

He snorted. "Alright, young lady," he arched an eyebrow. "You are not to wander on your own."

"I didn't wander," she insisted.

"You're outside of the gates," he said.

"I'm on your father's land," she replied. "I've hardly up and run back to Navarre."

He paused and turned to look down at her as though he hadn't considered she'd think to run.

"Navarre is a very long way from here," he told her. "And the road is dangerous. The borders are unstable at the moment. Now is not the time to run, my lady."

"I didn't say I was going to run," she denied.

It was true. She was too much of a coward to run. She wouldn't last two days without the help of these people she was with now. Addison knew her strengths and winter-mountain-survival was not among them.

Godfrey considered her carefully before nodding and turning back to the path that led toward the gates.

"Still," he said. "Ysabeau is displeased that you've disappeared."

"I didn't disappear—" she said loudly but cut herself off at his sharp look.

"No one told me I couldn't go to the gardens," she said. "And what exactly is so dangerous about—"

"Not all who pass through here are friends of this family's, Fernanda," Godfrey bit out. "And your father has his own enemies to contend with. We do not know his secrets, but he most certainly has them, as do all of our kind. And while we may not know their faces, they certainly know his name. And that makes them dangerous to you."

"So, you're saying you've loaded this proverbial fortress with enemies then?" She asked him, her voice laced with doubt as he hurried her along through the gates.

"I am saying," Godfrey hissed. "That you are an absolute pain to deal with. You are insufferable and slow and impossible to make sense of. I am saying that you must listen. And you must be cautious, and you cannot act on impulse. You must always tell us where you are and what you are doing, and if you wish to leave these gates then you must take a guard—"

"That's ridiculous," she said.

Another voice cut off her protestations. Round and dark and foreboding.

"It is for your own good," Baldwin said as he came up on Godfrey's other side to walk with them into the heart of Sept-Tours.

Addison startled at his sudden arrival. At the darkness in his voice and the rapid pace with which they ascended the stairs.

"I don't understand," she said again, and she really didn't. "I was only in the gardens."

Godfrey hissed and shook his head, shooting Baldwin a long-suffering look. But Baldwin was quiet and stern, and he did not trade glances with his younger brother. He considered her dilemma and drew them to a halt in the middle of the great entrance hall, before turning to face her and kneeling to get closer to her height.

"Try to think of this place as a watering hole," he said.

"A watering hole?" She asked skeptically.

Godfrey rolled his eyes, but the ever-serious Baldwin only nodded his head.

"Yes," he said.

"Like—" she started.

"Where creatures come to drink their fill," he finished for her. Addison eyed him a bit skeptically but nodded along.

"Here," he said. "Lions and wolves, rabbits, and deer and many other creatures come together at a sort of crossing."

Addison arched an eyebrow and was surprised by Godfrey's silence. This sounded ridiculous, but the blonde de Clermont and his stern older brother were not joking.

Addison sucked in a breath and held it before letting it out in a long sigh.

"Okay," she said. "Watering hole. Creatures. Crossing. I still don't get it—"

Baldwin nodded. Godfrey crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the space over her head.

"A lion may take his pride to drink," Baldwin said. "But he will be wary of the wolves who drink beside them. Still, they drink together, the wolves and the lions because the watering hole suits their needs. A careful peace is drawn between them."

Addison pursed her lips. Baldwin was not a natural orator, she decided.

"But," he continued, unbothered by her look of consternation. "It is on the condition that the cubs stay with their pride, and the pups stay with their pack for should a cub wander then the wolves might think her fair game."

"Yeah," she said. "I get it. You don't the need the metaphor. Godfrey explained the whole enemies thing, but still it doesn't make sense. Why would you invite your enemies to stay here? Why would you have a home full of people you do not trust?"

Baldwin sighed. "This is our home yes," he said. "But it is not a home in the traditional sense of the word. It is a place of diplomacy and politics, of finance and war just as much as it is a place where a family resides. And what you need to understand, is that you are more than a person in a family, Lady Fernanda."

"What—" she started but he cut her off.

"You are a matter of diplomacy and politics, of finance and war," he said. "You are a young lady of import. The daughter of my eldest brother's mate. My father's heir... his mate adopted you. That makes you vulnerable. You are my nephew's mate. The second in line to lead my family – my men – his fate is tied to yours irrevocably. That makes you a target. Say a bishop comes to Sept-Tours, to seek my father's aid, and my father refuses him... and you are not within the gates. Say that bishop knows you tend to wander in the gardens alone at this time of day. Say that bishop brought with him a contingent of men who we house in the barracks for the duration of the bishop's stay. Tell me, Fernanda, what happens to the cub that wanders away?"

Addison pressed her lips together and looked away, eyes flashing with resentment and fear. She didn't like scare tactics, no matter how effective. She didn't even want to be here. She wanted to go home. She itched to reach for the letter in her pocket. She wasn't a lion cub, and this wasn't her family.

She had every right to go to the gardens. They were overreacting.

A noise from the courtyard sounded. The clatter of hooves, the shouting of men.

Baldwin drew himself up to his full height. Godfrey dropped his arms back down to his sides.

Addison thought of the rider she saw making his way toward Sept-Tours from the trees in the distance. She thought of the watering hole, and Godfrey's worry. She felt the letter heavy in her pocket and brought a hand down to protect it from whoever had made it through the gate.

And then a thunderclap sounded. Philippe made his way to the doors with his sons on his heels. And a hand came down to Addison's elbow.

She turned.

Ysabeau.

The de Clermont matriarch pulled her back and away.

When the doors opened it was quiet in the hall, but for the sound of horses snorting from the courtyard and the wind whipping against high stone walls.

A figure appeared then. A figure Addison had seen many times before. He bowed to Philippe, to Baldwin and Godfrey, before turning and searching the hall for one more.

A tall fair-haired man with a fighter's build and a scholar's hands met her eyes and gave a warm smile in greeting.

"My lady," he said and offered one more bow in her direction.

"Jean Luc," she replied, heart hammering in her chest with surprise.

Hugh's manservant stood in the doorway, and his purpose here was clear. She did not know how he knew, or who had told him, but Jean Luc's presence now told her that her family was aware she was here.

Baldwin's metaphor replayed in her mind, and Addison wondered quietly how she was meant to tell the wolves from the lions that showed up at that door. Addison wondered quietly whether Ysabeau at her back, with her hand on her elbow, was a wolf or a lion. She wondered what they would do if Addison broke away from the de Clermont to stand beside the man who stood near the doors.

The letter was heavy in her pocket, but here was someone she could trust. Here was someone she had known and relied on before. Jean Luc was here, and he was an extension of Hugh, and all around her the air shifted at the heart of Sept-Tours.

---

"I trust they have treated you well?" Jean Luc asked politely as they strolled through the grounds. The sun was setting now, and soon she would have to head back inside to ready herself for dinner.

Addison twisted her lips down in consternation and nodded at him. He considered her quietly as they walked.

"How do you fare, my lady?" He asked.

Addison sighed. "I never know how to answer that question, Jean Luc."

He nodded. "And still, I must ask you either way."

She bit the inside of her cheek and watched a swallow land on a tree stump, and a butterfly flutter among the wildflowers.

"I've never wanted to come back before. After the first time... well... I didn't want to come back to the past. It was lucky – so lucky that I landed on Hugh's doorstep and not someone else's."

She shrugged. Addison didn't feel very lucky these days. If she had bothered to ask Jean Luc, he would have said much the same. There was something more than luck at play in her circumstances, and the family had spent the last half century pondering what forces were at work.

"But this time—" she sucked in a breath and blew it out in an aggravated huff. She curled her fingers tightly into her skirts and gritted her teeth at the path ahead of them. "I wanted to come back—to come home. I really just—"

Her voice cracked and she cut herself off.

Jean Luc waited patiently for the young Lady Gonçalves to finish her thought.

"—I just really miss my father," she said.

Her heart ached at how listless and how vulnerable she was here. Everyone had been kind, with the anticipated exception of Godfrey. But they were so... big here. Both in body and in presence. Even Ysabeau – Gallowglass's beautiful, petite, immortal grandmother with smooth glowing skin and immaculate gowns and perfectly groomed blonde hair. Even she loomed over Addison in a sort of ethereal way.

Balder had disappeared just about as soon as she recognized him, and with him that one sense of familiarity in this world had faded.

Everyone had been kind to her. And yet... she was intimately aware of how vulnerable she once again had become. She understood now in a different way what Fernando had offered her last fall, when he asked if she'd be his daughter. She understood now what he meant by securing her a place in this world separate of Eric.

She understood how precarious her existence was. Caught between the customs of the land and her own modernity. Caught between this powerful family's natural suspicions, and their duty to provide her with shelter and care. Their politics and their personal disputes combined with a deeply ingrained medieval sense of hospitality in a potentially combustible way. And Addison was feeling the effects. These were not her family – they were Gallowglass's family. And she was beginning to gather that her family and theirs were on the outs.

Jean Luc nodded once his understanding. He did not offer her words of comfort. He did not flinch away from her childish confessions. His face remained kind, if neutral, and Addison took both comfort in it and railed against it. He was not family; he was a family retainer. If she wanted comfort or solace, she'd have to seek it in her equals or her superiors. She would not receive it from the staff. She couldn't expect it from him.

There was a thin boundary between her and Jean Luc, and no matter how much relief she found in his presence, no matter the questions he asked on behalf of Hugh, no matter the stable ground his presence provided her with. He was not her friend. He was simply an extension of Hugh.

If this were a conflict, and there was a battle either of diplomacy or the blade, Jean Luc's presence would be a reminder to all that even in his absence, Hugh had a stake in the game here.

Their conversation now was not a confessional for Addison. It was not a matter of care between friends. Jean Luc was taking stock of favors and offenses. He was assessing the state of the game and keeping score, so that Hugh may dole out gratitude and condemnation to the appropriate parties when or if he arrived.

---

Their talk had been long and helpful, to be honest. Jean Luc's presence had more than assuaged a good portion of her fears. She was content to know that Hugh was out there and that he knew she was here. It was a comfort, no matter how clinical.

They were just within the gates now, between the teeth of the portcullis and the door to the barracks. She had finally worked up the courage to tell him about her letter. To request his help in reaching out to her father.

He hadn't been surprised, but he had pulled her to a stop so he could regard her warily. It was a predicable request. But she knew the look on his face. The distance in his eyes. She'd become well accustomed to it at La Ithuriana, when he had enforced Hugh and Fenrando's gag order on the household about Benjamin's colony of murderous children. Jean Luc had been the barrier between her and knowing more.

He wore the same look now as she asked him to help her reach her father.

"Your father is away attending to a matter of some import," Jean Luc told her gently.

"But surely someone can send word," she said, twisting her hands uncertainly in her skirt.

Jean Luc frowned and looked down at her sympathetically.

"That would be a matter for Sieur Philippe to decide," he said.

"Philippe?" she asked. "But why—"

"He is the grand master of the Knights of Lazarus, my lady. Fernando is away on his command."

"But he said..."

Addison stopped, and Jean Luc politely looked away. His expression carefully neutral.

Philippe told her that they'd see what they could do. He hadn't promised she'd see her father at all. Just Eric. And even then... there'd been no guarantee.

"I want to see my father," Addison insisted, gritting her teeth and once again meeting Jean Luc with resistance. He always got stuck being the bearer of bad news. If she weren't so aggravated, she'd pity the man.

"We will try to get word to him, my lady," he said diplomatically.

"No," she said. "Don't try. Do it."

If Jean Luc were less experienced then, perhaps, he would have looked at her in alarm, so harsh was the order on her lips. But he was well tried in his line of work, and his stance did not falter.

Addison saw this and shook her head. "Or better yet," she said. "Just take me to him. I don't want to be here. I want to go home."

Jean Luc pressed his lips together in a thin line. He did not say to her that her father would have his skin if he removed her from the fortress of Sept-Tours to deliver her to him at the heart of the collapsing Almohad Caliphate. The young Lady Fernanda had no place anywhere near the recent death of the last Almohad king.

"That is not a wise decision, my lady," Jean Luc said to her instead.

"I want my father," she tried again.

Jean Luc fixed her with a look that suggested he was very tired, and she was very young. Addison jutted her chin in response.

"My lady," he said. "For now, it would be best to think of this place as your home."

"No," she bit out. "This isn't my home. It will never be my home. I refuse to think of it that way."

Jean Luc studied her a moment before carefully looking away.

"In the absence of your father, my Lord Hugh has determined Sept-Tours as the wisest place for you to be until the family can set their affairs in order. You are safe here, my lady. You are among family—"

"These people are not my family," she bit out.

Jean Luc remained wisely silent.

"They're not," she said again, frustrated by his lack of response.

"You are the daughter of Lord Hugh's mate," he said quietly. "And you are the mate of Lord Hugh's heir. Whether by way of Fernando or by way of Lord Eric you are Sieur Philippe's granddaughter by marriage—"

"Eric and I aren't married," she told him tersely. "And from what I've gathered, Fernando is not held in high regard here. He would have told me if Philippe considered me his granddaughter, a year ago, when he adopted me."

"The matter is complicated, Fernanda," Jean Luc acquiesced. "And it has not been a year for us, but fifty. Much has changed. Many things are shifting at once, and it is not my place to explain. Many years ago, Sieur Philippe refused to acknowledge your father as Lord Hugh's mate, but he has accepted your father's place in Lord Hugh's life, now. And though he will never give their mating his official blessing, the end of my lord's exile is near."

"What does that mean?"

"It means the family has come to an accord," he said. "They're no longer in disagreement about ancient affairs. They've accepted what is and decided to move forward as a united front. Much has happened in recent years; it is in the best interest of the de Clermont to put old grudges to rest and move forward. For the good of the family."

"Oh," Addison said. The way Jean Luc was looking at her, suggested she had more to do with this outcome than she was aware. Suggested there was far more to this story than any one was saying.

"Fine," she sighed. "But they're still not my family."

Jean Luc fixed her with a bemused look.

"Whether they acknowledge you as Fernando's daughter, or accept you as Lord Eric's mate matters little, my lady. Either way, these people are as close to kin as you will ever have in this world. While my Lords Hugh and Fernando are away this is exactly where I'd recommend you stay."

Her nostrils flared in resentment, and Jean Luc returned her look with neutrality. It set her teeth on edge, and a little pocket of barely suppressed emotion inside of her gave a wounded throb. She reached into her skirt pocket and pressed her unsealed letter into his hand.

"At least take this," she said quietly. "You're the only one I know who can get word to anyone."

She looked around at the courtyard. She watched warily the guards coming and going from the barracks. She watched Baldwin's messenger return. She watched a maid sweep the stairs. And from the giant doors to the great entrance hall, the shadow of Philippe emerged. His eyes were drawn to her, and Addison stared for a moment before averting her gaze.

She looked back to the letter she had pressed into Jean Luc's hands. Crossing her arms over her chest a bit defensively, she sniffed and bit the inside of her cheek.

"I don't really know who else to trust."

"I will deliver it to Lord Hugh, my lady," Jean Luc assured but she could no longer meet his gaze. "He will determine how best to proceed."

Addison sniffed and nodded, biting a little harder on the inside of her cheek.

Jean Luc looked down, bowed, and bid her farewell. Addison hugged herself a little more tightly before turning to watch as his horse clamored back through the gates.

Then she turned toward the stairs that led into the entry. The world parted for her as she did. Knights drew themselves taller. Servants bowed and curtsied before they returned to their chores. De Clermont banners whipped in the wind and somewhere behind her she heard a protest from a workhorse. And she hoped no one would notice how powerless she felt as she sent away her only ally who wasn't even a friend. Jean Luc rode away with her unsealed letter, with her memories of La Ithuriana, with her hope of seeing her father and so much more.

He rode away because she asked him to. He rode away because it was not her that he served. He rode away and Addison didn't look back when she made it to the doors.

Philippe still stood there waiting for her. She curtsied and accepted when he offered her his arm. She stared straight ahead and refused to look back as she stepped once again into the heart of Sept-Tours.