Denning frowned as Mark stepped out of the front door. "You look awful. Are you not well?"

Mark winced; a part of him had been hoping to avoid this conversation. "Not exactly," he began as he started down the street. "I haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately. I…" He shuffled his feet. "I didn't realize that your room was right next to mine."

Denning raised an eyebrow. "I thought you knew as much. I did mention this was our building when I first suggested keeping you here, did I not?"

"You did," Mark admitted. "But I didn't know that 'our' meant 'mine and Grace's' at the time. And even then, I…" He rubbed his forehead. "I didn't realize that your room was… right… next to mine."

Denning frowned. "Why would that matter?"

"You know what, never mind," Mark said quickly, shaking his head. He lifted his head to the clouds, painted brilliant reds by the rising sun. "I don't really want to talk about—"

"Wait," Denning said, golden eyes shining with sudden understanding. "Are you referring to the increased amount of sex we've been having?"

Mark grimaced. "Yes. That's… exactly what I didn't want to talk about."

Denning smiled at the man, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. "I apologize. We did not mean to wake you, but after your encounter with Ellain last week—"

"Do we have to call it an 'encounter?'" Mark mumbled.

"—and her comments on how we kissed, Grace started thinking we might expand our repertoire of—"

"Oh, hey, look, is that Gavin?" Mark said, pointing down the street. "I haven't seen him in days. Gavin!" he called. "Over here!"

The man he'd indicated was indeed Gavin, and was crossing the way some thirty paces ahead of them. He looked over long enough to scowl at Mark, and then shuffled around a corner. Denning glanced after him, then back to Mark, his smile softening. "I'm making you uncomfortable," he said. "I apologize; I did not realize."

"It's all right," Mark said, feeling embarrassed for having been so embarrassed. "I'm just not used to such frank discussion of such… intimate topics."

"I understand." Denning shrugged. "Human social morays still often elude me. But, considering I only knew fourteen words when we first met, I'd say I've improved a lot."

Mark couldn't help but laugh at that. "I'd say so."

Mark turned to his other guard. Denning's companion today was Peleus, whom he'd met in the garden a week before. Peleus was, as Mark had inferred, one of the healers working under Grace. He was tall, with short hair he kept well-combed; he carried a tome, though not quite as intimidating as the one Grace used. Mark offered him a smile, and got a simple nod in response. Peleus didn't show an interest in the tactician the way Denning, Grace, and Ellain had; on the other hand, he didn't reject him offhand like Gavin and many others. He was mostly indifferent—which, given the scorn Mark still got from some of the morphs on these daily walks, was almost refreshing.

They started down the road. It was overcast, with thick clouds rolling toward them from the Etrurian mountains. Mark wondered if they'd get some rain; he'd heard the garden workers muttering about the dryness.

"Cassandra wished me to remind you of how busy she is," Denning said as they entered another building and started up the stairs. "She doesn't have much time to meet with you, so keep it brief."

"She does like it brief, doesn't she?" Mark sighed. An innuendo flashed into his head, and he quickly chased it away. Clearly, he was still feeling Ellain's influence.

Denning smirked, stopping in front of a door. "It comes from never having enough time. If your idea works, that might change." He opened the door and motioned Mark inside.

The first thing Mark noticed about Cassandra's room was that it was no bigger or more luxurious than his. He'd have expected the leader of a community to at least have a nice home, but Cassandra's quarters were simple and austere. It fit with what he knew of her, though; Cassandra was someone who put the needs of her people first, to the point of neglecting her own needs. At least she had a rug on the floor. And, to his envy, a window.

She looked up from the reports she was reading and frowned at him. "You don't look so well," she said.

He slid into the seat across the desk from her. Peleus and Denning took up their positions behind him. "I didn't sleep very well."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Do our accommodations not meet your standards?"

"The room is fine," Mark said. "Well, actually… I wouldn't mind being moved to another one. I know it wouldn't be any nicer than this one, but…" He looked back at Denning, and grimaced. "Never mind."

Denning looked at the ground, chuckling softly. Cassandra cast a confused look at both of them before shaking it from her face. "Well, what did you want to talk about?"

Mark mustered the best smile he could, and spread his hands. "I'm here to offer my services."

She set down the report and slowly leaned back in her chair. "I don't need a tactician."

"Of course not," he agreed. "But you know what you do need?"

"What?"

"A tactician."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Will you two please get him out of here?"

Peleus started forward, but Denning lay a hand on his arm. "Let me explain," Mark said quickly. "Who's in charge of organizing supply runs?"

"I am."

"And who's in charge of scheduling the guard shifts?"

She peered at him uncertainly. "I am."

"And who's in charge of planning the garden?"

"I am, mostly."

He sat back as well. "Seeing a pattern?"

"Only one of leadership."

"Yes, leadership. Good leadership, too, for a good leader won't ask something of her people that she isn't prepared to do herself." He raised a finger. "But a great leader knows who to assign each task."

She shook her head. "What are you babbling about?"

"I'm babbling about you, Cassandra." He eyed her a moment. "May I be blunt?"

"I would certainly never accuse you of being sharp," she said with a smirk.

He paused, annoyed less with the insult and more with how funny he found it. "I've seen it time and again in the last three weeks, even when I was cooped up in my room," he began. "You take every burden on yourself—an admirable trait, but it leaves you with a thousand tasks to accomplish, and it leaves everyone else depending on you to get them all done." He waved his hand toward the window. "You'd be far better off if you got your people organized. Put them in charge of things so you don't have to worry about them. Then you'd spend less time on the minutiae of running this fort, and more time making sure the whole thing is running smoothly."

She frowned, a little deeper than he'd have liked. He searched her eyes, hoping she was at least considering what he was saying. "And where do you come in?" she asked.

He smiled. "For most of my adult life, I've been a tactician serving at the side of great leaders. They were the ones who knew where to go and what to do. But I was the one who knew the army—who knew each unit's strengths and weaknesses, and how to make the most of them. I can do the exact same thing here."

She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "From battlefields to cornfields?"

"We are not growing any corn," Peleus called. It was the first time he'd spoken all day.

"I was—" Cassandra waved Peleus to silence, glaring.

Mark straightened his back. "Whether in war or peace, there are tasks to accomplish, and people to perform those tasks. My skill is in matching the one to the other." He leaned forward. "A show of good faith. Put Moriel in charge of the next supply run. You won't be disappointed."

Cassandra started. "Moriel?"

"Moriel." Mark had barely met the girl, but his brief glimpses of her at work had been enough to convince him that this was the right call.

"Moriel barely speaks to anyone. She spends more time flying patrols than she does helping out in the fort. After all"—she grimaced—"that's the job she was designed for."

"And, thanks to you, she now has the capacity to do so much more."

Cassandra frowned, looking him over. Mark had to fight not to shrink under the intensity of her gaze. She was as intimidating as ever—and worse, he hadn't quite been able to purge the memory of her breath on his ear from the week before. She must have realized this, for a smile flickered over her face momentarily, and he tried not to grimace.

"No," she said at last—though the amount of time it took her to say so was encouraging. "You're a hostage, not a butler, and we've gotten along fine without you for five years. We will handle our own affairs; you just worry about your letters and your walks." She looked back down at the mess of papers on her desk and waved him off. "Speaking of which, you might as well stretch your legs on your way back to your room. You may go."

There was no room for argument, and Mark rose in silence, crossing over to Denning and listening to the morph's quiet footsteps fall in behind his own as they exited the room. "Sorry," Denning sighed as they started down the stairs. "I'd hoped she'd be more receptive, but this wasn't unexpected."

"It wasn't," Mark agreed. He pushed open the door to the street, enjoying the cool breeze as he held it open for the others. "But I'm not giving up just yet. We've planted an idea in her head; given time to grow, she may yet see its virtue."

"Or she'll just think you're trying to infiltrate the chain of command and weaken us for an Ostian attack," Denning pointed out.

Mark grimaced. "Or that." He paused, and looked up at the other morph. "What do you think, Peleus?"

The man blinked. "What? Me?"

"Yeah. The idea I just proposed to Cassandra, what do you think of it?"

Peleus frowned, fingering his tome. "I'm not certain I should be speaking to you of this," he said. "I am here merely to guard you, after all, as a favor to Grace."

"Then answer his question," Denning said lightly. "As a favor to Grace."

Peleus frowned as he finally met Mark's gaze. "Cassandra… has been known to make mistakes."

"So you think it's a good idea?"

Peleus studied him a moment, then turned away. "We should be going."

Mark sighed. Well. I suppose that's something.

"Put Moriel in charge of the next supply run," Cassandra grumbled as she shoved open the door to her building. "It's absurd. Who does he think he is, telling me how to run my fort?"

At least I managed to make him squirm again. She smiled to herself as she remembered the look on his face the last time she'd come to his room. She wished she could get a painting of that expression.

"Cassandra?" Gavin had been leaning against the wall of the building, waiting for her; now he pushed himself upright, looking her over in concern. "What did you say?"

"Never mind." She shook her head, trying to clear the image of Mark's face. No sense in letting the human occupy her thoughts when she had work to do. "What's first today?"

Gavin fell in beside her, still studying her dubiously. "Ronic wants to discuss rebuilding the northwest corner."

"What? He wants to put holes in our walls while the Ostians are watching our every move?"

"The holes are already there. The corner is crumbling, and without it, the surrounding walls will start to go too. Better to repair it now before it causes more damage."

She grimaced. "And what are we to do about it?"

Gavin shrugged, looking abashed. "I honestly have no idea. A few morphs were given engineering knowledge to keep their fortresses in repair, but…"

She looked to the sky. "But none of them were among those we saved," she said softly.

He looked at her a moment, opened his mouth to speak. She waved him to silence. "It's all right, Gavin," she said. "I take pride in my victories and responsibility for my failures. Let's go see Ronic. I'll assess the damage myself."

Even as they started walking, her words reminded her of Mark's from earlier. She frowned, trying to push them away. Of course she took on everything herself; how else could she make sure everyone else was being taken care of? And it wasn't as if she couldn't handle it all.

"Cassandra?"

She started at the sound of Gavin's voice, and looked up to see Ronic standing a few feet away. She hadn't even realized they were approaching the northwest corner, and had nearly walked into the guard captain. She cursed Mark under her breath; that human was so damn distracting, and she had no idea why.

"Yes, yes," she said, waving Gavin down as she looked up at Ronic. "I see. Now, show me the—"

"Cassandra?" Ellain glided to her side. "Might I borrow you a moment?"

Cassandra didn't have a chance to answer before Ellain took her arm in a too-strong grip and began pulling her away, Ronic looking aghast and Gavin following uncertainly. His eyes darted from one woman to the other, indecision churning in his eyes.

"Ellain!" Cassandra tried to push the other woman away without hurting her. Sadly, Ellain was nearly as strong and skilled as she was, and managed to keep her grip. "What are you doing? I'm busy!"

"I can see that," Ellain said smoothly, "but I've been trying to see you for days now, and this might be my only chance." She stopped about thirty paces from the crumbling corner. "Some of the humans in town have begun to notice the uniformity of our coloration. I fear they might grow suspicious."

That was bad news—not that Cassandra appreciated her attention being demanded like that. "And what do you suggest?" she asked with not a little disdain. "Paint our skin and dye our hair?"

"Actually," Ellain said, not meeting her gaze, "I was thinking we should hire humans to help us."

"You can't be serious!" To both of their surprise, it was Gavin who spoke. His hand was tight on the hilt of his blade as he looked at Ellain with worried brows. "You want to bring more humans here? Isn't one enough?"

"Not here, necessarily." Ellain looked away from his eyes. "But if we got them to run errands for us in town, and then deliver the supplies to us somewhere in-between—"

"Then the hirelings would grow just as suspicious as you fear the locals will," Cassandra growled. "Worse, Ostian spies would see them working for us, and find a way to use it against us." She shook her head. "Absolutely not."

Ellain's frown held none of its usual pout. "Then what are we to do?"

"I don't know!" Cassandra snapped. She started back toward the wall. "Just keep doing the supply runs as you have been for now. If and when the humans grow more suspicious, we'll figure something out."

Ellain dogged at her heels, but Cassandra ignored her nattering. She'd almost made it back to the northwest corner when a shriek split the air. Her blade was out in an instant, as was Gavin's, and the two of them sprinted through the streets of the fort toward the sound, leaving a baffled Ellain and irate Ronic in their wake.

They rounded a corner—and almost ran into a rearing pegasus. Cassandra cried out and leaped back, motioning to Gavin to do the same. Hooves waved in the air and powerful wings swept forward, sending a buffeting wind their way. There was a young woman—a morph—nearby, sprawled on the ground, clutching a lance with one arm and her left leg with the other. Cassandra gripped her blade, one eye on the pegasus, the other scanning the area for its rider; was this an invasion, or—

"Easy!" came a high-pitched shout. "Easy, boy!" A morph materialized at the beast's side; she was slight of frame, yet she gripped the reins firmly, and reached for its snout—much the way Mark had with the horse last month. "Easy now," she said, voice lower now. "That's it."

Cassandra blinked, and looked around again. The girl holding the reins was Moriel—and the pegasus was hers. She recognized it, now that her heart wasn't racing with the thrill of battle. The girl on the ground was—she scrunched her eyes shut as she tried to remember—Deichtine, one of their guardsmen. She gingerly rubbed her leg, which was already starting to turn blue. All morphs possessed the same coloration, but these two, with their similar builds and short, messy hair, could have been sisters.

Cassandra slowly returned her blade to its sheath as Gavin went over to check on Deichtine. "What happened?" she asked, eyes boring into Moriel.

The girl didn't squirm under her gaze; she was too busy glaring at Deichtine. "Someone thought it would be a good idea to take Percy for a flight without practicing at all beforehand," she said.

"I did too practice!" Deichtine shot back as Gavin helped her up. "I—ow!" She doubled over, clutching her leg again. "I went for a training ride with you yesterday, remember? I didn't think the ruddy beast would throw me!"

Moriel's eyes widened, and she placed her hands on the pegasus's ears. He immediately began trying to wriggle away. "Don't talk about him like that! He's a perfectly lovely pegasus, and he's the sweetest creature you'll ever meet!"

"Then why did he—"

"He didn't 'throw you,' you fell!" Moriel cut her off. "One practice ride doesn't qualify you to go flying alone, you know. You forgot to buckle the saddle correctly!" She held up a dangling leather strap as if to prove her point.

Cassandra began rubbing her temples. Now that the immediate danger had passed, listening to them squabble was giving her a headache. "Deichtine, why are you even trying to ride Moriel's pegasus?"

"Percy," Moreil insisted.

"Whatever."

Deichtine stared at her. "You told me to."

"I—" Cassandra faltered. "What?"

"You said you wanted to strengthen patrols around the fort now that the Ostians are watching us, including the aerial ones." Deichtine eyed her uncertainly as she spoke, running a hand through her short-cropped hair. "You said, until we could procure a mount for me, I should practice on Moriel's."

Cassandra looked around at them blankly. "I did?"

"You, uh, did, actually," Gavin muttered, hoisting Deichtine further up onto his shoulder. "About a week ago? Right after the Ostian messenger picked up Mark's last letter?"

Cassandra looked at each of the three in turn, and shook her head. "All right," she muttered. "All right. Deichtine, keep practicing, but follow Moriel's instructions exactly. She's been riding that—" She stopped, glancing at Moriel. "She's been riding Percy since before we came here, so if she says you aren't ready, you aren't ready."

Deichtine frowned, but nodded.

Cassandra let out a breath. "All right. Go find Grace, and have her take a look at that leg."

"Uh." Gavin gave her an odd look. "Cassandra?"

"Hold on," she said. She looked over at Moriel. "If Percy's injured, you can have Grace look at him as well, though I doubt she'd be—"

"Cassandra," Gavin interrupted, "Grace is ill."

"She—" For the second time in as many minutes, she found herself stumbling on her words. "What?"

"Denning told you this morning, remember?" he went on. "Before your meeting with the human?" All three of them were looking at her like she'd grown a second head. "Grace woke up feeling nauseous this morning. She's going to spend the day resting."

Cassandra turned away, shaking her head. Denning had told her that—it was why Peleus had filled in for her as Mark's escort—but she'd been so busy, it had barely registered in her mind. "Fine. Go see one of the other healers, get your leg fixed, and don't let this happen again." She turned and swept away before any of them could say anything else.

She realized she was stomping her feet, but didn't stop. It felt good to vent a little frustration on the ground. Why did everyone come running to her with their problems? Or—no. This time, it had been she who ran to the problem. And she had told Ellain to check with her when planning supply runs, and they did need to increase their flying patrols with the Ostian garrison keeping a close watch on them. But couldn't Ellain and Moriel take care of things on their own?

Maybe they could—if you'd let them.

She halted. Had that been her voice, or Mark's?

"Cassandra?"

She jumped a good three feet in the air and let out a most undignified yelp. She spun around—"Denning? What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?!"

He stepped back. "I—didn't intend to sneak up on anyone. I just wanted to see if you were all right."

"Of course I'm all right!" she snapped. "Why wouldn't I be all right?"

"I couldn't guess." She wasn't sure whether or not she was imagining the sarcasm in his voice. "Where's Gavin? I thought he was assisting you today."

She started back down the street. "Well, now he's assisting Deichtine, who managed to get herself injured while trying to hijack Moriel's pegasus." She looked over at him. "Where's your hound?"

"Mark's in his room," Denning said coolly. "He's locked in, and there are guards posted, before you ask."

"I wasn't going to—" She stopped; it would have been a lie, and they both knew it. "Is Grace feeling any better?"

"She is," Denning said, inclining his head. "Though I certainly think she should still rest. The nausea mostly passed by the late morning, but she still seems pale—well, paler than we usually are, at any rate." He smiled, though she didn't see the humor.

"Well, make sure she gets enough to eat and drink," Cassandra sighed. She looked up. "That reminds me—you'll need to organize another hunting expedition soon."

"I know," he said, shaking his head. "But we're going to need more arrows to do that."

She stopped, staring at him. "I thought they were going to get more on the last supply run?"

"So did I," he said with a shrug.

She pursed her lips, then turned forward. "Ellain!" she roared.

"Yes?"

At least Cassandra managed not to yelp this time. How do people manage to keep popping out of thin air today? She turned to the temptress, who was busy giving Denning a knowing smile. "Why didn't you buy any arrows while you were in town?" Cassandra snapped.

Ellain took her eyes from Denning long enough to frown at her. "You didn't ask for any."

"Well, of course I didn't. I'm no archer." She motioned to Denning. "But they need them to go hunting, and—"

"And the last time I bought something that somebody else requested, you took both of us to task for going over your head." Ellain was standing straight, hands folded in front of her, eyeing her leader with a cool disregard. "Or did I misunderstand?"

Cassandra seethed—mostly because she knew Ellain was right. "All right," she said slowly. "Maybe I shouldn't insist on taking care of supply requests myself. But—"

The air split with a noisy crash; the entire fort seemed to shake, and the roar echoed through the buildings even as they all covered their ears. "What the hell was that?!" Cassandra shouted.

There was sound of a man clearing his throat behind her. "That," Ronic said, "was the northwest corner collapsing."

A wave of dust rolled through the streets moments later. Cassandra stared at it as if it were an attacking army. Her shoulders lifted and fell with a deep breath; the others around her exchanged concerned glances between eyeing her warily.

At last, without turning her head, she pointed first to Ronic: "You go assess the damage." Then to Denning: "You assemble our strongest morphs for a repair crew." And finally, to Ellain: "And you, come with me."

"Me?" Moriel squeaked, almost dropping the brush she'd been using on Percy.

"Her?" Ellain cried, almost releasing the skirts she was carefully holding off the floor of the stable.

"Yes, you, and yes, her," Cassandra growled. "I'm putting Moriel in charge of the next supply run."

"But…" Moriel set down the brush; the poor girl looked as though she'd just been sentenced to death. "Why?"

"Because this damn place is coming apart around me, and I'm holding the whole thing together with twine and good intentions!" Cassandra managed to keep her voice just below a shout—only just. "And if that keeps up, it won't matter whether or not the Ostians attack, because we'll go to pieces all on our own. And I'm willing to try anything—anything—to keep that from happening." She took a breath. "Even taking advice from a human."

Both the other woman stared at her, confusion writ large on their faces. She waved a hand at them. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get planning."

Ellain's eyes narrowed. "May I remind you that we just made a supply run?"

A horse in the stall next to her whuffed loudly. Ellain flinched back, staring at the beast.

"We did, and"—Cassandra grimaced—"thanks to me, we don't have enough arrows for the hunt. So you might as well see if there's anything else we've forgotten, and get it before we all starve to death." She forced herself to meet Ellain's gaze. "You aren't being punished, I'll have you know. This is just an experiment—for now."

Moriel looked over at Ellain with pleading eyes, nervously touching the feather-shaped pin she kept in her hair. "Can you help me? Please? I'm no good with people, and you…"

The temptress studied the younger woman—younger-appearing, at any rate—and her stern expression relaxed. "Of course, dear. I'll do whatever I can." She smiled. "You may not be much with people, but you're brilliant with animals. Many of the horses still fear us, but I wager you'll manage to get them hitched up easier than any of us."

Cassandra blinked. "That… makes sense," she muttered.

"It's about half a day to the market in Ostia, as you know," Ellain went on. "So you'll need to leave early to get there in time."

"Right, right," Moriel said, nodding. "But, um… wouldn't it make sense to send a cart to Bellum, too?"

Ellain tilted her head. "Bellum? In Etruria?"

"That's right. They have a wonderful market—I've caught glimpses of it while I'm out on patrol. We could probably get things there the Ostian market wouldn't have."

"But isn't Bellum twice as far?" Cassandra interjected.

"Well, yes, almost. But there's a well-kept road north of here that goes straight there. The wagons will move quicker than they do through the valley, so it should take just as long to get there."

Ellain gave her an appreciative nod. "Impressive thinking. This might just work after all."

"Yes," Cassandra murmured, glaring at the stable floor. "It just might."

It took a few days, but Cassandra has accepted my offer. She tells me it's only on a trial basis—but, then, she's been telling me that for days now, and has yet to revoke my new duties. She's wary about having a hostage taking care of anything for her, but I can tell she's grateful for the help. I would be too, in her position; things were even more of a mess than I feared. I'm now effectively in charge of organizing the entire morph community. The old adage about being careful what you wish for comes to mind; I've gone from twiddling my thumbs between brief walks to neck-deep in ledgers and reports. Still, it's good to have something to do again.

"It's even better that he's making himself useful to them," Oswin said. "Makes it less likely they'll kill him."

Hector nodded, and resumed reading the letter. Raven listened with half an ear, not looking at the Ostian marquess as he spoke. His eyes were on the empty seat next to him—and the increasingly fidgety cleric on the other side. "What?" she hissed at last, eyes flicking to his.

"Where is he?" he whispered.

"Not well," Serra answered. "He's resting."

He frowned—well, he was already frowning, but his face twisted into a deeper frown at her words. Lucius had always been frail—an 'ailment of the soul,' they'd called it. But at the meeting the week before, and every time Raven had laid eyes on him since, the monk had seemed to be in fair health. Raven hated to admit it, but spending time with the ridiculous pink-haired girl seemed to have given his friend more vitality than he'd thought possible. Why would he suddenly take ill now? "Did something happen?" he asked, voice as gentle as he could manage.

Not gentle enough, apparently, judging by the glare she shot him. "You can ask him yourself, later." She motioned to Hector, who was finishing up his reading of the letter. "Right now, we have work to do."

As if she didn't avoid work whenever possible. Unfortunately, she was right. Raven turned his gaze back to the lord—trying to keep as much venom out of it as he could. Hector set down the letter, rubbing his temples. "Another week, and little has changed," he sighed. "We need more information, and can't get any."

"It does seem as though Mark is doing more and more to ingratiate himself to the morphs," Eliwood offered. "We can use that."

"How?" Matthew shook his head. "We can't exactly send him orders. I'm shocked Cassandra isn't censoring his letters as it is."

Raven felt his brow furrow. He looked over at the spymaster, seemingly the only man in the room as cautious as he was. "Are we sure she isn't?"

Matthew shrugged. "There's no evidence of it. Mark's a terrible liar, so I'd know if he was trying to hide the fact that she was threatening him. And some of the things he tells us about the morphs—they're not exactly damaging, but they seem like something she wouldn't want him telling us. Someone in her position should want us nervous, fearful that she might take his head at the first sign of trouble. But she actually seems to be behaving reasonably." He crossed his arms, pressing back into his seat. "I can't begin to tell you how frustrating that is."

There were a few snorts around the table, but Raven simply nodded, mimicking Matthew's pensive pose without realizing it. "Maybe she is honest, after all," he muttered.

"Maybe," Matthew agreed dubiously.

Hector opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the creaking of the door at the end of the hall. A soldier stepped through, saluted. "Forgive the intrusion, my lord," he said, his deep voice booming through the hall, "but one of your—"

He cut off as a slight figure slipped through the door beside him. Lucius looked as pale as ever, and the poor monk stumbled about on legs that looked like they'd snap at any moment. Raven was on his feet in an instant, but Serra somehow managed to beat him to Lucius's side. Each of them took one of Lucius's arms, even as the soldier trod carefully behind them. "He insisted on being let in, my lord," the soldier went on. "I told him he should rest, but…"

"It's all right," Hector said, waving the man down. "As you were." He studied the monk as Raven and Serra led him to his seat. "Lucius, I was told you weren't feeling well, and by all appearances, it's worse than I thought. He's right; you should be resting."

"I know, my lord," Lucius said. "But I received a letter recently, and while reading it may have struck me low, I knew I needed to share it with you as soon as I awoke."

"Lucius," Serra said softly. Raven felt his own grip tighten on his friend's arm.

Lucius shook his head, sinking into the empty chair. Raven and Serra took their seats beside him. "I've gotten a letter from Renault," he said at last.

Canas sat up excitedly. "Where is he? Is he coming here?"

"Wait." Matthew raised a hand. "My men haven't been able to find Renault yet."

Lucius nodded. "They didn't. But he noticed them looking for him. He wrote to me to say that, whatever it is we need, we're better off without him."

Hector looked around at the table, then put his hand over his eyes. "Damn, damn, damn."

Canas set his hand on the table. "He wouldn't say that if he knew the situation. My lord, we must continue to try."

"If he sent us a letter, we can try to trace it back to him," Matthew said. "It'll take a while."

"I agree, my lord." Lucius wobbled a bit on his chair, shut his eyes, took a breath. "I can try to—"

"Right now," Lyn said sternly, "you are going to return to your quarters and get some rest."

Hector nodded, looking at Raven and Serra. "You two see to it that he does. We'll continue our discussion in the meantime."

They rose without another word, scooping up the monk between them, despite his feeble protests, and all-but-carrying him from the hall. Serra, despite being a good head shorter than Raven and possessing half his strength, held up admirably as they tromped up the stairs to the guest quarters. Lucius's chamber was near the castle chapel—as was Serra's, although nobody seemed to worry that anything untoward might happen between two people of the cloth. Raven wasn't as convinced, but he wasn't about to go playing chaperone for the two of them if he wasn't asked.

They got Lucius to his quarters. Raven laid him down gently as Serra got him something to drink. They left once they were certain the monk was asleep, and made their way back toward the main hall—at least, that's where Raven thought they were going. It was only when Serra started up another flight of stairs that he realized they were heading in completely the wrong direction. "Where—?"

She shot a glare back at him. "You've been avoiding the marchioness since you got here," she said. "It's time we changed that."

He stopped between steps, heart suddenly racing. "I haven't been avoiding her," he said, truthfully. "But every time I've gone to see her, she's been asleep, or out, or—"

"Well, she's likely to be awake now, and I know she's not out, so this is your chance." She turned, placing one hand on her hip as the other rested against the stairwell wall. "Or are you afraid?"

He set his jaw, and followed her up the stairs. They were halfway down a well-lit hallway when she stopped again, rapping on the large wooden door to the marchioness's chambers. There was a brief pause, shuffling noises on the other side, and the door cracked open, the round face of a handmaiden looking out at him. "Yes?" she asked, studying the two of them with clear disapproval.

Serra stepped back, crossing her arms and looking at Raven. He met the maid's gaze and cleared his throat. "I'm here to see—"

There was a soft gasp from the other side, and the door swung open. Her red hair had grown down to her shoulders, and she was taller than he remembered—he still thought of her as a little girl, but here she was, grown and married. "It's all right, Anastasia," she said to the handmaiden, as she studied the man before her. "Brother?"

He managed a smile. "Priscilla. I'm… Lucius and I are here for—"

"For Mark," Priscilla said, nodding. "Yes, I heard."

"For Mark," he agreed. "And also for you."

She smiled back. "You don't have to say such things, Raymond. But I'm glad you did." Her eyes went to the cleric at his side. "Sister Serra?"

Serra smiled, and bowed with uncharacteristic grace. "Just making sure he didn't lose his way again, cousin."

Priscilla's laugh took him right back to their childhood. "I see. I owe you a debt, then."

"Oh, I'll add it to the list." Her words were haughty, but the smile she gave Priscilla as she flipped her hair back was genuine. She turned and swept down the hall, every bit as refined as the marchioness she left behind.

Raven gave his sister a sidelong look. "She's… not really our cousin, is she?"

"She has offered no proof, but I have asked for none." Priscilla gave him a knowing smile before looking down. "I'm sorry I keep missing these meetings, but…" She rubbed the rounded bulge of her belly.

He nodded, eyeing her uncertainly. "It would have been nice to have you there. I fear your husband and I still don't get along."

She closed her eyes. "It would be too much to ask for the two most important men in my life to like each other, I suppose."

"Hector and I respect each other," Raven said. "But we're a long way from 'like,' I'm afraid."

Her shoulders lifted and fell. "Well. At least there's that."

Raven looked around the hall. He'd been a mercenary for years, and yet this still took all the courage he could muster. "Look, I… I'm sorry about how I've been. I know you love Hector, and I should have been there to support you when you agreed to marry him."

She shook her head, eyes down. "You don't need to apologize."

"But I do," he insisted. "Because I want to change that. I want to be a part of your life again, Priscilla… yours, and my nephew's."

A corner of her mouth lifted. "Or niece's."

"Or niece's." He offered his arm. "Would you… like to take a walk with me? We've got a lot of catching up to do."

Her handmaid started to voice a protest, but Priscilla had already taken his arm. "I'd love to."