I've failed. I've failed everyone.

Darkness had fallen the night before with no sign of the sisters, and as the hours wore on, the whispers began. Lyn had to order Heath not to go out looking for his wife, Matthew was thinking of mobilizing his entire network, and Hector had to put up with Serra fretting about them all evening.

Then midnight brought a messenger, and he brought the news. Florina, Farina, and Fiora had not come directly back due to unforeseen circumstances; they'd been forced to stop at the outpost helmed by Lieutenant Sanders and his men to stay the night.

They had Mark with them.

And that wasn't all.

By morning, the news had spread through the castle. It had taken a lot of coaxing, but Hector had managed to drive most of the assembled army out of the grand hall for their meeting. All that remained was the usual council of leaders and scholars: the mages, the nobles, some of the knights. Matthew and Raven were there, as they had been since the beginning. And—Hector's skin crawled at the sight—Jaffar sat across from Matthew, arms crossed, Legault at his side.

Of course, Matthew wasn't paying attention to Jaffar. His eyes, like every other pair on the room, were fixed on the doors at the front of the room, as they had been ever since the wall guards announced the sisters' approach. Finally, the massive oak doors swung open, and Oswin stepped in. "Announcing Dames Florina, Fiora, and Farina," he called. "And Mark."

Almost before he could finish, Mark was squeezing past the knight into the room. He stumbled forward, grabbing the back of an empty chair, the one directly across from Hector's. The sisters filed in as Mark gazed around the room, his eyes finally landing on Hector himself. He was still bedraggled from travel, and his gaze had an unsettling intensity to it. "My lord," Mark said without preamble, "I've come to petition your aid in—"

Hector silenced him with one lifted hand. "Stop."

Mark leaned back from the chair, blinking, but saying nothing. Hector rose from his seat and strode around the table, coming to face Mark directly. He studied the tactician, taking in his dirty face, messy hair, and disarrayed clothes—and seized him in an embrace. "You're back," Hector whispered. "You're safe."

Mark stiffened at his touch, but did not pull away. He put his own arms around Hector, returning the embrace. After a while, he began patting Hector's back gently—then less gently. "My lord," he croaked, "I can't… breathe..."

Hector released him at once, and the poor man nearly collapsed to the ground. Mark rubbed his own shoulders as he took deep breaths. "All these years, and you still don't know your own strength," he mumbled.

"And you still don't know how worried we were," Eliwood said, seizing the tactician from behind.

Mark's surprised yelp was stifled by Lyn, who joined the embrace as well. "We thought we'd lost you," she said softly.

When the others finally released him, Hector stepped forward, laying a hand on Mark's shoulder. "What happened? How did you escape?" He winced. "How, er, are your ribs?"

"They're fine," Mark replied, rubbing his chest just to be sure. "I'm fine. I just..." he looked back at Eliwood and Lyn. "I didn't expect such a reception."

Eliwood grinned like a fool, while Lyn averted her gaze. Mark lowered his head, a blush fighting at the edge of his cheeks. "And I didn't escape. Well..." He grimaced. "I sort of escaped, but not in the way you mean. A lot has happened since my last letter, and if we're going to help the morphs, I'll need to—"

"Help?" a cold voice cut through the conversation. "The morphs?"

Mark jumped, and turned as Hector did to face the speaker. "Do not interrupt him, Jaffar," Hector growled.

Jaffar didn't flinch, holding Hector's gaze. When he looked at Mark, however, something in his face shifted. "Forgive me," he murmured, turning his eyes down.

Mark blinked. "Jaffar? When did you get here?" He looked around the room then, gazing at each face as though seeing it for the first time. "When did all of you get here?"

Hector opened his mouth to explain when a voice from the door cut him off. "My lords," Fiora called. "There's more."

Hector, tired of interruptions, turned to glare at her—and stopped short. The sisters had someone else with them. When word had arrived from the outpost the night before, Hector hadn't wanted to believe what he'd read. But now, the proof stood before him.

Farina and Florina each had their hands tucked under the arms of a woman. She was just dirty and disheveled as Mark. Her jet-black hair tumbled to her ears in a storm of curls, and her soft face was turned down, golden eyes fixed on the floor. And then there was the swell of her belly—the reason the party had to rest at the fort instead of flying all the way to Ostia in a single day.

"So it's true," Hector whispered. "You brought a morph with you. A pregnant morph."

It took five minutes for Hector to herd everyone back to their seats. Mark sat across from him, fidgeting nervously. The morph woman was seated next to him, where Serra was currently examining her. Florina had taken up her position by Lyn's seat, and her sisters had found their own places at the table, ready to report on what they'd seen at the fort. He wasn't sure how any of them could remain seated, least of all him. He felt like pacing the entire room. Probably kicking his chair over first, for good measure.

"You were a captive for eight weeks," he spluttered. "Eight weeks. And now you come here with"—he waved his hand at the pregnant woman—"this?"

"Considering she appears to be about twelve weeks pregnant," Serra said briskly, "I'd say Mark had little to do with her condition."

Mark and the woman glanced at each other before averting their gazes. Mark was blushing a little bit, and—to Hector's shock—so was she, the red standing out against her pale skin. She cleared her throat. "It's probably fourteen, actually," she said in a voice as soft as her features.

Serra arched an eyebrow as she returned to her seat. "Probably?"

The morph's blush deepened. "My husband and I—"

"Husband?" Hector turned to Mark. "What the blasted hell were they doing in that fort?"

"They were living," Mark replied. "Growing a garden. Hunting game. Making and selling wares. Falling in love." He looked at the woman once again. "Having children."

A smile tugged at the woman's lips. Not a cruel smile, or a forced smile, or an insane smile—just a smile. "Learning the lute," she said softly.

"Learning the lute," Hector echoed. He put a hand to his forehead. "Mark, you've spent the last two months surrounded by morphs. They kept you locked in a cell. They watched your every move. We thought they were messing with your head. Instead, they were learning the lute?"

Mark sat up slowly. "My letters should have made it clear," he said. "The morphs just want to live in peace."

Hector fell silent at that. Mark wasn't just some underling; he was a friend. There was no way Hector could question—

"Mark. We couldn't be certain of your letters."

Every eye in the room turned to Lyn, some in surprise, some in solidarity. Mark straightened up. "My lady?"

Lyn didn't look at him as she spoke. "We all remember how Sonia was able to cloud Brendan Reed's mind years ago." There were a few nods around the table. "Even with the messengers checking on you, even with your letters written in your own hand—we couldn't be sure they weren't manipulating you."

Mark's hand curled into a fist. "Milady, I..."

He trailed off, eyes darkening. Mark was a logical man; he had to admit that Lyn had a point. It still pained Hector to see the look of betrayal on his face.

"In fact," Matthew said, speaking for the first time since Mark strode through the doors, "can we even be sure of you now?"

Hector shot him a sharp look. "Careful, Matthew."

"My lord." Matthew inclined his head. "I merely refer to Mark's companion." He pointed at the morph, who tried not to look affronted. "She is, in a sense, an enemy combatant."

Mark stiffened. "She's not—"

"I agree," Raven said. "Even if Mark trusts her, we should be keeping her secure. Just in case."

The woman eyed him. "By 'secure,' you mean 'captive,' correct?"

Raven averted his gaze. Hector pursed his lips. Mark clearly trusted the woman, but Hector couldn't ignore the fact that there was a morph in his meeting hall. "Oswin," he began, "take the morph—"

"To my chambers," came a soft voice from behind him.

Hector actually started. He turned in his seat, craning his neck to see Priscilla. He hadn't heard her enter, but she and her handmaiden were standing directly behind him. She wasn't in her simple maternity garb, either, but a blue dress with gold trim that looked as regal as she did.

Oswin stirred at Hector's side. "Milady?"

Priscilla crossed the room as quickly as her swollen belly would allow. She was easily twice as far along as the morph, who actually rose from her own seat, eyeing Priscilla warily. "You're pregnant," she said.

Priscilla smiled at her. "As are you."

The woman's eyes went down to Priscilla's belly. "You're into your third trimester already," she said. "Are you getting enough nutrition? Enough rest? The baby will need—"

"I'm getting everything I need and more," Priscilla said, taking the morph's hand. The woman flinched at the touch, but didn't draw away. "My chambers have been already practically turned into a nursery. Come with me, and we'll ensure you're taken care of." She waved to Oswin. "In fact, there's no need to escort us. We can find our way."

The morph hesitated, glancing around at the table. Oswin glanced at Hector, who rose from his seat. "Darling," he said softly, "are you certain?"

She smiled at him with steely eyes. "Of course, my love," she replied. "She's pregnant, and we happen to be well-equipped to care for pregnant women."

The morph glanced at Mark, who nodded with a small smile. Finally, she let herself be led away. Priscilla took her out the back door toward the staircase, her handmaiden shutting it behind her.

Matthew glanced at Hector. "You sure—"

"Priscilla's made up her mind," Raven interrupted. "She's not going to change it for any of us."

Mark looked at Hector, silent, but the triumph was evident in his eyes. The woman was safe, and free, for the time being. Hector wasn't sure that was a good thing—but it meant she was someone else's problem, leaving him free to focus on everything else.

"All right," he said, sitting back down. "Florina says you promised us a story." He motioned to Mark. "Let's have it."

As soon as Grace entered the marchioness's chambers, the handmaiden took her arm and all but yanked her to a dressing screen. Smooth hands grabbed roughly at her clothes, and she jerked away. The maid held up her hands, eyes softening. "Your clothes are filthy from travel," she said. "We'll get you into something clean while they're washed."

Grace frowned at the kind words, lowering her arms. She was stripped naked before she knew what was happening, her clothes tossed into a basket and carried away by yet another servant as she was ushered into an adjoining chamber. There was a tub here, already full. The maid tried to lead her toward it, but again, Grace balked. "Hot water isn't good for the baby," she said.

The handmaiden rolled her eyes, then offered an apologetic smile when Grace glared at her. "True enough. That's why this water had been heated to just a few degrees shy of steaming." She dipped her hands in the water as if to demonstrate. "And it's been treated with scented oils said to be wonderful for pregnancy. Lady Priscilla takes a bath near every day. It helps with the aches."

Grace took a sniff at the air, trying to parse some of the oils and salts in the water. She was sore, not just from the aches of pregnancy, but from two rides atop a pegasus, separated only by a fitful night on a cot. Eventually, she agreed, and the maid helped her into the water. She was left to soak for a few minutes, taking the opportunity to wash some of the travel grime from her body, before the maid returned with some towels and a silky robe. When Grace was dry and more-or-less clothed, the maid returned her to the marchioness's bedchamber, deposited her into a far-too-comfortable dais, and began massaging her feet. Grace wanted to protest this, too, but the woman's hands felt so good on her aching feet, she decided not to stop her just yet.

Marchioness Ostia was there, seated across from her. She must have changed, because her eye-catching dress had been replaced by a simple red shift. "Thank you, Anastasia," she said to the handmaiden, who looked up from her work long enough to nod. The marchioness offered Grace a smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Pampered," Grace responded. It was the first and only word that came to mind. "Is this… are you treated like this every day?"

The red-haired woman shrugged. "Hector… overreacted when he learned I was pregnant. Before the day was over, he'd sent for the best healers in Lycia for advice on prenatal care. I know it seems excessive, but after carrying around a human being in my gut for six months, I'm not going to refuse a little pampering."

Grace nodded, then hesitated for a moment. I'm among nobility. Human nobility. How should I act? She eventually bowed her head. "Thank you for all of this, Marchioness Ostia. You're too kind."

The woman settled back in her seat, regarding her. "What's your name?"

"Sorry?"

"Your name? I didn't catch it."

Grace began fidgeting with her robe. "It's… Grace, milady."

"Grace." A smile spread over the marchioness's face. "That's lovely. And my name is Priscilla. Please, just call me that."

"I see." Grace glanced down to where Anastasia still massaged her feet, and seemed to be ignoring their conversation. "Lady Priscilla."

"Well, I—oh, never mind." Priscilla smiled at her, leaning forward. "You said you were about fourteen weeks along?"

"That's right," Grace replied. "Though we've only known for about two weeks. I've been doing everything I can for the baby since then, though."

Priscilla nodded. "And the father…?"

"Denning," Grace answered promptly. "My husband." She lifted her left hand to show her the ring.

Priscilla's eyes lit up at the sight. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, hiding her smile. "It's just—it still seems so strange."

Grace felt her jaw tighten. "Strange that morphs can love?"

Priscilla's smile slowly slid from her face. "Forgive me," she said softly. "Before today, all the morphs I met were..."

Grace thought of Denning's cold eyes, the fourteen words, the arrow pointed at her head. "No," she replied. "You're right. All you know of us is to fear us."

"Not anymore," Priscilla said firmly. She reached for Grace's hand. "You've changed all that."

Grace frowned. "Have I? The men downstairs look at me and see..." she shrugged. "A monster."

"They see what they expect to see," Priscilla insisted. "Matthew trusts nobody by the nature of his job, and my brother trusts nobody by the nature of..." She grimaced. "Well, his nature."

"And your husband?"

"Hector doesn't know what to think. Mark's letters have swayed him, but morphs invaded his home five years ago. Even though the man who controlled them is long dead, that kind of pain is difficult to forget."

Grace decided it best not to mention that her husband had led that attack.

"But I'm hoping I can make him see what I see," Priscilla went on, reaching for Grace's hand.

Grace looked down at the handmaiden, who seemed to be finishing with her feet. "And what is that?" she asked softly.

"A mother-to-be." Priscilla looked down at her own belly. "One desperate to protect her child."

Grace stared at Priscilla's hand, which wavered in the air, for a good ten seconds. She finally reached for it, and the marchioness's fingers tightened around her own. "The man who did this," Grace whispered, tears tugging at her eyes. "He used my husband as a test subject. He turned all my friends into slaves. He kept me locked away so he could have my child when it's born."

"He won't get it," Priscilla said firmly. "He won't get you. And neither will anybody here. You have my word."

By the time Mark finished his story, every gaze at the table had turned to stone. Hector leaned forward, fingers crossed. "Then our worst fears have come true."

"No," Lyn said. "Not our worst fears." Her eyes flicked to Mark as she spoke, and his chest tightened.

Matthew was unusually still. Serra, Mark realized, was glaring across the table at him. The spy rose abruptly. "Forgive me, milord," he said. "There's something I must attend to."

"Now?" Hector said, eyes narrowing.

"Now." Matthew turned and left before there could be any further argument. His eyes briefly met Mark's as the spy passed his chair, and the tactician felt a flash of—something. Friendship? Resentment?

Both?

"That still leaves us with an enemy force within a day's march of Lycia's capital," Raven said as the door shut behind Matthew. "The last time morphs attacked Ostia..."

He didn't need to finish. They all remembered the harrowing battle—the first time they'd crossed paths with Denning, even if none of them realized it at the time. Pushed to the brink, Hector's forces had barely been able to survive until reinforcements arrived, and even then, they were just able to push the morphs back by sheer force of numbers.

Florina stirred at Lyn's side, her gaze flicking to Mark. He recalled suddenly that she'd confronted Denning during that battle. Had she recognized him atop the ramparts as they fled? Why not speak up about it now?

Hector stood up, regarding Mark. "There is only one real question facing us, and only you can provide the answer. While the morphs were under Cassandra's leadership, and while they had you, they did not attack." He leaned forward, gaze piercing into the tactician. "What will Peleus do now that he's in control, and you're with us?"

Mark opened his mouth to reiterate that the morphs wanted only peace—then forced himself to stop. The morphs wanted to live in peace, it was true. They wanted to make their livings, fall in love, have children. But they were no longer themselves. Peleus's will—Nergal's will—was binding them once again. And with that in mind…

Mark shook his head. "I don't know," he confessed.

Hector hissed out a breath. "Guess."

"My lord, I—all right. Look." Mark rose himself, starting to walk around the table. He had no real destination in mind, but sitting still was unthinkable right now. "Peleus is in control, and he was willing to kill me when Cassandra was not. That much has changed." He raised a finger. "Here's what hasn't changed. The morphs in that fort are not an organized military unit, like the one that attacked here five years ago. They are survivors and stragglers of Nergal's army. Plus, Ostia's forces outnumber them, especially if we levy soldiers from the other marchies."

"So attacking us would be foolish," Hector surmised.

Mark nodded. "Suicidal, even."

"Is Peleus suicidal?" It was Raven who growled the question.

Mark's steps faltered. "He wants to succeed, but..." He began stroking his chin. "If he sees the situation as hopeless, then..."

"If he attacks, we may win in the end," Raven went on. "But we'll lose a lot of forces in the struggle."

And all the friends I've made in the last eight weeks will be dead. Mark shivered.

"There's also the woman to consider," Lyn spoke up. "She—"

"Grace," Serra interrupted. "Her name is Grace."

Lyn looked at her in surprise. So did Mark; he hadn't realized Serra had taken the time to learn Grace's name.

"All right," Lyn went on. "If Peleus was keeping Grace prisoner, there's a chance he'll come for her now."

Mark rubbed the back of his head. "Maybe. It depends on how important she was to his plans."

"What were his plans for her, anyway?" Hector asked.

Mark lowered his arm. "I don't know."

Hector's frown deepened. "You never used to speak those words. Now they're becoming your favorites."

"My lord, I don't know. Peleus wishes to carry out Nergal's will, but what does that mean? Will he attack Ostia? Will he travel to Valor and attempt to reopen the Dragon's Gate? Or will he lay low and try to build his forces?" Mark shook his head. "I can't fathom the motives of a man such as he, try as I might. But that's not why I'm here."

Hector frowned. "Well, of course. You're here because you escaped."

"No, my—well, yes, my lord. I escaped Peleus." Mark leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. "But everyone else in that fort is still in danger. Gavin and Ellain risked their lives to buy Grace and I our freedom; I've no idea what happened to them. Denning, Moriel, and all the others who Peleus reverted need to be freed. And Cassandra—" He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to even think of it. "They need our help, my lord." He opened his eyes again, fixing them on Hector. "As I said before. I've come to petition your aid in overthrowing Peleus and freeing the residents of the morph fort."

Silence rang in the hall.

"You're joking," Jaffar said.

"No," Lyn sighed, "he's not."

"It's as we feared," Raven muttered. "The morphs have brought him over to their side."

"There is no 'their side,'" Mark snapped. "Nor an 'our side.' Our enemy is Peleus, not the morphs."

"It wasn't Peleus who took you captive two months ago," Hector pointed out. "It was Cassandra."

"Yes, but things have changed. She's changed."

"For your first week, you weren't allowed to leave your room," Raven said. "You think what she's done since then changes that?"

Mark flinched at the reminder. That first week had been hell—but it had also been a long time ago. "Of course it does," he replied. "She let me out. She made me an administrator—"

"She manipulated you," Raven spat, rising to his feet. "You must see that."

"Sit down, Raven," Hector rumbled. Something dangerous had crept into his eyes.

"My lords," Canas said, looking worried. "Please, I think we should consider—"

"What, shaman?" Jaffar asked, voice as cold as his gaze. "Do you think we should consider what Mark is saying? Save the morphs? Follow in Nergal's footsteps?"

Canas stood. "That is uncalled for. Ancient magic is—"

"Dark magic."

Others started to murmur. Canas blanched. "That's not—"

"None of this matters," Lyn interrupted. "Mark's safety needs to be our priority. As long as the morphs live, they might—"

Mark gripped the table harder. "Cassandra would never hurt me—"

"All of you, sit down!" Hector was shouting now.

"We should wait for Lucius to get back." Raven, too, had to yell to be heard over the growing din.

"Yes!" Serra agreed. "He and Renault can—"

"What?" Jaffar said, rounding on them. "Renault can what? Uncover more dark secrets? Create more perversions of life?"

"You're one to talk of dark secrets." Mark was shocked to realize it was Erk who had spoken.

"Erk," Pent said warningly.

Jaffar fixed his gaze on the young mage. "You have something you wish to say to me?"

"Yes," Erk said, glaring back with equal hostility. "Where the hell is Nino?"

Jaffar faltered. "I—what? I thought—you and she—"

"Enough."

The word shot through the meeting hall like an arrow. But it was not Hector's booming voice that had brought the arguments to a stop. Everyone turned to face Eliwood, who stood, one hand on Durandal's hilt, eyes going from one face to another.

"We spent nigh on a year fighting Nergal," Eliwood said. "By the end of that year, every man and woman who joined our cause had bled for it." He looked down at his sword. "Not all of them made it back."

Even without Matthew there, Leila's face flashed into Mark's mind.

"We did not survive that to be torn apart by indecision now," Eliwood went on. "There is exactly one man here able to decide what we are to do." He looked over at his longtime friend. "You, Hector, must be the one to choose our course."

Hector blinked. "Well. Yes. Of course." He coughed, and Mark just heard him murmur something about "no pressure" before he addressed the group. "But I can't make that choice without more information. We'll have to organize a scouting party to—"

The door slammed open, making half the table's occupants jump. Everyone turned to see Oswin rush through the door. "Begging your pardon, my lords," he said, bowing quickly, "but you have another new arrival."

Hector frowned. "Who?"

Oswin had already taken up position by the door. "Announcing," he called, "Brother Lucius and Father Renault."

Priscilla still couldn't help but marvel at the sight before her. A morph, speaking and smiling and laughing just like a human. A pregnant morph, whose concern for her unborn child was just as heartfelt as Priscilla's own. Perhaps it was foolish to feel such a strong sense of kinship with someone she'd just met, but as they spoke, she couldn't help but find more and more ways that she and Grace were alike—and fewer ways they were different.

Grace had already related the story of Peleus's takeover of the fort before moving on to the far more pleasant topic of her husband Denning's musical pursuits, when a sharp knock came at her door. Both women jumped, but petite Anastasia, who'd been busying herself keeping the fire stoked, rose to answer without a second thought. The handmaiden opened the door, and gasped. "Lord Hector!"

Priscilla pushed to her feet, Grace belatedly following suit. Hector strode toward them, wearing the same warm smile he always had when seeing his wife. Behind him was a small group from downstairs, including Mark, Raymond—and Lucius, who was leaning heavily on her brother's shoulder. At the monk's side was an older-looking man she swore she knew, but couldn't quite place. He wore a bishop's robe and neck-length grey hair, but remained clean-shaven. He had surprisingly intense look about him for a man of the cloth.

"Priscilla." Hector took her hand and kissed it tenderly. "Sorry to barge in like this."

"It's quite all right," she said, glancing around at the group. "You're always welcome here, husband."

She was rewarded with a blush across his face, barely hidden under his blue beard. She turned to smile at the returned monk. "Brother Lucius. As glad as I am to see you, it's clear you should be resting"

That was putting it lightly. Lucius looked like he'd been through hell and back. "I'm all right," he said, smiling weakly back at her. "Just a little tired."

"He insisted on riding constantly to get here," the older man murmured in a smooth baritone. "I tried to get him to rest, but..."

"It's all right, your excellency," Raymond growled. "We all know how stubborn he can be when he wants to."

Priscilla turned her gaze on the newcomer, and realization dawned at last. "Bishop Renault," she said.

Renault nodded. "Marchioness Ostia. It's a pleasure to see you again."

"I'd heard you were returning with Lucius," she said, studying the man. She hadn't interacted with him much five years ago, and she was beginning to understand why. The aloofness in his eyes went deeper, into his very soul; only a handful of people had been kind enough, brave enough, or stubborn enough to pierce that barrier and get to know him. "I hadn't realized you'd be back so soon, though."

Lucius raised his eyes to meet hers. "As they said, I felt it was important for us to return as soon as possible." He looked over at Mark. "I now see I was right."

The tactician didn't meet his gaze; he was looking over at Grace. "You're all right?" he asked softly.

"I am," she replied, still eyeing Renault warily. "Who's this? What's going on?"

Renault flinched at the sound of her voice, turning to Grace for the first time. Something changed behind his eyes as he regarded her. "You're the morph," he said.

Grace pulled away from him, just a hair. "So they keep telling me," she said, an edge to her voice.

He tilted his head. "And… you're free."

"So I keep telling them."

He didn't respond, just continuing to stare at her, his brow slowly furrowing. She pulled back further still, wrapping protective arms around her belly. "I'm married, I'll have you know," she grumbled.

The words seemed to snap Renault out of his reverie. He looked at Grace in surprise, then around at the others. Then—without warning—he threw his head back, laughing. It was a childlike laugh—guileless, mirthful, unrestrained. And, judging by the faces of everyone else in the room, they were all as shocked by it as Priscilla.

"You did it," he said, finally bringing his laughter under control as he looked back down at Grace. "You actually did it."

The morph looked even more worried now than she had before his laughing fit. "Did what?"

"The red book was never finished," Renault said, wiping away a tear. "It couldn't have been used to free anyone. But you—or rather, this Cassandra—she finished it." He turned to Mark. "If we can get it back, we can use it to free the morphs again. This time, for good."

Mark looked relieved—then confused. "Wait, Renault—er, your excellency... what do you know of the red book?"

The bishop regained some of his composure—but he still wore a smile. "Mark." He put a hand on his chest. "I wrote the red book."