I apologies for any errors; I have no beta, so these fall squarely on my shoulders!

Chapter 25

Hermione's feet skipped over the stone floor as though she either weighed nothing, or she simply floated on the very air itself. Her smile brightened her face and made it glow with her elation. Her curly hair was pulled back in two twists at the back of her head, and her cheeks were flushed as though there was a snap of cold in the morning air.

She bounded into the breakfast hall that morning, greeting everyone pleasantly as she sat, only Draco she greeted last. Her brother looked at her out of the corner of his eye; again she'd chosen to sit directly across from Draco. This, he noted, was the fifth time.

Their mother still had not made her appearance to the table, but the meal had begun regardless. The Masters had already finished and had requested that they make their meals quick as the Masters wished to see them mounted within half the hour following the meal for mounted combat testing.

At the completion of the meal, Tyt'o cleared his throat and offered his elbow to his sister. "Come Wren, let us get a head start on saddling that we might get the mounts warmed up and ready. We'll pull out the saddles and pads for these two as well." She couldn't refute him, but tried to keep her perkiness undeterred. Tyt'o knew now the reason she lingered at breakfasts, but his open face and innocent invitation brokered no evidence.

She took his arm and as he held her eyes with his, the identical pools of copper, she was unable to look back at Draco. She could see him in her periphery as he was watching the two make their exit. He scowled a little, and felt Theo elbow him in the ribs jovially.

"Haste now, friend, we ought not to allow our cohorts to take all the work from us!" Draco managed a smile. The word 'friend' had been bestowed most haphazardly, during the days of Lammas, but had stuck agreeably. The four had been traipsing around in the meadows in leisure and casual companionship, when Tyt'o had burst out its use.

It had brought all four of them to a totally different plane of interaction as it had seemed to melt away the last vestiges of hesitation and mistrust. Tyt'o and Hermione had begun to openly pull little gaffes on Theo and Draco, and they in turn had ribbed them back on some occasions. It was all tentative and with a little trepidation, but their friendship was forging along strongly.

The blond nodded his head and gulped back the last of his drink, and pushed back his chair. "Then let us join the company presently!" Theo smiled and clapped Draco on the back. The pair had come to enjoy with abandon the riding of the Gresham Horses. There were many varieties housed here, and while they consistently accepted whatever mounts the siblings bestowed on them, they oft wished that they would be permitted to ride the larger and more skilled varieties.

They had not ridden much this last fortnight, so when they exited the gate to take the path to the stable, the pair were shocked to see a procession of lads and men clearing and area that had been cleared and leveled in the dirt that large beams and stone was being hauled by cart, and hand-pulled wagons. Draco looked at Theo in curiosity, and he shrugged back, uncertain as to how he could answer. "What manner of dwelling are they building so close to the House?"

"Aye, and so close to the cavern that houses he Dragons." He noted in return.

The Gresham siblings were working quickly to gather the tack needed to mount the four horses. They had selected four clean and shining Norikers that stomped and whinnied in excitement to be ridden.

As the pair approached, Theo motioned back to the men working and hauling. "What are manner of building are they installing?" He asked Tyt'o.

"They've begun the nursery." He said smiling.

"Ah." Theo said. "And what be that then?"

"Once the wyrmlings have hatched, they will need shelter near the Dragon sires, and to be closed to their riders." He said, and Theo nodded, taking note as to consider the proximity to the large alcove that the Dragons nested themselves in during the evenings.

"But why would they not nest with the sires?" He inquired further.

"It will be more likely that we will all end up in one large pile of Dragons and men, in the end anyway." Tyt'o laughed.

"We?" Draco interjected. "What mean you by 'we'?" Tyt'o gave him an examining look. Once might consider it a little harsh, if he were being paranoid.

"In this, I mean that we," He pointed in a circle to the whole group. "Will be living with the wyrmlings, and we will also be sleeping with them."

"Much the same as how when a youngling crawls back into bed with its parents." Hermione added. Theo and Draco frowned at that. "Did not you ever find yourself slipping into bed with your mothers and fathers some nights, when you were very small?" She asked.

The paid shook their heads hesitantly. Draco rubbed his neck, unwilling to expound verbally that, were he to enter his parents chambers, it would have been likely that he would have found a woman who was not his mother sleeping there.

Theo equally looked stricken at the notion that he would have left his rooms for any reason at night. Let alone that he would have found a bed bereft of his mother should he have attempted it.

"Oh." She said softly, averting her eyes. "Well, once our wyrms have hatched, we cannot lead them to our rooms, and it would be cruel to separate from them so soon after we have bonded with them, so we will come out here and be with them instead." She said softly.

The concept still seemed a little strange to the two, but they shrugged and tried to accept the notion that they would essentially be sleeping in what was looking to be a barn.

Hermione made to walk around her horse, now that she was finished, and help Draco to place the bridle. Her brother intercepted her with one large stride and cupped her shoulder affectionately. "You work too tirelessly, sister!" He exclaimed. "Let your brother shoulder some of it for you, lest I be branded a lay-about?" His eyes danced as he teased her, and she gave him a side-long look and handed him the bridle.

Something about his enthusiasm tickled the back of her mind, but she brushed it off since she couldn't place it.

The four walked their saddled mounts out to one of the cleared fields where Sirius waited for them, atop an even-tempered gray gelding that held his head nicely, and stomped excitedly.

The four were bid to run a few courses atop the animals to get them warmed and ready to begin a series of magical practices while situated on a moving animal, so as to simulate combat astride the back of a Dragon.

Tyt'o pushed his mount eagerly as he rode, focusing on settling himself as close to his sister without putting her into danger and once their animals were warmed and ready, he continued to insert himself at his sister's side. At one point even, he saw her look at him side-glance and scowl. He merely smiled at her, reassuring her as much as he could muster.

He almost whooped in triumph when Sirius called him and Draco to pair first. It felt ordained that this should happen. The two walked their horses back as Sirius explained the track to them, and walked them through a few practice runs at a trot, then canter. The Master was very specific in his expectations, and how he required the first few runs to be at a gentle pace, and no aggression. He needed to see them on the animals and make certain their safety was paramount before they moved into true warring-level forces.

Tyt'o and Draco brought their steeds to their mark, and at Sirius's command ran their first two jousts, passing the other without using any magic to combat. Tyt'o couldn't help but eye Draco fiercely as he passed, his mask of jovial helpfulness in the public view of their peers had slipped, and he felt freer to glare at him openly.

The animosity being directed at Draco wasn't missed, and the youth was taken back at the sudden and dramatic shift in the demeanor of his new-sound friend. There was no time to quest an answer as to what set Tyt'o on his path, for at the third round, the pair squared off and the horses rushed, and each youth summoned his magic as they made their first pass at each other.

The force of Tyt'o's spell work struck Draco in the chest with so much enforcement behind it, that he was unseated from his animal and thrown backward against the momentum, crashing into the loose dirt upon his back. The air was crushed out of him, and he lay there for a moment, temporarily incapacitated by the shock.

Hermione had all but leapt from her animal to run to him as she watched him sail through the air, her brother walking his horse up to where Draco lay and dismounted casually. Sirius and Theo had rushed over as well, deeply concerned for the young man. Hermione had crouched down beside him, and shot her brother a pernicious scowl. He smiled weakly at her and shrugged his hands apart.

The Master clasp his student fiercely at the shoulder. "Tyt'o!" He admonished. "Was I not specific in the level of craft you were to employ on the first round?" Tyt'o looked at his Master apologetically.

"Aye, Master, it is my offence. The rush of the horses, and the excitement of the match made me lose myself a moment." He looked to Draco, affection absent from his face. "I do bid you my apologies, friend. My outburst was unacceptable." Tyt'o held his hand out to his sparring partner, and Draco took it hesitantly.

"No harm done, in truth." He said with nonchalance. "Shall we go again?" He offered, and grasp Tyt'o proffered hand and smiled back tightly. Their eyes were locked onto each other, and Hermione caught onto it right away. She stood up and away from the pair, unable to say anything to either of them as she was wan to reveal her budding relations with the blond, though she yearned to put her hands upon him and check him over for injury. She repressed herself and made to move away back to her horse to wait with Theo.

The pair mounted up again, and Sirius pointed them back to their start points. The horses equally pawed and pranced, eager to be released to run just as much as their riders were. From down the line Draco looked at Tyt'o and called his magic to him in preparation; he wouldn't be caught unawares this second round, and it seemed that his sweetheart's brother had some kind of a point to prove.

Damn. Draco realized in that instance, but before he could think further on it, the call was made and the horses shot out at a run in their joust. The thundering of hooves and bumping of his body was all he could focus on as the two animals approached each other in another pass. As he unleashed his spell, he felt pressure along both his shoulders and an immense force pushing him backward for a second time.

Time came to a near stand-still for a few seconds as the riders reached their closest point in their pass. Draco's eyes widened as he caught the angry expression Tyt'o wore, as Draco's body left the saddle for a second time. As Draco flew from his horse a second time, the seconds crawled by, and his body seemed suspended in the air while he flew back ward towards the ground. Damnation and hellfire. Draco thought to himself, just as his body connected with the ground, pounding the air out of his lungs. He knows about us.

The heir of Malfoy hit with a thud, crushing the air from his lungs sending him through a fit of coughs. He heard raised voices and the thumping toward him for the second time and he groaned as he rolled himself over. Hermione had leapt from her horse and knelt down beside him. "Draco!" She exclaimed, and noted that his nose had begun to bleed a little. She whirled on her brother, who was still mounted and marched up to him.

His horse felt her rage keenly and shied away from her, but she snatched its reins beneath the jaw and held the mare firmly, commanding her in place. She glared dangerously at her brother, and with her other hand, yanked on his stirrup. "What in blazes do you think you are about, brother?!" She demanded. "Master Black stated clearly what force of magic was to be used, and you committed your understanding! You could have hurt him!"

His sister was fuming, and Tyt'o cocked his head and glared right back at her. He leaned down in his saddle closer to her face and growled at her. "You committed as well, but we don't see any consequences when you renege, do we?" She froze when he said it. It was low enough that she knew no one else heard it but them and she released his stirrup in shock as her mouth fell open a little.

"Not so brazen now, are we little sister?" He sneered at her, and he yanked his horse's tethers from her hand and gave her a sharp dig with his heels, and she shot off like an arrow, back down the pitch.

Hermione looked after her brother, tears menacing her eyes and she blinked rapidly. Behind her Master Black had picked Draco up from the dirt and brushed him off to look him over. The young man assured his teacher that he was well enough to remount, and Sirius accepted his assessment, but bid him to remove from the jousting.

She wanted nothing more than to mount her horse and follow her brother down the pitch, and knock him clean from his saddle. She tightened her fists and growled to herself, conflicted by the embarrassment at being called out. She'd promised him she would stay out of Draco's company, and she'd done the direct opposite. She'd lied. Tyt'o wheeled his animal back around, the mare prancing madly around and around, desperate to be bid to run once more, excited and agitated. Her brother's resentment and indignation painted very clearly in his eyes and brow, and he looked directly at his sister.

The young lady stowed her ire and turned away. She had no place to be in a huff. She had promised him, and then broke her word. Were he to do such a thing to her, her own acrimony would have been an eruption of screaming and berating. She had enough control over herself to understand that a confrontation in front of their peers would undoubtedly out her clandestine affections for Draco, and they would be revealed. Then nothing would stop the onslaught of punishment, both from her brother and her parents.

Glancing over her shoulder to check back at the goings-on between the remaining trio, she saw that Draco had remounted his gelding and waved to her quickly to signal that he was well. She nodded just slightly, unable to do any more. With a sigh of frustration, she mounted her own horse and Master Black mandated that she perform the exercise to perfection of his instructions, and the Master turned his horse to walk it out down the pitch at the young Gresham heir.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The lady of the House groaned as she rolled over, the light assailing her eyes with clear ill-intent. "Gods mercy, blast that drink." She moaned out, lamenting that she had spent the night previous in her rooms on her balcony tipping back most of the bottle she'd found in her husband's study.

Sitting up slowly, so as not to disturb her head any further, she glanced at the windows to see her curtains had been drawn for her and judging by the light it was around mid-morning. She groused further; she'd missed breakfast with the children, which she was loathe to do.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and hung her head, it throbbed with gusto as it reminded that her revelry came at a steep price. It was no wonder Loren would wake so groggily, and with little want to share in her spritely morning joy. She sighed, missing the feel of him beside her in the accursedly spacious bed. His arms were always warm, and wide when it came to her. He would nuzzle his face into her hair and pull her into him, pressing into her affectionately.

Despite her increasingly introspective, and eventually maudlin ethos in the night prior, she did miss her Lord. In contempt of their recent stormy interactions, she knew she still loved her husband. She just wasn't certain she could trust him so easily. Her stomach lurched and she stowed her reflections aside as she gripped her mouth closed, breathing slowly through her nose. Her mouth began watering and she briefly recalled the first handful of months of both her pregnancies had been like this. She spied a chamber pot and waited to see if her stomach would hold, or would go.

No such luck for her, it seemed. She lurched forward for her blessedly-clean chamber pot as the stinging contents of her stomach made a theatrical entrance. Not once, but several times even.

She plopped down on the floor unceremoniously next to the pot and wiped her mouth with the corner of her night wear. In that moment, with sweat forming on her face, the poised woman cared nothing for decorum, stature, or her primness. This was a reason to wear off fermented beverage for a life-age, she concluded, and her stomach churned a second time.

As she heaved a second time, she cursed her husband's private stores of port furiously.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

An hour, several chamber pots, wetted cloths and a splash in the water basin later, Ursa Gresham basked in the late-morning sun on a common balcony. Wishing to escape the miasma of the curse of Dea Latis [1], she found her liberation waiting for her in the warming sunshine.

She closed her eyes and nibbled a bit more bread, treading carefully as she waited pensively for her gut to accept her offering and be sated once more. The colic in her stomach seemed mollified in her offering and she continued to nibble at her plain brown loaf slowly.

Her mind felt as tired as her body did; the prior days considerations had weighed on her heavily and the realization that her husband was now overdue in his return from his convocation also made its way into the forefront. There would be much to do today, and time was wasting away as she convalesced lazily in her post-drunken state.

But did the air feel glorious! She smiled thinking then that, were she not directing the House alone, she would have been up at the dawn and roused for her day's task. No rest, no repose, no merriment permitted for her! Knowing she was alone here, she shrugged the shawl she wore off her shoulders and pushed the top of her gown along with it to let the sun touch her shoulders, like it would when she was but a tiny maiden. The Lady leaned back in her chair and relished the relaxation she had stolen away from her schedule.

It was in this state of innocent vulnerability that Rune Mora had come upon her, having mutedly situated herself just shy of the stone arch where Ursa was unable to detect her presence. Rune carefully cast a conjuration, both with great gentleness and great stealth. She paid much greater focus to the subtle art than she had with Ursa when they had joined at the feast of Lammas.

The Necromancer commanded the magic in her mind to slowly settle around the Lady without bringing it to her attention, and even though she shifted subtly in her chair, the Master could feel that Ursa had no inkling Rune had been granted an unrestricted window into the mind of the Lady.

Rune had deduced that the Lady was more sensitive that most to her intrusions because she was quite adept at them herself, thusly Rune's normal gruff and rough tactics would not work if she wished to secret herself past Ursa's awareness to glean the memories she sought.

After a great deal of consideration, and even a recounting of her prior conjurations, the Master had concluded that it was not the issue that Ursa was keeping information from her; it was that she had no idea how to make sense of what she already knew.

But Rune Mora could cohere such information with much more skill. Puzzlements were her specialty, and the trill of the hunt for elements to complete such a flummoxing riddle would leave her practically salacious in the urge to acquire what she wished.

It didn't hurt her efforts that Ursa nursed a considerably nasty hangover, and her mind was mired in a post-sick muddle.

Once she was confident that Ursa could not detect the riffling through her mind, she freely spread the wings of her spell and began to soak and absorb what she could.

She is small. Maybe 5 or 6. She is running down the hall, after her older sister, who is laughing over her shoulder at her diminutive sibling. Her dress is darling and little; it comes down to her mid-calf. Her long hair whips behind her, and she trips. Her sister keeps running, and doesn't look back. A little boy about her age runs to her side and helps her to her feet. There are tears in her bronze eyes, but the little boy smiles at her, and she smiles back. She doesn't let go of his hand.

Ursa's crackling magic flowing through her arms and hands as she laughed gaily with a young man. The pair weren't more than eleven or twelve; Ursa herself looked more rounded of face, and less-rounded of feminine graces, her baby fat has still to make its shift as she moved into womanhood. But her bronze eyes danced with her play-friend as the two played with their magic, tugging a quill between the two midair.

The young man pointed to a book in front of the pair, and recited the theorem contained within; Ursa nodded readily in agreement and he scribbled a note on parchment as she looked at what he wrote. The two of them giggled and she squinted over his shoulder at what he had written.

The young friend stood much taller suddenly, than Ursa, and she playfully pushed at him as he smiled at her. She was taller as well, but blossoming in a way that was not height-related. He'd handed her a few small flowers with closed blooms and as she took them, they bloomed as her hand wrapped around them. Her face bloomed as well with a lively smile, and while she looked back to her flowers an affection and longing passed over her young beau's face.

They were holding hands now, faces concentrating fervently, and together their clasped hands began to disappear as the magic they conjured together pulled their corporeal forms into shadows that could not be seen by the naked eye. Sweat was forming on their brows and their hands were clamped tightly together. The melding of their magic was intense and a force that radiated from the two of them like a heat wave as the spell moved further upward of their arms.

Her hair was long and unbound, and as she read her book her back was pressed into his shoulder and it had cascaded into his lap, where his fingers fiddled with it absentmindedly. His own book being his primary focus, he still looped his index finger lazily through her tresses and she sighed as she turned the page.

He was much taller than she now, and the planes of his face were more defined than before. The awkwardness of youth fading back as his maturation into manhood was well underway. She herself wore a dress more becoming of a young woman, filled out in greater expanse in the appropriate places and brushing the floor to cover her feet, rather than ending at her ankles as though she were a little maid. Her eyes were dancing as she showed him how she had sealed the crack in the window, her expression triumphant. He smiled at her with pride and cupped her cheeks with his hands, and leaned in to place the gentlest of kisses on her lips.

She laughed, and he laughed, and their hands were fastened together affectionately. He had changed the leaves of the apple tree into blooms and she looked up with joy and wonder as they gently tumbled down around her face and shoulders. In his eyes there was hope, admiration, and a deep love. When her eyes met his finally, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. This time, their kisses were familiar, and lacked the same degree of innocence in them.

Lightning flashed in the sky, and the room was alight for only a moment. He held her to him desperately, and their eyes searched each other in question, but too, in wonder. The contours of her face were faded into the night around them, and their breaths heaved mercilessly as he leaned in again, wrapping her body tighter still in his arms. There was no sound in this memory, but her gasps at his attentions were no longer as innocent as his hands lowered to her waist, and he pressed against her firmly. Their kissing was heated and divinely impassioned.

Tears tumbled over her cheeks as she wept, her mother's hand on her shoulder in comfort. She pushed it away and opened her mouth in argument, gesturing wildly as her mother shook her head slowly. She shoved away from her, clasping her palms to her forehead as she began to hyperventilate, then grabbing at her midsection as she began to crumble to the floor as she wailed her despair.

The young Lady paced back and forth behind her door, livid at her imprisonment. She shouted and cried and slapped at the back of her door, but no one opened it. She summoned her magic over and over, but she was deflected each time in her attempts. She pulled and pried at the handle, but it would not budge. She sank to the floor with her head in her hands and wept into her lap until she fell asleep on the floor.

Ursa's face was drawn, and a bit sad. Her mother pinched her cheeks so as to bring color to them, and smoothed her hair away from her face. The Lady smoothed her daughters beautiful gown, and picked at imaginary specks all along her shoulders. Ursa's disinterest was clear, but her mother pulled her chin up to face her and chided her with an elegant finger. The younger Lady's eyes welled with tears and her mother gripped her shoulders and shook her. Ursa nodded slowly, and her mother took her by the hand as they entered a Great Hall together, filled with revelers and many young people. She stood before a Lord and Lady, about the same age as her own mother, she curtsied and tried for the first smile she could bear in weeks. The smile was frail.

Her sadness poured out of her into the pillow she nestled her face into. There, in the dark, when the hour was late, there were no more pretenses. No more agreeability. No more complacency. There was her made raw in her mourning.

His hands were sweaty in hers, and she felt it displeasing. She only allowed her hand in his for as long as strictly necessary. He smiled at her, complimented her, paid her courtesy and praised her of her beauty. She felt bored. And sick. She wished she could take the contents of her goblet and rent them over his head and tell him what a pompous ass he was. Instead she smiled gentle and bid him thanks. She felt loathing all through her.

She danced woodenly, for she was numb. Her feet ached, but she did not care. She was tired. Her shoes pinched her feet, and she couldn't stand the sight of another Heir bowing lowly to grace him with a dance. She wanted to scream her objections into the room, castigate the denizens within for their pomposity and their sickening patriarchal castes. She longed to see his dark hair again, his warm hazel eyes. She was certain she would never forget the fire she felt when his lips met hers.

Samhain approached, and she felt listless in her embroidered finery. Her mother deftly lacing up the bodice from behind her, coaxing her into another evening of revel and laughter. Ursa wanted to shirk from the dress, and curl up into the warm bed, and never leave it. She wanted to feel her life ebb away as she slowly starved away from the planes of this place and slipped into eternal night.

He had handed her a goblet without bowing to her, he simply stood by her side silently. She considered him with great scrutiny as she stood there, and she sipped it. The mead was delicious, but she refused to compliment his family's vintage. She had no patience for compliance this evening. The dancers in front of them looked jovial, and delighted in the movement. She expected him to ask her, but he didn't. When he walked away, he looked back at her for a moment and smiled. She'd raised her eyebrow at him in confusion of his actions. So unlike a Lord he was, that she wondered a moment if he was one at all.

She'd been without a goblet for a song or two when she felt his hand in hers, and without permission, he carried her out to the floor with the other dancers. She opened her mouth to castigate him, but he laughed and placed her palms a top his. He teased her that she couldn't properly celebrate Yule without feeling the merriment in her blood first. Ursa thought him a fool. But by the end of their fifth dance she conceded that, at least, he was a fool who could dance.

The first time he lay his lips on hers, she felt a warmth that made her eyelashes stutter as they flickered. Her mind roared at her traitorous interest in him, demanding that he reject her own interest. She would never have a heart to love another. His hand touched her cheek reverently, and carefully, and she found that he was kind and of a good heart. She let her eyes meet his for the first time as he boldly leaned in again for kiss her once more.

The ribbons tied over their hands were white, and gold. Symbols of their eternal bonds. His ring was light and beautiful on her fingers, and she smiled so radiantly he looked like he would burst of happiness. Her gown was gold and ivory, and her hair was braided with flowers. It was the first time she heard the trumpeting of Dragons, and she cried out in adulation as the congregation cheers, and the Dragons bellowed their approval and blessings to them both.

The bedroom is dark, and Ursa is swaddled among the finest silks in her bed. Her eyes are wide open, staring at the canopy above her bed. Her long hair is unbound and splayed across her pillow, and her Lord Husband's arm is slung over her midsection in an affectionate manner. Her body is still vibrating from their nightly marital dance, and she's silently reveling in her own resplendence. The man beside her, her husband, plays her flesh like she is a musical instrument. And oh, how she sings for him. She is awash in confusion at how much she enjoys his attention. His delectable ministrations are unlike anything she knew possible, and her heart flutters for him more and more. She is undone as she closes her eyes and thinks back to those beautiful dark hazel eyes she looked into, and loved so fiercely, and has betrayed so utterly. Eyes within a face she will never see again.

Her heart was racing as though it was going to tear out of her chest, and she felt a cold spread all through her body. The light was fading from her eyes, and she tried to cry out, though her strength was wan, and the shell of her person depleted. The ache of birthing her daughter was the only thing she could feel clearly. The midwife leaned atop her, shaking her shoulders as she let the darkness consume her. She heard the fading cries of her infant baby and tried to reach out to take her in her arms, to feel her warm and wet body on the flesh of her breast, if only once before she parted from this world. She felt warmed then, as though she had slipped into a relaxing bath, and she sighed. And for the first time in so many years, she saw the smiling face of her child-love with his beautiful dark hair in its perfect waves. He smiled at her and it crinkled the skin around his dark hazel eyes. His lashes were so lush; she had forgotten. He took her into his arms as she lay by his side, after so many years apart, and he pressed his forehead into hers again and kissed her one final time.

Rune shook her head, and leaned back into the stone of the arch. The spell dissipated and Rune closed her eyes as she rolled back and away into the passage beyond, slowly. She felt tears rolling down her cheeks and she swiped at them with the palm of her hand in annoyance. The woman had felt everything Ursa had felt, in every memory. Her joy, the excitement, the wonder. Her fears and her devastation and anger. How she had been listless for months, until it finally turned her to anger. It was overwhelming, even to Rune Mora, the great and last remaining Necromancer. The granddaughter of the great Thamoro Mora, she stood there weeping as though she were a love-ailed maid.

The Master returned silently to the rooms she occupied while in the employ of the Gresham House, and shut her room. She did not mind that it was midday, and cared not for those who deemed it inappropriate for a woman to imbibe a drink. She poured herself a brandy wine and sunk herself into her setee.

The puzzle was as complete as she could expect it to be, it seemed. She'd have known that face anywhere, and it was true that Ursa did not know to whom her child-love had been born to.

The Lady's child-love wore the face of the Lord of the House of Gaunt.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

[1] Dea Latis is the celtic goddess of beer and wine. More pointedly this is like saying 'the curse of dionysus', or 'being hungover'.