"Auntie Marina!" Harald trumpeted gleefully as soon as he caught sight of me hovering in the dining room doorway, biting my lip while I considered the empty chair next to Thoren. For all that Signy had (rather unenthusiastically) ratified my relationship with her son, there was still no escaping the disaster I'd wrought this afternoon, and I wasn't positive I could endure an entire evening of tacit reproach. Luckily, most of the adults were engrossed in an animated discussion of Yule traditions while Karina dashed about corralling her offspring, and so I could dither at my leisure.

At least, I could until the little herald's shout sliced through all conversation, and I experienced the unique pleasure of getting appraised by Karina like a cabbage in the market. With as much poise as I could muster, I sailed into the dining room like the "demigod Secunda, daughter of Memory, and sister of the Muses" that I was. Signy, presiding at the head of the table, accorded me the faintest approving nod.

Ever the gentleman, Thoren rose immediately to pull out my chair. "New dress?" he asked curiously once we were seated, reaching over to rub the fabric of my sleeve.

"Mmm, yes," I said, a little self-consciously. "Your mother was kind enough to lend me warmer clothing."

As satisfied as if she'd personally directed a team of seamstresses to design a couture gown just for me, Karina informed Signy, "There! See, Mother, I told you Helga's spare dress would fit just fine."

Barely raising her head from a book half-hidden under the table, Helga glanced at me, registered my attire, deemed worldly concerns to be trifling next to great literature, and immediately returned to her reading.

My guide to local weather conditions, on the other hand, looked utterly chagrined at his lapse. "I'm sorry, Marina," Thoren apologized remorsefully. "I've been too preoccupied lately." (Yes. Yes, he had. With ancient love letters, no less.) "I should have noticed that all your clothing was too thin." In a move that suggested someone had consulted the Ars Amatoria, he trailed his fingertips down my arm until he found my hand under the table and squeezed it tightly.

"It's okay," I assured him, leaning my head against his shoulder. "I'm warm now."

He smiled down at me, toying with my fingers, until Zoe cleared her throat very pointedly from two seats down and jerked her head at the children. Poor Birgit looked ready to projectile-vomit stomach bile, but Helga had actually torn her attention from her book and was gazing at us dreamily. When she noticed us staring right back, she immediately ducked her head.

"Helga," her mother pleaded, lunging for Alf right before he toppled off his chair, "how many times do I need to tell you not to read at the table? Meals are a time for family. Especially during Yule."

"But I'm almost done reading this poem!" Helga protested. "It's so beautiful — "

"Ewwww!" shouted Harald, precocious literary critic.

"Harald, please. Helga, I'm not going to repeat myself. Put the book away right this minute, or I swear to Odin, I will throw it in the fireplace!" ("No!" shrieked Cly inside my head. "No no no! That's sacrilege! Marina, stop her!")

"Fine," the twelve-year-old sighed, echoing her mother's weary tone. Shutting the book as wistfully as Ynez had bidden farewell to Tel, Helga laid it tenderly on a bench beside the divine spear.

Once the pouting girl was back in her seat, her grandmother scanned the table one final time, deemed everyone sufficiently present in body, mind, and spirit, and directed one of the maids, "Tell Cook we're ready now."

Like Dionysian cultists, a procession of servants flooded forth to proffer massive wooden tankards. At the sight of the frothy, golden ale, Cly (who normally considered bodily needs such as nutrition to be a dangerous distraction from scholarly contemplation) perked up and darted to a new bookcase in her library. Yanking out a freshly-written tome, she recited, "After the Christianization of the northern lands, the Scandinavians blended pagan and Christian elements in their Yuletide celebrations." Jabbing a finger at my tankard, she harangued, "To this day, a key component (required by law, no less) involves drinking Yule ale to toast one's kinfolk and friends — plus one's personal choice of the Æsir or Christ and Mary."

"Well, that should make Ynez and Zoe feel right at home," I remarked.

"Hmmmm," said Cly very skeptically, directing my attention to Zoe's outfit. In honor of Christmas, the Inquisitor had forsaken her usual flowery prints and instead donned a glowing white silk dress trimmed in intricate lace, plus a luxurious scarlet velvet cape edged with some type of snow-white fur that probably cost more than I was worth on the slave market. Completing the ensemble was an opulent gem-encrusted gold crucifix. Like the cathedrals in France, the entire costume had been calculated to whack you over the head with the awesome power of the Lord and His representatives here on Earth. (No one had ever accused the Catholic Church of subtlety.) "That's the dress uniform of the Spanish Inquisition," Cly reminded me, "designed by Grand Inquisitor Torquemada himself and worn to formal events such as sentencings and executions."

Nothing like a good, old-fashioned witchburning to raise the Yuletide spirit?

More realistically, I pointed out, "Zoe probably just wanted an excuse to dress up." After all, our resident representative of the Lord on Earth had a bit of a vain streak. "I'll bet she missed her fancy, furry cape."

Cly sighed, a little disturbingly dejected that she wouldn't get to observe the Inquisition in action. "Fine, I'll keep working on my ethnographic study of the Norwegian people then. Make sure you catalogue all the dishes they serve here," she ordered. "I want precise notes on the types and cuts of meat, cooking methods, spices, flavors and textures, and any other relevant details."

"Cly, I have a perfect memory. I don't need to take notes on anything!"

For all my confidence, however, Signy's Yule feast certainly strained my inheritance from my biological mother. A steady procession of servants served platter after platter until the table practically collapsed under the onslaught of fish and pork. Dionysus had his bottomless wineskins — and our hosts their bottomless cooking pots.

"Mmmm," I sighed happily, spearing a third sausage and wondering if I could ask Cook for the recipe, "why didn't Astera ever hold banquets like this? I mean, obviously we didn't have Yule or Christmas — " a pointed ahem from Zoe corrected me — "but we could have celebrated Midsummer."

Cutting up a slice of ham daintily, Ynez responded, "Probably because of Plague and famine? Plus House Criamon didn't have the money?" In fact, even after combing through the orphanage records, neither of us had ever figured out how Astera scraped together enough funds to feed us all. Those godlings ate a lot.

"We could have been rich," I countered. "All we had to do was charge the other Houses for using the Hearth."

Savoring his meal and only half-monitoring the conversations around him, Thoren nearly choked on a bite of cod. "Thank Odin you weren't Astera's treasurer!" he sputtered. "You'd have bankrupted House Bonisagus!"

I took an unrepentant bite of sausage. "Yep. Indeed I would have." That negative cash flow would have redressed the power imbalance between our Houses.

Shaking his head, Thoren muttered, "I knew I should have recruited you."

"Oh, I hardly think House Bonisagus suffered from financial problems," Ynez retorted, obviously still bitter that Thoren's Secunda once charged her with murder and extorted a massive fine from us (for which Zoe had promptly volunteered the Inquisition's bottomless coffers, but still).

Wisely, Thoren carved and offered her a pork rib instead of commenting.

Partway through the feast, an increasingly loud pounding cut through our conversations, as if someone had been knocking for quite some time and was on the verge of hacking the door down. Practically dropping a tray of cheese and jam on the table, one of the maids scurried off to open it and moments later, a red-headed giant burst into the dining room.

"Ingolf!" exclaimed Karina, her face lighting up, at the same time that Alf squealed, "Daddy!" and wriggled off the edge of his chair.

"Watch out!" the giant warned, dashing forward. Scooping up Alf, Karina's husband swung their son in a wide circle overhead (Helga narrowly ducked a flying shoe), set him back in his chair with an admonitory "Stay!" and bent down to kiss his wife. "Signy," he greeted his mother-in-law at last. "Happy Yule!"

Majestically, she inclined her head at him. (I could practically see Ynez taking notes.) "Ingolf, a happy Yule to you too. Be welcome at my table."

The same maid scuttled back in with an extra chair, while a second maid laid out a plate and tankard for him. Taking no note of them, the Tertius of House Bjornaer scanned his fellow dinner guests, his gaze skidding over Ynez, Zoe, and me to land on his brother-in-law. "Brother," Ingolf said (a little coolly, I thought). "How nice to see you again. What has it been now, a decade?"

"Nine years, to be precise," Thoren replied neutrally. "I assume you received my message requesting a healer?"

"I did, and here I am. The Primus was kind enough to spare me." He paused for a heartbeat, giving us all a chance to appreciate his indispensability. "I must admit," he continued lightly, in a tone that I might have considered joking if Thoren hadn't been quite so tense, "I was rather hoping that it was your Paradox backlash, but the Resonance doesn't match. Unless, of course, your Resonance has changed along with your avatar?"

Sidestepping the question — which Ingolf probably interpreted as a mea culpa — Thoren only remarked, "It's very generous of the Primus to permit you to spend Yule with Kari and the children."

"It is, isn't it?" Satisfied that he'd established his preeminence, Ingolf asked Signy cheerily, "So — who are our guests? Besides Thoren, of course."

Ten minutes after he'd entered the room, I still hadn't detected any Ars Vis scans, so the Tertius was either very trusting or very careless.

Before her mother could respond, Karina leapt in and — contrary to all rules of proper etiquette — hastily introduced us in seating order. "My heart, these are my brother's friends: Zoe, Ynez, and Marina." None of us missed the deliberate omission of any further identifying information. Ynez cocked her head at me, obviously wondering why Karina had skipped our titles and even last names. (It was indeed a far cry from Loki's flowery honorifics.) To us, Karina made the rather obvious statement, "This is my husband, Ingolf."

Said husband favored us with a broad, confident grin. "Nice meeting you, young mages."

A soft tap sounded in my head — Ynez surreptitiously opening a mind link among the four of us. Okay, what's going on here? she demanded while returning a polite smile in Ingolf's direction.

Thoren gave her a hard look, displeased by yet more blatant use of magic in front of Sleepers. Ingolf is...on the insecure side, he explained at last, selecting his words with care.

Ah, that makes sense, said Zoe, forgetting herself and nodding sagely. Luckily, she happened to be looking at Ingolf, so he accepted it as a gesture of respect and inclined his head.

Does he really not plan to scan us? I asked incredulously. (If I were honest, my pride was slightly hurt that he hadn't identified us at once. How many Zoe-Ynez-Marina trios could possibly be associated with Thoren? How many Zoe-Ynez-Marina trios even existed in the mage world?)

My guess is that he assumes you rank so far below him that Kari didn't bother to give your titles.

True, the official insignia of House Tytalus hadn't yet reached us (courtesy of "production and courier delays"), and Zoe's Inquisitorial regalia deliberately excluded markers of Hermetic affiliation to symbolize the unity of Christendom. I, of course, was garbed in a dress borrowed from Ingolf's own daughter, and without her divine weaponry, there was little to distinguish Ynez from any other young woman barely out of girlhood.

Hmmmm was Zoe's reaction. She didn't even need to articulate her disapproval of petty contests over base, worldly concerns.

Trust me, advised Thoren, sawing off a chunk of cheese and stuffing it determinedly into his mouth, ignorance is bliss. His ignorance, our bliss.

After a moment, I gave a mental shrug. If Ingolf couldn't connect my Resonance to the icy wonderland he'd just trekked through, I saw no need to enlighten him.

Okay, Ynez acquiesced a heartbeat later, very consciously resolving that since all mortals knelt before her in the end anyway, it ill became the Queen of Hades to squabble over issues of protocol. (That was for Zoe to enforce.)

As Thoren had predicted, possibly willful obliviousness lent Ingolf a certain charm and conviviality. He had everyone in stitches as he regaled us with tales of magical mishaps and pranks in House Bjornaer. Although he slid in a couple (somewhat justified) digs about Bonisagi stuffiness, the meal proceeded smoothly all the way up the toasts that Cly so eagerly anticipated. As head of the household, Signy offered the first tribute — to the Æsir, of course. Zoe's face froze, and Ynez literally squirmed in her seat before she remembered her dignity. Then she made a swift hand gesture, and the two Catholics sipped primly at their ale.

As soon as everyone else had finished quaffing to the gods of the North, Zoe rose magisterially, her bejeweled crucifix casting colorful flecks of light across our faces. "I propose a toast," she proclaimed in a sonorous voice that could have filled a cathedral. "To Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, and to Mary, Mother of God."

Under cover of drinking, I whispered a few Enochian words to verify that she wasn't using Ars Mentis to convert the Sleepers. Thoren exhaled sharply in exasperation — then quirked an inquiring eyebrow. I gave a minute shake of the head. Zoe really did come by that commanding presence honestly.

Into the somewhat awkward silence that ensued, Helga sighed wistfully, "Your necklace is so pretty."

"It is, isn't it?" Karina agreed, seizing this pretext to steer everyone away from the religious quagmire.

Ingolf startled all of us with a merry peal of laughter. "An oath then, my heart! A Yule oath that I shall lavish upon you such a necklace as you have never before seen!"

This is so exciting! Yule oaths are unbreakable! Cly enthused over the mind link.

Pleeeease don't pop out now, I beseeched her.

In so low a voice that we could barely hear him, Thoren muttered, He didn't specify what type of necklace — only that she's never seen its like.

I had to bite my lip to hold back a snort.

Ynez suggested, A necklace of vines and twigs?

I'm sure she's seen that, Zoe pointed out, fingering her crucifix and basking in Helga's open admiration. They do have three daughters.

A necklace of cats? I proposed, picturing them twining their way around Karina's neck and meowing loudly in her ears. Although I guess that's more like a stole.

A necklace of snakes is more like him, Thoren burst out, surprising us all with his vehemence.

Incredibly, Ingolf still hadn't noticed all the Effects right across the table from him. Grinning at his wife, he joked, "Now if only we had a sacred boar for me swear on!"

"Auntie Marina can carve one," Birgit piped up, completely oblivious to the conspiracy of silence surrounding our identities. "Harald, show Daddy the dog she gave you." To her credit, she did hesitate very slightly before "gave."

Without waiting for permission, Harald scrambled out of the room and back to present the Focus I'd carved the first night. Since I'd never gotten a chance to scrub my Resonance, Ingolf immediately pinpointed it as the one permeating the village and its environs. "Ah, so it was your backlash," he remarked, taking the dog, examining it clinically, and applying an Ars Vis scan.

"Mmmm, yes," I confessed distractedly, wondering if he'd finally connected us with those mages. You know, the really famous ones who were the talk of Eurasia?

His reaction gave nothing away. "Harald," he scolded his son gently, "how many times do I need to tell you? Never steal mages' Foci." Ignoring Harald's indignant denials, Ingolf extended the dog to me and asked a little ironically, "I assume you'd like to erase your Resonance before it turns into a toy?"

"I wouldn't mind," I admitted, accepting the carving and self-consciously mumbling a few Enochian words over it. By now I was positive that he knew exactly who we were but was deliberately following his wife's lead and granting us anonymity.

Perhaps drawing the same conclusion, Signy suddenly announced, "Children, now that you've all eaten, it's time to feed the Julenisse! You wouldn't want him to get hungry, would you?"

"No!" cried Alf, Harald, and Birgit excitedly, bouncing up and down in their seats. Helga merely heaved a heavy sigh and looked longingly at her book.

"You may be excused," Signy told them with a smile, "to ask Cook for a bowl of porridge. Ask nicely, and she might even let you add the pat of butter."

As the children tumbled from their chairs and dashed towards the back of the house (with Helga feigning indifference but running just as fast as any of her siblings), I could hear them arguing ferociously over who would add the butter this year. "Me me me!" "That's not fair, you got to do it last time!" "Yeah, you put so much that Cook got mad!" "But the Julenisse was happy — Grandma says he's been extra nice all year!"

Seeing the non-Norwegians' confused expressions, Signy explained, "The Julenisse is a spirit who often helps out around the house. His payment each Yule is a bowl of porridge with a pat of butter on top. The size of that pat is open to interpretation, of course."

I could only imagine! Fascinated, I inquired, "What happens if you forget? Or disagree over the amount of butter?"

"You really don't want to displease — " Thoren began.

"Woe to anyone who neglects the Julenisse!" Ingolf cut him off. "He'll play pranks all over the house, or even desert it forever. And that's just if you're fortunate. He might also punish you by slaughtering your livestock."

"I'd be happy to negotiate with this spirit on your behalf," Ynez proposed. "He seems a little unreasonable."

At that, Signy laughed outright. "Thank you for the offer, but we get along quite well. And the children have always loved setting out the bowl of porridge for him."

Grinning mischievously at Thoren, Karina joked, "As I recall, I would have loved to set out the bowl of porridge. Certain older siblings who shall not be named always insisted that I was too clumsy and would spill the porridge and offend the spirit."

A certain older sibling who was not named replied innocently, "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. I was a model child. Wasn't I, Mother?"

With a quirk of her mouth, Signy uttered a most convincing, "Yes, dear. A paragon of a son."

"Ha!" Karina snorted.

Smirking, Ingolf reminded her, "Didn't you say your brother was something of a hellion? Wasn't that why your parents packed him off to House Bonisagus?"

"Really?" I exclaimed, turning an incredulous, wide-eyed stare on Thoren. "You?" I'd always pictured him as a male version of sweet, obedient, earnest little Ynez (before she hit her I-am-the-Prima-so-there phase, anyway).

Smiling reminiscently, Thoren admitted, "I think it's safe to say that I was probably more like Harald than Helga."

"There's no 'probably' about it," Karina retorted. "We were just lucky the Bonisagi beat some manners into you."

Sotto voce, Ynez murmured, "They might have overshot." Ingolf, ears pricked for any slight to his brother-in-law, guffawed loudly, and I kicked her under the table. She yelped — more from shock than pain, I thought — and mock-glared at me. "Astera should have sent you to House Bonisagus," she complained. Offering Thoren an olive branch for the first time since she entered her rebellious stage, she appealed jokingly, "Can't you do anything about her, Magister?"

Smiling back gratefully, he replied with faux earnestness, "I wouldn't dare, Prima."

Across the table, Karina flinched a little and cast a nervous glance at Ingolf, but before he needed to acknowledge any inconvenient truths, their children came spilling back into the room, bickering vociferously over why Birgit got to add the butter and chronicling the butter-adders and amounts of butter over the past few years.

"Presents now?" Alf lisped pleadingly, toddling up to Ingolf and hugging his leg.

Oozing with brotherly love, Harald wheedled, "Alfie has been so good all day. Can't he open his presents now?"

"Little conniver," Ingolf muttered under his breath, sounding indescribably proud of his older son. To the impatient children, he declared, "Of course! We've had our dinner, the Julenisse has his dinner, so it's present time!"

Bounding up and ushering everyone to the living room (without asking Signy's permission), he planted himself in an armchair right by the fire and ordered a maid to bring his travel bag. Karina winced when he dropped the muddy pack right on her mother's hearthrug, but she did brighten at the gifts he'd selected for their brood. Among high-pitched squeals of delight, they unwrapped trendy toy after trendy toy from Oslo. "These are the hottest designs of the year," Ingolf explained to the room at large. "Now that the worst of the Plague is over — " thanks to us — "the Houses are devoting more time to culture and art." (You're welcome.) "A handful of mages even specialize in toys." Borrowing Alf's plush dragon, he flung it into the air like a falcon. Instead of crashing ignominiously to the floor, it spread gilded canvas wings and hovered overhead, spewing gouts of colorful smoke.

"But that's a minor Wonder!" I exclaimed.

"As well as the hottest toy of 1494," Ingolf replied proudly. "You have no idea when I had to preorder it! The waiting list is at least six months long!"

Torn between outrage at the frivolous use of magic and vindication at this even more blatant abuse than mine, I slid a triumphant glance at Thoren.

He didn't notice. He was too busy glowering at the dragon.

Before the ecstatic children could scatter with their booty, Ingolf looked over at his brother-in-law. "Your turn!" he announced merrily. "Children, don't you want to see what Uncle Thoren brought for you?"

It was my turn to wince when Thoren retrieved our sack of goodies and began distributing the homely wooden puppets that I'd carved, he'd assembled, and Ynez and Zoe had painted. Given our cabal's financial straits, I'd denounced the toy shops in Oslo as exorbitant and decreed that we could make our own presents. (Seriously, no one ever paid us for rescuing them from the gods. Quivering townspeople at most shoved a few loaves of bread in our direction — the ones who didn't flee our very shadows, that is.) Surrounded by children clinging to the "hottest toys of 1494," I regretted this scrimping.

You can blame me, I muttered to others over the mind link, eyeing Ingolf's carefully appreciative expression.

Forgetting again, Zoe gave a firm shake of her head. No, she replied flatly. Children should not be spoiled. They must be taught from a young age to vanquish materialistic desires.

For once, I appreciated her stern worldview.

Our presents are perfectly lovely! Ynez defended our handiwork. When I was their age, I'd have loved any new book or toy! Practically everything I owned was a hand-me-down from an older sibling or cousin.

Diplomatically, Karina exclaimed over each gift as Thoren unveiled and bestowed it, obviously trying to prompt an adequately enthusiastic response — with varying degrees of success correlated with the recipient's age. Helga uttered a polite but insincere thank-you and immediately vanished into a corner with a collection of epic poetry (complete with animated illustrations) from her father. After careful contemplation of her clown puppet, Birgit began to carve something into its torso using the gleaming pocketknife Ingolf had given her. Harald, on the other hand, pouted openly when he saw his wooden lion, tossed it aside, and sprawled out on the rug with his set of tin Vikings. Good old Alf delivered the most gratifying reaction — too young to tell the difference in price point, he was more excited by the quantity than quality of his worldly possessions.

"Oh, oops," said Thoren, poking his head into the sack and resurfacing with a sheath of parchment. "I must have grabbed this by accident. Marina, did you want to give it to Ynez now or later?"

It was the Ars Amatoria, of course.

Well, Ynez had just confessed to a childhood longing for new books, hadn't she? "Why not now?" I shrugged as casually as I could. Almost suppressing a mischievous grin, I passed the manuscript to her with no fanfare whatsoever. "Merry Christmas, Sis. I'll bind it later."

Almost as excited as the children with their shiny Osloan toys (but much, much too dignified to squeal), Ynez accepted the stack of loose pages with exaggerated care and leafed through them delicately, handling the parchment with her very fingertips.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Thoren whispered in my ear, goggling at her with all the fascinated horror of a mage watching a Sleeper ride a horse off a cliff.

"Shhhh!" I flapped a hand at him. "I don't want to miss anything!"

Much to my consternation, Ynez appeared to be so engrossed in picking out every last detail on every last illuminated capital that she didn't even bother to skim the text. While her fixation was certainly a vote of confidence in my scribal skills, I rather thought she'd missed the entire point of the book. (Note to self: When copying erotica, either include lurid illustrations — or omit decoration of any variety.)

At last, unable to bear the suspense one second longer, I prompted with inimitable subtlety, "Ynez, aren't you going to read it?"

"But it's so pretty!" she protested.

"Too pretty to read?"

More than happy to ascribe nefarious motives to her colleagues, Zoe eyeballed me suspiciously and leaned over Ynez's shoulder to inspect the content. Practically hyperventilating, she choked out a scandalized, "Marina, what — what smut is this?"

Striving for wounded innocence and falling far, far short, I uttered that timeless defense, "It's a classic! It's great literature! It's art!"

When she finally registered the words, Ynez's eyeballs attempted quite a creditable imitation of Alf's new jack-in-the-box. "Mariiiiina! What — why — "

Finally! I toppled into Thoren's lap, convulsing with laughter.

Shaking his head a little, Thoren advised drily, "Don't forget to breathe, my heart."

"Marina!" Zoe hissed, rushing over and trying to haul me upright. "Decorum! Please!" The sliver of my mind still capable of rational analysis noted that the Inquisitor sounded even more appalled by my posture than by the poem. "Think of the children!"

I didn't need to think of the children — I only had to look at them. Harald's face popped up in my vision (sideways). Cocking his head and then tilting his upper body ninety degrees until we were eye to eye, he inquired solicitously, "Auntie Marina, are you all right?"

The more relevant question might be, "Is Auntie Ynez all right?" She'd been conspicuously silent since that first incoherent protest. Gasping for breath, I barely managed to sit up halfway by dint of clawing at Thoren's shoulder, took one look at her expression of simultaneous fascination and repugnance, and promptly collapsed again.

"Marina Cimon bani Tytalus! This is behavior unbecoming of a Secunda!" Zoe snapped (exposing our officially-secret identities for good).

"Oh — oh — but Zoe, her face — "

Pop!

Out of Ynez's sober-grey-clad lap bounded a rabbit the exact same shade of ebony as Tel's hair. Landing cat-like on the floor, it reared up on its hind legs and surveyed each human critically.

"Bunny!" screamed Harald, lunging at it with outstretched arms.

With a flick of its white cottontail, it skipped nimbly out of the way, bunched up into a ball two feet away, and sampled the rug experimentally.

"A rabbit, Ynez? Which emotion is this one?" Mentally, I ticked off the ones I'd seen over the years: wrath-bear, pride-peacock, love-swan, guilt-serpent. (That last one didn't show up nearly as often as you might expect. Maybe our accumulated collateral damage was desensitizing Ynez.)

Blushing the most charming shade of carmine, Ynez desperately tried to shoo the spirit back into the Umbra. "Go away!" she hissed at it. "Scram!"

"Oooooh!" Zoe burst out, her own cheeks turning a screaming hot pink. "A rabbit! Oh Lord!" she gasped, uncharacteristically breaking one of her own Commandments. (Yes, Cly and I had them word-perfect in spite of ourselves.)

Both over- and under-head, Thoren was shaking from suppressed laughter, quite spoiling his effectiveness as my pillow.

"I'm missing something," I complained, poking at his arm and getting his chest instead.

"Seriously?" he asked incredulously once he could breathe again. "An erotic poem? A teenage girl? A rabbit spirit embodying an emotion? Do you really need me to spell it out for you?"

"Oooooh! Oh noooo!" I attempted to burrow into his lap — with woefully limited success, not being a rabbit myself. "Do I need to start running?"

Unfortunately, by now the commotion had attracted everyone else's attention.

"Bunny!" shouted Alf, dropping his jack-in-the-box and dragon, clambering to his feet, and stomping after the spirit on short, stubby legs.

"No, it's mine! I saw it first!" yelled Harald, diving for the rabbit.

Just before his hands closed around its furry backside, the lust spirit streaked between Ynez's and Zoe's legs (both yanked their skirts out of the way so quickly that — oh horror! — they flashed their ankles) and crouched under the sofa. Entirely undaunted, the two boys flattened themselves on the floor and swiped wildly at it. Alf even wriggled halfway under the sofa before Karina's stern shout halted his advance.

Scarlet with humiliation, Ynez tucked her skirts firmly around her legs and fumbled frantically with her mirror. Through clenched teeth, she chanted, "Go away go away go away go away."

Naturally, Ingolf chose this most inopportune moment to grace us with his assistance. "What is that?" he asked curiously. Too dignified to get onto his own hands and knees, he encouraged his sons to flush out the rabbit so he could get a better look.

Driven past her limits, Ynez shrieked into her mirror, "Go away! I am the warden of the spirits, and I command you to go away now!"

Dismayed shouts rose from the boys. "It's gone!" "Bunny, come baaaack!"

Ynez sagged in relief, slumped back against the sofa cushions, and pressed her palms to her cheeks. The glare she aimed in my direction suggested that I might encounter a revenge spirit very, very soon.

"It's all right, boys," Ingolf consoled his sons. "It's a spirit. They come and go." Lifting her head, Ynez started to cast him a grateful look — until he added, "I'm sure it will return," and gave her a slow, deliberate smile.

A deluge of incoherent, murderous thoughts swamped our mind link, some of them involving rather gory scenes of Inquisitorial torture chambers.

That's actually a pretty good idea, said Zoe, sounding impressed (and finally remembering to use the mind link). I didn't know you were quite so...creative, Soror Ynez. If you don't mind, I will suggest that in my next report to House Quaesitor.

That cad deserves every last millisecond of it, Ynez snapped.

Grateful that my fair visage hadn't featured in aforementioned bloody fantasies, I kept as still as a bunny with a hawk circling overhead.

Wrapping his arms around me protectively, just in case Zoe exacted vengeance on Ynez's behalf, Thoren soothed, Ignore him. It's not personal.

Okay, fumed Ynez, how is this not personal? How can it possibly be "not personal"?

Because he acts like this around any of my friends and colleagues?

That sounds pretty personal to me, I had to point out.

The mind link transmitted Thoren's sigh very clearly. It's personal against me, but not against any of you? he amended.

Jerk, Ynez grumbled, reverting to her rebellious-teenager vocabulary.

Zoe agreed wholeheartedly. He needs to be educated about Christian charity. It is Christmas, after all — a time of peace on Earth and goodwill towards all men. And women.

The exact same thought occured to Thoren and me.

Why don't you —

You could teach him —

Ynez perked right up. "That's right!" she exclaimed out loud. "It's Christmas Eve! What better time to spread the word of the Lord?"

Thoren pointed a not-entirely-kindly smile straight at his brother-in-law. "Yes, what better time? I'm sure Ingolf embraces any opportunity to learn about other faiths. He's so...catholic in his interests."

Ingolf looked as trapped as a rabbit under a sofa, and Karina glared daggers at her brother, but I would have sworn by any deity that the corners of Signy's lips rose ever so slightly. "Diversity is a virtue," the matriarch pronounced. "Come, children, Ynez and Zoe are going to tell us stories about their Yule."

Naturally, the Lord's representatives on Earth needed no further encouragement to wreak a little impromptu conversion. As if by Ars Conjunctionis, Zoe immediately produced a copy of the Bible from what must have been a voluminous pocket and spread it across her and Ynez's laps. Their heads bent close together, they paged through the Scriptures until they came to an image of the Madonna and child, with the wise men, shepherds, and livestock all kneeling in adoration at her feet. Turning the book, Zoe showed the picture to the children.

"Do you know who Jesus is?" Ynez asked them.

Thoren could barely hide a smirk as he slanted a covert glance at Ingolf. The Bjornaer looked as if he were enduring an excruciatingly tedious lecture.

His children, on the other hand, shook their heads absently while gawking at the colorful illustration. After much scrutiny, Birgit objected, "Sheep can't bow like that. Their knees don't bend that way."

From Inquisitor's expression, that was not the reaction she'd hoped for.

Ynez, who'd probably never seen a real, live sheep up close in her life, quickly suggested, "Maybe the artist doesn't know as much as you, Birgit. You can become a Christian, and then when you grow up, you can draw new pictures for the Bible."

The little girl shook her head resolutely. "No," she declared. "I'm going to carve runestones." She held out her puppet for inspection. "See?" Crudely etched runes spelling out B-I-R-G-I-T-I-N-G-O-L-F-S-D-O-T-T-I-R encircled its torso, and a snake undulated the length of one arm.

"Ah," said Zoe knowingly. "That must be the serpent that tempts Eve in the Garden of Eden." Flipping back to the beginning of the Bible, she displayed a picture of a green snake wrapped around an apple tree conversing with a (mostly) naked woman.

Karina and Ingolf exchanged raised eyebrows and suggestive looks, but Birgit recoiled in disgust. "No! This isn't a silly little lingworm! This is Jormungandr, the Midgard serpent!" she cried. "It lives in the ocean and surrounds the whole world! See the waves here?" She pointed indignantly at a few jagged lines she'd carved next to the snake.

Deciding that maybe treating the Bible like a picture book wasn't the correct tactic for converting young children, Zoe asked Alf next, "Can you read this?" She pointed at a Psalm that began, "Cantate Domino canticum novum."

I hastily converted a snicker into a cough.

Bewildered, the four-year-old blinked at the dense lettering, stuck his thumb into his mouth, and shook his head emphatically. "Uh uh."

Ynez, who had more realistic expectations for children's reading levels, whispered in Zoe's ear, "He's too young."

"Oh, is he?" Zoe flushed slightly (probably more from Ynez's proximity than embarrassment). "I'm not very good at telling ages," she babbled.

Ynez recommended, "Let's teach them a Christmas song."

And so they determinedly set about organizing a children's choir, although they had to keep stopping to explain concepts such as "righteousness." Which, needless to say, didn't go very well, especially since the abstract theological discussions quickly degenerated into active debate among the adults. To my shock, Ingolf did indeed display the catholic interests of which Thoren had accused him, and soon he and Zoe were engrossed in arguing over whether Balder was really supposed to be Jesus Christ, except that the Norse forgot the one true God and had to reconstruct a bastardized religion.

They're actually having fun! I observed to Thoren and Ynez in disbelief. Who'd have thought?

This bizarre new form of holiday entertainment was interrupted by the arrival of two townspeople, an older man leading a teenaged boy who slouched in the time-honored, chagrined attitude of teenagers everywhere. Studying the rug as if fascinated by its fibers, he cringed at every word as his father explained, "Our boy, Asmund, has been telling us all evening that he can see how the air moves and why the fire burns. We think he's Awakened. At least, we hope so. Either that — or he's possessed."

Well, this roomful of mages was uniquely equipped to deal with either possibility. I started scanning the boy, but Thoren — naturally — finished first. "Your son has indeed Awakened," he informed the man, who sagged in relief. "The ability to perceive natural forces is one of the first manifestations of Ars Essentiae."

Not to be outdone, Ingolf launched into a jargon-laden discourse on how Awakening could be triggered by trauma, of which the events of this afternoon certainly constituted a shining example. From there he progressed to an exposition on the theory of avatars, and finally segued into his own pet projects. Obviously pleased by these illustrious mages' interest in his offspring, the father nodded along gamely while the son tried his hardest to melt into a puddle of icy water on the floor (which was theoretically possible but would take years of training).

"Asmund," Thoren broke in at last, returning us to more pressing concerns than arcane academic research, "you have a choice now. Since you have Awakened, you will need to be apprenticed so you can learn to control and hone your abilities. Luckily, we have representatives from four of the Hermetic Houses here, so you can select one."

"Which one is best?" the father demanded instantly.

Thoren looked as if he wanted rather badly to proclaim that of course House Bonisagus, whose first Primus founded the Order of Hermes itself, was the "best." Succumbing to diplomacy, however, he calmly replied, "Each House excels at a different specialization. For example, House Bonisagus dominates the field of magical theory." I rolled my eyes a little but had to concede the accuracy of that statement. "House Tytalus focuses on, um, shaping reality through sheer force of Will." Not to mention conflict — wait, maybe we shouldn't mention conflict while recruiting. "House Quaesitor seeks and enforces justice." Zoe fingered her crucifix. "And House Bjornaer pursues the healing arts." Ingolf grumbled over this very limited description of his House and its shapeshifting mages, but Karina elbowed him into silence. "In short, which House best suits young Asmund depends entirely on his interests and inclinations."

"Asmund?" the father asked. "What are your interests and inclinations?"

Mortified, the boy mumbled something unintelligible and slouched even harder.

Gently lifting me out of his lap so he could rise, Thoren placed a paternal hand on Asmund's shoulder. (The boy continued his contemplation of the rug and the weaver's arts.) "I know, it's not easy," the former Primus of House Bonisagus said softly. "Awakening changes your life forever, for good and for ill. You will attain immense power, of course, but you will sacrifice decades with kinfolk and friends that you can never regain, even with the use of Ars Temporis. You will counsel kings and parley with gods, but never again will you sit contentedly by the hearth in your home on a cold winter's night."

"Oh, Thoren…," I whispered, feeling his melancholy wash through the mind link.

Ingolf, predictably, objected to this bleak characterization of the mage lifestyle. "It depends on which House and which cabal you join. Don't judge all mages by yourself," he rebuked Thoren.

"Ingolf," Karina hissed.

From the sofa, the ancient, compassionate voice of Death Incarnate intoned, "Asmund, all things come to an end, whether it be the tender green leaf that wilts and crumbles in autumn, or the innocence of childhood, or even life itself at the last. It is not given to us to choose the mantle of magehood, only the manner in which we wear it." Thus spake Ynez, who had perhaps sacrificed the most out of any of us when she accepted the throne of Hades.

At her words, everyone twitched and shuddered. Asmund looked up for the first time to goggle at the way in which black shadows twined around the tiny eighteen-year-old girl, shaping themselves into a dark helm over her head and three dogs' heads that reared over her shoulder, and maybe — just maybe, if you looked out of the corner of your eye — cold, foreboding gates that yawned open and extended tendrils of icy mist...

As her eyes met Asmund's, Ynez blushed all of a sudden.

Up in her lap popped a blond, cat-sized rabbit whose furry ears ripped a hole right through the Hadean shades. They wavered and melted away, and limned in the golden light from the fireplace, the rabbit bounded down, hopped straight across the room to Asmund, and leaped up at his chest. Instinctively he caught it, and it snuggled against him, settling contentedly into a great bundle of soft fur with its fluffball tail sticking out over the crook of one elbow. When he tentatively stroked its head, I could swear it emitted a purring noise. (Obviously the denizens of the Umbra were not naturalists.)

"What is that?" exclaimed the father. "That is definitely not native to Norway!"

"No," replied Ingolf smoothly. "It is native to the spirit realm, otherwise known to mages as the Umbra. I believe that this particular spirit is a manifestation of — "

"Buunnnnny-wabbit!" cried Alf, tackling Asmund around the knees and attempting to climb his legs.

"That's not fair! Why does it like you better?" Harald demanded indignantly, jumping up and down and tugging at the only bit of the rabbit he could reach — its tail.

Showing blessed ignorance of the bunny-wabbit's true nature, Asmund knelt and tried to hand the spirit over to the little boys, but it kicked and twisted and categorically refused to leave the circle of his arms.

Her face the crimson hue of an Inquisitorial dress uniform, Ynez scrambled for ye old mirror and chanted as fast as she could in Latin, "Have-mercy-on-me-O-God-according-to-your-steadfast-love-cleanse-me-from-my-sin…."

"Is he really that good looking?" I whispered in Thoren's ear, scrutinizing Asmund from blond head to booted toe (in the name of determining what so inspired the lust spirit, of course).

"He can't possibly be as handsome as I," Thoren (whose attractiveness lay more in personality than physique) whispered back with a perfectly straight face.

"No, no, of course not. You're just the paragon of male beauty," I assured him. "Your face could launch a thousand ships." At his skeptical expression, I specified, "If only to flee the sight of it."

Exhibiting no trace of insecurity, he rolled his eyes. "Stick to your historical treatises, Marina," he advised. "I don't think you qualify as a love poet."

"Restore-to-me-the-joy-of-your-salvation-and-sustain-in-me-a-willing-heart!" Ynez shouted triumphantly, flourishing her mirror like a scepter.

With a final heartbroken nuzzle, the spirit faded lingeringly back into the Umbra.

When the chaos had subsided at last, Ingolf, still chuckling, suggested to the father that young Asmund might fare best in House Bjornaer, which adhered to a more disciplined and structured style of training. Eyeing Ynez a little suspiciously, as if expecting her to evoke more wildlife in the living room, the father assented emphatically.

Well, Zoe groused, we just lost another potential recruit thanks to Marina.

What did I do? I asked indignantly.

You tempted Soror Ynez into sin! The manifestation of her...um, sin provided Ingolf with the opportunity to swoop in and snatch a promising new apprentice.

Well, Thoren defended me, I would think that the sedentary nature of the Bjornaer was a larger consideration in this case.

Playing peacemaker, Ynez consoled Zoe, It's all right. We'll grow our cabal eventually. We just need to meet the right people.

While they discussed recruiting strategies that would maximize our chances of meeting these intrepid "right people" who'd embrace a peripatetic lifestyle and high risk of death-by-angry-Greek-god, Thoren tugged me over to the window. "Look outside, my heart."

Pushing aside the curtain, I saw brilliant turquoise and myrtle green streaks of light rippling across the night sky. "What is that?" I gasped, sounding as shocked as Asmund's father when he saw the rabbit. "That's not an Ars Essentiae lightshow, is it?" At the conclusion of the general conference, the Tytalans had arranged for a dazzling display of (literally) magical fireworks synchronized with music. Need I add that Thoren enjoyed the gala less than he should have — but more than he'd admit?

"It's an aurora borealis," he explained, "a particularly spectacular one by the looks of it. Want to go outside so we can see better?"

As if to cast down a gauntlet, a gust of wind swooshed down the street, rattling all the icicles and making them tinkle like windchimes. Running a hand over my skirt, I decided to trust Northern fabric to defy Northern elements. "Sure."

Hand in hand, the two of us slipped out that trusty side door that had granted passage to so many generations of lovers, and stared at the scene in wonderment. Overhead, it looked as if someone had woven the sheerest silk scarves, dyed them the brightest colors imaginable, and trailed them across a swathe of black velvet. But that wasn't all. Paradox had created a world full of looking glasses, and the aurora reflected off every last icy surface, be it the vast, smooth expanses on the ground or the tapered, faceted icicles that hung from every tree branch, every eave. Above us, below us, around us danced the Northern Lights like the rainbow-hued rays of Astera's Ascension.

For long moments we stood, not speaking, not touching, simply looking and memorizing. "It's so beautiful," I breathed at last. "I've never seen anything like it, ever."

"You only see these in the North," he answered wistfully. "I loved them when I was a child. I'd forgotten..."

How much he had sacrificed for magic, how many decades with kinfolk and friends, how many peaceful nights sitting contentedly by a warm fire with the aurora dancing outside! (Or, in this case, standing contentedly in the backyard with the aurora dancing overhead.)

"Do you regret coming, my heart?" he murmured, wrapping his arms and cloak around me and pulling me against his chest. "I know it hasn't been an easy trip for you."

At that moment, I'd have followed him to the darkest depths of Tartarus (again), or the furthest reaches of the Umbra, or the northernmost of the northernmost lands. "I'm so glad I came," I replied with perfect sincerity. "There's a — a raw beauty to this place, isn't there?" It was entirely different from Athens, where mild showers of rain made the Parthenon gleam like a pearl on the Acropolis, and where a sweet, gentle breeze rustled the leaves of olive groves. "I — I think I like it."

"I hoped you would," he said simply. Then, a little too smugly, he added, "I thought you would."

"You're a little too confi — "

A skidding sound forestalled my retort. Turning in unison, we saw Ynez and Zoe slipping and sliding towards us from the front of the house. (Apparently no one had told them about the side door.)

"We came out to see the aurora too," Ynez called. "It's gorgeous, isn't it?" Planting the butt of her spear firmly on the ice, she clung to it for stability and tipped her head back to admire the iridescent, peacock-like hues painted across the sky.

After a brief hesitation, Thoren invited, "Come stand with us. We're sheltered from the wind here."

After a brief hesitation of her own, Ynez asked, "We're not interrupting anything, are we?" But she began picking her way towards us without waiting for a response.

Trailing in her wake and eyeing us the way Hercules must have glared at Cerberus' two-headed brother, Zoe grumbled under her breath, "Of course we're interrupting something. With those two, we're always interrupting something."

"Soror Zoe!" Ynez scolded, scandalized on our behalf, but Thoren only chuckled and pulled me closer.

Side by side with our cabalmates, as we had been on the road — on so many roads for so many years now — the four of us savored this moment of tranquility perfected. Then the wind shifted to blow from the side, threatening to topple us like so many dominoes. Out of the tinkling, twinkling icicles materialized a pure white swan, larger than I'd ever seen it, and it hovered behind us and embraced us all, even Thoren, in the curve of its gigantic wings.

What I had told Thoren was entirely true. I was glad we had come here, here to the northern lands where the snow lay knee deep, waist deep, Ynez deep; where the jagged mountain peaks towered against the sky and reflected the splendor of the sunrise in the morning and the stars at night; where we'd met Thoren's family, witnessed all the joys and complexities of extended kin groups, and been welcomed into the tangle ourselves. I was glad the four of us had contended with blizzards and quarreled with one another and clashed with our hosts and generally accomplished our motto of "Growth through conflict." I was glad to be here, under the Northern Lights, shoulder to shoulder with my family who stood by me no matter what, even when I misjudged and turned an entire Sleeper town into one massive ice rink.

Perhaps especially when I misjudged and turned an entire Sleeper town into one massive ice rink.