This chapter coincides with The Music Box, Chapter 2: Molto Subito. To see what happened in the physical world while Rose was lost in the Red Rose's Albion, please read Logan's novella. And above all, enjoy! As always, my thanks go out to Angelacm for her constant friendship and faith, and the help she gave me with this chapter. I'm also very grateful to those of you who have reviewed and faved/followed. Your encouragement helps me more than I can tell you! Thank you so much!

"Logan?"

Shivering, he let the Music Box fall to the floor with a loud clatter and knelt beside me. "I'm here."

His warm fingers slid between my cold ones, trying to steady them, but we were both trembling like leaves. In that moment, I remembered a night long ago, when I was four and he was twelve. On that night, the windows of every building in Bowerstone had been reinforced against a terrible hurricane. The storm had gathered such force and fury as it made its way across the sea from Samarkand to Albion that the ships had had to be dry-docked and the people commanded to evacuate to higher ground inland. Those who had nowhere to go were sheltered in large groups within the castle, and Logan and I had shared a bedroom to make room for them.

Logan had had a paralyzing fear of the dark, and always slept with a large candelabrum beside his bed. But that night, we had very little light to spare, and Prince Liam had left us with only a single candle. As the wind and rain battered the windows and uprooted the garden shrubs, my brother and I lay on our sides, facing away from each other, trying to muffle the noise with our pillows. His back, so narrow then, was pressed against mine as we huddled beneath the blankets, and I realized that he was shivering despite our shared warmth.

Don't be scared, I had said, rolling over and nuzzling his shoulder. The rain can't get us in here.

He had not reacted at all. In his mind, he was completely alone.

"Logan?" I whispered again. It seemed all I could do. The man who held my hands so tenderly was a Hero, now. An Archon. He could never go back, now.

He shook his head. "You're home, Rose. That is all that matters now. We will face the rest when the time comes."

"I know." Hot tears stung my cheeks. "Logan… I'm so sorry, Logan!"

"Don't," he said, giving me a firm shake. And then in a softer voice: "I made my own decision, and I will live with it. I do not want your pity. Think of Elliot and allow me the dignity of my choice, just as you did him. It is over and done with."

"You're wrong!" I cried. I knew it was disgraceful to make a scene like this, but a dam had burst somewhere inside me, and there was no holding it back. I could only think of the hardships he had endured as King, hardships that could have been prevented by the simple turn of a key. "It's only just beginning! And…if you had only h-had a chance to awaken before…before I did… You would still be King, and you would have been loved—"

Before I could finish, my brother wrapped his arms around me and hugged me so hard that I could hardly breathe, let alone speak.

"I don't want to hear another word about that," he murmured. The hair on his chin tickled my cheek. It was surprisingly soft. "I will not hear it, do you understand? What's done is done. You've told me before that the past cannot be altered. Do not torment yourself over what you cannot change, Rose. It does not become you."

I leaned into him, wide-eyed, gingerly placing my hands on his broad shoulders. Logan had never, ever hugged me. Never in our lives. I had often wondered wistfully what it would feel like, and my imagination paled before the reality. Blazing heat radiated from his body, his arms and chest heavier than I had expected. Stronger. A heady scent still filled the air from whatever the purple substance that covered our hands was, but as I buried my face against the side of his neck, I smelled salt and sunlight on his skin. He was carrying with him the scents of Driftwood. I breathed deeply and held them in my lungs, separating them in my mind: the sand and the sea, wildflowers, sweet green grass, wood smoke, and freshly turned earth. He put one hand on the back of my head and hesitantly stroked my hair. His hands were steadier now. He was in control, and that helped me to regain my composure. My brother loved me. I had believed that for a long time, but I had never truly known it until now.

After a long moment, he released me and pushed me far enough away to look me in the eye. "Can you tell us what happened to you? It is very important. We cannot allow this to happen again."

I gazed over my shoulder, where my husband knelt with his hands clenched into tight fists on his knees. He was in almost terrifying disarray; his clothes were wrinkled and haphazardly buttoned, and his chin was dark with stubble. His eyes were as dry and bright as desert mica, not with happiness, but with the almost casual wariness that had once made him a king among thieves and murderers. We exchanged a long look. I knew what he was thinking as easily as if he had spoken aloud: We need to have a talk, you and I. And we certainly did. There was so much he needed to know, now. I nodded slowly, and he pointed to the wall with his chin, raising his eyebrows.

I looked up at the stained sheets in blank surprise. Some of the words made sense… There was "red", "unlife", and many other descriptions of the horrible place I had visited. But there were also pleas to Garth, and I had begged someone to let me go over and over. I saw that part of me had not wanted to come back.

no no no i have to help him have to get him out have to bring him back i will not leave him alone

I had written that in violent, rushed strokes with my fingertips. My heart blazed like a hot wire in my chest as I remembered why. Scythe. William Black. Father of my fathers. I had not wanted to leave him in that place of insidious nothingness. Fresh tears blurred the rest, and that was when I saw it…

A shape. My scrawled words formed a violet shape which I could not readily place. Blinking the moisture away, I stared hard at the sheets. Then I closed my eyes and turned to the window.

The image burned in reverse behind my eyelids, and I found myself dipping my fingers hastily into the puddle of dye that had formed near my feet and copying it blindly on a blank space between my knees and Logan's. When I opened my eyes again, Reaver was staring at me with an agonized worry that completely drained the color from his face.

"Don't go to sleep again, Rose," he said tersely, gripping my shoulders so hard that his fingers were white at the knuckles. I scarcely felt them. I was beyond that, now. "Don't you dare."

"I'm awake," I assured him. I needed to clear my head. I had to think without the distracting intrusion of feelings. Like Logan, I possessed a talent for compartmentalizing so strong that it was almost disturbing. I drew on that, now. I let out a long breath, allowing the emotions that clouded my mind to fall away. The muscles in my face relaxed into a coolly serene expression. My heart measured out a slow and steady beat. "I only just realized something. There is a pattern, here."

Reaver released me with a pained look I had seen many times before. He hated it when I did this. But it had to be done. I had to unlock this mystery, and I could not do it without shutting away my feelings. They were a distraction.

Kalin gazed up at the sheets, tilting her head in bemusement. "A pattern? Do you mean that there is a code in what you wrote?"

"And what is EV?" Garth pressed. "You wrote it obsessively before calling for my help. What does it mean to you?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. But it is clear that it does mean something." Even now, it was seared into my mind like a brand. E…V… I raised a hand unconsciously, as though reaching out for something I could not see, then let it fall again. I pointed to the drawing I had made on the sheet on the floor. Amid the dots of color that dripped from my hands—and Logan's—I had drawn a rudimentary design which had haunted my dreams for months. "Do you recognize this, Garth? And you, Adrian? You should."

Their eyes widened almost simultaneously as they studied it. Garth nodded, saying nothing.

"No," Reaver said flatly.

I wiped the dye off of my hands and made him look at me, lifting his chin with my fingertips. "Yes, you do."

"Yes, yes, of course I do. Rose, I don't want you going near it. That was Theresa's place, not yours. And I did not particularly enjoy our last visit—"

"You've never been there," Garth interjected. "None of us have been there. This is the completed Spire—the one that destroyed Albion. I have seen renderings in the Great Library of Samarkand. The key differences between the Spire and the Tattered Spire are here," he explained, pointing to the peak of the tall structure, "and here. This is fascinating. How could you know what it looked like? The Brightwall Academy does not have much literature on the Old Kingdom."

"I have been seeing it in my dreams since Theresa died," I said, standing and touching the enormous E and V that formed the heart of the tower. "I have reason to believe that the Spire is at the root of all of my recent…troubles. We're going to destroy it."

I told them everything: the appearance of the Red Rose and her dead Albion, the mysterious "Empress", the Mother Spire, the cries of the Archons from other worlds, the world inside the Mistpeak Demon Door… I talked until my throat was sore and the dye had dried to a crust in the bowl.

When I finished, deafening silence hung in the air like a thick fog. I searched the faces of my family and friends, and in each pair of eyes I found something different. Reaver looked poleaxed and clearly wanted to eject everyone else from the room. The priestess who had married us was nodding slowly, as though she had expected every word. Kalin was looking at her for guidance, and Garth's brow was furrowed with thought. Logan was still and inscrutable as he absorbed what he had just heard.

"Mother Maya," I said at last, "what do you make of this?"

The ancient woman gathered up the materials with which she had concocted the dye, working slowly and methodically. "It is merely a confirmation. I trust in the evidence of my eyes. Your mark will bear witness to all that you have said."

Reaver looked at the priestess with deep consternation. "How will she be marked?" he asked. "What are the effects?"

"Behold, and you are answered," Mother Maya replied patiently, retrieving the silver water pitcher from my nightstand. "Wash the dye away, and only the mark of the dreamwalk will remain. Its effects depend upon the soul who is so marked." She paused, then spoke again. "It is a rare gift. Most who walk in dreams do not return. Those who do, do so only with the aid of their ancestors."

"Queen Sparrow bought the Music Box from a street cart when she was a child," Garth countered. "She did not inherit it from any ancestors."

Mother Maya was unfazed. She took my arm in her withered hands and poured the water over my skin. "You said yourself that she is of the Old Kingdom, Magister Garth. Powerful heirlooms have ways of finding their way home to their true owners. If the device was sold so cheaply, it is only because it would not work for anyone else. Because it did not belong to anyone else."

The dye washed away in fine threads of purple; to my intense surprise, the priestess did not have to scrub it off. Only a small amount of color remained when she was finished: a thin band of runes on my right inner arm. No amount of washing would ever remove them. She repeated the process with Logan. His left arm bore the same markings. We looked at each other in silence, resolved to whatever fate lay ahead.

Reaver cleared his throat loudly. "Ladies. Gentlemen. I would like to be alone with my wife. Now."

"Just a moment," I said, holding up a hand. "Garth, I've got to find Scythe in this world. I know he is alive. I need to know how to reach him."

The old man frowned. "I...will do what I can. There might be something to be gleaned from the royal archives, but I don't—" He shook his head. "I don't think we will find him unless he wishes to be found."

"What about the Music Box?" I pressed. "He would feel it. He is a Hero. He must."

"It's possible…" Garth allowed. "But there is no way to tell whether or not he will investigate its source. I will be in the library if you need me, Your Majesty."

He excused himself, and slowly, the others followed. Logan caught my arm and leaned close.

"Listen to him," he murmured, nodding toward Reaver. "Please."

And then he was gone. My husband and I were alone, again, and the moment the door closed, I felt all of my strength drain away. In the absence of my friends and advisors, the calm, collected veneer of Queen Rose disintegrated until I was only Rose, a young, naïve woman who hadn't yet seen her 20th year. I sat down heavily, panting for breath, shivering violently. Everything I had seen, everything I had come to understand…it was too much. It had left a gaping wound somewhere inside me, a wound that sucked at the air every time I breathed. The room was too small. Too full of strange scents. I brought my hands to my breast and clasped them tightly together. My heartbeat was a hammer knocking blunt nails through my chest. Avo help me, the ache…I can't stand it…please take this away from me…

You're scaring me, the little girl I had heard in the clouds whispered again. Dad, you're scaring me. Linnea. Her name was Linnea. She was eight years old. Her father… I closed my eyes and bit back a moan of horror. Her father had a gun barrel between his teeth. He was going to make her watch.

No…please, no, I don't want to see it, I don't want to know this!

I did not realize that I was rocking in place until I felt Reaver's arms around me, holding me in place against his chest, where his own heart pounded in time with mine.

"I don't want it," I whispered tremulously, muffled against his shirt. "I don't want their pain. It's not mine!"

"That's right," he murmured, resting his cheek against my temple. "It isn't yours. If all of this is real, Rose—and I must admit that I am beginning to believe that it is—you have no responsibility for any of it, and you know that. So let the matter go. We must go on with our lives."

"I hear them, Adrian. I hear them when I sleep. I feel their wants and their needs, and I can't make it stop."

He was silent for a long moment. He ran his fingers through my hair and I breathed easier, wrapped in the warm solidity of his arms. He pressed his lips to my brow and sighed through his nose. "I endured Angela Mercer's screams for 300 years. I thought I knew what they meant, but I was wrong. Have you considered the possibility that you are misunderstanding what you're seeing and hearing?"

"Of course I have," I said softly. He was so soothingly concrete…so real. I held him tightly and looked up into his eyes, and read worry, love, and anger there. "But it hasn't helped. I need to know."

He sighed again, much harder this time. "I know that. It is in your nature, and just now, I really wish it wasn't. The whole bloody lot of it is ridiculous, Rose. Theresa gave you more power than you will ever know what to do with, and for that, I hate her—yes, Rose, I hate her," he repeated when he felt my body stiffen with shock. "She has given you a burden you never asked to bear, and now she's gone, and there is no one to guide you. No one to teach you how to handle these sorts of…side effects."

"Please don't hate her," I pled, gripping the fabric of his shirt. "There was no malice in—"

"Rose, I don't give a balverine's balls about her intent!" he snarled. His eyes were dark with fury. His face was pale and drawn, as though he had not slept in days. "It is her actions that matter to me! Look at yourself!" He held up my right arm, where the violet markings stood out like a brand. "This! Have you any idea what I have been through, today? Thinking you were lost? That you might never wake up again?"

I felt dizzy with misery. My throat burned with the sobs I struggled to hold back, but I told myself that I didn't have the right to cry. Nothing had happened to me. I was only a witness. "I'm s-sorry…I'm so…so sorry, Adrian." I hitched in a breath, shuddering. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He crushed me against him, then. "Enough. It is enough, Rose. Only swear to me that you will not trust this…mockery of existence who seems to have taken up residence in your head. If you see her again, I want your word that you will do all that you can to be rid of her. Your word, Rose. I would kill her, myself, if I could, but I cannot, so I must depend on you. Can I?"

I nodded wordlessly, not knowing how to do what he was asking of me, but only that I would, one way or another. It wasn't just for him, or for myself. The Red Rose's existence was a hollow shell. She needed release. Somehow, I had to set her free.

We sat like that for a long time, talking in low tones. The words themselves did not matter much. It was our ability to say them that made us who we were. Reaver and I were not merely married. We were two halves of a single life force. Together, we were stronger than the Red Rose, stronger than Theresa's legacy…stronger than the Spire. There was nothing we could not face.

But in my dreams, I was on my own. He could not follow me. He could not help me. In my dreams, I would always be alone.

I set the feather quill aside and wiped a smudge of ink from my fingers with one of Reaver's handkerchiefs. My hand ached and throbbed from the hours of writing, and I rubbed at it absently, considering the pile of finished letters in front of me. Both Reaver and Hobson had exasperatedly suggested that I delegate this matter to someone else, but it was too important. What I was about to do—what I was about to say—was so personal and monumental that to put it down in any hand but mine would do a disservice to the people who would ultimately read it. It had to come from me.

Still massaging my hand, I read the last of several hundred identical letters:

To all citizens of all nations:

I, Rose White, Queen of Albion, do hereby extend an open invitation to any man, woman, or child who wishes to take it. A call has been issued to those with dormant Heroic blood. That blood, for better or worse, is no longer dormant. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Heroes walk the earth once more. If you have felt it within yourself, and if you feel frightened, confused, or merely curious, I invite you to visit Albion's Haven, just beyond Bloodstone. There you will have the opportunity to come to a fuller understanding of what you are. Who you choose to become, and how long you choose to stay, is entirely up to you. You are welcome here. Your families are welcome here. I wish only to help you understand what has happened to you, and all that you might do now that you have awakened. I take full responsibility for all that you may have suffered because of this awakening, and I hope that you will allow me to make amends by putting my Haven at your disposal. It is a safe place of learning for Heroes of all ages and backgrounds. There are no expenses. There are no binding contracts. If you felt the call, I merely invite you to investigate it—and find yourself in doing so.

I remain, your servant,

Rose of Albion

It would have to do. I knew that there was no way to properly express what had been done to these people with words, but words were all that I had. Words, and more importantly, a promise: to protect, to cherish, to teach, and to nurture the few or the many who had felt the song of the Music Box in their living marrow, resonating so deeply that it could not be ignored by even the most stalwart of skeptics. They would need guidance, and I would do my best to provide it. But above all, they would need hope. A beacon.

A haven.

What I could not do for the Archons in my dreams, I would do for them. That was my true responsibility. That was my burden, and my privilege, and nothing would prevent me from executing it. Not even the cries of my brothers and sisters, the myriad sons and daughters of Sparrow scattered over worlds like bright stars in the night sky. I had given my word, and I meant to keep it.