Title: Crowning Tristan
Author: Sedri
Rating: PG-13 / T
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own Stardust in any way. This is just for fun.

Chapter Fifteen

Lord Valen Vaardan, mayor of Fulkeston, was having a strange day.

It had all begun early that morning when his son Kel wandered into his office, chewing an apple and looking oddly thoughtful. "Father," he'd said, "there're some funny rumours going round the market." When prompted, he'd gone on to explain that a spice merchant had arrived from Revelry full of stories about the miraculous return of Princess Una – "He says she's on her way to the city, and coming here next."

Quite reasonably, Vaardan had brushed this off as a foolish, if rather pleasant fantasy. The last daughter of Stormhold had vanished almost twenty years ago, and by all rights had to be dead. A shame, really – she'd been such a lovely girl. Vaardan had met her once, at court, when he was still a young man just come into his inheritance. It had only been for a few minutes, and the memory was blurred by his mingled excitement and fear, but he remembered thinking that she was just as everyone always said; calm, pretty, and very honest – her smile and congratulations on his new lordship had been genuine, and in contrast to her brothers (two of which had been there at the time), she'd remembered not only his full name, but his wife's, his mother's, and the family's founding ancestor.

Her disappearance had been a tragic blow to the entire country. No official mourning was ever declared because her family refused to consider her dead. In fact, Prince Septimus had organised a massive search, Princes Sextus and Secundus had viciously interrogated the palace staff, Prince Quintus had travelled the entire country offering bribes, and Prince Quartus had sacrificed half his spy network in search of information. But when months had passed and hope had dwindled, the people of Stormhold had taken it upon themselves to mourn their lost princess anyway. For weeks, black banners hung from every window, black ribbons streamed from every post, and anyone who wore a patch of bright colour was hatefully glared at by all their neighbours.

Princess Una was dead.

Dredging up ghosts to sell your merchandise was a crude and deeply offensive tactic.

After telling off his fool of a son, Vaardan had dispatched a soldier to deal with the merchant and then simply gone about his business, thinking little of it. After all, this sort of thing had happened before – every few years rumours would spring up, offering new theories or titbits of fact about the night Princess Una vanished, and once some stupid woman had actually claimed to be her, striding through some distant northern villages and demanding to be treated like royalty. Apparently those idiot farmers had believed it, too, until a pair of princes rode in and hanged the fool. Pity; no one should throw their life away for something so fleeting.

So Vaardan had sighed, shaken his head, and gone back to work. Not an hour later, the soldier returned, exasperated, and explained that no matter how stern he'd made his warnings, the merchant was refusing to admit to his lie. Annoyed, Vaardan had considered threatening an arrest, but thought better of it and asked his men to simply keep watch and assure any curious townsfolk that the rumours were false.

It hadn't worked. By late afternoon, when the diligent mayor had finished his paperwork, the streets were packed and buzzing with chatter. Walking home, Vaardan was accosted three times in five minutes by people asking him if 'it' was true and what 'she' really looked like and "Oh, isn't this grand?" People were bustling back and forth, arms filled with a variety of items, all excited and chirpy and hurrying their burdens to the western side of side of town. Several soldiers he didn't recognise were there too, some running errands, others just running. Putting on his best I-Am-Your-Lord-And-Mayor expression, Vaardan stopped one and demanded an explanation.

"Her Highness wants polishing oil," the boy said.

Vaardan blinked. "Oil?"

"Yes sir. Wood polish. I'm not sure why."

"...Oh." Another blink. The soldier fidgeted. "Well... on your way, then."

The boy hurried off. Vaardan, in mild sort of a daze, walked absently through the streets for a while, telling himself that no, it was ridiculous, it couldn't be true, until he found that the sea of townsfolk had brought him right to the source of their excitement; Fulkeston's best inn, The Dragon's Keep.

Two soldiers flanked the door. A flurry of people were darting in and out, each pausing just long enough to be recognised before rushing off to do whatever duty they had apparently been assigned. Stable hands were tending to several fine horses and the roof of a large carriage could be seen peeking out over a wooden fence. More soldiers were in that little service courtyard, and as he passed the open gate, Vaardan could see two wagons being unloaded and tidied up.

A small knot of nerves formed in his chest. Whatever was happening, this was more than a loudmouth merchant or a stupid farmgirl. It could – somehow – be real.

Lifting his chin, he approached the guards and declared, "I am Lord Valen Vaardan, mayor of Fulkeston, and I insist that you stand aside."

The two men glanced at each other. One gave a slight shrug and the other stepped into the doorway, gesturing for the mayor to follow. He did so.

Inside, the Keep looked less like an inn and more like a workhouse: The bar was empty and the game boards deserted, and instead every table had been pulled out to make space for a dozen young ladies, each of whom was measuring and cutting long strips of fabric as quickly as her excitement would allow. Other women were gathered in a circle, sewing, and all were having a lively chat in voices just quietly enough not to bother the knot of people in the room's left and centre, all of whom were busy with sheaves of paper, scribbling notes and scratching off lists, all seeming far to happy given how rushed they were.

A woman was standing in the centre of this chaos, and though she was constantly moving, answering questions and making decisions, she had a cool grace and confidence that leant her more nobility than her fine dress or the pretty jewel binding her long hair. It was by this calm that Vaardan recognised her; the years were too many for him to really know her face, and she had aged besides, but even with all his doubts and cynicism, his first thought was, It's her.

His escorting soldier was looking awed, too. No, not awed – honoured. He felt very important. They approached steadily, slow enough to be polite and fast enough to convey his rank. The lady's staff, recognising this stride for what it was, backed off and allowed them to speak uninterrupted.

"Your Highness," bowed the soldier, "this is Lord Vaardan, mayor of Fulkeston."

Belatedly, Vaardan remembered to bow, too, removing his puffed hat. The lady gave him a gentle smile, hands neatly clasped before her. "Lord Vaardan, a pleasure to see you again."

She remembers? thought the mayor. "And you, my lady," he said quickly, sounding far less nervous than he suddenly felt. "I cannot say how delighted I am – we all are – by your return."

She smiled again, genuine pleasure twinkling in one eye. Princess Una – for there could be no doubt that it was her – said, "I'm pleased to be home. Thank you for your welcome. I trust all is well here in Fulkeston?"

"O– of course," said Vaardan, flustered. She didn't really want to know about his problems balancing taxes, did she? No, of course not – Valen, you fool! he scolded himself. You're a grown man, stop gibbering!

But the princess didn't seem to mind. "I'm glad to hear it. I apologise for commandeering all your craftsmen, but I'm afraid my family and I are in something of a hurry."

"Your... family, of course. Of course," nodded Vaardan. Prince Septimus was with her? Had he found her – rescued her from somewhere? Cold and dangerous though he was, everyone knew the youngest heir cared for his sister, and, judging by the joy on her face, it seemed she loved him too. How was incomprehensible, but somehow it only made Vaardan admire her more.

Without fanfare, a man was approaching from one side. He had a few papers in hand and was silently counting on his fingers, nodding as he went. He looked a bit strange – short hair, Vaardan later realised – but was otherwise unobtrusive, and the mayor would have ignored him entirely if his slight, shifting movements hadn't caught the eye of their princess.

She turned a little and smiled again, gesturing to the newcomer and saying, "My lord, I would like you to meet Dunstan Thorn."

"Ah – pleased to meet you," Vaardan said automatically. Who?

Thorn nodded and shook his extended hand. Politely, he looked at the princess and said, "They can manage fifty-three."

Whatever he was referring to seemed to please Princess Una; she let out a small breath and nodded. "Good. I'll be right there. My lord," she said warmly, turning back to Vaardan, "it was a pleasure to see you again. I will be sure to call on you the next time we visit Fulkeston, and you must always feel free to approach us at Mount Huon." With an almost cheeky twinkle, she added, "I promise to stop causing chaos your town by morning. My best wishes to your family. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Your Highness," replied Vaardan, sweeping a bow. "May the stars bless your dreams," he added, instantly feeling silly for using such old-fashioned language. Princess Una smiled again and nodded, and as he stepped away she turned back to her semi-patient staff, including the odd Thorn man, and went back to work.

Before he quite realised it, Valen Vaardan found himself standing outside the Keep, hat in hands and glaringly, however politely, kicked out. He couldn't find it in himself to be miffed, though, just startled – and pleased. A funny little smile had fixed itself on his face. Straightening up, he replaced his hat, tweaked it, and sauntered back down the streets of Fulkeston. He was going home, and the first thing he would say to his wife was, "You'll never guess what just happened."

Inside, Una closed her eyes and tried to drive back a headache as she leaned over the table again. Dunstan, beside her, asked, "Who was that?"

"I have no idea," she murmured so only he could hear. "It's been so long, I can't remember them anymore."

"Your Highness!" cried a short-of-breath woman, scurrying over from the sewing tables. She offered a long, thin strip of dark blue fabric. "Your Highness, will this do?"

Una took one glance and nodded. "Yes, but make sure you have enough black ones." The woman nodded and Una turned to face another patient assistant. "Where is that oil for my brother's coffin?"

The next morning the royal family set off again, now with coloured ribbons streaming from all the posts of their carriage. Lord Vaardan and his entire family had come to see them off, all in their best clothes, and Una felt a moment's regret for essentially ignoring them. It was a fleeting thought, though, for she had so much else to worry about: Tristan still didn't know half of what he needed to and with time running short, was having a harder time remembering it.

"I call the ministers 'Lords' and the advisors 'Ministers' and the bishop... what do I call the bishop?"

"Ermyn. It was the name of our first real spiritual leader, so it's been adopted as a show of respect."

Yvaine's brow furrowed. "I thought they were called 'Eminence'."

"No, that's too old-fashioned. Ermyn himself was called that, but it fell out of favour after Bishop Seryas managed to overthrow Quartus the Eighth nine hundred years ago."

"A usurpation?" asked Dunstan. "I thought you said your family's reign hadn't been broken since Galdon."

"It lasted less than a year," said Una absently, looking over at the papers in her hand. "Seryas' cult of religious fanatics turned on each other, and when King Quartus returned with his loyalists there wasn't much resistance. It doesn't really count." She flipped to another sheet and skimmed over it before looking up at Tristan. "What do you say if someone asks about the new aqueduct my father was promising to build?"

"That I think it's a good idea and I plan to review the royal finances as soon as possible."

"And if they ask about the tax redistribution?"

He hesitated, eyes flicking up to the roof as he searched his memory.

"Tell them your grandfather's policies were sound, but you think there's room for improvement," suggested Dunstan. "It's nicely ambiguous."

Tristan relaxed a bit, nodding his thanks, but Una frowned – that wasn't in her script. She said nothing, though, and moved on. "What's the first thing you say at an audience with any nobleman, after their name and title has been announced?"

"Er... ask how they're doing?"

"No," said Una sharply, locking eyes with him. "You must never ask after someone's health before they ask about yours. That was a trick question – you don't speak first. Etiquette obliges them to ask if you are well first and if they don't, it's a very bad sign." She forced herself to sit back – Tristan was grateful, for her gaze was intense – and added, "It's a sign of submission, remember? You should only ever ask first if you want to show someone a great deal of respect – when greeting ambassadors, for instance, or me; as your mother, I'm supposed to be your social superior, at least until you're crowned."

Tristan nodded and glanced almost longingly at Yvaine, who was only half-listening as she played with her little stone cat. "So what do I do if they don't ask? Do I just say something else? Ask why they're there?"

Una shook her head. "Say nothing at all. You have to demand their respect, so let the silence pressure them. You'll find a lot of people start to fidget after about ten or twenty seconds; make sure you sit very still, and most of them will break."

"And if they don't?"

She hesitated. "I'll be there. I'll say something."

Not particularly reassured, Tristan slouched in his seat, absently reaching up to fiddle with the heavy ruby pendant which hung on new chain around his neck. Una, eyes never leaving the papers in her lap, reached out and lightly slapped his wrist. Tristan blinked. "What?"

"You're doing it again."

"Oh. Sorry."

Una, back in her lists and muttering quietly to herself, didn't answer. Dunstan silently gestured for him to put his hands in his pockets. Tristan did so, and his movement made the ruby tumble from one side of his ribs to the other; a silent roll, but the chain tugged uncomfortably at his neck. Tristan felt silly – the whole thing looked ridiculous, despite his mother's assurance that it was perfect. She'd finally found a decent jeweller in Fulkeston, and to appease her frustration with his grass-stained coat, he'd taken it without complaint.

He really wished he hadn't.

Suddenly Yvaine said, "Corvin asked me a question this morning."

The others looked at her, puzzled. "Corvin?" asked Tristan.

"One of my bodyguards. The blonde one, about your age."

Her fiancé nodded, jaw just a little bit tight. Dunstan noted this with great amusement and asked, "What did he want to know?"

"If a strand of my hair would turn into pure gold if I cut it off," she replied with a look of disgust. "He actually meant it, too."

"What did you tell him?"

"That it was the stupidest thing I've ever heard," she replied, still watching the glass cat as it nuzzled against her thumb. "That's not the point."

Una, having given up on her papers for now, irritably asked, "Then what is?"

Yvaine looked up, and now that his view was no longer blocked by her long curtain of hair, Tristan could see that she was worried; she kept her hands busy with the glass cat as a distraction, but her lips were pressed tight and her forehead wrinkled. "He asked me that in the middle of the market. Twenty people heard it, and they weren't surprised. They already knew."

"That you're a star?" Tristan clarified.

"No, that I'm a goldfish," she snapped. "What else?"

Tired, Tristan just held up his hands in surrender and leaned further back into the carriage cushions. "Sorry," he muttered.

Una's patience was wearing thin too. "You knew this would happen, Yvaine. You agreed to tell them."

"And I shouldn't have. Everyone was staring at me. They used to talk or smile but now they just stare, and I can't tell if they're just curious or laughing or plotting to kill me."

"You have protection," said Una, flipping through her lists in search of something. "They'll stare at you for being queen, too. You have to get used to it."

"I don't want to." For a moment she sounded absurdly childish. Then she let out a tight breath and squeezed Tristan's hand, muttering, "But I will."

Dunstan frowned at all three of them. He was feeling the stress too – he particularly shuddered at the idea of standing in front of a crowd, even if he didn't have to say anything – but the tension in that small carriage was building up to breaking point. Yvaine was too scared and Una too stressed to mind how sharp their words were, and Tristan was too nervous to play peacekeeper. That left Dunstan.

"I think it's time for lunch," he suggested after a long silence. "Shall I tell Captain Oltran to stop?" he asked, gesturing to the window.

"We really don't have time," replied Una, not looking up. "I want to be in Cloudsrange before dusk."

"I think it would do us all good," Dunstan urged gently. "We don't have to stop for long."

"Fine."

He was right, it did help. Tristan just paced and Una simply took her papers along to write more notes, but the fresh air soothed their frayed nerves. Yvaine did better, mainly because she went right up to her personal guards and asked them what everyone in Fulkeston seemed to be thinking. Corvin's reply was as enthusiastic as always so she ignored it, but Sergeant Rollon, who was about as blunt a man as one could ask for, considered it a moment.

"Most of them don't really believe it," he judged. "They'll wait for someone they trust to give a straight answer before they believe it. But everyone seems happy about it; they all seem to think Her Majesty's return is some sort of miracle, and that you're part of it. Like a kid's story. I've not seen anything suspicious, or any sort of threats. To be honest, I really don't see why we're guarding you, ma'am."

"Yvaine," she corrected absently. "Some people seem to think that my body is magical, and that getting a piece of me would make them rich."

"Like what that Corvin said? Only idiots don't know that it's all rubbish."

"It's true."

Rollon stopped cold. He looked straight at her, and she suddenly noticed that his eyes were a very pale grey-blue, almost silver, and piercing. For a moment she was afraid – what if he attacked her, right now? – but nothing happened, and at last the sergeant said, "It'll be the magic traders that know that, won't it? The black market types?"

Thinking of Ferdy the Fence, she nodded, and Rollon frowned, thinking. "We should have Lantor," he said at last. "And Karac, too. Three men aren't enough. I know them, and we've got a few friends in the city..." he paused, tapping his fingers, then said, "I can get you at least eight good men. Maybe more, but not right away; I want to make sure we can trust them."

Yvaine nodded, relieved, and so Sergeant Rollon became the unofficial captain of what would eventually be known as the Star Guard.

They reached Cloudsrange with time to spare. Commandeering yet another inn, Una immediately set about directing every soldier, innkeeper and passing commoner to help with whatever tasks she had that were yet unfinished: This was their last night to prepare, the last night to catch any mistakes or fix any problems, and Una, already a perfectionist, was driving herself mad.

"Have you any banners? Flags? Then we'll have to make due. Sio, go back to the clothier and fetch me four feet each of royal blue, pale blue, white, gold, and black – no, make that six of black. And make sure to bring thread! Now, Thala, what's this? No – no, I told you, my dress is blue and gold; the jewellery has to match. No silver. See if it fits with Yvaine's– oh, no, she can't wear silver either. Put it in my trunk and pay the merchant anyway. Eldon! Lieutenant, find a way to secure my brother's coffin without those old straps – No, I don't care if you have to nail him down, his number cannot be obscured by that worn-out brown leather. ...You could try that, I suppose, but only with black straps, and make sure they're new! Vanna–"

It was chaos, worse than the night before. Dunstan couldn't afford to read notes as he walked for fear of bumping into a table, stepping on some project, or simply being run into by someone else. The entire place was filled with people, twice as many as before, and only Una actually knew what they were all doing. Some girls were sewing, others cutting, boys polished boots and hats and lanterns while outside Prince Septimus' coffin was having its quickly-painted "7" touched up as the wood itself was buffed to shine. Soldiers oiled their swords and wandered around in mis-matched parts of their everyday uniforms because the cloaks and trousers in best condition had been confiscated by the washer-women, who also had all of the royal family's best outfits – Dunstan was in some of his older clothes from Wall, but Tristan had been left to dig through his uncle Primus' luggage for something that fit. The huge metal wash tubs were usually kept in the back rooms of any inn, but with the sheer volume of garments, some of which had to be cleaned very carefully, more had been needed, and they had spilled out onto the main floor.

Passing a table at which several women were stuffing small pillows, Dunstan shook his head, bewildered. It had been like this for hours, he thought, squeezing between two men who were fixing... well, he wasn't really sure what they were fixing, or even that they were fixing it, but they certainly seemed busy.

Una was scrambling about, giving orders, amending orders, double-checking that everyone knew her orders and generally being confusing. Her air of calm confidence was gone; Lord Vaardan would scarcely have recognised her, and there were moments, though very few, when the people of Cloudsrange couldn't tell either.

Dunstan had just been sent to check that the carriage had indeed been scrubbed properly – it had – and was delayed twice on his way back in, first by a worried innkeeper who wasn't sure he had enough food to give all these guests breakfast, then by a round of shrieks in the drying room, where Yvaine's fancy blue dress had, apparently, almost caught fire. The lady in charge promised that there wasn't any actual damage – all right, there was damage, she confessed, but it was on one of the skirt's under-layers and would never actually be seen except by Yvaine herself, and Yvaine, Dunstan knew, couldn't care less. His daughter-to-be had been demonstrating her good sense by taking Una's lists of everything Tristan desperately needed to know and dragging the nervous prince upstairs to quiz him on it. Dunstan would have been surprised if that was all they were doing in the privacy of his quiet room, but at least it spared Una that particular worry.

"What did your soothsayer predict for tomorrow's weather?" she was asking a short, frazzled-looking man. "Hmm? Or didn't he–? Oh, bother, I never asked that, did I?" The puzzled assistant shook his head, no. Una abruptly marched to one window and threw it open, looking out at the starry sky and narrowing her eyes at some distant clouds. "Little wind," she announced. "Good, we should have sun tomorrow. Now what did I sent you for?"

"You wanted musicians, ma'am."

"Yes, that's right," she said, nodding as she leaned over her scribbled list. "Does this mayor have proper trumpeters?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And they know the proper tunes for both a royal victory and a funeral?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And can they–?"

"Una?"

She looked up, briefly, reaching for a quill pen. "Yes, Dunstan, what is it?"

He hesitated, and the assistant took advantage of the moment to scurry away. Una didn't notice, discarding the pen as she flipped through her papers in search of yet another list. "Una, you're tired. I think it's time–"

"Is the carriage ready?" she asked, completely unaware that she was interrupting.

"Clean and polished," Dunstan replied. "Everyone here knows exactly what you need them to do, so I think–"

"And the lamps? The pillows? Have you checked in on the–?"

"Una," he said intensely, taking hold of her shoulder.

She blinked, finally turning to really look at him. "What?"

"Rest. Now."

Shaking her head, she turned back to the papers. "Really, Dunstan, I'm fine, I–"

"Una, you're trying to write with a butter knife."

She stopped, stared at her hand, then dropped the greasy tool and slumped against the table with a sigh. Taking the lists from her hand – all of them messy scribbles of crossed-out or heavily circled items, several of which were repeats, Dunstan gestured to the innkeeper, Mr Kelton, and handed them over. "You know what still needs to be done?" he asked quietly. The man nodded. "Then please see to it that it is. And we would appreciate a pot of tea, when you have a moment."

Mr Kelton nodded again, looking relieved as Dunstan took hold of Una's elbow, guiding her towards the stairs. She stumbled along, mind still down in the busy workroom, and took little notice of her surroundings until she found herself being gently pushed down into a large, comfortable chair. There was a fireplace in front of her, burning dark and low, and Dunstan crouched down to stoke it.

Una looked around, realising that this was her room – the one she had spent two minutes in upon arrival, looking through her travel bag for some missing papers. It was the largest and finest room in this particular inn – she had forgotten the name – and offered a sweeping view of the mountains ahead. Through the blurry glass she could see the speckles of light that stretched beautifully across the face of Stormhold's famous mountain city. She hadn't seen those lights in years, and they were strangely soothing to her, in the way that an old, worn toy soothes a crying child.

For a while, neither she nor Dunstan spoke. Putting away the poker, he quietly took the other chair, absently rubbing a cramped muscle in his hand until a soft knock sounded at the door. He answered it, and walked back a moment later with a tea tray. Una was still staring out the window so he made the drinks in silence, save for the clinking of china, and had to nudge her arm to alert her when it was finally ready.

She turned and blinked, then smiled tiredly and accepted the cup, closing her eyes to breathe in the steam. She took a sip; it was sweet and fresh and fruity, with enough heat and vapour to soothe her aching face. Leaning back into the chair, she let out a long, content sigh and slipped out of her shoes, putting her feet up on the overstuffed footrest that hadn't been there before Dunstan got up.

Opening her eyes, she smiled.

Dunstan returned it. "Feeling better?" he asked, stirring his own drink.

"Mm, much," she replied. "Thank you."

He shrugged as if to say, 'nothing of it' and took a sip. To his tongue it was a strange mix, touched with an exotic spice that, although lovely, made him long for his familiar earl grey. For a while they drank in silence, the heat of the liquid and the fire before them soothing worn muscles and tired minds.

Una returned her gaze to the window, sunk deep into her comfortable chair and murmured, "I'll be home tomorrow."

He looked up, tilting his head in mild surprise. She'd never used that word before and it intrigued him, though he hadn't the energy to do more than lift an eyebrow. "You look forward to it?" he asked. Una shrugged.

"I'm not sure. It's been years, and I was never... well, never completely happy there."

Dunstan said nothing, letting her take her time. She did so, and the clock ticked many times before she said, "When I was little, before my mother died, we were happy. All of us. Between lessons I would play in the garden, and sometimes my tutors would take me out there to study geometry, or whatever it was I had to do that day." She laughed softly. "Mother would pretend to be cross, then come out and join us anyway, pretending that she'd forgotten it all." He chuckled and she shrugged, smiling. "I liked it when she did that."

"I can imagine," said Dunstan. "My father would take me fishing sometimes, and those were always good days. Sometimes we took my friends along, but it was never quite the same... What?"

Una had shifted uncomfortably, nearly undoing all the hard work of Dunstan's tea as she tensed, fingers tightening on the porcelain teacup. "I never had many friends," she confessed, sounding faintly resentful. "My father never let me associate with any girls that weren't from 'appropriately noble' families, so they were all chosen for me; I had no say in it."

"Surely you must have liked some of them."

She shrugged. "There were some. Rial – and Talua, I suppose. Both their fathers were lords of some town or province, and they were nice enough. Sincere, I suppose; they didn't treat me all that differently from how they treated each other. It was nice."

Dunstan smiled, nodding as he took another sip and asked, "Do you think they'll still live in the city now?"

Una turned; she hadn't thought of that. After a moment she said, "Well, they were both betrothed when I left – Rial was married, actually, though I wasn't allowed to attend. Their husbands would have houses in town as well as the country. They might be."

"Maybe you should try to find them," suggested Dunstan. Her face broke into a soft smile and she nodded.

"I think I will."

They sat together for a while longer, finishing one cup of fruit tea and starting another, until Una's eyelids began to droop and the heat of the fire made her sleepy and comfortable. Dunstan carefully took the cup from her hands. "I'll try to find Yvaine," he said quietly. "It must be late."

Una blinked and stretched, nodding. "Thank you for the tea," she said, "and the... company."

"Anytime," said Dunstan, moving toward the door. "Goodnight, Una."

"Goodnight."