CHAPTER TWO
A House Is Not A Home

SPENSON, ALPHONSE (C.Y. 250 – C.Y. 318)….Though relatively unsung in his day, history and criticism have been kind to the legacy of Spenson, who is now considered the spiritual father of the literary school of Galvenian Realism. This interpretation is based on his early works and their trenchant analysis of family and social mores among the Galvenian middle-class, but fails to take into account his later works, which were more overtly political…

- ENCYCLOPEDIA GALVENICA, 24th Edition, C.Y. 347

"Henrik."

It was a single word, but Henrik Spenson knew what it meant; it was a request, almost a command, for attention and obedience. He looked up from his book – Essays in Galvenian History – with a sigh of relief, and rose to face his father.

"Good afternoon, Father," he said. "What's the matter?"

"There's a telegram for you, boy," he replied, handing it to him without another word. "What have you been doing?"

Henrik tore open the telegram and read it. It was brief and to the point.

SILAS TRASK, CHIEF OF PALACE SECURITY, LOREAN CASTLE

MR SPENSON KINDLY PRESENT YOURSELF AT MY OFFICE AT 1500 HOURS TOMORROW. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS HERE.

"They want me to go to the Palace," Henrik said, with a puzzled expression on his face, as he handed the message to his father. "I think I know why."

"Well, enlighten me," Alphonse Spenson said, drily. "I didn't know my son was a celebrity."

"I'm not, Father," Henrik assured him. "It's just that, a couple of weeks ago, Ryan and I did – a little job for Mr. Trask at the Palace. He wanted us to help him in tracking someone."

"Good grief, Henrik," Alphonse protested. "You seem to forget that you are now committed to one thing alone: your studies at King's College. I don't need to remind you that of hundred students who receive a scholarship, only about thirty can pass the entrance examination. These foolish escapades have got to stop."

"But Father," Henrik began, "this was something important! Apparently there's a traitor on the loose in Galvenia, and he's…."

"Henrik." The word silenced him more effectively than a blow or a rebuke. "Listen to me. I may not show it openly – I am not that kind of person – but I am very proud of your academic achievements. I believe you will have a fine future as a scholar one day. And I do not want you to throw it away and become a mercenary for the stooges at Lorean! Is that clear?"

"I'm not a mercenary, Father –"

"Be quiet, boy, and listen to me. Do you not realize, Henrik, that after I lost Barbara, you are all I have in the world? I've seen more of life than you, Henrik. I know exactly what our government, and our intelligence agents, are capable of. There are things I know, from my days as a journalist, which would probably cause fat old Arlbert to die of apoplexy if they were printed. Do not throw away a golden future to run with those hounds. As your father, I order it."

Henrik remained silent, his head bowed. Finally, seeing a glimmer of hope, he spoke.

"But even if what you say is true, Father, I can't just ignore this message," he replied. "It would be bad form to ignore a missive from the Palace."

Alphonse closed his eyes. "You have a point there, boy," he said, after a long silence. "Here is what you must do. Go meet this Mr. Trask, and tell him that you're very sorry, but you have other commitments, and your parents do not wish you to undertake this task. Also, tell him that if he has any objections, he can address them to Alphonse Spenson, Number 17, Chester Lane, Davenport. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Father," Henrik replied.

xxx

"How is he, Hocha?" Sheila Eramond asked, anxiety writ large on her normally kind, pleasant face.

Hubert Hocha – the late Colonel Whitworth's batman – stood up from the chair where he, along with Dr. Dubois, the Army surgeon from Serin's Peak, had been keeping a watch over Ryan. It was his second day in the Davenport Infirmary, and he was still only partly conscious.

"A little better, Mrs. Eramond," Hocha said, with a smile. "His wounds are healing well, and thank God, modern medicine is now able to tackle those which have turned septic. He will still take about a week to mend, and he should emerge from his delirium in two or three days."

"Quite right, ma'am," Dr. Dubois – a short man with a brisk, unfussy manner – replied, with a kind look at her. "He's a strong young man. I'm not sure what shape his mind is in, but he'll be up and about in a week or so."

"His mind?" Sheila shuddered.

"Oh, he's been through quite a lot – unfortunately, because he was confused, I couldn't get a coherent account from him. But it's certain that he's witnessed quite a massacre, and that he had to draw his own weapon to defend the Princess. Moreover, I doubt our Zion brethren were particularly gentle when they detained him; I don't trust their "Military Code of Conduct" any further than I can throw it. But don't worry. He'll probably have a few nightmares over it, that's all. Just be gentle with him."

"I will," Sheila said fervently. "Thank you so much, Doctor."

"My thanks too," Theodore Eramond said, walking into the room from his position near the door, where he had listened to the doctor's words with relief. "You've been very helpful."

"Oh, that's my job, Mr. Eramond," Dr. Dubois replied, as they shook hands. "Now, keep a close watch on him during the night, and call the nurse if anything unusual happens. I'll see you again in the morning. Good night."

"Good night, Doctor; good night, Hocha," Sheila said gratefully, as the two men left the room.

"Ryan, my boy," she began, as she sat down next to him. "What have they done to you?"

"Don't worry, Sheila," Theodore said kindly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "The boy is Gustav's grandson, after all. He'll survive."

They looked at each other with a shared understanding, and Sheila relaxed. As fond as they were of each other, even after twenty-four years of marriage, they could not deny the fact that their home, without Ryan, had felt very empty indeed.

xxx

"Your Imperial Majesty," Count Hunermann said, softly, "we have received a reply from the Galvenians. Our envoys, General Tegawa and Viceroy Becher of Darington, have just sent me a wire."

"Hunermann," Charlemagne said wearily, "don't tire me out with details. I can't take that, even from my own Chamberlain. What do they say?"

"The news is not entirely good, Your Imperial Majesty," Hunermann replied. "Arlbert has agreed to an alliance – I quote – 'in the event that an actual armed conflict takes place, and once it is clear that a diplomatic solution is impossible.' He can assure us of at least ten armed regiments, but only with the above caveat. Tegawa says that Socius and Sheffield would probably have permitted more, but Arlbert was unwilling."

Charlemagne moved uncomfortably, groaning with pain as he did so. "The imbecile," he muttered. "Does he not realize what he owes to us? Would he be happier if we had left his daughter on the Paradiso, pending a 'diplomatic solution'? Truly, it is sad to see a dynasty of one's kinsmen reduced to this."

"They await your instructions, Sire, now that Wilhelm is…"

"There's no need to dance around facts, Hunermann." Emperor Charlemagne scowled. "My son is dead, and as feeble as my body is, I will now have to assist you – at least with my mind. Tell them to accept Arlbert's offer, and to make contact with our agents in Galvenia, so that we can anticipate any unexpected move on their part. We will have to be content with that – I do not want another skirmish with the Galvenians, who though base, are good fighters. See that my instructions are obeyed to the letter. Is that clear?"

"Very well, Your Highness," Hunermann said, bowing before he left the darkened room. As he departed, he could not help feeling a pang of sympathy for the ailing Emperor, who now had no lineal descendant to succeed him.

There are Imperial cousins and nephews, of course – and the Empress could always assume power as a figurehead, if Charlemagne grew too ill. But still – God save our Emperor. Unlike the Galvenians, the Zion Emperor is still a worthy example of royalty.

Perhaps we can get Socius to cooperate, even if Arlbert won't play, he thought, with a smile, as he returned to issue his orders. After all, he owes us a favour.

xxx

"Just look at this, Sigmund," Emily Regale said, looking hopefully at her husband, who had his nose buried firmly in the newspapers. "It says that they're having an auction of fine porcelain at Alton this Saturday! Isn't that a golden opportunity?"

"Hmm?" Sigmund said, sipping his coffee with an indifferent expression on his face. "I don't know, Emily. A lot of what they sell at such auctions is second-rate. Far better to buy from a dealer, I say."

"Sigmund, you're being annoying as usual," Emily said patiently. "Some of these pieces are being auctioned off by the Marksmith estate, and the Countess of Marksmith certainly isn't "second-rate"! What do you say, Lavie?"

"Umm, I don't know, Mom," Lavie replied, feeling heartily sick of this discussion. It seemed to her that every conversation between her father and mother, of late, ended this way – in mutual annoyance, an impasse, and the withdrawal of one or both parties.

"You know, Lavie," Sigmund said, in his 'helpful' voice, "I think moping around the house isn't going to do you much good. Ryan's returned safely, but he's going to take some time to recover, and it's no good complaining that they don't let visitors in. Rules are rules."

"How like a man," Emily retorted. "Even Sheila told me that they were being unduly strict at that Infirmary. Sigmund, you ought to write to our Member, and complain about their high-handed attitude. A boy's parents have a right to visit him, as they did in the good old days, before doctors came up with high-flown words like "infection". I told Sheila to say so, and to complain to the Superintendent if that Dr. Dubois got too big for his boots."

"On second thoughts, if you're going to give Sheila Eramond bad advice," Sigmund said sharply, "I think a day or two at Alton might do you some good. Why don't you accompany your mother, Lavie? You might try learning a little bit of science there, from that School of Higher Learning."

"You're impossible, Sigmund," Emily said, shaking her head, then changed her tone, trying to sound more reasonable. "Look, we mothers stick together. I was just trying to make Sheila feel a little better. What is so difficult to understand about that?"

"I give up," Sigmund said, folding up his newspaper with a sigh. "If you need me for anything constructive, I'll be in the library – Robertson and Vryce will both be coming by during the day, so I'd appreciate as few interruptions as possible." And with these words, he left the table, leaving mother and daughter facing each other.

"It's – not fair, Mom," Lavie began, shaking her head. "Why won't they let us see Ryan?"

Emily took her daughter's hand in her own. "I know how you feel, honey," she replied, "but as much as I hate to admit it, Sigmund and the doctor are probably right."

"I wish Gran was here," Lavie went on. "She'd – somehow she'd just know what to do, and what to say…"

"Not with Sigmund in this state of mind, Lavie," Emily said somberly. "You could, of course, pay her a visit if you wanted."

"Pay her a visit?" Lavie looked at her mother, surprised. "Now why didn't I think of that?"

She smiled back. "What do you say, Lavie? We could take the carriage to Alton tomorrow for the auction, and on our way back, you can catch the ferry to Mann Island. Stay a little while, if you want, and by the time you get back, Ryan should be better!"

"I don't know, Mom," Lavie said doubtfully. "I'd love to see Gran, but somehow I feel – that I should be here for Ryan, even though he probably wouldn't want to see me." She rubbed her eyes with one hand. "I just feel that…"

"Oh, Lavie," Emily said, affectionately. "I know just what you mean. Men are like that, unfortunately – especially those we care for. We can't live with them peacefully, but we can't quite live without them either."

"Very funny, Mom," Lavie replied, trying to smile.

xxx

"These rumours are disturbing, Your Holiness, and we cannot brush them away," Archbishop Diaz said, shaking his head and sending his thick shock of unruly hair flying. He was the Pontiff's personal advisor on foreign relations, and like Socius, he sometimes had trouble making his ruler see the obvious. "They have even reached the Commonwealth."

Pontiff Pious XXI, Supreme Leader of the Church of the Infinity, smiled benevolently. "But, my good Diaz," he replied, "this is a purely internal Church affair. Why should the Commonwealth bother about something as trivial as this?"

"Your Holiness, given the state of the world, this is hardly trivial," Diaz protested. "The nations are in ferment over the threat of a second Zion-Varald war. At this time, rumours and conspiracies become popular subjects of discussion."

"What are we accused of doing this time?" Pious XXI said, bemused.

"You are, of course, aware of the Shrine of Saint Geraud at Issachar," Archbishop Diaz began.

"Certainly, my friend; it is one of Zion's most renowned centres of pilgrimage. I myself celebrated the Pontifical Liturgy there last year. Do the Zion now want to replace it with a memorial to Charlemagne, who has one foot in the grave?" He laughed.

"If only," Diaz replied with a sigh. "As you well know, Your Holiness, in the year 227 of the Commonwealth Calendar, two Zionese children – Anna and Ludwig Schilder – witnessed an apparition of Saint Geraud in a small chapel at Issachar. According to the children's account – verified by the commission of the Archbishop of Caledonia – Saint Geraud warned them that a great evil would soon befall the Commonwealth that he had created, and that it could be weakened – though not stopped – through prayer and repentance."

"I am familiar with the story, Diaz," Pious XXI said impatiently. "And that prophecy was fulfilled at the Battle of Chespa Bay, in the year 253, where the Commonwealth was nearly destroyed by Almonth Jakov's anarchists. Yet we survived, and there were salutary spiritual consequences in Zion, including more vocations to the priesthood. Where, then, is there any controversy?"

"Your Holiness, you are certainly aware that both those children entered monasteries in Caledonia, and led pious lives there. Brother Ludwig died some years after Chespa Bay, thanking the Infinity that we had been spared from his wrath, but Sister Anna still lives, and is now the Mother Counsellor of a convent in her home town of Issachar."

"Good for her, Diaz," the Pontiff replied. "We need more men and women of prayer, in this degenerate age where only violent deeds and material wealth are valued."

"As you well know, Sister Anna received two further messages from Saint Geraud – one during her novitiate, and one when she was assigned to a hospital in Caledonia. The first message was a warning that if men did not repent, they would be judged and punished eternally by the Infinity."

"Sound doctrine, that," Pious said, with a calm look that infuriated his interlocutor.

"However, the second message – after discussion with her spiritual director, and then the Archbishop of Caledonia – was sent to your esteemed predecessor, Pontiff Jerome XV. He gave orders that this message should be sealed until an opportune time, as it was not meant for public consumption."

"Exactly. My immediate predecessor, Augustus VIII, released that prophecy in C.Y. 288 in a Pontifical Letter, along with a full explanation – it spoke of the oppression of our faith in a foreign land, and of apostasies on the part of the Emperor. With the Varald intensifying their persecution of our Church, and a Varaldian - Nikolai Miller – elected as President of the Commonwealth, the first part was self-evident. The second part was an allusion to Charlemagne's treacherous conduct towards the Galvenians, when he annexed Darington. Sister Anna accompanied Augustus to Caledonia when the Letter was released, and confirmed his words. There is nothing new in all this, Diaz. Why do you bring it up?"

"Your Holiness, there are many who are not satisfied with the late Pontiff's words. They claim that the incidents alluded to in his Pontifical Letter are trivial, and do not match the seriousness of Saint Geraud's Prophecy."

"Tell them to spend a few days in Varaldia, then," Pious XXI joked. "They might just change their minds."

"Your Holiness, if that was all there is to the matter, I would not be standing before you," Diaz said stiffly. "The truth is that this view – that Augustus concealed the truth – is gaining ground in Zion, and even in the Republic and among our few followers in Galvenia. Wild stories are being spread about an upcoming world war, a divine punishment, and the rise of a virtuous ruler – a second Geraud – who will save the world from total devastation. Further, it is alleged that the woman who accompanied the Pontiff was an impostor, and that the real Sister Anna has either been murdered or detained in a hidden location, to keep the truth from being revealed."

"A pretty story, Diaz," Pious XXI said appreciatively. "It would make a fine novel. But what would you have me do?"

"Refute the rumours, Your Holiness, and announce ecclesiastical penalties for those who espouse them. We need to kill this slanderous story before it does more harm."

"But what if it is true, Diaz?" Pious XXI said, with an expression of wide-eyed innocence.

"Your Holiness!"

"I jest, Diaz, I jest. One cannot be solemn all the time. But I would be wary of imposing too harsh a punishment at this time. As you know, our Church is already a house divided, with imminent schisms of the traditionalists in Zion and the progressives in the Republic. I do not wish to force events, not with the threat of war hanging over our head."

"But what must we do, then?"

"I will condemn the rumours in a Letter of my own, Diaz, and instruct Mazarus to do the same at the Commonwealth. As for your other suggestion, it will keep."

Diaz shook his head. "Very well, Your Holiness, but –"

"Speak frankly, Diaz," the Pontiff said, with an encouraging nod.

"It is unwise, Your Holiness," Diaz said earnestly, "to assume that this story will go away. We live in uncertain times, and this sort of lunacy is exactly what may inflame partisan elements, both within and outside our Church. A firm hand is needed, otherwise you – like Pontiff Augustus – may be accused of conspiracy."

"Accusations do not bother me, Diaz," Pious XXI replied. "Do as I say, and trust in the Infinity."

"Very well, Your Holiness," Diaz replied, though he was clearly unsatisfied.

xxx

"Before we proceed any further, Mr. Tamas," Silas Trask said, leaning forwards across the desk, "let me remind you that this is a sensitive mission. We regret that Mr. Spenson has refused to assist us, and that Mr. Eramond is indisposed – but we trust that, in recommending you, Mr. Spenson has not erred."

"Hey, hey, you know what they say, Trasky," Armin Tamas replied with a wink. "The friends of my friends are my friends, too!"

"Very amusing, Mr. Tamas." Trask sighed. "So have you understood what you must do now?"

"Yep, I do! You said this Kodenai dude was involved in sabotage at Mount Lorea Mine, but you don't want me to go there. Now why's that?"

"Mount Lorea Mine is a dangerous place, Mr. Tamas, and we have trained men searching there already. We want you to see if you can find any more information at Kodenai and Talmadge's home. Talmadge insists that he had nothing to do with treason, but looked the other way because Kodenai helped him with his crime racket in Glendale. Inspector Bosley of Glendale agrees – he feels that Talmadge is too stupid to be involved in espionage, while Kodenai, who left the army under a cloud, is a more likely suspect. I want you to search their mansion again, and report back to me as soon as you're done. Is that clear?"

"You got it, dude," Armin replied, tipping his cap at the Palace officer. "What's in it for me, though?"

"Ah, the mercenary instincts of the working class," Trask replied, with a laugh. "Well, I came from that same class, so I mustn't be too censorious. All the same, as an older man, it's my duty to keep an eye on your conduct and morals. Haven't your parents taught you that you should serve Galvenia without looking for profit?"

"You haven't heard of my dad, have you?" Armin said darkly. "He packed up and left home when I was a kid, and never sent a word to Mom thereafter. Compared to him, Trasky, I'm a pillar of morality!"

"My sympathies, Mr. Tamas," Trask said kindly. "All the same, Prime Minister Socius is no ingrate. I have been instructed to offer you one thousand Galvenian dollars for this mission – and another thousand if you do find anything of note. Is that satisfactory?"

"On those terms, Trasky," Armin said, shaking the officer's hand vigorously, "I'd even vote for Socius if you told me to!"

xxx

"Now, Carranya, remember. Honesty cleanses the soul, and covers over many a fault. Are you sure you have told me everything?"

Princess Carranya, leaning against the head of her bed, closed her eyes and dabbed at them with her handkerchief. "Yes, Father," she replied, "I have."

"And you realize, do you not, how foolish you have been?"

"Yes, Father," she replied, shaking her head. "I was wrong to endanger my life in such a way…"

"Not only that, Carranya. To accept the help of a stranger – to exchange intimacies with him, even if they seem harmless – this, my child, is not the way of righteousness. Sincere repentance will go a long way towards repairing your fault."

"But he did nothing wrong," Carranya pleaded. "I would probably be dead if he had not helped me."

"Better a virtuous death than a worldly life, child. Now, Carranya, do not try the patience of the Infinity. Do you repent?"

"Yes, Father," she said, and began to weep. "I –"

We will never know what Carranya would have said next, for the door to her bedchamber was flung open, and a man strode in, laughing to himself.

"My daughter! Well, it is good to have you back, though you did give some of us a scare…."

"Your Majesty!" the other man in the room exclaimed.

King Arlbert's face darkened, and he strode over to his daughter's bedside, glaring at the man beside her. "Carranya, who is this man?"

"Father," she said falteringly, "surely you know Father Eugene Thomssen, who is Mother's spiritual advisor and mine as well…"

"Spiritual advisor?" Arlbert snorted. "What kind of spiritual advisor would make a young girl weep in this way? What have you been telling my daughter, Thomssen?"

"Your Majesty…" the clergyman began.

Arlbert did not wait for the rest of the reply, but seized him by the lapels of his black suit. "Now listen to me, you Baron Snake. I know you don't think a lot of me, and let me assure you the feeling is mutual. You are free to use your forked tongue to say whatever you please about me. But the minute you make my daughter cry, Reverend, you have crossed a very dangerous line."

"Father, it wasn't…" Carranya pleaded, trying desperately to smile.

"Be quiet, Carranya. As your father, it is my duty to protect you from all harm, especially from things that would break your spirit. One day, you will be Queen!" He laughed at the thought, without loosening his grip on Thomssen's suit. "It is not meet for a Queen to grovel before a commoner – especially an ugly little worm like this one. Tell me, Thomssen" – he brought his face close to the priest – "is it true that you became a priest because no woman, not even in the Lorean Asylum, was fool enough to marry you?"

"Your Majesty, when you mistreat me, you are mistreating a man of God," Thomssen said, his face twitching with fear. "I beg you to…"

"Yes, that's the spirit!" Arlbert roared, hurling the priest to his knees. "You should be begging, not me. Not my child. Now get out of here before you leave at the point of my shoe."

"Your Majesty…"

"Out!" Arlbert bellowed, raising his fist, and the Reverend Eugene Thomssen needed no further encouragement. He scurried out of the room, muttering to himself angrily.

"Carranya, my child," Arlbert said more gently, as he placed his arm around her, "what was that man saying to you?"

"Nothing, Father," Carranya replied, leaning against his broad shoulder and weeping silently, as he continued to look balefully at the open door through which Thomssen had left.

xxx

Grandpa, Ryan thought, as he lay in his own bed for the first time in almost a month, I hope I'm making the right decision. I'm not expecting it to be easy. I just wonder if I'm doing it for the right reason.

As he went through the slow process of his convalescence, the war drums were being beaten all over Galvenia. King Arlbert had signed – much against his will, and largely thanks to the persuasion of Socius and Sheffield – a treaty of alliance with the Zion, following two abortive skirmishes at the Zion-Varald border. Galvenian troops were already being deployed to Darington to join the Zion forces, while a flotilla of the Royal Marines had begun to circumnavigate the Arlia coast, aiming to protect the waters that separated the Zion Empire from the Varald Republic. A draft had not yet been announced, but was imminent according to the newspapers. Even Socius' greatest enemies – the Pragmatic Conservatives – had sided with him on the need to stand with the Zion.

I'm ready to serve the way you did, Grandpa, even if I remain with the Galvenian Army and not the Commonwealth Forces. But I must be honest with myself. I'm doing this for our country, yes. But also for her.

For Carranya.

There are moments in the lives of men when, suddenly, a transition is made from childhood to adulthood. At those times, things that once seemed important to them suddenly recede from their view, to be replaced by newer, loftier, and perhaps more dangerous goals.

If an enterprising journalist had interviewed Ryan Eramond the day before he boarded the Paradiso, and asked him – in the strictest confidence – what was the thing he secretly most wished for, he would probably have answered: "To be reconciled with my girlfriend, Marianne, though she's the one who wronged me. And to have a clear idea about what to do with the rest of my life."

Today, the first of those things seemed strangely unimportant to him – and he had an answer to the second. And being of a frank nature, he realized that the two were now inextricably connected.

Serve Galvenia.

Serve Carranya.

Because it is impossible for me to be with her, in the way I was during those two days. It's impossible,no matter what I want – or, for that matter, what she wants. Let me at least be of service to her. No one matters more to me right now – not even Marianne.

"Ryan!" Sheila Eramond said, a bright smile on her face, as she entered his room with a breakfast tray. "Good morning, Ryan! I'm glad to see you up a little early today. Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough, Mum," Ryan said, forcing himself out of his reverie. "I've just been thinking about, um, a few things."

"I'm glad to hear that, Ryan," his mother replied. "Doctor Dubois warned us that you might have, uh, bad dreams about what happened on the ship…"

"Heck, I do, Mum," Ryan admitted. "But that's not what really bothers me now."

"All your friends have been waiting to see you, Ryan," Sheila said kindly. "Lavie's been here every day, and so has Armin. Henrik's also stopped by a couple of times, though he must be quite busy studying, poor boy. His father's keeping his nose to the grindstone, so I've heard! And Marianne left a note for you, if you want it."

"Bother Lavie and Marianne," Ryan said, impatiently. "Though I suppose I will have to reassure them that I'm all right, I guess. And Henrik – what does he want around here?" He scowled.

"What's the matter, Ryan?" Sheila asked, concerned at the brusqueness of his reply.

"Oh, it's nothing serious, Mum," Ryan said slowly. "Henrik and I had – a disagreement before I left on that ship, that's all."

"Now, Ryan, I think you should make up all those old quarrels, whatever they are," Sheila said, as she poured out a cup of tea for him. "After all, it's a miracle that you're alive! And I am so glad to have you here again…" Her voice grew unsteady.

"Hey, Mum, don't cry," Ryan replied affectionately. "I guess miracles do happen every now and then."

"Well, as Barbara Spenson used to say, God helps those who will, one day, deserve that help," Sheila replied, patting him on the head. "Now enjoy your breakfast, dear, and once you've done, please go down to your father's study. He's eager to talk to you."

"Sure thing, Mum. Thanks again," Ryan said, as Sheila rose and left, singing to herself happily as she did so.

Ryan rolled his eyes. Mum enjoys doing so many things, even if she doesn't do them particularly well – singing and cooking being foremost. However, on this occasion, even he had to admit that his mother had outdone herself, and he enjoyed his meal.

Leaning back against the pillow with a sigh of satisfaction, he looked around at his room, which seemed to him both familiar and strangely unfamiliar at the same time.

This is my home, Ryan thought. This is where I was born. This is where my family lives. This is where I belong. And yet… - the thought came to him, and he could not suppress it - …this isn't my home any more. Not after what I have seen, not after what I have lived through, and not after what I know now. My home is by her side.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the dangerous idea, but to no avail.

xxx