Marigold stood in the foyer, waiting on the approaching footsteps. She'd taken the time to change into decent running shoes and a tracksuit that she'd stowed in the guest room set aside for her use on her last visit, and pulled her hair back into a tight bun. I've been here less than an hour, she thought, and I've already slipped. The sense of deja vu at the sight of the three children immediately going at each other's throats had taken her off-guard.

Her brother was taking the exact same approach to his children that their own father had, without the confidence to back it up. Why wouldn't he? He'd never really understood the isolation of being the one set aside. They'd viewed her being sent off to the continent as a suitable 'correction' at the time. Alexander might be blind to it, but Alfred was not going to be able to handle the world outside this house at the rate things were going.

It was both convenient and frustrating at once that people in this house seemed to forget how good her hearing had become since the 'accident'. Not nearly as much as the backhanded comments she was beginning to get from people at Umbrella about getting 'work' done - she could go the rest of her life without hearing the word 'botox' whispered behind her back.

Not for the first time, she wished she hadn't given up smoking. Not that it wouldn't have done her any bloody good anyhow.

Scott's footsteps grew louder, and she turned as he approached the door. "So I see you have teenagers," she said in a weary voice. "My condolences."

Scott flushed, mouth going into a hard line. "Marigold, I am so sorry you had to see that, there was no excuse." The anxiety was practically rolling off of the poor man.

Marigold gave a little shrug. "I don't think you were around at the time, but I was about as bad at that age. It's amazing what you can get away with when there isn't any structure or consequences. Being average in this family isn't easy. I'll see what I can do on that side of things." The very careful neutrality that fell over Scott's face told her that he understood she wasn't referring to his son. "Yours seems observant, at any rate. It's not necessarily a bad thing to get fresh eyes on the situation. It might make the situation a bit more delicate though." She nodded to the door. "Shall we?"

Scott nodded. "Of course, ma'am," he said, and swept a hand toward the door. Right before they left the house, he took an umbrella from the bin by the door and, once outside, opened it, holding it over their heads.

The rain had thinned to a soft but steady patter, and they walked the pavestones down into the facility. There was an old, rickety bridge the island's original inhabitants had built, and it connected the mansion's grounds to the rest of the island; but Scott doubted it would last much longer—perhaps a few years—before it tumbled down into the sea frothing against the crags. Alexander didn't seem too troubled by the bridge's state, as far as Scott could tell; he could still take the old water tunnel into the Rockfort compound, if he cared to.

Upon crossing the bridge, they found themselves on a paved road leading down into the USS training compound: a sprawl of barracks hemmed in by twenty-foot concrete walls topped with razor-wire. Scott didn't bother commandeering a Jeep; the walk to the Matilda wasn't too far. They headed through the gate, and Scott waved at the USS trainees in the gatehouse before making his way into the camp.

The camp itself bustled with new USS recruits, all of them being press-ganged through drills by the veterans. A few of the younger men rubbernecked to look at Marigold, but their instructors were quick to corral them, violently, back into line. Scott shook his head when the wolf-whistles began—before the instructor, once again, swiftly brought the recruits under-heel. He hadn't liked any of the USS trainees he'd met insofar; they were knuckle-dragging cavemen who subsisted on a diet of pornography and careless libido.

Scott looked over at Marigold. "I don't mean to revisit the comment so late, but regarding your remark about my son being observant? To his detriment, I'm afraid." He frowned, trying to puzzle out where he was attempting to go with the conversation. Then, decisively, Scott said, "He's not normally that ornery, but he's been asking a great deal about his mother, of late. He's noticed I don't like talking about her. And that's making him act out to some degree, I think." Heaving a sigh, Scott added, "I miss the days when he didn't pay any attention to those things."

"That would have been 1968, maybe '69? I was surprised to see him pop out of the woodwork so to speak, but I really would have noticed very little with everything imploding as it was back then." Marigold glanced sidelong at the recruits. "Are they for the company? I remember how many mercenaries there were in Africa, but I'd always thought they were privately hired." She paused. "Please tell me that Alexander learned his lesson about mouthing off to them. That many hired guns around always made me nervous."

"Spencer's been consolidating the mercenaries into a paramilitary group. The Umbrella Security Service," said Scott, directing a pointed gaze to the men now running synchronized laps around the yard. They leered at Marigold as they passed, but this time, they knew better than to whistle. "And they're not the only ones. Spencer's been working on another group, the UBCS—the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service. Basically, a suicide squad comprised of convicts to send on drudgework missions."

Marigold's brow creased. "A what?"

"You know - Umbrella's a ripe target for black market operations. This is much easier to manage now that the company's grown as much as it has." He paused, absently smoothing his tie. "As for Grayson 'popping out of the woodwork'," Scott said with a smile, "that was in 1969. January 1, specifically. Just a few days before the twins' birthday. Funny how they're all January babies. I think it's a portend: trouble always comes in threes." He darted a look at Marigold before returning his gaze to the trainees. " I think Alexander learned his lesson about mouthing off to the wrong people fairly quickly. He generally avoids the compound, if he can help it."

Marigold followed Scott's glare without turning her head. "So long as they stay over there, I wouldn't exhaust your energy." She looked up ahead at a forty-foot wall separating this yard from the next. The wall was lined with rusted tin sheeting to discourage access beyond a controlled gate. "I'm much more concerned about witnesses. Matilda has normal stations, but I only ever use those to warm up these days."

Scott made his way toward the gate to the Matilda, and said, "Nobody is going to bother you here, ma'am. The only time it's used is for 'progress tests', and there isn't one scheduled today." He paused, adding, "they started using the full course as a graduation test quite recently. I've seen more than a few trainees flunk the course—and their career with the USS." He opened the gate for her, glanced over his shoulder, then went inside after her. He shut the gate behind them. "Spencer only wants the best," he continued. "He's more lax with the UBCS—no surprise. Felons are an expendable commodity, one of the only truly renewable resources in the world."

The Matilda itself looked like a junkyard someone had hastily cobbled together into an obstacle course: climbing pipes, steel girders and crossbeams, brick walls, concrete blocks, chain netting, nails hammered into wooden planks to serve as crude ladders. It was how Scott imagined a hoarder or a magpie would design the O-Course if all they had to build it with was trash.

"Do they post the times?" Marigold looked back at him, curious. She started to shrug out of the paper thin track jacket to just a tshirt. The last few times she'd made a full run down here, the terrain had ripped them up something awful. "I know I set the rules as a bit of a lark, but I'd be lying if I wasn't curious about the comparison." Her eyes fell on the small placard sign by the gate. "Goodness, did they notarize them?"

Scott glanced in the same direction, but he'd seen the sign posting Matilda's rules:

TESTING SITE:

Test is pass/fail to finish the course. Time to finish is recorded for posterity.

Candidate must complete 6 stations.

Candidates MAY use shortcuts to shave time off of their final score.

Shortcuts pass through color-coded points designated to each station: blue, white, red, yellow, green, pink.

Any new shortcut reached by a candidate may be approved by testing officer and marked on the course.

He nodded, pointing at a nearby scoreboard. "Right there is where they post numbers, but it's electric. It's off at the moment." Scott paused, scanning the yard and trying to remember where they kept the bragbook. "They keep a notebook where they immortalize their victories, and mock each other's scores. The bragbook." He rubbed his chin, then shrugged. "No idea where they keep it, however. Probably with the drill instructors."

"It's for the best the electric timer's off," Marigold said drily, walking over to the starting line while scanning the scores. "Poor dears would be kept up at night trying to work out how it was done." With that she took off down the track towards the first station of her warm-up run.

Scott watched her shoot off across the track, and after Marigold completed her first lap, he heard the gate rattle open behind him. His first instinct was to shout and tell the recruits they weren't authorized to be there—until he saw that it was only the twins, both huddled under an umbrella. Alfred was, as usual, clinging to Alexia, and Alexia, as usual, looked bothered and put upon by her brother, as well as a little angry.

"You two shouldn't be here," he chided, but it was half-hearted at best. Scott was tired— exhausted—of arguing with kids today.

"I wanted to watch Aunt Callie run the track," said Alfred, sheepishly.

"And I got dragged along," said Alexia. "Not that I'm disinterested in the run, mind."

"Where's Grayson?"

Alexia glowered, pushing the umbrella into Alfred's hand. "Who knows, who cares."

"Still mad at him, princess?" asked Scott, and halted. Sometimes the professionalism slipped around the kids, but they didn't seem to mind it as much as their old man did. "Sorry," he added, "I didn't mean to let that slip out."

"I don't mind it when you call me that," said Alexia, smiling. Then the smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and she said, "Grayson said I wasn't 'normal'. Soured my mood." She shook her head. "But that's there, not here."

"I don't think he meant it in a bad way, princess."

"I don't care how he meant it. Still made me angry. I'm so tired of being treated like an alien."

Scott sighed, letting it go. Alexia was in a bad mood, and she'd have to shake out of it herself. If he tried to pull her out of it, Scott knew the effort would just make things worse. He looked to Alfred, giving him a pat on the head. "You okay, kiddo? I'm sorry Grayson hurt you. How's your head?"

"I'm fine," said Alfred, quietly. He was staring at the toes of his loafers. "Sometimes I really hate him, Scott."

"Hate's a strong word, Alfred. But I understand what you mean. Grayson can be a bully." He stooped to level with Alfred, and said, "You know how you deal with bullies? You serve it back to them twice as hard."

Alfred nodded, thoughtful. He shifted his attention to Marigold, who might have been on her third or fourth lap; Scott had lost count.

Marigold slowed, just a hair, and flashed the children a wide smile, signing Hi, kids at them. She'd taught the twins a few signs starting a few years ago - outside of sheer physicality, languages was the one area where she'd surpassed her brother when they were young. The twins had taken to it like little ducks to water. They'd even taught his son a bit, so that they could keep up.

Marigold was clearly feeling better. Over her shoulder, she tossed a quick warning to Scott - "Incoming at the gate - I'm going up" - before picking up speed and taking off once more.

Grayson edged through the gate, but he'd changed out of his suit into a stonewashed denim jacket and jeans. His hair was a mess, too. Scott rubbed the space between his eyes, and said, "You changed out of your uniform."

"It was uncomfortable, and the compound's full of mud," replied Grayson, with a shrug. He joined the twins. Alfred moved away from him, and Alexia glared. His son looked at Alexia, and said, "Come on, Lex. Can we drop it? I'm sorry."

Alexia needled him with her gaze for a few more minutes, then relented with a sigh. "Fine," she said, and although she was under the impression she was being discreet, she scooted closer to Grayson and took his hand. Scott frowned. He didn't specifically object to their interest in each other; crushes were a normal thing for kids to have. What Scott objected to was the trouble that crush could invite from Alexander, and from the Ashfords.

He shifted his attention back to Marigold and watched as she sped through the course, pulling a sequence of tricks that looked like an acrobatics scene on fast-forward. Scott gave a dumbfounded whistle. "Careful you don't wind up like the Flying Graysons, Marigold!" he called out to her. "Don't want to explain to Alexander why his sister has a broken neck."

"I'd get better!" she called back from across the track, not breaking stride.

"Dad, you made a Batman reference," said Grayson, amazed. And stopped for a moment, knitting his eyebrows. "Wait," he said, "did you name me after Robin's family? C'mon, dude. That's so nerdy."

"I am not your 'dude', Grayson—I'm your father," said Scott. Then, "And maybe I did. I'll leave that for you to decide."

Grayson shrugged. He looked over at the course, and said, "I wanna give this thing a shot."

"Absolutely not," said Scott.

"Come on, dad," said Grayson. "It looks fun."

"I said no."

Grayson frowned.

"Besides," he added, "if you ran the track, you'd have to stop holding Alexia's hand." It was a gentle nudge, a hint-hint that it was time to break it up.

Grayson and Alexia exchanged looks, and quickly stepped apart, feigning disinterest in each other. Alfred wedged himself between the two, and crossed his arms like a bouncer.

Marigold reached a perch at the top of the course and tapped the vertical girder intersecting it. She slapped the side of it with the flat of her hand. "New point!" she called down.

When she didn't come back down right away, Scott shouted: "Don't tell me you're stuck!"

She flapped a hand down at them—give me a minute, I can figure it out. After a long moment, she flashed a thumbs up.

Then she launched herself hard across the gap between the perch and the iron cross-bar below, and across. Marigold's foot seemed to tap down lightly before kicking off into a front flip. "Still coming in too fast, then," Scott commented. "I'd wondered why there was a new wall set up there."

"What—" Grayson started before Marigold came rocketing down over the finish line, pivoting hard on one foot and bringing her arms up in a bracing motion to smash her back into the brick wall set twenty feet past the end.

The wall didn't crack, exactly—not this time. A spray of brick-dust and mortar swallowed her, dusting her in a clumpy, wet layer. Marigold blinked rapidly at the dust and shook off what she could, then straightened up, checking the wall. She looked up at the perch she'd just claimed, and grinned. "I probably should have waited till it was drier out, but I was working that one out on the flight down." She took a step and winced—the back of the t-shirt had been shredded from the impact, and the color didn't entirely hide the blood from where she'd scraped it raw. "I might have cracked a rib doing that." Looking back up at the perch, she seemed to be waiting something out—most likely, for those cracked ribs to resolve themselves. Then she visibly relaxed, and looked back at the group with an exhilarated laugh. "That made an excellent brake!"

Scott sucked his teeth when he saw the blood on her back, wanting to chide her but knowing it wouldn't do much good. Marigold had never been very good at listening to him, or to anyone. Instead, he said, "Sometimes your overconfidence worries me, Marigold."

"That was cool," said Grayson, beaming.

"And reckless," said Scott, shaking his head. Then he added, "Don't get any ideas, Grayson."

"So is she human?" his son asked, seriously. "'Cause I'm pretty sure humans can't do stuff like that."

"It's complicated," said Scott. "Just keep your nose out of it. Please?"

Grayson frowned, looked at Alexia. "You never told me your aunt was a superhuman or whatever."

"It's complicated," echoed Alexia, and she gave Grayson a look that said: don't ask too many questions.

Alfred furrowed his brow. "Is Aunt Callie's back going to get better?"

"She'll be fine, Alfred," said Alexia.

"She's already fine, Crow, just made a bit of a mess," Marigold echoed. She had jogged over to the brick pile where she had left her jacket, then looked over at Scott. "The first level is military-grade—you said some of the soldiers could manage it? I'm not saying let them, those are trained soldiers failing it, but it's likely not helping to see someone make it look easy. We can walk that if everyone stays on the ground." She looked up at the perch again. "I need to figure out how to mark that point anyway. I'll need some time before that's possible." Scott glanced down to her hands, balled again into fists to hide the tremors he knew were there.

"Nobody is running this course," said Scott, with finality. He leveled Grayson with a don't-even-think-about-it look before he could argue with him. "Do you know how many people have gotten hurt on this contraption? Some have even died. I'm not about to let my thirteen-year-old son run laps on this deathtrap."

"He's got a point, Grayson," said Alexia. "Besides," she added, after a moment, "I don't want you to run it. Aunt Marigold… this device was designed for her, initially. You'd get hurt." She paused, a look of concern flitting across her face. "Or worse."

Marigold glanced at her, then took in the course in all of its rusty, jagged glory. "Behold," she said, deadpan, "this temple to tetanus."

As if to underscore the point, Marigold took them on a circuit around the course, pointing out all the spots she'd hurt herself, or had broken bones ("I nearly severed my spine right here," she said, pointing at a rusting beam. She spoke casually, as if commenting on an interesting bird she'd spotted. "And over here," she continued, indicating a net of rusty chains, "I nearly snapped my ankle clean through when my foot snagged—I'd been going too fast and didn't get the footing right"). And as she continued, Scott could see Grayson's initial interest quickly overtaken by fear, which he found to be an encouraging sign; it meant his son wouldn't try to do anything stupid.

"Just because you heal quicker than normal, Grayson," said Scott quietly, "that hardly means you have to start doing crazy Evil Kineval stuff. You've got nothing to prove." He paused, then drove the point home: "Your healing ability also doesn't stop pain."

When Marigold mentioned being impaled on a piece of broken piping ("They used the pipes as climbing devices," she said, pantomiming a pipe-climb with her hands. "It snapped, bent—stabbed me right through the bloody arm"), Grayson grimaced and started shying away from the course, as if wandering too close to it would kill him. Marigold caught the look and grimaced back in a theatrical manner. "Hmm. Looking 'cool' costs rather a lot of pain, I'm afraid."

Once Marigold finished her tour of near-death recollections, Grayson suddenly asked, "Does Marigold's condition have something to do with those plants?"

Scott looked at him, training his features into a look of polite neutrality. "What makes you say that?" Marigold herself stilled, watching the father and son to see which cues to follow. She was far enough away that Grayson likely thought he hadn't been overheard.

"The way everyone was acting," replied Grayson, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Back at the house. Seemed like the bosses didn't want anyone touching them. It was weird."

"It's none of your business, Grayson," said Alfred.

"That just makes me more curious. She's like me, kinda."

Marigold's head came up. Grayson was too deep in thought to notice, and the twins were fidgeting amongst themselves at the dissonance of the situation. Out of the corner of his eye, Scott caught the look on her face—part fury and part worry. She thinks there was another "accident", he realized. Scott shook his head. Later. After a moment, the expression smoothed over, but she still looked wary.

Scott decided to shift the conversation: "Marigold, isn't there a paintball gun on one of the course-markers?" He stopped for a second, then added, "But don't push yourself. Take a breather first." His gaze strayed to her shaking hands.

"Whoah, a paintball gun?" said Grayson, grinning. "I could get—" he hesitated. "No, wait, never mind."

"You wouldn't be able to reach it," said Scott. "And I already told you—you're not playing on the Jungle Gym of Death."

Marigold held one hand out in front of her for inspection, expression doubtful. The tremors hadn't gone away. "I can get it, but I'm not so sure about my aim for the rest of the day." She grinned. "Oh those recruits are going to be furious when they spot the new marker up there though, won't they?"

"I'll tell them Casper the Athletic Ghost did it," said Scott, with an amused grin.

"Can you get it so the three of us can shoot it?" asked Grayson, with all the enthusiasm expected of a thirteen-year-old boy afforded the opportunity to shoot a paintball gun.

Alfred looked just as excited, which didn't surprise Scott; Alfred had a marked interest in military paraphernalia and history—the boy had an entire bookcase of everything from the Art of War to Vom Kriege, complex models of tanks and airplanes, elaborate battlefield sets and dioramas he'd designed himself. Although Alfred might not have been the level of genius Alexia was (Scott didn't think less of him for it), his intelligence still superseded his demographic, even paralleled most undergraduates.

But despite his excitement at the prospect of shooting a paintball gun, there was a touch of anxiety in his expression, and Alfred said, "If it's too much, Aunt Callie, don't push yourself. We don't need to shoot a paintball gun." There was a definite note of disappointment in his tone, however, of possibly losing out on the chance, but Alfred was making an effort to hide it.

"You're both ridiculous," said Alexia, pinching her nose. "It's just a stupid toy gun." Scott always found it amusing how Alexia felt she was too grown up for toys and games, but he'd often find her playing with the boys—and she had a distinct attachment to the Atari in their playroom, and to text-adventure games on her personal PC. She'd even programmed a few of her own, which she'd copy onto floppies and force Grayson and Alfred to play.

The group of them had wandered over the area of the sixth station. A small waterproofed storage locker was situated well off to the side of the track, and some overzealous person had shot it with multiple pink paintball shots. "Looks like someone was making a point here," Marigold said in a dry voice. She stepped over, ducking under a piece of rebar welded to the side of a girder, and flipped the unlocked lid open.

A moment later, she emerged back from the warren of twisted metal into the clear holding a paintball gun. Someone had spray-painted the weapon itself a bright bubble-gum pink. She gave the toy an affectionate look. "I don't think they have a great deal of trust in the men down there to keep the stations straight." She gave Alfred a little smile. "I overextended myself today, and there wasn't good traction to work with. I think the weather's supposed to clear later this week, and then there can be some real time trials." Off Scott's pained expression, she added, "During which I will be careful and attempt a pain-free experience."

"No, you won't," Scott said wearily.

"I can try. Traction, Scott. It matters."

The boys scrambled into position, and Scott couldn't help but find their enthusiasm infectious. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been that excited about anything, and decided, after some deliberation, that it had probably been when Grayson was born that he'd felt anything close to that. He smiled, and stood beside Marigold and Alexia, who, unlike the boys, didn't seem particularly interested in the paintball gun.

Marigold peered at Alexia. "This is probably more fun than duck-hunting. Remember? We tried it while you were attending school."

Alexia looked at her aunt, crossing her arms—looking every bit indignant. "Don't remind me, Auntie. We were trudging across a stinking moor for the better part of a day, and sitting in the mud for the rest of it."

Marigold hummed in reply. "I'll understand, of course, if you don't think you can make the shot—"

Alexia huffed, marching over to the boys. "I can make the shot just fine, Auntie."

Marigold grinned, and Scott said, "You always did know how to get that girl in gear."

"It's not very difficult, Scott," she assured him. "The whole family's competitive to a fault. Contrariness can be leveraged." She grinned wider at the sight of Alexia snatching the pink toy away from a surprised Grayson. "Alexia's at an age where she needs to feel part of something, anyhow. I don't think Alexander really understands that—he was always around people on his level. I don't think her time at Oxford was particularly kind to that effect. She's not actually a bad shot, from what I saw." She went quiet for a moment. "The isolation can get to you, after a while."

Marigold paused, then sneezed again into the back of her hand, looking faintly baffled. After a moment, she gave her head a little shake and seemed to shake off whatever was bothering her.

Scott noticed Marigold only seemed to sneeze whenever his son drifted into her orbit, and he remarked on it. "Maybe I should get something for the dander," he joked, smiling. He watched as Grayson hastily cobbled together a shooting gallery out of buckets and other pieces of junk lying around the Matilda (and there was a lot of junk lying around the Matilda), and said, "I worry about them, you know. The isolation. Can't be good for kids to be so far away from their peers." Scott frowned, and he added, "I especially worry about the boys. Hormones. Alexia's the only girl their age. I keep trying to bring it up to Alexander, but how do you broach a topic like that with your employer?" He glanced at Marigold, expectant. "What do you think?"

Marigold glanced at him. "I think Alexander's working from our father's blueprint. It worked for him." Her mouth thinned into a hard line. "It doesn't work for everyone. They're going to get an awful shock when they have to interact with the real world." She wrinkled her nose. "Sorry. Alexander and I were fairly isolated when we were young as well, though not to this degree. Anything Alexander tells you is probably true, although I will never admit that to his face. I ran wild while he got all of Father's attention after Mother passed. The isolation looks like it protects, but it makes a person…brittle." She worried her lip. "The hormones are just gasoline on that particular fire, aren't they?"

"I've tried to gently steer Alexander in the right direction with the kids, but your brother's as stubborn as your father was. An Ashford trait." Scott absently adjusted his cufflink, watching Alexia pop one of the buckets, then spend the next five minutes mocking the boys' aim. He shook his head. "I worry about that," he confided. "They're not ready for the real world. At this rate, I don't think they ever will be. I've tried to prepare them as best I can, but I can only do so much. I'm the butler, at the end of the day—not their father." He sighed. "A point Alexander likes to remind me of."

"Alexia does better when she's treated like a person, instead of a doll, or a computer. I worry about what's going to happen when she's older. It won't be 'cute' when she insults some junior researcher who feels the need to make an example." Marigold's face darkened, reliving some old memory. "I'm not sure Alexander even looked at his son the entire time in that parlor, even when he was cutting up. Patterns repeat."

Scott nodded. "I do my best to treat Alexia like anyone else, but sometimes I slip up—it's hard not to when the kid's smarter than most adults." Although Scott would never intentionally treat Alexia like a computer, Alexander, even if he didn't realize it, treated her like a machine, and Scott knew Alexia resented her father for it. Then, "Alexander's so caught up in 'repairing' the Ashford's reputation and clearing his name that he doesn't seem to notice much anymore." He looked at Marigold. "He treats Alexia like a tool, but doesn't seem to notice he's doing it."

"Lord Spencer has the story he wants. Why waste a good scapegoat?" Marigold said with a hard, bitter edge to her voice. "I've stayed out in the world this long for a reason." She caught herself and took a deep breath. "Sorry. I'm still in my own head, a bit. Next year. There will be time to regroup then." She looked sidelong at Scott. "Speaking of which. I told Alexander I wouldn't ask questions about the work until I retired. I'd rather not have what I know used against the family if the worst happens. I have no issue with holding to that promise. But…" Marigold hesitated, then forged forward. "If this is another Marcus situation, arrangements can be made."

"No, not another Marcus situation," he assured her, laying a hand on her shoulder and squeezing. "Only arrangements I need you to make, Marigold, is deciding what room you're going to move into." Scott smiled, then said, "Honestly, I'm grateful you're here. The kids—mainly the twins, because my son doesn't know you yet, but I can tell he's taken a shine—have been excited about it. Especially Alfred."

Marigold lifted her shoulder into the touch but didn't move otherwise. She'd always been so careful around other people since her accident. "I hope this works. Alexander told me that he's working on something that will make it a little safer for everyone, moving forward." She watched the competition for a moment, then said again in a small voice, "it needs to work."

Scott leaned over and kissed her cheek, then gave it a fatherly pat. "It'll work," he assured her. "Don't worry too much about it, Marigold. I'm the one who's supposed to fret over these things."

A cheer rose up suddenly from Alfred, and Alfred said, "I win!" Marigold smiled at them and signed something at Alfred that made him beam even wider. Grayson and Alexia looked as if they wanted to contest the competition, but Scott gave them a look: let him have it.

"Good job, Alfred," said Grayson. Then, "I guess."

"Don't be such a spoilsport," said Alexia. "Alfred won."

"Don't act like you're not mad you didn't win," said Grayson, poking Alexia in the forehead. As he started back toward the gate, he tripped on something and went down. "Fuck!" he cried, gripping his leg.

Scott hurried over, and, if he didn't already know about his son's abilities, he would have blanched: there was a sharp, jagged piece of metal jutting out of his shin like the rusty point of a knife; it had, from what he could tell, nicked the bone. His pant-leg was soaked in blood. "Dammit, Grayson," said Scott, through his teeth. Grayson winced, tried to roll up his pant-leg to assess the damage, but Scott swatted his hand away. "No," he told him, "it'll be fine. Just leave it be. This is why I told you not to mess around on this goddamn death-contraption."

"I tripped!" whined Grayson. Despite his son's expedient healing, he could still feel the pain—and it showed. "I wasn't messing around," he continued, indignantly. He grimaced, trying not to cry. "I just caught my foot on—"

"Just stay put," commanded Scott. Alexia came over to check things out, but Scott gently nudged her away and said, "Leave it be, princess. Give the boy a moment."

"Scott, he's hurt," retorted Alexia, balling her fists. Marigold drifted up behind her and closed a hand over her shoulder, firmly pulling her back from rushing forward. Alexia glanced up at her aunt with a wounded expression, then quieted.

Marigold herself looked uncertain. "What do you need?"

"He'll be fine," said Scott. Then he stooped and wrapped his fingers around the metal spike, and said, "I'm going to pull it out, Grayson. If I don't, the wound's not going to close. Tell me when you're ready."

Grayson nodded, and as Scott started to pull, he cried, "Stop!"

Scott stopped, gave him a weary look. "Grayson, it's going to hurt—there's no getting around it." He started to pull again, and the spike gave with a squelch, slid loose. Grayson smacked his hand away, and Scott said, this time with an undercurrent of frustration, "Knock it off. Now. Stop wriggling."

Marigold's voice came from his left side. "Pain's a hard thing to suppress sometimes. Takes practice." She looked down at Grayson, then knelt down and grasped one of his hands. "Squeeze as hard as you can. Focus on that."

Grayson nodded, squeezed Marigold's hand and gritted his teeth. Scott waited for a moment, then resumed pulling—the spike, which looked to have once been part of a girder that had rusted off, came free with a spurt of blood. Grayson yowled. The wound puckered almost instantly, then smoothed out, leaving nothing but seamless, blood-stained skin. "There," said Scott, tossing aside the metal shard, "you're fine. Can you stand?"

Wobbling to his feet, his son took a second to steady himself before releasing Marigold's hand. He walked with a slight limp, but Scott knew it would wear off soon. "That fucking hurt," said Grayson.

"Lucky you don't have to worry about wounds like most kids do," remarked Scott, freeing the handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and wiping his fingers on it.

"The longer you leave something like that in, the worse it's going to feel." Marigold added, looking over at the discarded piece of scrap. She looked up at Scott. "Everything in here's a tetanus vector. Is that…covered?"

Scott snorted at her choice of words, and said, "It's covered, Marigold." He glanced at Grayson, who had mostly recovered, and was able to walk without hobbling. He and Alfred were arguing about something. Scott returned his attention to Marigold. "It's a long story," he told her. "As you can see, Grayson's… well, you saw for yourself."

"Sorry, it's just very, very strange to see this from the other side." Marigold hauled herself back up to her feet. "And everything just goes on as before." She winced. "Sorry about the wall, earlier. It's easy to forget how that looks."

Scott patted her on the shoulder. "No trouble. I think Grayson's learned to stay the hell off the Matilda." He glanced at the gate, and said, "We should head back to the house. I'm sure Alexander's wondering where you are."