Act One

Beginnings

Chapter Seven: Lashanie's Grace

Apples. The sweet scent of baked apples reaches Varian in his dream and gently lures him back into reality, where blinding sunlight is flooding his room by now. It meets his sleep-veiled eyes, and Varian quickly squeezes them shut again, abruptly burying his face inside the soft pillow he limply clutches.

It had been a wakeful night, or rather a wakeful pathetic remain of it he could have used for much-needed sleep that eluded him long after lying down. Too many thoughts have kept gnawing at his nerves, chewing away a big portion of the night bite by bite. Now his head feels heavy, just like his limbs, as if lead was running through his veins instead of blood. The only part of his body wide awake and stridently demanding that Varian gets out of bed is his stomach, putting forth that demand with a series of growls.

Varian's entire room faintly smells of apple pie, making it impossible to ignore his hunger much longer. Uttering a reluctant moan, he slowly sits up, dangles his legs over the edge of the bed, yawns, and stretches to chase the drowsiness away before finally tumbling out of his sheets. While trudging down the stairs, he lets one hand trail against the wall as he keeps rubbing his tired eyes, heading for the kitchen right away.

The house is wrapped in silence, and he doesn't go to the slightest trouble to ensure that he's alone. By the time he gets up, his father has left the house—that's how it's been for years. Only very few holidays and Varian's birthday constitute an exception. Today was neither. But Varian doesn't mind; at least he doesn't have to abide by any table manners this way.

He scuffs to the kitchen counter where Quirin left the pie to cool down, fishes a fork out of the cutlery drawer, and buries it right in the middle of the baked delicacy. No, he doesn't mind having breakfast alone all the time, and he definitely isn't going to devour the pie all by himself out of sheer bitterness . No . . . He's merely going to compensate for the lack of sleep by annihilating the entire thing. Varian carries the dish over to the small dining table he forthwith climbs. Sitting on the top, he's at the perfect height to look out the window while wolfing down his breakfast. Not that there's much to see—the window is facing toward some steep hills and the castle wall. But watching a few birds fly by is still better than staring into the emptiness of the house.

•●•●•

About an hour later, Varian's already buzzing with energy again, and he can well use it. After all, he has to devise a new strategy to rapidly safeguard the fields against those cunning little raccoons—no matter what his dad says! He feels certain Lashanie will agree. Perhaps she's even got an idea they could work with.

With an energetic flourish, he jerks his front door open, races down the stairs—and immediately freezes in motion. "What the . . .?!"

An excitedly tattling crowd throngs around Lashanie's house in a semicircle, and for a heartbeat, Varian thought they had come for the destroyed barn, demanding punishment for the two of them. With the next throb, his sound mind retakes the command and recognizes the people for what they are—curious onlookers craving fresh fodder for their bland conversations. They sure gave him a scare for a sec there!

A frown forms on Varian's face as he tiptoes high and cranes to catch a glimpse at the cause for that confluence while a sea of manes persistently blocks his view. Necessity-driven, he runs back up the staircase, and from that heightened position, his eye finally finds the cause for all that brouhaha: royal guards amidst their quiet village! Now that is a rare sight . . . The golden-armored man he can make out for the highest in rank present—his uniform is the only one adorned with an epaulet, and the helmet with the red trimming distinctly differs from the rest—seems engaged in a fierce argument with Ludwig. Even from that distance, the tension between them is palpable. Another man steps in between them; the hands raised placatory, and surprise flickers across Varian's features as a puzzled "Dad?!" slips out of his mouth.

His next impulse drives him down the stairs again, skipping every other step. As fast as they can, his legs carry him to Lashanie's place, where he tenaciously squeezes through the crush to reap a few hissed curses in return. He couldn't care less about the disturbance his shoving and pushing amounts to, however; Varian just keeps edging his way, undeterred, so that he lastly stumbles to his father's side. "Dad, what's going on?"

His father barely takes notice of him, too wrapped up in smoothing the waters in the dispute seething before them. He only shushes Varian with a brief shake of his head.

"Mind your tongue, or I find myself compelled to take you into custody," the man in the shiny armor decorated with the Coronan sun crest warns, a stern expression plastering his face.

In return, Ludwig's eyes flash like an unsheathed dagger, unwaveringly fixing the guard. He's about to retort when Quirin intervenes just in time to hinder his friend from driving the final nail into his own coffin.

"That won't be necessary, Captain," he assures, favoring Ludwig with an insistent glance. "Von Humboldt wouldn't dare to question your authority or disobey our king's orders; it was the concern of a father misleading his tongue. Am I right?!"

Varian peeks at his friend's parent—the contempt dominating the man's expression sure begs to differ. Come to that, he can't remember having seen him this upset ever before. But with the expectant eyes of Quirin and the Captain resting on him, Ludwig lastly gives in and dismisses the response that was about to fly off his lips with a throw-away gesture. " Per me ."

Prompting Quirin to allow himself just the slightest sigh of relief before he proceeds with his attempt to stop the torrent about to come down on Ludwig and his family. Hoping to arouse pity in the men sent by the king, he points at the Von Humboldt's front door with a sweeping gesture. "Look at the girl. She's just a child."

This summons the eyes of everyone to wander over to the entrance tending towards the throng, Varian forming no exception. Only now, he perceives Lashanie and her mother standing in the doorway. Anne is firmly holding her daughter pressed to her body, bearing the semblance of a lioness protecting their cub. Lashanie's eyes fall on his, and Varian's heart gives a lurch—she looks so terribly scared and confused. All of a sudden, and despite the efforts of the shining sun hanging over them, an irrational cold is inching its way into Varian's limbs.

"I am sorry, Quirin, but this isn't up for negotiation," the Captain counters unyieldingly, albeit his face has softened a bit while regarding the girl. "You know the decree—it's been issued by the king, and the orders of our king must always be obeyed. Always. Every possible transgression has to be looked into and treated with the full sharpness of the law, if necessary. You know that."

Quirin swallows hard—yes, he knows indeed. The law had become decidedly stricter since the princess of Corona had been stolen from her cradle. Even the pettiest small-time criminal could end up on the gallows in the current state of this kingdom. Their king was suffering, just like every parent would suffer losing their child, and King Frederic had determined to deal with that pain by letting those he deems dispensable suffer likewise.

Quirin feels his spirits sinking. That whole situation seems beyond his help.

A light tug at his sleeve draws his attention to a pair of blue eyes dilated in anxiety. The fear Lashanie's giving off has apparently infected his boy, and Quirin gently runs a hand over Varian's head, wishing he could say something reassuring to smooth the worry off his face.

Meanwhile, the Captain adopts an unshakably steadfast posture as he clears his throat. With his tall and fit build—having the muscles of his arms stand out even against the sleeves of his uniform—he undoubtedly bears a powerful presence. He lifts his head a bit higher as if looking down on all of them, the sun gleaming off his golden helmet. "At the behest of His Majesty King Frederic, the young lady Von Humboldt will have to show proof of the healing powers her mother touted at the capital, as reported yesterday. Therefore, the royal advisor will grace this village with his presence on the morrow. Should it emerge that her talents are a fraud, contrived to deceive her fellow men, the girl will be—"

"You won't lay a finger on my daughter!" Ludwig bites out, unable to quell his anger any longer.

At that, the guard cocks an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twisting into a frown for a brief moment. He doesn't enjoy being the bringer of bad tidings in the slightest, but orders are orders. And so, for the sake of that poor fool facing him, he decides to miss hearing his backtalk. "The girl will be committed to the care of an orphanage," he continues, pointedly louder than before. "And her parents shall be arrested on site. So is the will of King Frederic of Corona. Long may he reign!"

Ludwig pales as he's handed a writ wearing the royal seal, leaving no doubt the situation's as serious as can be. The place falls into a deathly hush; only a desperate sound from Anne can be heard. Something like a painful, guilt-laden whimper.

The Captain doesn't wait for any response—or, at worst, a peasant riot to burst, provoked by the law growing more merciless by the minute; he beckons his men to mount their horses with one swift gesture. Their departure drives apart the gawking crowd mobbing Von Humboldt's house, dispersing it into smaller groups who huddle together as they walk to discuss what they've just been able to witness in hushed voices.

The paper in his hands seems to grow heavier and heavier, and Ludwig's unable to avert his gaze from the letters that gradually grow hazy the longer he fixes them. He slightly sways on his feet, lashings of thoughts running through his mind, one persistently recurring: they can't take his daughter away from him . . .

Quirin wordlessly places a hand on Ludwig's shoulder, steadying him as Anne approaches her husband with tentative strides, leaving Lashanie behind at the door. When Ludwig doesn't flinch from Anne's fingers gingerly stroking his arm, she leans against him, peering at the document.

"How could you . . . ?" Ludwig's voice is close to a whisper, soaked with consternation. He frees himself from her touch, scrutinizing his wife as if looking at a complete stranger. "Do you seek to raise your status that desperately?! Lashie's got no control over whatever this strange power may be—you know that as well as I do!" At this point, his voice has swollen loud enough for everyone to hear. "If you don't mind suffering consequences so long as there's the prospect to socially climb, suit yourself! But keep our daughter out of your reckless activities!"

"You think I did this for myself?!" Anne shouts, injured. "All I want is to make sure Lashanie will have a better life someday!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Anne! We both know what you're after and why," Ludwig counters with bitter conviction, his anger draining away to get replaced by keen disappointment.

"Oh no—you won't just cast the blame on me! I told you I didn't want to take Lashanie to town," Anne says. Tears begin to glisten in her golden brown eyes. " You insisted on it! None of this would have happened if you hadn't forced me to take her with me! I only wanted to make the most of it . . . If Lashanie wouldn't mess up everything—" Anne's eyes widen, and her hands reflexively clasp over her mouth. It's the shock rising to Ludwig's face letting her realize the weight of her words and fall silent. With a delay, she whispers, "I'm sorry."

The kids have heard more than enough, Quirin decides. He leads his boy over to Lashanie, whose eyes perfectly betray the emotional turmoil causing her tiny body to quiver slightly. Quirin extends one hand to her, and after a brief moment of hesitation where she's just unresponsively staring into space as if frozen in place, she lastly seizes it.

Forcing a comforting smile, Quirin assures her, "Everything will be alright." He takes Varian's hand—it feels icy cold—and instantly places Lashanie's inside it. "Will you do me a favor?" he asks his puzzled son.

Varian nods fervently, gently squeezing the hand entrusted to him.

"There's some fresh apple pie on the kitchen counter; take Lashanie with you and serve her a piece of it, alright?"

"Pie? Er . . . yes, of course! Heh." A nervous chuckle works its way through Varian's reply. Once they're out of earshot, he'll have to explain to Lashanie that only an empty dish awaits them. Fortunately, his dad doesn't need to be privy to this. Draping himself in an air of innocence, Varian smiles at his friend, tearing off with her in tow. "Let's go, Birdy!"

He draws Lashanie along, and as they pass her parents, Anne is sobbing into her hands, uttering, "This isn't the life you promised me." At that, Varian deliberately picks up his pace, holding fast onto the hand tensing up against his. He expects her to protest any second, considering her leg had been injured during a fall just a few hours ago, the white bandage working as a constant reminder. But no complaint happens; she lets him lead her willingly.

They reach the fork between their houses, where three women from the crowd still linger; Varian and Lashanie hear them tattle loudly. "That poor girl!" "Yeah, but with a mother like that who only cares about herself . . ." "Yeah, right. That Anne is such a presumptuous cow." "You can say that again! Have you heard what she said about Selene's dress the other day?!"

Now Lashanie overtakes her friend, fleeing forward from all the voices and impressions forcing their way into her overflowing mind. She has grown numb to the pain shivering through her body each time her foot meets the ground.

Varian struggles to keep pace with her, and upon arrival at his doorstep, he greedily gasps for air, pushing the door open by leaning against it backward and using his weight. The moment they've both passed the threshold, he rapidly slams the door, shutting out all the noise feeding the chaos inside Lashanie's head.

The ghost of a knowing smile blooms on her lips, "Thank you, Vary."

Still breathing rather fitfully, Varian pants, "Don't thank me just yet, because there's something I must confess. There's no pie; I have already eaten it up—all of it."

•●•●•

It's sometime past noon; Lashanie's tucked legs lean on Varian's lap, and her head's resting against his shoulder while he toys with a ring braided from plain wire decorated with a tiny flower shape on top she's wearing on her pinky.

After he had confessed about downing the pie—to which Lashanie responded with what he had perceived as a sincere affirmation that she wasn't hungry at all!—Varian insisted on fetching Lashanie a cup of hot cocoa in satisfaction and subsequently ushered her to his favorite place in the entire house: a big, positively cozy armchair near the fireplace in the parlor.

He had gladly eased into the soft cushion, coaxing her to follow suit by padding the spare space by his side. The doubt they both could fit into that chair was writ large into her face, and as she smoothly slid into the seat all the same, her eyes twinkled with mild surprise as if she had just discovered a tiny miracle, prompting one corner of Varian's mouth to curve up.

"Usually, I don't share my throne with anyone," he quipped. "So you better appreciate that."

Lashanie suggested a curtsy, playing along with his drollery while making sure not to spill the cocoa. "Oh! It's my honor and pleasure to share this cozy seat with you, Your Highness."

The smile that bloomed on her face had matched Varian's in its wideness, and they lastly came out in an assuaging laugh—one they both desperately needed.

For the rest of the time they had been sitting there in Varian's beloved armchair, Lashanie had soon happily relinquished the hot cocoa to Varian, and they kept talking about harmless nullities only: from the question if they preferred apple pie flavored with vanilla or cinnamon, over to their favorite treat from Monty's Sweet Shoppe, leading to them listing what they liked best about each of the four seasons—things bearing no weight . . . unlike the subject they've been deliberately avoiding.

So far, at least.

Lashanie's chewing her bottom lip. It has taken her quite a while now to sort her thoughts out on the side, but finally, she can trust herself to sensibly recount the events to Varian that induced the whole debacle from the morning in the first place. Or so she thinks.

"Do you remember what I told you yesterday—that something happened while I was singing in the marketplace and that I messed up so badly my mom kept yelling at me all the way home?" she asks, her gaze stolidly fixed forward, focused on one single spot the way she'd do to avoid dizziness while practicing pirouettes.

Varian gingerly affirms with a hum. He can sense her tension and feel the slight tremble of her hand that she tries to suppress, causing him to keep his response quiet so as not to startle her, as if she was a little bird that could fly away at the very first quick movement.

"You know, I was just singing as usual—like I've done the days before. But then this guy showed up . . . a young lord by the way his entourage referred to him. They came onto the square in a tizzy, shouting and cursing like sailors in their search for an apothecary shop," Lashanie remembers. "And I don't know where she came from—she hadn't come by the entire day after dropping me off by the fountain . . . but all of a sudden, my mom was approaching them—these loud, coarse strangers. And first, I even feared she wanted to lecture them about their language." A hapless laugh escapes her.

"Way off?" Varian can't help asking.

"You bet! Instead of telling them off, she brought them over to me."

Varian knits his brows, and before he knows it, a confused "Why?" flies off his lips.

"They told her they've been hunting in the woods near the capital and that one lord got injured by a boar storming at them; he—he had this nasty wound running up his shin, and Mama managed to convince them that I could heal it— entirely! —with no scar to remain."

"But you couldn't?"

"No, I couldn't—of course, I couldn't," Lashanie says remorsefully and retracts the hand Varian is holding to clutch the hem of her skirt, her nails digging deep into her skin, even through the fabric. "I know I couldn't have satisfied the expectations fueled by my mother, but perhaps I could have—have, I don't know—maybe stopped the bleeding at least, but . . . But these people were just horrible—nasty and intrusive. The things they said, Vary . . . I—and I couldn't do anything! Not even get back to singing when they had left." She gasps in a deep breath. The same helpless feeling that had choked her then comes creeping back now as the memory of their words and faces smuggles its way into her mind.

"But . . . your mom, didn't she do or, at least, say anything? Was she just idly standing by?" Varian asks, more as if to himself. The idea of a mother not trying to protect her child seems too foreign to him, especially recalling this morning when she held Lashanie just like a treasure she wouldn't share, even if it meant her life.

Lashanie shifts to look Varian in the eye, giving a resigned shrug while straining to uphold the shaky smile she forces onto her lips. "She didn't want to cross a customer. "

Similar to a short circuit, Varian outright enfolds her in his arms, not knowing what else to do, let alone to say. She allows her head to sink against his neck, and for a moment, they remain enveloped in silence.

Now Varian can finally fully wrap his mind around the earlier goings-on. That 'lord' Lashanie couldn't heal must have reported her to the guards afterward, and this morning's display was the mere outcome of that encounter. The one thing he still can't understand, though, is how Anne could let these people pour their filth over her daughter without making the slightest attempt to stop them. The scandalmongers' gossip flickers back to his mind . . . perhaps there was a scrap of truth to it.

"What's going to happen now—to my parents and me?" Lashanie eventually mutters into his collar.

"You're going to be okay. Tomorrow, you'll prove to the royal advisor your talent is real, and they'll drop the charge."

Lashanie gently pushes away from Varian to look him in the eye. "I can't. Whatever this power is, I can't control it."

"But I've seen it work," Varian reminds her. "You healed me."

"Yeah, but I don't know how! I—I've failed so many times before . . . so, so many times. What if I fail again tomorrow?" Lashanie's voice falters, thickly laced with fear.

If only Varian knew. He wants to comfort her, say something encouraging, or even better—do something to help. But nothing that comes to mind seems even slightly sufficient; at this very moment, he's just as lost as her. He can only helplessly watch a single tear roll down her cheek, her unblinking gaze still fixed on him as she whispers under her breath, "I'm scared, Vary."

•●•●•

The moon has long spelled the sun, dimly lighting up the sky with its familiar pale face, but Lashanie still lies wide awake, tossing and turning, the fear of what the following day may bring denying her a moment of sleep.

Fortunately, she had been able to prevent herself from bursting into tears earlier when even Varian—who typically refuses to accept defeat with exceptional persistence—appeared at a loss with the nearing disaster. When she grasped the touch of despair rising into his eyes, she quickly wiped away the single tear that had escaped her before she could stop it. He still had guaranteed to find a solution by morning, and she had decided to believe him.

That was before she went home . . . and her spirits rapidly hit rock bottom.

Not only had Lashanie's parents stopped talking to each other, but her mother also refused to speak a single word to her. Granted, when her parents were fighting, it wasn't so unusual for Lashanie's mom to ignore her until they'd made up, but in this very situation, it felt distinctly harder to stomach. Her dad had later tucked her into bed, promising everything would be alright. But from the way he spoke and clung to the side of her bed peculiarly long, Lashanie could too easily discern how little he believed his own words.

And now she's lying here, feeling those blasted tears come again she successfully held back all day. Only this time, they come in tandem with a difficult day's exhaustion and the ever-mounting helplessness tantalizing her while the same ugly question keeps repeating itself over and over again mercilessly: What will become of her family?

How is she supposed to prove the existence of something she doesn't understand herself? No matter how hard she tried to channel something, somehow—anything!—throughout the day, it remained futile.

It seems so hopeless.

Lashanie bites down the inside of her cheek, but it's too late; hot tears trickle down her face to drench her pillow. Oh, how she hates herself for this! Shedding tears isn't going to help. She should pull herself together—think of something instead of crying like a babe!

But despite the harsh self-advice, she can't stop the tears from falling.

That is until a noise reaches her ear from somewhere in the dark of her room. It's soft, a mere rustle she almost would have drowned out by her sobbing.

Her tears ebb away as she sits up in bed, alarmed. She blinks into the murkiness the night had washed in, straining her ears with bated breath. But nothing happens—no noise or obscure figures moving in the shadows. She must be imagining things, and besides a shiver of relief, she also feels a tang of embarrassment welling up. Well, at least it acted as a welcome distraction to dry up her tears.

She's about to lay back down—perhaps she could finally catch some sleep, now that the spiral of thoughts inside her mind seems to have slowed—when the noise returns. She's heard it loud and clear, no doubt! She isn't alone . . .

Spurred by an increasing flurry, her eyes scan the room again, more intently this time. And while there's nothing to catch visually, the noise doesn't shun to call attention to itself; it grows louder each time, beginning to sound like a long sigh or an indistinct murmur. Lashanie's fingers twine tightly around her blanket as she asks, with a slight catch, "Who is there? Who are you?" She can't rightly explain, but somehow, she just knows that whoever is hiding there in the dark can understand her. She can sense their presence.

A draft stirs the air by her side, ruffling through Lashanie's hair. She doesn't dare to move. The murmur is now so close as if whispered directly into her ear—no words for her to understand, but an oddly familiar voice. Her fear slowly melts away; the whisper feels like a comforting embrace, and a gentle warmth enfolds her. It rushes through her veins, reaching into every limb and lulling her to sleep.

•●•●•

"If you take one of the remote routes leading through the woods, you should manage to pass Corona's borders unnoticed," Varian explains, holding out an unfolded map in front of himself. "I mean, it took the guards half a day to find you here after all, and you weren't even trying to avoid them."

Ludwig strides past him without so much as a sidelong glance. Instead, he rolls his eyes, venting an irritated sigh.

But Varian doesn't let that deter him; he doggedly follows Lashanie's father around, an assortment of maps tucked under his arm while he dodges the other villagers running to and fro.

The whole of Old Corona seems to be assembled here today, filling sundry burlap bags and glasses and crates with all kinds of vegetables, seasoning, and weaving products. Ludwig makes himself useful among the people who load the goods on waiting carts bound for the capital, meaning he constantly keeps moving—and so does Varian, trying to stay in step with him.

He's spent the majority of the past night at his desk, feverishly studying maps of the kingdom and its environs to mark out roads that could lead Lashanie's family into the safety of another dominion. Perhaps they could find refuge in Equis—not only had Varian learned that Lashanie's aunt was living there, but it also wouldn't extradite them to Corona: the two kingdoms were at enmity for ages. Now he only needs to make Ludwig listen—the most challenging part of his plan.

It's not like Varian is looking forward to losing his friend; quite the opposite. In fact, he wouldn't have believed in confiding in each other with anybody the way he does with Lashanie, and he dreads the idea of her farewell. She's turned out to be exactly the friend he had wished for so long. And precisely that is why Varian feels compelled to help her avert this disaster for her family. And for them to flee across the borders, unfortunately, was the only feasible plan he could come up with at such short notice.

Damn it —how often had he repeated cursing himself last night for being remiss about Lashanie's crazy magic business . . . in favor of that silly monkshood! Perhaps they could have long fathomed the way and origin of her powers. She could have learned to control them. But now it's too late.

Varian casts a glance at Lashanie; she regales herself and the other girls sitting close with little ditties and seems rather unfazed, almost cheerful. But looks can be deceiving, and by now, he knows she's quite good at pretending to be fine, smiling even when she's sad.

Lost in thought, Varian notices the guy bearing down on him too late. The moment he tries to stir out of the way, the other crashes into him—deliberately, as the smile on his face betrays while a few glasses he's been carrying clatter to the ground, bursting into pieces under a sharp noise.

"Can't you watch where you're going, misfit?!" Seymour Durand snarls at him, but despite his effort to sound upset, Varian doesn't miss the note of self-content in the boy's voice.

Staring at the mess by his feet, drenching the maps he dropped at the collision, Varian himself is rendered speechless—only a moment, but long enough so that he still hasn't found his voice again, when the noise brings Quirin to the scene, who sticks his head out of the warehouse from where he's managing the loading. He spots his son in the middle of spoiled goods, shattered glass, and soaked paper, and his face darkens. "Varian, either help to load the carts or get out of the way!" Quirin scolds sternly.

Varian wants to complain, but Simon Durand bumps into his shoulder the very moment, commanding venomously, "Yeah, Varian—get lost!" Saying his name, he rolls the 'r' in it—a dumb habit they adopted a few months ago, hoping it would annoy him.

In Varian's back, Seymour welcomes his brother with an approving cackle, and meanwhile, Quirin has retreated into the warehouse. Violence is not a solution; Varian has to remind himself, taking a deep breath. But when the Durand brothers strut past him on their way back, still laughing themselves silly, he feels an inexplicable itch to trip them up. These donkeys certainly deserve it!

Fortunately, Ludwig comes his way again, drawing Varian's attention back to his self-imposed task. His glance darts at the two receding boys once more. They aren't worth it anyway . . .

When Ludwig's eyes find Varian—bearing the semblance of a lost puppy as he's standing in the middle of the way with his sad, wide eyes—his frown morphs into an indulgent smile. Yes, that boy has a way of getting on his nerves; more than once, Varian's caused Ludwig a headache, but his effort is touching all the same.

"Look, Varian—I appreciate that you want to help. Yet—" Ludwig begins but gets harshly interrupted when he trips over a bag stuffed chuck-full with rolled-up maps and pitches forward, only just managing to avert a fall. So much for the goodwill!

Lashanie shoots up from her seat, her voice carrying a touch of panic as she cries, "Papa! Are you okay?!"

Mustering a tight smile, Ludwig nods at his daughter, indicating to her to sit back down while he balances out the heavy crate in his arms anew. Varian might be annoying, but he's also just trying to help; he reminds himself silently, and instead of following his initial impulse to yell at the boy, he tries to make shifts by taking deep breaths . . . and gritting his teeth while Varian clears his belongings out of the way giving a nervous little chuckle.

Ludwig heaves the load into the cart with one yank, mops his brow with his forearm, and favors Varian with a glare, one corner of his mouth twitching into a wry smile as he suggests, "Young signor Vaillant, don't you think you should better lend a hand? Or at least get out the way so the rest of us can do their work." Heading for the warehouse again, he leaves Varian behind without so much as another glance, yet he cannot stop the slight pang of conscience from soaring up inside him. Once again, he's been rougher to the boy than he meant.

Varian's shoulders slump—true to form, Ludwig doesn't care to listen to him for even a second. But honestly, what did he expect? It's no more than a waste of time to keep going when he's getting nowhere with that grump!

A peal of laughter suddenly surging up nearby prompts Varian to wheel around in search of its origin. His eyes widen; there, by his friend's side . . . he hadn't noticed her before, focused on Lashanie as he was. Eugh!—this day is getting worse by the minute!

Lashanie can't take the gloating next to her when Varian seems so crestfallen already. The derisive whispering of the two girls she only knows from school inheres the charm of fingernails grinding against a slate in her ears, and her mouth forms words too fast for her to stop them from taking flight. "Hühner, die viel gackern, legen wenig Eier."

Even though German isn't the common tongue in Old Corona, they seem to have understood: a flash of indignation flits across the girls' faces, and the laughter falls silent while they swap from slandering Varian to whispering about Lashanie instead, glaring at her from the corners of their eyes. 'Haughty' and 'spoilsport' Lashanie can pick up, and the smaller girl right by her side looks up at her in anticipation, as if it was Lashanie's turn now to come back at them, but she merely shrugs her shoulders and continues with her task. If it's their idea of fun to put her friend down, Lashanie doesn't mind spoiling it for them, and their words can't bother her either—she's heard much worse from her cousin before.

Someone casts a shadow upon her, and as she beholds the person now standing close—the hands propped on their hips—a smile blooms on Lashanie's face.

"Your dad refuses to listen to me!" Varian claims, locking eyes with her.

In place of Lashanie, though, the small girl at her side responds. Her face is red with anger. "You don't say?! Can't you see everyone's busy?!" she cries, frantically tearing at two ends of some twine in her struggle to close a burlap bag.

Varian's mouth opens, ready to shoot a proper retort—it's been one too many times he's experienced disrespect for one morning. But Lashanie's faster; she reaches over and swiftly seals the bag for that other girl. "Be nice to him, please," he hears her say while his eyes follow the deft movement of her fingers.

Despite himself—he's sworn not to deign to look at her coming here—Varian's gaze eventually wanders to the side a bit, and he takes a gander at the other girls, the giggly gossips.

Therese is still wearing her shoulder-length hair in the color of coal in the same way she used to when Varian still believed her to be his friend. With her olive complexion and delicately chiseled features, she bears a likeness to a doll. He, however, had learned firsthand what a little beast hides beneath that facade—her betrayal had irreversibly etched this truth on his memory, and her sight automatically dredges up all the pent-up anger still lingering inside him.

Therese's brown eyes meet him, and Varian's stomach responds with cramping pain. If it's giving her any trouble being close to him—possibly because of a guilty conscience which she definitely should have!—she doesn't let it show. Instead, a cocky smile spreads across her face.

"Hey, Var ," she burrs.

In his turn, Varian sets his jar. Even if he wanted to say something in reply, he couldn't bring a single word over his lips; her merriment renders him so angry he almost forgets to breathe.

That's it! All this constant distraction surrounding him is unbearable! Unceremoniously, Varian grabs Lashanie's wrists and lifts the light girl to her feet.

At this, the little missy with the burlap bag problem jumps up and points her index finger at him, beginning to protest, "Hey!"

But Lashanie just smiles at her, assuring readily, "It's alright; I want to go with him. Don't worry—I'll be back in a moment."

That's his cue! Holding her by the hands, Varian forthwith leads Lashanie behind the warehouse, where they would—aside from the muted noise of the bustle on the other side—remain undisturbed.

"Who's that girl," Varian asks casually, casting a glance over his shoulder.

And Lashanie's eyes twinkle with playful curiosity. "Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing. After all, she called you Var. You know, it sounded like a nickname to me."

They come to a halt, and Varian inclines his head to one side before his eyes light up in the moment of realization. Oh no! He isn't letting himself in for this. Not today. Dangling one hand mid-air, he amends, "I meant the short one."

A touch of something Varian can't rightly determine still shimmers through Lashanie's smile, but to his relief, she refrains from pressing to find out about Therese, solely explaining, "She's Sylvia, the youngest of the three Durand siblings, and the only girl at that."

Noticing how sourness steals in Varian's expression at the mention of the name 'Durand,' she adds, "A little tattletale, but beyond that, she's quite endearing."

Oh yeah, endearing ; that's what she seemed like to him. A trait that must run in the family. . .

"Say, Vary, what did you bring me here for?" Lashanie breaks in on his thoughts, seeking to meet his gaze.

Right, they've got another, far more important matter to concern themselves with. "Look, I've been trying to explain to your dad an escape plan I mapped last night, but he ignores me. And the guards could arrive here any moment."

"Oh!—so that's why you've been buzzing around him all morning!"

"Why—yes! What were you thinking I was doing there?" Varian gives back, incredulous.

Lashanie's answering smile appears apologetic. "I don't know—I thought it was about the supply to the capital." Her brows crinkle while she regards the dark circles under his eyes, "You actually stayed awake last night to find a solution . . . You're an angel, Vary."

Varian shrugs. "I promised."

"I'm so sorry; I should have told you first thing in the morning," promptly bursts through Lashanie's lips. "We don't need to worry about this anymore."

One hundred question marks instantly form in Varian's mind. "That's—that sounds great, but . . . How come?"

"I will demonstrate the existence of my gift , simple as that," she states.

Leaving Varian to grow even more confused. "But, wait—you said you couldn't. So . . . how?!"

Lashanie wrings her hands, biting her bottom lip as she considers. She would like to share her experience of the bygone night with Varian, but, truth be told, it still eludes her comprehension; she wouldn't know how to put it into words, not yet. But one thing she's got no doubt about—the presence she sensed will help her; it'll ensure she'll succeed in providing evidence of her powers. "I can't explain; I just feel I will be able to do so," she finally says, her voice quiet as if lost in thought.

Raising an eyebrow, Varian inquires, "What do you mean you can't explain? Blimey, Birdy!—a lot hangs in the balance for you. That's not the time to rely on vague feelings."

Lashanie gently squeezes his hand. "I can do this!"

"But, how can you be so sure?"

"Believe in me, Vary." She smiles.

Varian can't help to have second thoughts about these feelings of hers. What are the odds she magically found a way to control her powers overnight? It would be nothing short of a miracle! But he can't force her to give up this newly acquired conviction, can he? No, he can only hope she doesn't direly overestimate herself.

Yet the sky is clear, shining with a blue so radiant as if meant to impress, but in the distance, dark clouds loom, crowding closer. Good thing Varian doesn't believe in bad omens after all. He's decided to believe in sweetly smiling birdies instead . . .

•●•●•

The workday draws to a close, the hustle and bustle have worn down, and the sky has exchanged its stunning blue against a gloomy shroud by the time the clip-clop of hooves is nearing the hamlet. The cavalcade coming into focus is led by the captain of the guard and a man dressed to the nines—undoubtedly the king's confidant. Apart from them, the retinue consists of a few more regular guards and a sartorially clad man sharing the horse with a little girl.

Lashanie musters the courage to go meet them. A first crack of thunder roars in the distance, the harbinger of a coming storm.

Keeping a respectful distance from the beautiful, tall horses elevating the strangers above her, Lashanie lowers her head, bobbing a curtsey. She tries to forget about all the eyes resting on her, recalling Varian's words, 'You're going to be okay.'

"Lashanie von Humboldt?" The question erases the soothing echo, and Lashanie stands ramrod straight to meet the scrutinizing gaze of the man she suspects to be the royal advisor. She nods. "Yes, sir!"

The man favors the Captain with a glance. "Merely a child, just as you said." To which the other responds with a nod of his own before the posse dismounts their horses, and he directs his words at Lashanie.

"You are in the presence of the royal advisor, designated as judge of your talents by His Majesty King Frederic."

The man embraced by the sweeping gesture accompanying the Captain's words gives a satisfied sound when Lashanie bows one more time. So her hunch about him was correct.

The royal advisor, giving his name as Nigel such-and-such, reads aloud from a scroll the cause of his attendance, positively confirming his word would lastly determine the fate of Lashanie's family. The nobleman who kept to the sidelines so far turns out to be a viscount on a visit to the castle. His daughter had caught an injury while playing in the gardens, and Lashanie is expected to heal her if she hopes to prove the genuineness of her powers.

"I hope you have taken measures to ensure my daughter will experience no harm," the viscount snarls at the guards.

"I guarantee you, Viscount, there's no need to worry," the Captain gives back. He leads the girl to Lashanie, favoring her with a glance she fails to fathom as he quietly adds, "I fear nothing is going to happen."

Of course, he doesn't believe her talent exists. Lashanie silently prays for him to be wrong, for the nocturnal whispering presence not to let her down.

Approaching her, the younger girl carries a timid bearing. But when Lashanie gives her a smile and says, "Hi there; I'm Lashanie. What is your name?" her face lights up, and she gladly takes the hand reaching out to her.

"Amalia, but you can call me Amy," she says with a smile of her own.

"Alright, Amy." Lashanie regards the deep red lines decorating the fair skin of the girl's forearm. "Would you mind telling me how you came down with these?"

Amalia steals a surreptitious glance at her father before she tiptoes to whisper in Lashanie's ear, "It was the stray cat in the castle gardens. I wanted to hold it, but the cat didn't like that. Please don't tell my daddy; I don't want it to get in trouble."

Under the girl's begging eyes, Lashanie's smile grows wider as she nods. "I promise not to tell anyone. It can be our secret."

Amalia beams. "Yes! Thank you!"

Then, another roll of thunder.

"Tell that farmgirl to stop stalling and burning daylight! I want to leave here before the storm fully hits this place!" it abruptly echoes toward them, and Amalia quietly apologizes to Lashanie on her father's behalf before Nigel orders, "Now, girl, go ahead. Let us witness your ' gift .'"

Okay. Here goes . . . everything . Lashanie's eyes instinctively search for a familiar face in the nearby crowd, collectively pinning their stares on her, and get caught on some sky-blue standing out. Varian. The way he looks at her—ranging between hopeful optimism and genuine solicitude—brings back his words once more. 'You're going to be okay.'

She will tell him about the whispering presence once this is over.

Lashanie fills her lungs with air and concentrates her attention on Amy's arm. "You can do this. There is no need to be afraid. You can absolutely do this," she whispers to herself, letting her fingers gingerly trace the scratches. For her family, to extricate them from this trouble, she may not founder.

Amalia giggles. "My mommy does that too—talking to herself, I mean. She says it helps to calm her nerves."

"So it does." Lashanie's face softens. She wants it to work so badly, not only for her own sake but also for Amy. She truly wishes to heal her.

Putting all her hopes into a silent prayer, she places both hands flat against Amy's arm, gently covering the scratches with her palms, and wills herself to focus solely on that touch. She can sense something that reminds her of a river streaming through the girl in a constant flow. And as she dives deeper into concentration, she can almost see it—branching out to run through Amy's entire frame, leaving her assured that it must be possible to somehow influence it. If only she could—could touch it.

For a moment, it feels like the world's eternal rotation has slowed down beneath her, and almost, Lashanie can grasp it. Whatever it may be . . .

But suddenly and without so much as a warning signal, Amalia's skin burns scorching hot on Lashanie's palms, and she promptly withdraws her hands, sucking in a sharp breath. She examines her palms—they must carry burns! But to her surprise—and relief—she finds nothing. There is no such thing as a burn on her skin. And the same goes for Amy's arm. Only the scratches still linger there, mocking Lashanie with their bold red.

Stepping closer, assuming Lashanie retracting her hands must mean his judgment is in demand, Nigel leans toward the two girls and shakes his head. "I thought so."

The first raindrops land on Lashanie's face, and a stroke of lightning whips through the cloud ceiling, bathing everything in white for a split second.

Nigel nods, the Captain gives a curt gesture of his hand, and the other guards advance on Lashanie's parents. Her mother seeks protection in her father's arms when they try to back away from them, and Lashanie's heart wrenches—she's failed them!

"NO!" A scream tears from her throat, producing a sound so much shriller than she's ever heard from herself. Why didn't it work?! 'It' should have helped her!

Just when she's about to succumb to defeat, watching a guard arresting her dad, a sudden surge of energy flows through her body, accompanied by the familiar murmur. It 's there. Heat flares up inside her, courses through her blood, and permeates every inch of her body. The flame inside her grows with her increasing heartbeat, vivid. Grows until it bursts from Lashanie, engulfing her and Amalia in a blinding bright light. The world around them seems to spin faster—faster and ever faster. Too fast!

Lashanie squeezes her eyes shut. She holds her breath.

Make it stop.

The light recedes as if on Lashanie's wish. A deathly silence is embracing the place; only the sound of rain and thunder hasn't died down.

It's Amalia who first finds her voice again. Fascinated, she examines her arm, turning it to and fro. "My arm; the—look!—the scratches are gone! You did it!"

With contrived mirth, Lashanie smiles at her. "Yeah, we made it," she gasps out, her shoulders raising and falling unevenly. The joy of success was awfully short-lived for her; now, she's feeling more muzzy by the minute. And why is she so scant of breath, like a castaway who barely escaped from drowning?

"What's wrong? Are you not feeling well?" Amalia tentatively rests a hand on Lashanie's shoulder, her eyes searching the crowd. "We need help! Someone help us," she cries.

Lashanie plummets to her knees. It's as if all her strength has left her body along with that strange light. A numbness she's never experienced before spreads through her body, cold and heavy. It's dragging her down to the ground. She doesn't even feel the rain on her skin anymore. A haze lowers on her, through which she can perceive only faceless silhouettes inching closer. Scraps of conversation, a cacophony of reverent voices, reach her, distorted by a white noise rushing in her ears.

"Blessed by the sun"; "A gift from the goddess"

The sun . . . it seems so far away. Instead, darkness begins to encompass her. Once more, Varian's words echo inside her.

You're going to be okay . . .