The Roxton's study was a private space in their London townhouse, reserved for quiet contemplation and a sip of brandy with a smoke of cigar.

"Come in, Ned," Roxton called out, waving him inside. Malone stepped in, his gaze drawn to the amber liquid.

Roxton gestured towards the armchairs, "Make yourself comfortable. Care for a brandy?"

"Sure, why not?" Malone replied, settling into one of the armchairs as Roxton poured the drinks.

A small silence fell over them, broken only by the clink of the glasses. Roxton leaned back, lighting a cigar with a match from a nearby box.

"Splendid stuff, this," he commented, taking a slow sip of his brandy, "Acquired it from an old Frenchman who swore it was Napoleon's favorite."

Malone chuckled, taking a cautious sip of his own. "Not bad at all, John," he agreed.

For a while, they simply sat in the quiet comfort of the room, savoring their drinks and the occasional puff of smoke from their cigars.

"Sometimes, it's strange to think about all we've been through together, isn't it, John?" Malone remarked, his gaze drifting to the patterns of smoke curling up from his cigar.

Roxton chuckled, swirling his brandy in the glass, "Indeed. It feels like a different lifetime. But every adventure, every challenge, it's shaped us into who we are today."

A comfortable silence settled between them, each man lost in his own memories. After a moment, Malone raised his glass, "To survival, and the lessons it taught us."

Roxton clinked his glass against Malone's, echoing his sentiment, "To survival."

Nursing his brandy, Malone looked thoughtful, a hint of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. "You know, John, I must confess... there's something remarkably surreal yet utterly delightful about seeing Marguerite in her new role as mother."

Roxton nodded, a fond smile playing on his lips. "She's always been full of surprises, our Marguerite. Seeing her with our son, it's a sight I never thought I'd witness, but one I wouldn't trade for anything in the world."

A thoughtful silence had fallen between them when Roxton finally cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. "Ned," he began, choosing his words carefully, "Have you and Veronica... have you ever considered... children?"

Malone looked surprised for a moment, but then he smiled, a soft, longing look entering his eyes. "We've talked about it, yes. I would like nothing more than to start a family with her. But we've agreed to wait until we return to the Plateau."

"Well, Ned, I must say," he began, tapping his cigar against the ashtray, "don't dally too long. Our children should have a chance to be troublemakers together."

"To our future troublemakers, then," Malone toasted, raising his glass with a warm smile.


A few blocks away, nestled in the heart of London, stood a grand, ivy-covered townhouse. This was the home of Robert and Catherine Carnahan, a pair of renowned archaeologists and historians. Marguerite stood at the threshold, absorbing the familiar sights and smells that had come to symbolize her parents.

She was warmly welcomed inside. Her mother, Catherine, met her in the foyer, her face lighting up at the sight of her daughter. "Marguerite," she greeted, pulling her into a warm hug, "you're looking lovely as ever."

With a gentle hand on Marguerite's back, Catherine led her into the drawing-room, an elegant space filled with plush furniture, countless books, and artifacts from various historical periods. As they settled onto a comfortable settee, a maid came in with a tray of tea and biscuits, setting it down before them.

"Your sister mentioned to me that she'd spoken to you about our family's legacy."

Marguerite nodded, her expression serious. She had been anticipating this conversation ever since Emily had hinted at their family's unusual heritage.

With a soft sigh, Catherine leaned back, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her teacup. "Our lineage has always been unique, Marguerite. The women of our bloodline, going back generations, have possessed certain… abilities."

She paused, watching Marguerite closely. "It's not something that we ever foresaw having to explain. We were never sure whether or how these traits would manifest. It's important to remember, dear, that these abilities are often very subtle. They're not like the powers you'd read about in fantastical tales. A knack for languages, as if you've known them all your life. An uncanny ability to sense danger before it strikes. A remarkable speed of healing that goes beyond the ordinary. But all these traits could easily be overlooked or explained away."

Catherine gave Marguerite a thoughtful look before she spoke. "You've always had a way with languages, haven't you, Marguerite? You pick them up as if you've been speaking them your whole life."

Marguerite gave a nod of agreement. Ever since she could remember, she had been able to understand and speak any language she came across, as if she'd known them all her life. She had never quite understood how or why – until now.

"And Emily," Catherine continued, her gaze softening at the mention of her other daughter, "has always been an empath, in tune with the emotions of those around her. It's a different manifestation, but just as much a part of our legacy."

Seeing the curiosity in Marguerite's eyes, Catherine went on. "Our abilities, they can be different for each of us. For example, your grandmother had this uncanny ability to positively influence everything around her. If she was around, people would feel better, recover from their ailments rapidly. Even the flowers seemed to bloom more vibrantly in her presence."

Marguerite was silent as she processed her mother's words. It was a lot to take in, a revelation that shed light on aspects of her family and herself that she had never truly understood. But with every word Catherine spoke, she felt a growing sense of kinship, a deepening connection to her lineage.

"However," Catherine interjected, her voice taking on a lighter tone, "sometimes these traits skip a generation. Like in my case. I've never really manifested any of these abilities in the same way as you, Emily, or your grandmother."

Marguerite couldn't help but ask the most obvious question. "Are we… witches?"

Catherine's laughter echoed around the room, a pleasant sound that eased Marguerite's confusion somewhat. She had an amused smile on her face as she replied, "My dear, these are not magic traits. They are biological enhancements, passed down through our genetics."

Marguerite nodded slowly, a wave of relief washing over her. She was not a witch, but a woman from a lineage of extraordinary women. This was a distinction she could understand, accept, and be proud of. She had her family's legacy to explore, her place in it to discover, and she was ready to embrace it all.