Dawn was still a songbird's thought when Kitten left the stables. The immortal, as small and stealthy as a cat, galloped through the darkness clutching the letter to T'Kaa in her mouth. Twice she dropped it, skidding to a halt and biting at it with tiny fangs that left the envelope tattered and punctured.
In a bedroom across the Royal Palace, the Baron of Pirate's Swoop sat on the edge of the bed he shared with his wife with his head in his hands. He'd no sleep to speak of. With a sigh, he reached over to nudge his wife awake. "Alanna, wake up. I think I've made a mistake."
Kit scratched against the door, claws leaving shallow marks in the polished wood. Her scales shifted from pink to scarlet, with an ever-growing paleness. Spitting out the letter, she croaked once, twice, and a third time—adding a rolling flourish on the last that burned the lock clear away—and charged into the study, trilling loudly.
"I'll get her," Alanna shoved her nightshirt into her breeches and fell to her knees to look for her boots. "How far could she have gotten?"
George, who had not moved, looked out the window where the outline of the hills beyond the valley was just starting to lighten.
"Far enough." He reached out to grasp her arm when she drew close enough to reach. "Alanna, it's too late."
Numair stumbled from his bed-chamber, bleary-eyed from what little sleep he'd mustered.
"Kit? What's—" He stooped to scoop up the dragonet, who had hurled herself at his feet. She trembled in his arms, turning a pale white. Her trill quieted to a soft, prolonged hum that he'd never heard. "Where's Daine?"
Alanna sat in the chair next to the window. She leaned back, exhausted all over again, and rested her head on her hand as she watched the sky grow red. She hadn't spoken to her husband since it was clear she could do nothing, and his last question—"Can you forgive me, lass?"—hung in the air. Finally, she said what little she did know.
"He won't."
Numair sprinted the distance to the barracks, clutching Kit to his chest. He pushed into her room without knocking to find it empty and wrong. Wrong in that her favorite pack was gone. Wrong in that her pretty dress was tossed across a bed that had not been slept in. Wrong in that she was not there.
Onua read the letter twice before leaving her room in her nightdress. An eager recruit—up and ready for a new day—poked her head out from the women's dorm to greet her.
"Go back to bed."
Her horse heart could feel the grief from the stables.
Numair sat on her bed with Kit pressed into his side. She only stayed quiet if she knew he was there. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, and ran the dress between his hands. Feeling something bundled in the fabric, he pulled it apart to find a silk stay in a popular floral pattern he'd always been quite fond of. He set it to the side, swallowing, and leaned forward to press his forehead against the softness of the dress, trying to think. Trying to remember how to think.
Movement from the hall disturbed him. "Dai—" he whipped his head up, falling short when he saw Onua. She stood, leaning so that both arms barred the open doorway, with a crumpled letter clutched in one fist. He'd seen contempt from her before, but never for him.
When dawn arrived, she was far from him.