Finding My Way Back To You

by ShanoaWarrior

Brought back from the dead through the power of the holy stone, former Knight Templar, Izlude Tingel, is now able to keep his promise to his love, Alma Beoulve, whom he had died to protect and searches for her in post-Lion War Ivalice. Sequel to 'When Love Awaits'. Other pairings include Ramza/Agrias, Beowulf/Reis, Delita/Ovelia, Mustadio/Meliadoul, Rad/Alicia, Malak/Lavian.

18. And all the Children, Father Bless Them

Falchion1984: Hello again, loyal readers. This is an interlude which I've written in order to plug a continuity gap in the story, namely the immediate aftermath of Manon and Charlotte being allowed to stay in Lionel Castle and where the other several dozen children who'd helped prepare Ramza and Agrias' wedding feast had come from. This was originally meant to occur sooner, but juggling several collab projects and a job caused my partners to outpace me, so I reworked the plan for this chapter to occur both in the past, just after Manon and Charlotte's first few hours in Lionel Castle, and the present, with Alma (or, rather Catherine Seymour) preparing for the ball. Italicized text denotes the former while plain text denotes the latter. I would also like to shout-out to a newfound friend, Bluefelt, who proved invaluable when I was struggling with these most recent chapters and offered copious advice with which to get the muses singing again. If you're reading this, Bluefelt, thank you very much. And, as always guys, review are like digital hugs. So go forth and get hugging! Also, I plugged three separate series here. One is from a series of video games, one a series of computer games, and the last a series of children's books I enjoyed way back when. Kudos if you can identify them all.

Chapter 14: And All the Little Children, Father Bless Them Too

"Ho! Ha, ha! Guard! Turn! Parry! Dodge! Spin! Ha! THRUST!"

"Think you could make any more noise, Manon?"

Heady with imaginings that the training dummy before him was a true opponent, one of flesh and blood and malice, Manon completed his thrust, the tip of his stout wooden blade plunging into the dummy's shoulder and setting it spinning on its post. Flush with how deftly he'd managed to chain together the complicated series of feints and attacks, Manon turned to his small audience and thrust his blade skyward in a victory salute...

...only for one of the spinning dummy's wooden arms to smack him in the back of the head, sending him sprawling.

Charlotte and the Murry twins giggled merrily, and then laughed raucously as Manon, who was never one to dwell on minor embarrassments, accused the dummy of cowardice and began railing aspersions against its immediate relations.

"You might want to mind your language, with the little ladies in the room," Alicia warned, though chuckles punctuated her words.

Rachel promptly accentuated the point by clapping her tiny hands and gurgling happily, almost as if she were trying to imitate some of Manon's less-than-gentlemanly words.

In a perfect farce of self-recrimination, Manon gasped, bolted over to the Murry twins and bowed.

"My fair ladies, I must beg your forgiveness and hope you will not judge the whole of my order for the boorish actions of one man," he implored, and his words might have been convincing had the two knights not been able to peer over the kneeling boy's shoulders and spy his fingers crossed behind his back.

Charlotte, who'd been trying to read up on some of the duties she'd later be expected to fulfill for Duchess Seymour, resigned herself to not being able to get a minute of studying done with all the commotion. With a sigh, she closed her book and settled in to watch the spectacle.

The several weeks since that fateful day she and Manon had crossed the doorstep of the supposedly haunted Lionel Castle had been an endless parade of astonishment. And, of those many surprises, the "haunted" castle being inhabited by people as alive as she herself was had likely proven the least. Since then, and for the first time in her young life, she had found a home that she would not have to scurry away from at first light. More than that, she had found friends who, despite their initial reservations, treated her with kindness and respect, and who'd helped her to find a direction beyond simply scrapping together enough food to see out one more day.

This acceptance did not come without a cost, not the smallest reason being that Charlotte had made the acquaintance of Duchess Seymour, or Lady Catherine as she preferred to be called, by trying to steal from her. But, it was a cost that Charlotte later came to call a bargain. Less than a month beforehand, she and Manon had been out on the street, begging for or stealing their daily bread, moving from town to town as the locals got wise to their activities, and where the prospect of starvation loomed every bit as large as it did during the wars while even the vaguest notion of anything better seemed a remote fantasy at best and a mockingly unobtainable dream at worst.

Yet, where she'd fully expected to be hung after having been caught stealing from Lady Catherine, she'd instead found that she'd discovered that distant dream by the most capricious of chances.

But still, Charlotte was wise enough to notice some oddities about her newfound benefactors.

The Duchess and her retinue had been tightlipped about why it was just the handful of them in an entire castle, and one the people of Lionel province were terrified of, no less. But, it was obvious that the strange scarcity of people living under their roof meant that there was always a great deal to do. There was always food to be cooked, dishes, cutlery and clothing to be washed, dusting and sweeping to be done, floors and windows to be cleaned, and beds to be made.

Keeping up an entire castle with so few hands was a monumental task and, though the Duchess's retinue had been skeptical of the two ragamuffins, they'd later come to appreciate the help. What's more, they were willing to pay the children for their trouble, entrusting Charlotte with a sum of money that was hers to spend as she so pleased, and with the promise of more following the next day's work.

That she'd never been shorted one gil from the Duchess, who had yet to hire the small army of servants her station commanded, still seemed strange. But, neither Charlotte nor Manon were keen to pry into the affairs of the only people who'd ever shown them kindness.

And, even if they had been, they were too busy.

Apart from enjoying such wonders as toys, new clothes, and sweets purchased with their newfound money, the subsequent recruitment of other former ward mates had seen changes come to Manon and Charlotte's responsibilities in the castle. Where Charlotte had mostly helped with the cleaning and cooking, not to mention the taste-testing, she now had a whole staff of small children to direct as they prepared and served meals to the castle and scrubbed away the long neglect their newfound home had suffered since losing two of its former lords. Apart from making sure her new charges were diligent in their chores, Lady Catherine had also voiced the possibility that, when Charlotte was old enough, she might become a lady-in-waiting for the Duchess of Lionel. Even before Charlotte actually knew what that entailed, which turned out to be a great deal, she'd been touched by the show of not only trust but that Lady Catherine would want a one-time ragamuffin at her shoulder as she painted, embroidered, danced, and rode through the countryside, not to mention being entrusted with her correspondence, wardrobe, and itinerary.

That had meant there was a great deal to learn, and it seemed Charlotte's days were largely split between reading through books on court etiquette and balancing those same books on her head as she tried to master walking gracefully and with the correct posture. Still, both the gesture of trust and the sheer wonder of how much there was to learn had set her blood afire with excitement. And so, she studied diligently...even though she had a long way to go.

Granted, she likely could not take such a post until she was at least sixteen, but she vowed to be ready long beforehand.

As for Manon, he'd been kept busy as well.

Though Rad, Alicia, and Lavian had been amused at having a fourth player in their rude games, it was obvious that Duke Seymour, Lady Agrias, and a few others did not approve. And, though Charlotte had tried to hide the curious ache she felt at seeing Manon's hand fondling the breasts of the Murry twins, in pairs and even quartets, she'd felt no small amount of relief when Sir Beowulf had taken it upon himself to discourage this behavior.

As for how that was to be done, well, scarce are the boys who do not dream of knighthood.

Manon's giddiness had faltered for an instant when he'd been informed that his lessons would not consist entirely of swinging glittering swords and gallivanting about on chocobos fitted with shiny barding, but would also include many disciplines that were every bit as much a part of a knight as sword or armor. There was the chivalric code, the creed of honor by which a knight lived and died, and which he or she would sooner forfeit life than bring shame upon. There was the vigil-at-arms, where a knight would forgo sleep and stay awake and alert for threats, acting as a shield and first defense for friends and comrades all through the night. Furthermore, Manon would be taught such skills as maintaining weapons and armor, lest they fail him during battle, and that, since a knight is sworn to defend the weak, he could just as easily find himself helping poor farmers replace looted stores and carry medicine to villages stricken with illness as he might find himself riding to war.

When Sir Beowulf had made it clear that he'd tolerate neither any groping of backsides nor fondling of breasts from his pupil, and punctuated such with a warning glare at Rad and the Murry twins, Manon's enthusiasm had faltered for a full two heartbeats.

But, ultimately, those same better angels that compelled Manon to rescue Charlotte from being pressed into prostitution, and then to later offer his own neck in place of hers after being caught stealing from Lady Catherine, proved the stronger and he took to his training with vigor and determination.

And, it showed. Though his smile was as roguish as ever, he'd acquired a new air of maturity and confidence, not to mention a fair bit of muscle on his once gaunt frame. Charlotte had more than once caught herself staring as Manon, discarding his shirt as often as not, practiced the forms, stances, parries, and attacks with his blade, his lithe but toned form glistening with sweat long before he'd decided that he'd practiced enough. And, more than once, Manon had caught her staring. Strangely, behind the roguish smile, Charlotte thought she could sense that Manon, blithe and self-assured though he so often seemed, was genuinely nervous about what others thought of him in the role of a would-be knight.

She'd told him not to worry and, in her more daring moments, intimated that his helping her escape from that dreadful workhouse meant he'd proven his skill at rescuing fair maidens.

Still, the excitement the two children had felt during their first few weeks in Lionel Castle had promptly been dwarfed by the shock and thrill of accompanying Lady Catherine to Lesalia Castle, the gleaming heart of the kingdom.

The ride through the city had certainly left the children speechless, for though the capital hadn't been spared the ravages of war, it's well tended cobblestone paths, bustling markets, and stately buildings had been more than enough to make their jaws creak open in amazement.

Even the grown-ups travelling with them were not immune, for they'd been staring out their windows quite a bit as well...yet it seemed they'd spotted something that the children had overlooked. And, whatever it was, it had them worried for some reason.

After Lady Catherine had left their company so she could fitted for the ball - immediately after she'd left, in fact - Duke Seymour and Lady Agrias had hurriedly conferred with Sir Beowulf, Lady Reis, Rad, and the Murry twins. They'd talked much too quietly for either Manon or Charlotte to hear anything they were saying, but there was no mistaking their tense postures and urgent tones. When the two children had tried to sneak in closer, they'd promptly been spotted and Lady Agrias had, rather insistently, suggested that the Murry twins lead the children, as well as baby Rachel, on a tour of the castle. Though the rebuff was obvious, neither Manon nor Charlotte were of a mind to refuse.

There had been no shortage of poor, lonely children who'd fantasized about visiting so grandiose a place as Lesalia Castle, and they weren't about to let such a singular opportunity go to waste.

After Alicia and Lavian, who'd visited the castle often during their time amongst the Lionsguard, had guided them through a maze of opulent corridors and showed them such sights as the lavish ballroom and the opulent dining hall, Manon had asked to see the armory and training hall. Giggling something about "youthful dedication", Alicia and Lavian led the children to a bare but expansive room whose walls were lined with weapons and armor of all descriptions. While Manon was busy whacking the training dummy, and sometimes causing his audience to question just which one of them was the "dummy", Charlotte had been idly reviewing her lessons and watching as Alicia and Lavian amused themselves by plucking various helms and hats from the racks and pegs about the room, gently lowering them onto Rachel's head, and teasingly critiquing how she looked wearing them.

Right now, Rachel was wearing the plumed felt hat favored by archers and looked rather fetching. Or, Charlotte supposed so, since the hat was much too big and covered everything above the baby's tiny chin.

Charlotte couldn't help but chortle merrily as Rachel's head swiveled every which-where, wondering what had put out the lights and, once the Murry twins finally pulled off the hat, the young girl was enchanted at the sight of the baby studying the bright plumage.

Her ruminations were interrupted, however, when she heard the door abruptly open and then close again. Several pairs of eyes darted in the direction of the sound to see Lady Catherine, and Charlotte had been in the midst of an instinctive curtsy when the sight of the Duchess's expression brought her up short before she could even spread her skirt.

Lady Catherine looked stricken. And, all present already knew why.

Even Rachel seemed to burble in discomfited concern at her aunt's distress.

Lady Catherine, only belatedly realizing that she wasn't alone, gasped in surprise, painted a smile across her face, and had been about to excuse herself when Charlotte, likely breaking some rule of decorum or other, dashed over and seized her wrist.

"Milady, I dare say you look like you need to sit down," Charlotte intoned politely, but still keeping a tight enough grip to discourage any further attempts to flee.

Lady Catherine was a good woman but, as Charlotte had found out over the past few weeks, she had a stubborn streak about her when it came to asking for help. So, much like those others who cared for her, Charlotte had learned to be...insistent.

As had Manon, for he was no less quick on the uptake as a budding knight than he had been as a street waif who had to pilfer every meal. Taking advantage of Charlotte's diversion, he approached the spluttering duchess, bowed, and offered one of his newly learned courtly greetings. His display was well worded and well practiced, right down to how he "incidentally" interposed himself between Lady Catherine and the door. The Duchess of Lionel looked as though she wanted to protest, but the words died in her throat when Alicia and Lavian rose, claimed that Rachel was overdue for her nap, and asked if she could watch the children until they had the baby safely tucked in.

Lady Catherine's lips parted in a sigh, one that carried a terrible note of resignation, but offered no objection. The two children were quick to help her to a well padded bench, likely used by those judging sparring matches. Even after she was seated, a haunted look yet persisted on her features and what words the children offered went unheard.

She just kept one hand on her stomach and repeatedly mouthed what might have been the phrase "it all seems so real now".

Neither child needed to ask what she meant, even if they thought they could make themselves heard over the unhappy thoughts roiling in the duchess's mind. Besides, since they both knew about her child, the trembling hand against her stomach was more than enough of a hint.

Maybe, one day, Manon would be a great knight, as mighty and as chivalrous as he was brave and loyal. And, perhaps one day, Charlotte would be a lady-in-waiting of great beauty and sophistication. But, right now, Lady Catherine, whose unexpected generosity had made all that possible, did not need either a shining knight to defend her honor nor a charming companion at her shoulder as she painted and embroidered.

Right now, above all else, she needed a friend.

And, she had two, both of whom were eager to oblige.

Not for the first time, Charlotte found herself wondering just what Lady Catherine's brother, sister-in-law, and other friends were up to, especially when they were so badly needed here. What had they seen on the way into Lesalia that had them so worried that they'd left Lady Catherine with only the company of her dark thoughts about her uncertain future?

Of course, that was but one question amongst many that percolated in the heads of the former street waifs. After all, it was more than odd enough that the Duke and Duchess of Lionel were living in a supposedly haunted castle that was feared all over the province, that they had a veritable fortune and yet were very nearly alone in the castle when they should've had hundreds of servants, and that they'd almost never gone out until very recently. That their first extended outing was to the gleaming heart of Ivalice - to a ball held in their honor, no less - was as bizarre as it was extravagant.

Granted, Manon and Charlotte had heard their benefactors' explanations - even the "unofficial" one as to why the balls were taking place - and yet persistent voices in the back of their young minds told them that there was a great deal more at work than met the eye.

And, maybe there was, but Charlotte shook it off.

Lady Catherine likely had her secrets, as did the rest of the closemouthed people around her, but she was also the one person who had shown them compassion and respect when everyone else had offered indifference at best and contempt at worst.

If all she and Manon could offer in return for the time being was to remind Lady Catherine that she wasn't alone, then they would do so gladly.

Not able to offer much else, the two children wrapped their arms around the distraught duchess, hoping that she could sense that, as frightened and lonely as she was, there were still people who cared for her.

And, that they'd care for her baby as well.

That musing caused Charlotte's thoughts to wend their way backward, tracing a path over the past several weeks and how, in the most unlikely of places, a new chapter in her life had begun and, at long last, the once distant dream of happiness now seemed to be unfolding before her eyes.

SSSSSS

One of the many truisms of Ivalice, born from more than a half-century of war and death and hunger and chaos, was that certainty was the kingdom's scarcest commodity.

The sense that one's future was firmly in hand, and that one would pass the evening peacefully and see the dawn just as surely as the sun crested the horizon, was one that rarely took root in the unforgiving soil beneath which so many Ivalicians had been entombed when some cruel whimsy of fate sent them on a different course. Rarer still was it for certainty to blossom and endure for days, let alone years, in the hearts of Ivalicians who, after so many troubled years, rarely passed one waking hour without wondering if this shadow or that held some misfortune which lay in wait, poised to spring.

But, as her first day in the supposedly haunted Lionel Castle drew to a close, Charlotte was indelibly certain of two things. The first was that she had eaten more in the past six hours than she had in the past six days.

"Ooooohhhhh!"

And the second was that doing so had not been wise.

"Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhh!"

Charlotte had been too young to remember her life before she'd found herself under the "care" of one of the defunct Lionel workhouses and, if there had been any hint as to her parentage, it had been lost when Cardinal Draclau's payments to the workhouses had stopped coming and the orphans had been abandoned to their new, sordid lives. There were days Charlotte had concocted elaborate fantasies about the mother and father she'd never met, wondering if one of the other had been a knight and whether they'd been wealthy or well liked by their fellows. As she grew older, however, these fantasies became tinged with suspicion.

After all, if her parents had been knights, or if they'd been wealthy, then why had she been tossed onto the crumbling workhouse's doorstep like a toy that nobody wanted?

Wouldn't her parents have made arrangements and set aside money, so that she'd be taken care of if the worst came to pass? For that matter, if they'd been well liked, why hadn't one of their friends offered to take her in after they'd died?

For that matter, were her parents truly dead?

Many of the children at the workhouses had parents who were still alive, but who'd sent them there because they weren't wanted. Other children ended up there because their parents were poor and couldn't afford to keep them, some because they had been ne'er-do-wells and their parents had thrown them out, and still more because they weren't true born and were sent away rather than allowed to expose what unhappy spouses did behind one another's backs.

Had one of those been the reason why Charlotte's parents had never come back for her? Granted, almost none of the other children's parents ever came for them, but in her darker moments, Charlotte had found herself wondering at the full story behind her journey to that crumbling den of inequity.

It had not been a journey of her choosing - indeed, she would've happily traded any of her meager possessions to undo that journey - but, she still wondered nonetheless. Could any of her idle fantasies have been true? Could she have, for reasons likely lost to her, been torn from a home where she might've lived in comfort and had her every wish fulfilled? When she'd peered into one of the few panes of glass and saw her dirty face staring back at her, she pondered the big blue eyes and the lush, if unkempt, blonde hair. Had her eyes come from her father and her hair from her mother, or was it the other way around?

She could not say, and she often found herself wondering if that would ever change. And yet, even after the adults had left the workhouses and the older children had turned to lives of crime, Charlotte had always nursed the private hope that someone out there would come for her...right up until the moment that Francine had tried to offer her up to those dirty old men.

Even before Manon had knocked Francine off her feet and dragged Charlotte with him as he took to the road, she'd already decided that she couldn't stay in that wretched warren any longer. If no one had cared enough to come for her by then, no one would...

...but, to her amazement, her flight had taken her and Manon right into the arms of someone who did care.

Though Charlotte had seen at least a few highborn ladies, usually after she'd lightened their purses, none had been like Duchess Seymour. She was far younger than most, since there weren't many younger nobles left after most had departed for the wars never to return. She was also much prettier. Not just because of her blue eyes, though they certainly warmed Charlotte's heart, nor her red tresses, though Charlotte was awed by the unique color and silky texture. Perhaps it was her emotive face, how her high cheekbones had lent her a regal air which contrasted with how the suffusion of red hinted at a young and vibrant woman underneath. Manon was certainly impressed by her figure, as there was no hiding how her hips bobbed and swayed as she walked, nor was there any doubt as to the shapeliness of her legs. But, what truly amazed Charlotte was how, faced with a pair of filthy urchins who'd tried to steal from her - and, in Manon's case, had reached up her skirts and clawed at her hindquarters as a diversion - she hadn't sent them straight to the gallows.

Instead, Duchess Seymour had shown them mercy, even kindness. And, that was likely what made her seem most beautiful to Charlotte.

Every other lady Charlotte had seen before coming to Lionel seem hideous by comparison.

Maybe it was the turning of the years, that had turned once bright eyes cold and hard while turning supple flesh into pinched masks of rage, which had caused more than a few of the highborn ladies she's seen before to seem so terrifying. Perhaps it was the grief, for there was never a shortage of highborn ladies who'd seen off their sons, or daughters, or husbands, or brothers, or sisters, or fathers, or mothers, who had departed for war never to return. Perhaps it was base instinct, born centuries before even the conception of the blue-blooded had been concocted, that one who would seek that which belonged to another was a threat and that such a pilferer might strike again. Or, it might've been a different base instinct. One deeper, and darker, and uglier.

Whatever the reason, whenever they'd shrieked promised threats to see Charlotte hang, she'd believed them.

It barely felt real that Duchess Seymour had been cut from such a different cloth, and yet there was proof in every breath that Charlotte yet drew in and let fountain out again. That curious expression that had come over her face when she beheld the two ragamuffins yet remained a mystery to the girl, and the question yet persisted in the back of her mind. That there had been neither contempt nor a lust for blood was bizarre enough, but there had also been...what, precisely? Nostalgia? Empathy? And yet, both seemed balanced against something that almost seemed like grief.

Charlotte did not understand and wondered if she ever would, but she nonetheless found herself wondering if it would be best to respect Duchess Seymour's privacy or if she ought to ask and offer a kind ear.

As strange a concept as it was for the orphaned girl, who'd had to scrape or steal for her food and had never had anything simply given to her, she owed Duchess Seymour. This woman, who she hadn't even met until just that morning, had snatched Charlotte from the jaws of either a swift death by hanging or the slow torture of starvation. In a world where such a thing seemed to only exist in storybooks, it was truly a bizarre notion. And, after a lifetime where simply ensuring that she lived another day had consumed every thought and every hour of every day, Charlotte found herself pondering not only the question of why a complete stranger would care for a wretched waif like her but also what she might do in return. And, it was a question that had her mind tied in knots.

Still, though the temptation had been there, Charlotte had decided not to simply snatch up what food she could and then slip away once there were no eyes upon her. Something in the duchess's sky blue eyes had caused her to stay, made her want to stay. And so, rather than raid the kitchen, Charlotte thought that she might start repaying her unsought benefactor by helping to prepare a meal...

...though, the kitchen was certainly a bit emptier afterward.

Francine, the would-be madam who had been ready to offer up Charlotte to the carnal whims of the highest bidder, catered to the sort of clientele that was partial to girls they could pick up, and hold down, with one hand, and so Charlotte was allowed only whatever nourishment was needed to keep her alive. And, no more.

Once Charlotte had found herself in a kitchen crammed full of foodstuffs, she could literally feel her shriveled stomach yawn wide and roar with anticipation. Though she'd valiantly worked to keep her focus on her cooking, keeping track of any flaws in her dishes and jotting down any mistakes so that she might avoid repeating them later, quite a bit of what she'd concocted passed her lips well before it ever got to the table. True, that roasted potato had been much too salty and it wouldn't do for ill-prepared fare to either mar Duchess Seymour's meal or for it to go to waste. The same held true for the overdone bacon which might otherwise have spoiled the quiche, those rolls that looked less presentable than their fellows, and...

"Oooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Even an idle musing which involved food was enough to send Charlotte's stomach, already taut and turgid, roiling in protest under her fingertips. Her stomach might've seemed bottomless after weeks - or was it months? - of hunger, but the sense that there was a yawning chasm between her ribs had proven quite deceptive. Whether it was the roaring hunger that very nearly drowned out everything else, the lingering fear that Duchess Seymour's hospitality might prove fleeting, or the sheer novelty of so many tantalizing dishes ripe for the picking, Charlotte's tenuous self-control had snapped the moment her duties in the kitchen were fulfilled. One plate was filled and picked clean, followed by another. And another. And another.

And another.

By the time she'd noticed that her stomach's famished rumblings had been replaced with the sort of sloshing that called to mind an overfull water balloon, it was well and truly too late.

More than the sense that her stomach, now packed to the brim, was stretched drum tight and felt ready to tear open, there were the expressions of her dining companions once she'd bothered to glance up at them. They looked rather startled, and more than a bit nauseated, at the spectacle she must've put on. Charlotte had had few occasions to feel embarrassed, but she suspected she wouldn't forget that one anytime soon, for she could feel a reddish tinge mingle with the burgeoning green on her cheeks and, unsteady though she was on her feet, she lurched from her chair and out of sight.

For a long, long moment, she'd felt literally ill with mortification at how piggish she must've looked in front of her unlikely benefactor, which readily complimented how very nearly sick she felt from how her overtaxed stomach sloshed and groaned from the abuse. But, both were forgotten when Duchess Seymour asked Alicia and Lavian to put Charlotte up in the spare bed of their shared room and called out that she'd be along with something to help the overstuffed girl sleep. And, despite their leveling their blades at Charlotte and Manon but a few hours past, she somehow found herself unafraid when the twin knights helped her to their room. She even found herself laughing along with them as they recounted little Rachel's latest bouts of mischief. Apparently, the baby girl had mistaken a bowl of sauces for something akin to her rattle and had begun shaking it about, spattering the grown-ups, and a goodly portion of the room, with great globs of apple, ginger, garlic pine nut, and Lionel mustard sauces.

The room which the Murry twins would be sharing with Charlotte was modest, with none of the frills and ostentatious displays that crowded the illustrations of the girl's storybooks. She might've been perplexed by this, even though it was a vast improvement over the cold and drafty room she'd had at the workhouse. After all, Duchess Seymour seemed a woman of breeding and must've been quite wealthy. Yet, all that Charlotte had seen of the castle seemed very austere, almost depressingly so. No less strange, Charlotte had thought Duchess Seymour would have dozens, if not hundreds of servants, yet those inhabitants of the castle she'd seen thus far could be counted on both hands, and with a finger or two to spare.

Something struck her as odd about all this, but Charlotte felt it drift out of her head as the room's hearth was lit with a minor fire spell and the previously chilly room became delightfully warm. Gingerly, and with more than a bit of assistance from the Murry twins, Charlotte heaved herself onto a bed which, perhaps not coincidentally, was situated close enough to the hearth that shadows of the licking flames danced across the girl's bed sheets. Though the bed in which she'd found herself looked as understated as everything else she'd seen, Charlotte had passed several years sleeping on damp floors with threadbare blankets, and the latter only occasionally.

Now, she might as well have been sleeping on a cloud...

...or, at least she would've been if her stomach would settle and let her get some rest.

She was only dimly aware of the Murry twins saying they were returning to the dining hall, whispering something about a "new playmate", which had Charlotte rolling her eyes.

The two knights were undoubtedly referring to Manon, who had always been quick to notice a pretty girl and was especially keen on attractive older women. And, even without the hint, it had been hard to ignore either Rad encouraging Manon's wandering hands in their explorations of the Murry twins' bosoms and hindquarters or the Murry twins critiquing Manon's probing.

It was also hard to ignore how the sight had...affected Charlotte. She lacked the words to make sense of what the sensation that ran through her was, or why it did, but she nonetheless felt a curious twinge in her chest whenever she saw Manon engaged in such rude games with the Murry twins, and it only got worse when they seemed so appreciative.

It had been the same with Francine, once upon a time, and Charlotte had tried to feel happy for them. Francine and Manon had been friends for years by then, and Charlotte had once thought the seventeen-year-old girl a friend of hers as well before her older ward mate had tried to offer up the younger girls to men of disreputable faces and even worse intent. Yet, both before and after Francine's betrayal, even the recollection of Manon's hands wandering over the older girl's form caused something to ache in Charlotte's small breast.

That earlier sliver of envy crept over her again as she recalled her first sighting Duchess Seymour, and how she'd made both Charlotte and Francine look every bit the ragamuffins they were. But, though that envy was promptly sent slinking away when she recalled the many kindnesses that Duchess Seymour had shown her, the memory of how Manon never looked at Charlotte like he did the Duchess, the Murry twins, or even Francine, caused a curdling in the small girl's no-longer-so-small gut, and this curdling had nothing to do with her overeating.

"Oooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Reminded pointedly of what else had her stewing in bed, and even such an analogy setting her abused gut a-roiling, Charlotte lay back against her pillow and futilely struggled to fall asleep. But, even though she felt safe enough under Duchess Seymour's roof, recollections of her earlier life, of trying to rouse herself before she could be kicked awake by her more abusive ward mates or slipping away before the dawn so that none of the townsfolk noticed her acts of vagrancy, kept her nerves taut and her eyes open.

They remained so for a long time, even when her eyelids began to inch downwards, but her eyes pulsed wide when the door suddenly banged open. For a single, terrifying instant, she was back in the workhouse, one of the older girls keen to kick her awake and devise some manner of humiliation to punish her for sleeping in. But, when she spied Manon in the door frame, Charlotte sagged with relief.

"I know I look dashing, but there's no need to gasp," Manon said cheekily. "Gives the wrong impression."

Charlotte's lips parted in a breathy sigh of annoyance, but she felt strangely better. Not all of the memories she shared with Manon were pleasant, even if none of that had been his fault, but having him near did bring a drop of familiarity to the unknown sea they'd unwittingly plunged into. Manon was a rogue, a rapscallion, and his wandering hands were certain to rile the wrong person some day; but despite that, Charlotte owed him for saving her from that horrid workhouse and the happy irony that had led them here.

She also trusted him, which did not happen easily for a street waif who'd been abandoned and abused more than once in her young life. And, since neither the questions buzzing about her head nor the bubbling cauldron beneath her ribs seemed likely to settle anytime soon, she needed to talk to someone she knew she could trust.

"How're you holding up?" Manon asked, revealing his hidden streak of earnestness.

"I'm alright," Charlotte replied, but her words were contradicted when a sloshing in her guts caused her to grimace. "Just...a little full."

""A little?""

"Okay, fine. I've eaten so much, I feel like I'm gonna pop. Are you happy now?"

Manon's only answer was a chuckle that had Charlotte grinning despite herself.

"Sounds like they liked what you could do in the kitchen," he commented. "I had no idea you knew how to cook. Heck, I didn't know you could write either."

"I sorta taught myself how to write, from those books they used to read us, before...," Charlotte trailed off, her thoughts wending towards times she desperately wanted to forget. At the last, she mustered her reserve and changed the subject. "But, I honestly didn't know I could cook either. I just cracked open the book and did what it said."

"You're selling yourself short, short-stuff," Manon bandied, accentuating the affectionate nickname with a ruffling of Charlotte's blonde tresses. "You left before you found this out, but your bacon quiche was a hit back there. Duchess Seymour really liked it."

Charlotte swore she could feel her smile broaden with every word.

"What about you?" she asked, snickering a little herself this time. "Was climbing those rafters like a big monkey as fun as it looked?"

"No, but there were girls to impress," Manon replied glibly, though a hint of honest inquisitiveness stole over his features. "By the way, did it work?"

Again, Charlotte's eyes rolled heavenwards, but she somehow found herself wondering if he'd spied her watching as he'd scurried his way towards the ceiling. Had he noticed that she'd stopped breathing when he'd lost his grip for a stretching second only to gasp for air once he was safely climbing again? She did not know, nor was she even sure why she pondered the question. All she really knew was that her heart had threatened to beat itself out of her breast every moment that passed before he had made it back down unharmed.

Still, Charlotte wasn't going to tell him that.

"I was leery about the people here, but I'm starting to like them," he went on, apparently having been talking while Charlotte had been lost in thought. "Turns out Rad used to be a pickpocket. His hands are so fast, even I have trouble following them. That new wallet I bought with my first payment? He snatched it right out of my pocket and I didn't even notice until I saw him waving it in my face."

"I know what you mean," Charlotte said. "I'm surprised that I don't get nervous around Lady Alicia and Lady Lavian anymore. In fact, they seem really nice. And, baby Rachel is just so cute!"

"You know Sir Beowulf? I hear he's a knight. I'm not kidding! He used to be captain of the Gryphon Knights, right here in the castle."

Charlotte could believe it, for though it had been no secret that most of the castle's inhabitants had been quite skeptical about allowing the two ragamuffins under their roof, and Charlotte had briefly feared that Duchess Seymour's decision would be countermanded, Sir Beowulf had been quick to side with the two urchins. No less amazing, like many of the knights she'd read about before the workhouse had become her own personal hell, Sir Beowulf would make a point of bowing as she approached and addressing her as "Milady".

Beyond the sheer amazement that a knight, a true knight, would treat her with such respect, there was how being addressed as "Milady", as if she wasn't just some urchin plucked off the street, had made her feel like more than she was. Like she was special.

Like she was wanted.

Just why he'd chosen to support Duchess Seymour's decision was unknown, for any such discussions about the "implications" of having strangers living in Lionel Castle had invariably begun with the two children either being ordered from the room or assigned some chore in an area of the castle which was far removed from the conference.

Charlotte hadn't dared violate the group's privacy, lest they decide such an infraction ought to cost the two their place in the castle. And, though Manon had attempted it once or twice, he'd reported that all he'd heard was the telltale language of magic, after which the mysterious group's words abruptly became garbled to the point of incomprehensibility.

Whatever secrets this group was keeping, they were many, and must've been quite dire to warrant such precautions. And, even after the group had ultimately chosen to respect the duchess's wishes, questions continued to percolate in Charlotte's young mind.

Yet, Charlotte once again found herself wondering if such mysteries were best left unexplored.

After all, whatever they might be hiding, these were the same people who, despite their initial reluctance, had allowed the two waifs into their home, put a roof over their heads and food on their plates...even if Charlotte's straining stomach dampened appreciation for the latter. But, at the same time, the curiosity which had drawn Charlotte and Manon to the "haunted" castle's doorstep in the first place yet persisted, especially in light of such further enigmas.

After a long moment, she glanced up at Manon. And, he must've sensed her thoughts, for his expression became uncharacteristically serious.

"You noticed too, huh?" he asked, perhaps needlessly. And, at Charlotte's nod, he continued. "Yeah, it's kinda weird that a duke and duchess would be living here. Half the province wants this place torn down, and the other half would soil themselves just by getting close."

"And, why are they the only ones here?" Charlotte added. "If they can pay us to clean this place, why didn't they hire grownups? And, how come they never go out?"

Manon gave a shrug, clearly at a loss. But, after adopting a look of pensive contemplation that seemed foreign on his often roguish face, he faced her with a serious expression.

He rarely looked serious about anything; in fact, the only other times Charlotte was certain he had were when he'd discovered Francine's would-be prostitution ring and when he'd feared Charlotte would be hung and offered his neck in place of hers. Now, however, he was breaking precedents in how his normally blithe and mischievous face was very much in earnest.

"I don't know," he admitted, shattering still another precedent in confessing such. "And, believe me, I tried to find out. Whoever these guys are, they're good. They'd have to be if I can't get the jump on them."

Charlotte rolled her eyes at Manon falling back into character and playfully swatted him on the arm. Manon, almost looking irritated, eyed her bulging belly with narrowed eyes.

"You wouldn't!" Charlotte squeaked. "It hurts if I even breathe too deep! I feel like I'll pop like a water balloon if I so much as poke it!"

Manon held the menacing stare for a long moment before he abruptly met Charlotte's eyes and grinned.

"Ha!" he scoffed playfully. "Gotcha."

Charlotte swatted him again, this time with her pillow. Granted, her turgid stomach was quite vehement in its displeasure, but whacking Manon in the face had been as gratifying as it was deserved.

Manon, acting as though someone had uprooted a tree and swung it into him, made a show of flinging himself off the bed, rolling across the floor, and lolling his head as though he'd been stunned by a blow which only a giant could deliver.

That brought some rare laughter to the two children's lips...and both suddenly found themselves wondering if it would be so rare from now on.

"Still," Manon began, somewhat breathless from the hilarity, "I know these people have their secrets. And, yeah, I'm kinda curious what they are. But, I've lived in the workhouse for as long as I can remember. The way those blue-blooded ladies shriek at us for stealing their money? That's what my whole life has been like. Being yelled at, being run off wherever I tried to go, bring told I was worth as little as the dirt under their boots, being unwanted. And, two days ago, I figured it would stay that way. Then, I came here and..."

Though Charlotte could not believe it, she swore she saw Manon's eyes glisten as his words trailed away. He promptly wiped away the moisture and Charlotte, aware of the gravity of such a gesture from the otherwise overconfident Manon, pretended not to notice.

"Then, I came here and I...," he repeated, his words trailing off again. "And, I find myself thinking it could be different."

"Me too," Charlotte affirmed, gingerly raising herself to better meet Manon's gaze.

"So, I think we should let them keep their secrets. We owe them that much."

"I think you're right. And, I owe you too. You didn't have to take me with you when you left the workhouse, and you didn't have to help me stay alive. That was very kind of you."

Manon, apparently as unaccustomed to praise as he was to compassion, gave a nervous chuckle and tried, ineffectually, to wave away the words.

"It...it was nothing," he spluttered, well aware of just how greatly he'd contradicted himself.

"It must've been hard since you must've...liked Francine."

Even though she'd clearly seen Manon leave Francine spitting teeth upon discovering the would-be madam grooming her younger ward mates to be sold into prostitution, Charlotte felt a curious ripple of pain when she recalled how Manon must've once felt differently.

Very differently.

Again, Manon waved aside her words. But, this time, the gesture had a surprising weight of conviction behind it.

"No, I didn't like Francine," he said, though he quickly noticed Charlotte's skepticism. "Well, not as much as you might think. Yeah, she was pretty. And, yeah, I kissed her once or twice. But, something about her always felt...wrong. Like there was this cold hand on my shoulder when I was near her. And, when I found out what she was doing, I...I just lost it."

That, Charlotte had to admit, was a surprise. Willingness to hazard one's neck for another was a rare trait inside the workhouse...

...almost as rare as it was outside the workhouse.

Still, though a lifetime of betrayal had Charlotte hesitant to take most people at their word, she did trust Manon. And, though the recollection of Manon kissing Francine yet stung somehow, she found that his claims that he hadn't enjoyed it nearly as much as it seemed had helped to ease that strange pain.

Besides, if anyone knew how to feign pleasure when feeling dread or how to playact confidence while inwardly terrified, it was Manon.

How could it have been otherwise, when he'd gone through the same hell of abuse and starvation that she had, all while wearing a smile which, though painted, did help arrest the downward slide of Charlotte's sagging spirits?

"And, besides," Manon went on, his customary roguishness back in place, "you might be too young to appreciate such things, but Francine's looks weren't all that special."

"You squeezed her butt anyway," Charlotte pointed out.

"Beggars can't be choosers. Besides, Francine's butt has nothin' on Duchess Seymour's. Its round, it's pert, it's tight, it sticks out just enough, and it's warm and smooth against the palm. Before I even let go, I was thinking to myself 'I could get flogged for this, but it'll be worth it!'."

Charlotte had been about to make a slew of comments, all of which included several uses of the word "pig", but her jaw fell upon in mute horror when another voice spoke first.

"You really won't get far with the ladies talking like that."

Charlotte could literally feel the color, red and green alike, drain out of her face. Manon, no less horrified, whirled to see Duchess Seymour in the doorway, hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed with displeasure.

Unnoticed amidst the shenanigans, she had apparently arrived as she'd promised and had been listening in on the children's discussion, and it was clear that she hadn't enjoyed Manon ascribing such delight to his earlier groping of her. Again, Charlotte felt as though she'd been flung back across the current of time, back to the workhouse when she'd been caught in the midst of some infraction. Large or small, none went undetected, and none went unpunished.

Though the wounds had long since scabbed over, she swore that the burn marks one of the older boys had pressed into her flesh with the hot wax of a burning candle throbbed anew at their imminent expulsion...

...except, that didn't happen.

Duchess Seymour's remonstrative expression suddenly became tinged with perplexity, her brow furrowing as her gaze darted back and forth between the now stricken-looking and shrinking children. Then, after a long moment, her eyes widened and, to the astonishment of the two waifs, she brought up both hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"Don't be afraid," she urged, somewhat desperately. "I'm not going to hurt you. Still, you really shouldn't be talking about women like that. They don't appreciate it. Well, maybe Lady Alicia and Lady Lavian do, but, believe me, they're in a class by themselves."

As Duchess Seymour spoke, her words seemed to degenerate into a frantic babble and her smile, though still broad and bright, suddenly took on a nervous edge...

...almost as though she were afraid of frightening the children.

Their own terror eclipsed by sudden perplexity, the two children stared at each other, dumbfounded. But, when Duchess Seymour saw that the children no longer seemed afraid, she seemed to sag with relief. Before the two children could make sense of why she, a duchess, would be so concerned over the terror of two street waifs, which was nearly as perplexing as her letting them under her roof, Duchess Seymour promptly did them one better when she approached and eyed Charlotte with apparent concern.

"Are you feeling any better?" she asked. "You're still pretty green."

"I...," the bloated girl gasped out, forcing the words past a sudden lump in her throat. "I'm sure I'll feel better in the morning, Duchess Seymour. I just need to sleep, that's all."

Duchess Seymour did not immediately reply, but, after a moment's hesitation, she leaned in closer and gave Charlotte a knowing look.

"It looks like you ate more than you should have. A lot more," she pointed out, causing red and green alike to suffuse the little girl's cheeks once more. "Here, this might help."

So saying, she drew back Charlotte's covers and, almost with trepidation, began to knead the taut flesh of the girl's stomach. Both seemed to shrink at the contact but, for reasons she could not make sense of, Charlotte laid one hand on Duchess Seymour's and offered an appreciative smile. Very nearly seeming to have needed the reassurance as much as either of the children, Duchess Seymour blew out a relieved breath and continued her kneading.

Despite her best efforts, Charlotte winced more than once as the contents of her stomach seemed to shuffle and slosh like one of the cauldrons of brew stirred by witches in her old storybooks. And, apparently, whatever she'd stuffed herself with during that gastronomic blur of an evening was just as volatile as anything that contained eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog. Slowly, stirred by the rubbing, the still-digesting feast began to bubble and gurgle, churning and sloshing with increasing intensity under the taut skin. The groaning and bubbling continued to build, straining for release until...

"BRRRRRRAAAAAAPPPPPP!"

The long - mortifyingly so, in fact - expulsion of malodorous gas echoed through the room for a stretching second, clearing in plenty of time for Charlotte to see that Duchess Seymour's face had been squarely in the path of the blast...

...and that her pretty face was crinkling in disgust.

Before Charlotte's still slightly green face could blanch again, the duchess brought up one hand to forestall any hysterics and, in a voice that was firm but not unkind, intoned "I'm willing to overlook that once. But, next time, cover your mouth to stifle the noise and say "pardon me" afterward."

Again, Charlotte was bemused to have not received a flogging after that, and she was more bemused still when the duchess resumed her task, rubbing and kneading the small girl's bloated belly. Charlotte might've voiced one of the many questions that such unheard-of leniency had provoked, but she was much too busy following the duchess' instructions.

Suffice to say, she got more than enough practice.

After the aching in Charlotte's stomach had subsided, along with the belching, Duchess Seymour turned to face Manon, fixing him with a remonstrative look.

"And you," she began, sharply enough that Manon flinched. "Talking about women like that is going to get you into trouble. Lady Alicia and Lady Lavian might like it, but doing what you do with them to Lady Agrias or Lady Reis? That would upset Lord Drake and Sir Beowulf."

As both children had already garnered a healthy respect for Sir Beowulf, neither was keen to test his temper. In fact, the possibility of alienating one of their staunch allies had both recalling that, as a knight who'd served in wartime, Sir Beowulf had likely killed many men and would think nothing of adding more to his tally if they'd harassed his beloved.

Again, Duchess Seymour's brow crinkled in perplexity, almost as though she sensed the children's lingering dread but could not discern the source. Then, realization struck and she clapped a hand over her mouth, as though to prevent the escape of some illicit words.

"I shouldn't have phrased it like that," she spluttered. "I'm sorry. Still, it would be best if you didn't talk about women like that. So, I've asked Sir Beowulf to take you on as a student."

Manon's dread was forgotten in an instant as his jaw fell open in mingled stupefaction and delight, though Charlotte could not blame him. Like her, Manon had been fond of books while at the workhouse, stealing what private moments he could get lost in the pages so that he might briefly forget his many troubles. Granted, unlike Charlotte, the grownups who'd run the workhouses and then abandoned them after their salaries had stopped being paid hadn't bothered teaching Manon how to read, but she'd more than once caught him staring transfixed at pictures of knights in shining armor atop mighty chocobos clad in splendid barding.

More than once, he'd said he wanted to be like the knights in those wondrous pictures.

And now, he just might get his chance.

"YoumeanIgettolearnhowtobeaknightandrideandjoustandfightwithswords?!"

Duchess Seymour, somehow able to make sense out of that jumble of words, gave Manon a knowing look.

"You'll learn all that," she informed him, and Manon looked ready to burst with glee. "But, you'll also learn how to be a gentleman."

That brought Manon up short.

"There's more to being a knight than being able to stab things," Duchess Seymour said, almost making it sound like a warning. "You'll need to learn how to speak properly, how to treat women politely, how to read and write, and dining etiquette, how to groom yourself, how to hunt, fish, and forage when provisions are low. And, that's on top of how to maintain your weapons and armor, how to care for your mount, how to guard the camp at night, and how to stay awake if you need to stand watch over the camp or castle long into the night."

Manon's enthusiasm seemed to flag, the deluge of menial and less-than-thrilling aspects of knighthood taking him by surprise, but this proved to be brief. Soon enough, steely determination filled his young eyes and his customary grin lit up his features.

"I think I can handle it," he said blithely, though honest confusion crept into his gaze moments later. "But, why would you want me to learn how to be a knight? Why would Sir Beowulf agree to that? I mean, I'm just a-"

With a hint of firmness, Duchess Seymour brought up one hand to cut the boy off.

"Whatever you were going to say, I disagree," she said, brooking no argument. "What happened to you, to both of you, in the workhouse was horrible. I can't even picture it, even though I've seen some suffering in my time. But, I don't want that to define the rest of your lives. Besides, Manon, you showed a lot of courage earlier today. I still don't appreciate you reaching up my skirts, and you'd best not do it again, but the way you protected Charlotte told me, and Sir Beowulf, that you're very brave, that you have a strong sense of loyalty and a moral center...in spite of your...less desirable habits. We both think those ought to be put to use. It'll be hard work, and it won't always be fun. But, ten years from now, I think you'll decide that it was all worth it."

Though both children found Duchess Seymour to be more perplexing with every passing moment, it was obvious that Manon's bewilderment was fast giving way to consideration, earnest consideration, at what she was offering him. Not only was there the prospect of a roof over his head, food on his plate, a safe place to sleep at night, and a salary that was his to spend as he pleased, but there was also a chance to truly, well and truly, move above and beyond what he'd been all his life.

A chance to be someone worthy of respect.

He looked overwhelmed, and Charlotte could not blame him. But, the question yet remained. And, this time, the children's curiosity could not be restrained.

"Why?"

Charlotte wasn't sure if she'd asked or if Manon had. Maybe they'd both asked. But, regardless, Duchess Seymour's eyes drifted away from their inquiring gazes for a moment and she seemed to need a moment before she could answer.

"As I said, I saw a lot of suffering during the wars," she said sadly. "For the longest time, there was nothing I could do about it. For Drake, it was even worse. He was out there, fighting for years. He never did enjoy killing, especially when he felt it could've been avoided, and he really hated what those who were left behind had to go through. The hunger, the poverty, the broken families."

The duchess's words trailed away at that last statement, and her eyes became distant as though wandering through whatever images of yesteryear had lent such sad strength to her words. Soon enough, however, she shook herself back to awareness and continued.

"I think that's how I convinced him to let you stay," she went on. "Well, that and how we could use the help. After my brother and Lady Agrias had Rachel, they wanted to make sure that she didn't have to go through what her parents had. And, after hearing about those workhouses, I think we all wanted was to do some good for the next generation."

As she spoke, Charlotte noticed that the duchess's hands began to ghost over her stomach and, seized by sudden daring, Charlotte spoke up.

"Duchess Seymour?" she asked.

"Please, call me Lady Catherine," the duchess replied. "I'm still getting used to the title. And, technically, it won't even be mine until King Delita gives his final approval."

"Lady Catherine, is it true you're having a baby?"

The duchess's eyes pulsing wide was almost as good as a resounding affirmative, but that didn't stop Charlotte from drawing in a breath as though fearful she'd crossed some line.

"Yes," Lady Catherine answered after a long moment of hesitation. "Yes, it is true. I'm guessing you heard in the kitchen earlier?"

"Yes. I didn't mean to listen in, I just heard. Is the daddy somewhere in the castle?"

"No. He was killed during the War of the Lions. He...he died before I even knew I was with child."

"I'm sorry."

And, much to Charlotte's surprise, she was. Losing people was hardly something to which she was unaccustomed. After all, the grown-ups who'd run the workhouses had been there for her for a time, but had then vanished without a word once they'd stopped receiving their pay. From time to time, one of the ward mates she'd huddled with in the dark for warmth or protection from the abusive older children would vanish, likely deciding they'd rather take their chances on the street than under the rotting roof of that crumbling den of inequity.

And then, of course, there had been Francine, who'd once seemed like a friend and then tried to peddle off the young girls who'd trusted her to men of ill repute.

Losing people to betrayal was something with which Charlotte had had a long and sad acquaintance, but losing someone she had been able to truly trust, and who'd proven worthy of that trust right up until the end, somehow sounded worse.

Much, much worse.

It also sounded impossible to envision, for the closest thing that sprang to mind was if Manon had, indeed, been hung after they'd been caught robbing Lady Catherine. And, though even imagining that caused Charlotte's heart to race with dread, she doubted it measured up to what Lady Catherine had gone through.

Not having much else to offer, but desperately wanting to try nonetheless, she reached out and grasped Lady Catherine's hand in an approximation of a reassuring grip. Manon, after a moment's trepidation, matched her up by clapping a hand on Lady Catherine's shoulder.

Perhaps the duchess could sense how the two children had been moved by her bereavement, or maybe she'd kept her grief held in abeyance too long and had found a strange catharsis in allowing it to escape the sealed lips behind which it had been imprisoned. Either way, Charlotte felt her hand being squeezed in turn and, when Manon dragged over a chair, the duchess very nearly fell into it.

"I'm sorry," she spluttered. "I...It's all just been weighing on my mind lately. How much I miss...the father of my baby, how afraid I am of raising our child without him."

This too was something that had set Lady Catherine well and truly apart from the other highborn ladies the two children had seen. Though the particulars might've been nebulous to them, they understood well enough that the blue-bloods held appearances near and dear to their hearts, perhaps even more than substance. Losing their temper at two urchins who'd just lightened their pockets was an acceptable lapse in their customary poise, but looking so vulnerable was something very different.

Just like Lady Catherine was something very different.

It took her a moment to regain her composure, but she ultimately calmed and gave the two children an appreciative smile. Her smile became perplexed, however, when neither child made a move to release her.

"Lady Catherine," Charlotte began, with some trepidation at both what she was about to say and how unfamiliar were the sentiments that crested in her heart. "Do you think it would help to talk about it? I noticed that when you talked to Lady Agrias, Lady Alicia, and Lady Lavian that you looked like you felt a bit better."

She'd hoped that Manon would take the hint and second the notion, hopefully lending it enough strength to persuade the duchess. And, sure enough, he did not disappoint.

"Why, what sort of a knight would I be if I walked away from a lady in tears?" he asked, a bit too eagerly for Charlotte's taste. "Please, tell these kind ears your troubles."

Between the two children's words and their surprisingly strong grip on her, Lady Catherine relented. Over what felt like hours, she told quite a story. Of how a chance encounter with the Knights Templar had revealed that she and her brother's mercenary activities had, unwittingly, aroused the ire of the Church of Glabados. In the confusion of battle and the deeper confusion of why they had been set upon by the golden armored warriors of the church, Lady Catherine had been taken by a junior officer of Templars.

The already strange tale then took a more peculiar turn when Lady Catherine told her small audience of how, fearing the only alternatives would either being used as a trump card against her brother or death in the grip of a hangman's noose, she had tried to win her freedom by seducing her captor...only for the trick to well and truly turn when she'd ended up falling in love with him instead.

"So, he was the daddy?" Charlotte asked as comprehension dawned.

"Yes," Lady Catherine confirmed, looking a bit less dismal at the notion that such a man had sired her child. "And, despite the...circumstances of how we'd met, I came to care for him a great deal."

Here, she paused a bit and regarded Manon with wry amusement.

"I think that when he was younger he might have looked a lot like you," she said, a hint of something that might, someday, become happy remembrance. "You have his eyes and hair. A bit of his mischievousness too."

"Well, you are a woman of taste," Manon quipped, but his face faulted moments later. "Er...a knight wouldn't say that, would he?"

"I'll let it slide," Lady Catherine said graciously. "Besides, knights are supposed to be charming, after all."

A laugh, small but genuine, parted Lady Catherine's lips as she recounted some of her late lover's more endearing antics and, later, how he'd become charmed by her as well and had been in the midst of entreating his superiors for leniency when tragedy had struck.

The Horror of Riovanes.

Though both children soon shared Lady Catherine's bereavement, both could tell that the story had had at least a few oddities. If Duke Seymour and Lady Catherine had ended up in that situation because of a duplicitous employer, then why had they not thrown him under the proverbial carriage in order to secure their escape that much sooner? No less peculiar, she had never mentioned just who this employer might be, what he'd hired them for, and how that had even involved the church, much less raised their ire.

What's more, the children got the impression that Lady Catherine was holding back quite a bit about her late lover. Though they believed he was a Templar, that he was quite handsome, and that her attempted seduction had become something far different, for neither her words nor gaze wavered at those words, there had been a slight hesitancy when she'd described him as being of humble rank. And, of course, there was his name.

Edulzi Legnit.

Lady Catherine must've seen their bewilderment at the name, so she spluttered out that her late lover had been amongst the Ordalian expatriate families that had immigrated to Ivalice well before the Fifty Years War, which would account for how odd the name had sounded to their ears.

Odd the name did sound, but it sounded all the more peculiar because Lady Catherine's hasty explanation betrayed that this too was questionable, at best.

All told, the children had received an explanation that was decidedly porous, riddled with unanswered questions and strange details that made little sense. Much of this story was likely a lie...

...except for Lady Catherine being pregnant by a Templar, who had been killed in the Riovanes massacre, and whom she missed terribly.

Perhaps her grief, which was far more genuine that the rest of the tale, had been what had stilled any questions from the children. Maybe it was how this woman was the only one to have shown them kindness and generosity in either of the children's recent memory that quieted their suspicious musings. It might've been each and all, or something else entirely.

But, in the end, it mattered little. For both children exchanged glances and made a silent accord that, whatever secrets their benefactor was keeping, they would respect her privacy.

They would also respect her need for a kind ear, kind words, and help to cope with the untimely demise of her baby's father.

"Drake doesn't want me to raise the baby alone," Lady Catherine went on. "He...well, we both know what that would do to my image, and to my baby. King Delita agrees with him, so the two of them are trying to find me a husband."

"Wait, King Delita is going to help you find a husband?!" Manon spluttered, so gobsmacked that the hand he'd laid on the duchess's shoulder went limp and flopped at his side.

"He's cousin to me and Drake. We grew up alongside him, and his late sister, Teta. Drake fought alongside him against the Corpse Brigade and during the War of the Lions."

Here, Lady Catherine paused, a melancholic expression crossing her features.

"I do miss those days," she said, almost to herself. "And, Teta especially."

"How are Duke Seymour and King Delita going to help?" Manon asked. "Are they going to find someone who will adopt the baby?"

"We heard that one of the boys from the workhouse had a mommy but no daddy, so he was sent there," Charlotte began explaining. "When the mommy married, her husband said that her son was his son and came back for him."

"Drake and King Delita have something...a little different in mind," Lady Catherine admitted, her tone carrying a strange mingling of longing and bitterness, almost as though she found the children's suggestion more appealing than that her brother and cousin had concocted.

She went on to explain that Duke Seymour and King Delita had worked to gather many an eligible suitor who had a considerable resemblance to the late Edulzi Legnit. It was their hope that she could be introduced, wedded, and bedded to such a suitor quickly enough that he would never realize that her child wasn't his.

It was obvious, however, that Lady Catherine was not thrilled by the notion. Just the opposite, in fact.

"It's just so ridiculous!" she groused. "They want me to gamble on finding someone who's stupid enough to fall for that, and then spend the rest of my life with him? And, all in three days? It's absurd! ...but, what choice do I have? Even if I had half a notion of how to raise my baby alone, the scandal would make the rounds for years. I couldn't do that to my baby, or even that idiot brother of mine. But, even if it works, I'd have to lie to my husband and my baby all their lives. I just...I just don't know if I can do this."

Again, the two children suspected there was more to the story than had been revealed...but, then again, what they heard, about a child being born into a family sundered by tragedy, had been more than enough.

It was a tale that bit close to the bone, as it mirrored that of the other children at the workhouse - and, for all Manon and Charlotte knew, their own as well - with eerily correlation.

So, once more, the two children stilled the many questions that swirled upon the tips of their tongues and instead offered what reassurances they could. Then, after a long, almost mournful pause, Manon suddenly snapped his fingers as though struck by some great epiphany.

"Lady Catherine!" he exclaimed, only belatedly realizing he was practically screaming. "Sorry. Well, I just remembered something that's been on my mind for a while. You, Duke Seymour, Rad, Ladies Agrias, Alicia, Lavian, and Reis, and Sir Beowulf. Is that everyone who lives here?"

After a pause that said nearly as much as the duchess nodding, both Manon and Charlotte regarded her with frank perplexity.

"Why aren't there more people here?" Manon asked. "This is such a big place, and it must be too big for you to keep up without help."

Again, Lady Catherine nodded after a long pause.

"Why?"

Again, Charlotte wasn't sure if she had asked or if Manon had. Maybe it was both, but it mattered little in either case. It was obvious that, whatever the reason, Lady Catherine would not disclose it.

Both children, who'd studied Lady Catherine's moods and mannerisms during this late night conference, however, could tell that the reason was even weightier than the matter of the duchess's late lover. Her brow was deeply furrowed, her eyes seemed unable to meet those of the children, and there was a distinct trembling in her hands that betrayed deep anxiety.

The truth of her baby's parentage might have been scandalous, but it almost seemed as though the truth behind why she lived very nearly alone in a supposedly haunted castle was dangerous.

"It's complicated," Lady Catherine admitted, her grand understatement only fueling the children's curiosity. "But, it won't be that way forever. Soon, perhaps before the baby is born, we'll be able to hire a staff to keep the place up."

"But, will people come here?" Charlotte asked, unable to hide her worry that grown-ups who shared the desperate courage of a pair of street waifs might prove scarce. "So many people still think this place is haunted or cursed."

"They might come when they know about my brother and I" Lady Catherine answered, though it was obvious that Charlotte's words had raised ill presentiments.

"I think we can help," Manon spoke up, conviction lending weight to his words. "There are others like us. Children from the workhouses. Some who are still there, some who've left. We know a lot of them, and some of them might want to come and work here."

That caught the duchess's attention, for her eyes widened, but then her expression wavered as uncertainty crept in.

"Please, Milady, hear me out," Manon implored, a nervous smile betraying boyish abashment. "I don't say this a lot. I've never had a reason to. But, you did us a great kindness by letting us stay here, and we want to do something for you. I...I know I can't do anything about how much you miss...the baby's father. But, maybe it would help if there were more people here to help keep the place up."

The uncertainty in Lady Catherine's expression wavered slightly, likely as she weighed the need for more hands to clean and maintain the castle against the risk of allowing still more strangers under the same roof that housed her family and her, apparently, volatile secrets.

But, the children could sense that the balance was beginning to shift, likely as Lady Catherine recalled her lingering pain over all those years of watching suffering and savagery during the wars and being powerless to alleviate it, as well as the lonely prospect of her impending, duplicity riddled marriage.

Charlotte had also been listening and, though she knew from experience that admitting such to Manon was unwise, she thought his idea was brilliant. The young girl had rarely, if ever, known such kindness as Lady Catherine had shown her, and the desire to repay her had proven as irresistible as it was foreign. Now, however, a solution to that bizarre conundrum had presented itself.

And so, she lent her voice to Manon's.

"I think it could help, Lady Catherine," she said earnestly. "Some of the children from the workhouses are good people. There were two of them, Elionwy and Alarca that bandaged my cuts."

"There were also these two brothers, Mario and Luigi, who rigged up this mass of pipes, drains, siphons, and pumps to drain away the filth," Manon added. "And Deckard Cain, too. He's the only boy there with a surname, and he's a great storyteller. He would read to the younger children before bed to help them sleep."

The balance continued to shift, slowly but surely. Lady Catherine's face, as the two children had discovered, was very open and emotive, and she could no more hide what she felt than open grasslands could hide an army. As they watched, they could see that Lady Catherine found the notion more and more enticing, especially given the likely unappealing alternative. However, a graver question yet weighed upon her as she, assuredly, contemplated the implications of allowing more strangers into her home.

Ultimately, Lady Catherina posed that very question.

"Can they be trusted?" she asked, accentuating the urgency with a stroke against her belly.

A few days ago, the children might've been baffled by such a question. Yet, as they considered their words - about Elionwy and Alarca, and Mario and Luigi, and Deckard Cain and many others - they remembered how, in that dismal place, where most had been keen to survive their abandonment no matter what doing so entailed and where few gave even a passing thought to those who'd been similarly forsaken, there had been those who'd been different.

Young people who had done what they could, be it small or large, to ease the long days and lonely nights which they shared with other children who, for reasons none understood, had been abandoned by those they'd once trusted to keep them safe and well. Whether it was draining away the filth so that choking stenches and illnesses were not added to the children's copious misfortunes, or bandaging wounds inflicted by such an unforgiving life, or the even less forgiving people with whom they shared it, or reading a story to ragged children so they might have a night's rest where their troubles seemed distant, there had been those who'd done what they could to ease the suffering that characterized such a life.

Manon and Charlotte had found an escape from that suffering which verged on the fantastical, and perhaps those fellow outcasts who'd kept them alive long enough to find it deserved a chance to do likewise, as did some of those whom Manon and Charlotte had left behind when they'd decided to take their chances on the streets.

"I trust them," Manon said. "And, I think that, if you and Duke Seymour give them a chance, they won't disappoint."

"So do I," Charlotte seconded.

Lady Catherine fell into a contemplative silence once more. This time, when she returned to awareness, the conflict on her face was gone and a smile, small and subdued but genuine, lit up her features.

"I think you might be onto something," she admitted. "I'll have to talk it over with Drake, and he might not be easy to convince. But, I think it's worth a try."

She paused for a moment before speaking again, and the two children could tell that her next words were meant for another's ears.

"Who knows? Maybe mother does know what she's doing after all," she mused aloud, caressing her belly, but then gasping a moment later.

Manon was at her side in an instant, but the duchess held up a hand.

"I'm alright, the baby's just kicking," she reassured, an unreserved smile finally tugging at the corners of her lips.

"May I?" Manon asked, somewhat sheepishly.

"And, me?" Charlotte asked as well.

The duchess acquiesced and, after what felt like a half hour of feeling the baby squirm and kick beneath their palms, followed by the inevitable debate about whether the baby's kicking revealed it to be a boy or a girl, Lady Catherine pointedly reminded the two children that it was getting late and that they'd need to be rested and alert if they were going to act upon their plan.

"Lady Catherine?" Charlotte spoke up as the duchess rose to depart. "I think you'll be a great mommy. And, your baby is very lucky."

"That goes double for me," Manon affirmed. "Listen, if Duke Seymour agrees, I'll head out the minute my chores are done. A lot of the others have left the workhouses, but I know can find them. Then, Duke Seymour can size them up and make sure he can trust them. Is that alright?"

Lady Catherine nodded and, after pecking both children on the forehead, reiterated her desire for them to get some sleep. Charlotte settled back against her pillow and nodded off moments later.

For the first time in a long time, her sleep was untroubled.

SSSSSS

"You remember, don't you?"

Recalling that night, which seemed many years ago rather than mere weeks, Alma could not help but smile.

"Yes, I remember," she said, feelingly.

Convincing Ramza to accept Manon's plan had not been simple. Indeed, he'd been leery enough about letting Manon and Charlotte under the same roof as his wife, child, and pregnant sister, not to mention the Zodiac Stones. But, as had been the case many a time in their younger years, glassy eyes and a quivering lower lip had been enough to weaken her brother's resistance.

Though, admittedly, Manon and Charlotte did quite well making their own case.

Between these proponents and Ramza's lingering angst over how, for all the lives he had saved from the clawed grip of the Lucavi, there yet remained much suffering in the realm, the Duke of Lionel had ultimately yielded and, however reluctantly, he gave his approval.

But, though this was not the first time Ramza had found himself accepting the word of someone he had little if any cause to trust, his approval did not come cheaply. He had made it doubly clear to Manon and Charlotte that they were not to bring back anyone who could not be trusted around Rachel or her unborn cousin and that, should they do otherwise, such would cost them their place under his roof. Once the children had assented and were off on their search, Ramza had also arranged for his war chest and the Zodiac Stones to be safely hidden away, the latter protected by magical wards that would induce an overpowering sense of fear in anyone who tried to approach...

...including those who'd slain a veritable pantheon of Lucavi demons to obtain them.

Ramza was well acquainted with how the stones could work miracles and horrors, with seeming equanimity, but how and why they chose whether to raise the dead or to make men into monsters yet proved nebulous to the young Beoulve and his friends. And, whatever their capacity to do good, their capacity to work evil was quite evident and most terrible.

Too terrible for Ramza to trust in any mortal hands, including his own.

Still, though Ramza had been leery, as evidenced by his uncharacteristic firmness in warning Manon and Charlotte not to bring back anyone untrustworthy, Alma believed that her decision to vouch for Manon's plan, as well as to argue for him and Charlotte to stay in Lionel Castle, had been one of the best she'd ever made.

SSSSSS

A week after Manon and Charlotte had begun their recruitment campaign saw Ramza, very nearly slack-jawed, as he witnessed Lionel Castle, once nearly empty and heavy with the dust of neglect, bustling with activity and nearly agleam as long neglect was swept away.

Manon and Charlotte had brought back half a dozen of their fellow ward mates the first day and, after Ramza and Beowulf had questioned each and all at great length, the newly arrived children were allowed to rest in the servants' quarters before their first day of work began the following morning. The two men had finished with the first six when, seemingly a heartbeat later, twelve more were waiting to be vetted. These too ultimately met with Ramza and Beowulf's approval.

Still others came, most proving beyond reproach and being set to their tasks and, within days, some three dozen children called the "haunted" Lionel Castle home. Before Ramza's stupefied eyes, groups of children were setting the long table of Lionel Castle's austere dining room, both for the masters of the castle and their own number, while, through the doorway, he could spot at least as many at work in the kitchen. No less amazing, the furnishings had been freshly polished and upholstered and the windows and rafters, once respectively caked with grime and veiled by veritable forests of cobwebs, now looked good as new.

Seeing this, along with how dumbfounded her brother was, Alma tried not to appear smug.

She tried to. She really did.

"Could you please wipe that smirk off your face?" he asked, his tone somewhere between pleading and aggravated.

"I'm sorry, Drake," she replied, taking care to use his alias in case any of the children strayed within earshot. "I just...well..."

Reis had warned Alma that her pregnancy would cause her emotions to run high, and sometimes trace paths that didn't always make sense, and she suspected such might explain why she felt ready to burst out laughing and cry happy tears all at the same time. Regardless, she mastered herself with an effort and turned to face Ramza.

"I'm sorry," she gushed, sudden self-consciousness flooding over her. "I'm just...just so relieved that it worked out."

And, indeed, the seemingly demented proposition had exceeded even her fondest hopes. Though eight adults and thirty six children were still too few to maintain the entire castle, the sudden infusion of so many eager hands had done much to lessen the nigh-overwhelming burden that Ramza and his remaining companions had faced in making a permanent home out of the dismal pile of stone where they'd fought and slain the first of many Lucavi demons. Swaths of the castle yet remained in the grip of neglect, but those areas that the castle's residents would call home, as well as the once desolate grounds, now seemed barely recognizable after the dust and cobwebs had been cleared away and the weeds and brambles uprooted and replaced with flowers and seedlings.

No less amazing, though Ramza inventoried the group's copious war chest diligently, he repeatedly discovered that not one gil had disappeared without the unlikely staff having earned it first. And, his fears for Rachel had, thankfully, proven needless, that happy point dovetailed when the pair spotted the baby girl crawling away from one of the younger children, both giggling merrily.

Alma could swear she felt her heart melt in her breast at the sight. And, judging by the way Ramza's eyes glistened, he was similarly affected.

"I'm glad too," Ramza affirmed, placing a hand on Alma's shoulder. "I was worried at first, but having the extra help has allowed me to spend more time with Agrias and Rachel."

"Should you be doing that, with the wedding so close?" Alma asked cheekily.

"Oh, shut up. Besides, she's been tied up the past few days talking about a wedding feast with Alicia, Lavian, Reis, and Charlotte. Well, I guess that means it'll be just me and Rachel in the meantime. Speaking of which, Rachel! Come to daddy!"

The baby girl, her tiny head swiveling in her father's direction, let out a happy gurgle and crawled towards him. Ramza deftly scooped her up and gently pecked her on the forehead, somehow managed to avoid getting slapped by her chubby arms that she flailed merrily.

"Seriously, Catherine, I owe you," he intoned, his mirth briefly disappearing before he regarded Rachel with a boyish grin. "Rachel, say "thank you" to Auntie Catherine for the new friends."

The baby gave out an unintelligible burble, but Alma made a point of curtsying as though she'd received a gracious compliment from the queen herself. Ramza later set the baby back on the ground and allowed the chase to resume, though he watched the spectacle unblinkingly.

"So, how are you holding up?" he asked, almost in a whisper. "A lot of us were worried that you were taking on more stress than you should be, arguing to take in these children and watching them be vetted. Especially with the baby on the way."

"I'm actually feeling better," Alma whispered in reply, a rare contentment descending upon her despite the need for secrecy. "I don't know if it was hearing about the workhouses, or if it was how much Manon looked like Izlude and Charlotte looked like I used to, almost as though they were what Izlude and I might've been if we'd had years instead of days, or if I know what it's like to feel lonely and as though I don't belong. Maybe it was remembering all those years of suffering and just being tired of not being able to do anything about it. It might've been what Reis calls "maternal instinct". Whatever the reason, I felt I had to help them. And, this may sound strange, but the prospect of having my baby seems a bit less terrifying now."

"How so?"

"For a long time, I was just so scared about having my baby. All I kept thinking was everything I could do wrong. I've seen a lot of people who turned out awful, sometimes because their parents just let them have anything they wanted or because they were never around. And then, there was Teta. Father was always so kind and supportive of her, but that didn't change what everyone else put her through. The idea that any of that could happen to my baby, and that I might end up causing it, just terrified me."

Perhaps Ramza had faced down those same fears when Agrias was pregnant with Rachel. Or, more likely, they yet loomed over him since Rachel was but weeks old and many an ill might yet befall that giggling baby girl.

But, whatever dread and anxiety might haunt Ramza's mind as he worked to make Rachel's future a bright one, he wasn't cowed.

And, at long last, neither was Alma.

"Then, I met these children," she went on after a moment spent searching for words. "They'd been starved, neglected, abandoned, and abused. But, somehow, they came to trust me. And, look at them now. They're making an honest living, and that teacher who agreed to come here and tutor them? That'll help these children make a better future for themselves if they want to leave later. I still don't know how I did it; how I got them to trust me or talked you into all this, but I'm glad I did. And, if I can do right by all these children, I think that maybe, just maybe, I can do the same for my baby."

Again, Ramza clapped a hand on her shoulder and fraternal pride was writ large on his face.

"I believe in you," he said simply, though his simple words spoke volumes. "Something I've learned, the hard way, is that the best parents never stop worrying, never stop caring, and never stop asking what they can do better."

Here, Ramza paused, a hint of melancholy crossing his features as he blew out a solemn sigh and continued.

"And, I'll admit, I had other reasons why I wanted this to work out. You know how you said you hated not being able to do anything about all the suffering during the wars? And, how you said you knew I felt the same? Well, you were right. It wasn't just the lives I had to take in battle that bothered me, though. It was everything else too, and knowing that I hadn't the time to stop and do anything about it, not if I want to rescue you, stop the war, and defeat the Lucavi."

"Ramza," Alma said, whispering as softly as she could manage. "You saved hundreds of thousands of lives by defeating the Lucavi. Maybe even more."

"I know, but the ones I couldn't save still bothered me. I know I stopped a massacre by opening the sluice at Fort Besselat, but I had to kill many Nanten to do that, not to mention those who were too close to the floodwaters to get away."

Alma knew Ramza well enough to decide against telling him that Queen Ruvelia drowning in that same flood was a death most unlamented.

"But, watching all this," Ramza went on, encompassing the castle and its unlikely staff with a sweeping gesture, "makes me feel like I've finally done something that makes a difference in the lives of good people, and a difference I don't have to vacillate over or argue either."

"I know what you mean, Ramza. And, seeing some of what these children are dealing with has also helped me to put a face to what my baby might go through. What I'll need to help him or her through. It's almost like it's a bit less scary since I actually have an idea what that can look like. Maybe like that."

Alma ended her sentence by pointing to Manon, who was presently sneaking up behind the seated Murry twins, his hands greedily outstretched and angled for their hindquarters. The Beoulve girl cut him off with a thunderous "AHEM" which had him spluttering something about "old time's sake", but he relented when he saw her unflinching gaze.

"Or that." Alma went on.

This time, she pointed to Charlotte, who had a pie that looked as though it had been left in the oven a bit too long and the small girl looked poised to dispose of the less-than-presentable fare in her customary fashion.

And, judging by her heavy breathing and the tightness of her belly, not to mention the faintly greenish tinge about her cheeks, there had been quite a bit of "attrition" in the kitchen this evening.

Again, a thunderous "AHEM" from the Beoulve girl was enough to stop all mischief cold and, with a few firm words, Alma convinced Charlotte that the pie would prove quite satisfactory, as all of Charlotte's cooking did.

After all, Charlotte was her own best evidence of this, and Alma had a feeling she might spend another night at the girl's bedside as that ever-bloated and seemingly bottomless stomach turned mutinous under the abuse.

"I know that some of it will be worse than those shenanigans," Alma went on. "But, seeing it makes it seem less daunting. As though I was looking at this huge shadow and, when I see what's beyond it, it's less frightening...even if it what's casting that shadow is something worth being afraid of."

Rambling and convoluted her words might've been, but it seemed that Ramza understood. He smiled, gave an approving nod, and reaffirmed his promise that, if Alma and her baby needed him and Agrias, they'd be there.

Alma was quick to promise the same to him, her future sister-in-law, and her adorable niece.

SSSSSS

Alma still had her doubts about Ramza and Delita's plan, and greater doubts still that anyone could take Izlude's place at her side. And, even if it did work, her future seemed no less daunting.

But, at least she would not be facing it alone.

She gratefully drew in the children for another hug and, well aware of just how much patience and understanding they'd shown her in return for that which she'd shown them, she decided that their loyalty deserved to be rewarded.

Manon might very well grow up to be a knight and Charlotte a lady-in-waiting, and the pair now had the run of the glittering halls of Lesalia Castle.

Why not make another of their dreams come true while she had the chance?

"The first ball will be very soon," she said. "I'm ready...well, as ready as I'll ever be, and we'd best work fast if you're going to be ready too."

The two children stared up at her, their mingled surprised and delight blunting the melancholy that yet edged her heart.

"You're with the king's cousin, remember?" she asked cheekily, but then allowing studies sincerity seep into her words. "And, you're like family to me. Of course, I want you there."

The children clearly didn't need any convincing, for they cheered wildly, their giddiness only barely restrained when Alma brought up one hand to silence them.

"Now, I think the seamstresses will be ready to make clothes for you," she said firmly. "But, we'll need to set a few rules. First, Manon, the minute I'm done talking, you go to your room and take a bath. And, for the ball itself, you've already learned a fair bit from Sir Beowulf and your teacher about grooming yourself and how to behave in public. Beyond that, Manon, you mind your hands. And, Charlotte, leave some food for the rest of us."

More than a hint of sheepishness was evident as the children's cheeks reddened, but neither offered any complaint. Indeed, they seemed thrilled beyond words at the impending ball.

Alma was thrilled, if only for their sake.

And, though she painted a smile across her features and added what feigned spring she could to her step given her growing child, the prospect of the ball gave her none of the girlish delights it might have in years gone by.

She focused on the joy the children felt, for she could find none in the prospect of choosing a husband from amongst a horde of strangers.