Note: Happy belated Valentine's Day, and happy early 3-year anniversary to "Quite Peculiar"! I'll be honest – real life has been kicking my butt. I haven't been able to do much writing at all lately, and it's bumming me out, man. But I stole a few hours and wrote this for y'all. Enjoy! ;)

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When Jaspert comes downstairs near midnight, he finds his ma where he left her, hours earlier: sitting in her favorite armchair before the fire, embroidery hoop in her hands and basket of thread at her feet.

The difference is that now, she's not smiling at the aunties, needle flashing deftly in the firelight as they gossip over the particulars of Mary Turnbull's upcoming wedding. Now, she's alone and motionless, staring into the dying flames of the hearth, face blank and bleak and unseeing.

Jaspert hesitates. She hasn't noticed him, and he's only come down to pilfer the kitchen pantry anyway. But… that empty stare…

It puts shivers down his spine, to be truthful.

"Ma," Jaspert says, crossing the room. He lays a hand on her shoulder; she flinches, then looks up at him.

"Oh, it's you, then," she says. A false smile. This close, he can see how tightly she's gripping the wooden hoop; her knuckles show stark and white. "You startled me. Can you not sleep, dearie? I could heat some milk -"

"I'm fine, Ma." Jaspert draws the footstool over and sits on it, though that hasn't been comfortable since before his last, greatest spurt of growth. His knees are in his bloody ears, but the indignity matters less than the familiarity. He used to sit here and listen to Da tell stories – until Deryn grew old enough to fight him for the footstool.

Then Da had died. And the stories stopped.

Ma had been halfway to rising, but settles again. Her false smile falters a bit. "Is Deryn asleep…?"

Jaspert snorts. Deryn can always eat, and she can fall asleep no matter what's going on around her. He, on the other hand, wakes up at all hours, and this daft adventure they're embarking on tomorrow left his stomach too curdled for much dinner. "Aye, of course."

Ma looks down at her embroidery, the smile sliding straight off her face. She takes a deep breath and turns the hoop in her hands, slowly, round and round. "I expect that will be useful, where she's going."

The fire pops, wood shifting. Jaspert worries at his lip for a moment, watching his ma, then gets up to put more wood on the fire.

"She'll be all right, Ma," he says with her back to her. "She'll be with me on the Minotaur. I'll have her safe."

Silence. Jaspert focuses on building up the fire again. There's a pressure against his spine that he doesn't care to face. The room still echoes with the storm Deryn had unleashed earlier, when she'd announced her intention to take up as a boy and join the Air Service.

Then, quietly, like a pebble dropping into a winter pond: "I know."

He straightens and turns. In the stronger light, he can see the wet glimmer in his mother's eyes.

"Ma," he says, made helpless by guilt.

She shakes her head, producing a handkerchief and dabbing away the tears one-handed. The other hand grips the embroidery hoop so tightly Jaspert fears it might splinter. "It's all right, Jaspert."

It isn't, and they both know that. If it was all right, he would be leaving for London alone, and Deryn would have been numbered among tonight's gossiping ladies.

Coming home for the first time in ages, Jaspert had been shocked at how much his sister's light had dimmed. He'd listened to the whole of Deryn's mad, impossible plan and been shocked anew – at the greatness of her desperation.

Of course he'd told her she was being daft. Listed out all the ways it could - would - go disastrously awry.

But in the end, he'd agreed to help. How could he not? His little sister.

It might not be what Da would've wanted; then again, Da let Deryn get away with everything short of sodding murder, so he might instead be laughing, delighted by her pluck and daring. Either way, there was no chance of Ma being pleased.

A tricky business, being the man of the house.

"She'll be safe," he says again. He returns to the footstool, balancing his forearms on his knees and leaning forward. "If she makes it aboard, which she likely won't, it'll only be a few weeks before she's dead tired of it, I'm certain. The Air Service isn't the lark she expects."

Privately, he isn't certain. Just the opposite, in fact. His sister is brazen, determined, and terrifyingly clever, with the best natural air sense he's yet seen. He suspects Deryn's going to take to life aboard an airbeast like a fish to water.

Or rather, like a bird to the sky.

Ma nods. She tucks the handkerchief away and frowns at the embroidery draped across her lap. Softly, she says, "I'd thought, after your Da… Well. I'd thought maybe, if she had some practice at being a proper girl, she might… she might find herself happy here."

She touches the careful stitching. It's a pattern of flowers and leaves, with songbirds perched on the twining vines. In the firelight's unsteady shadows, they seem to shiver and flutter. Jaspert thinks of Deryn, and imagines the vines have trapped the wee birds' feet. No matter how hard they flap their wings, they'll never fly free of the cloth, unless someone comes along to snip the thread.

He wonders if he's not the one holding the scissors.

"But it's not meant for her," Ma says. Resignation and bewilderment take equal weight in her voice: "This life, it's not for her. I have to let her go."

Jaspert stands. Gently tugs the embroidery hoop from his ma's unresisting hand, then sets it on the side table and draws her to her feet as well. He wraps his arms around her and hugs her, hard, squeezing his eyes shut against the familiar smell of her perfume.

Once, a lifetime ago, he would run to her with the smallest hurts, clutch around her knees, bury his face in her apron, let her smooth his hair and press kisses to his cheek until he forgot his greetin. Now she clings to him, seeking the same sort of comfort. But there's no way to soothe this wound: Deryn running as hard and fast as she can, away from every dream their mother wanted to give her.

"Aye, Ma," he says, trying to keep his voice level. "It's for the best."

"It's for the best," Ma repeats. She steps back, and something of her usual self returns in the brisk nod and confident, "Aye."

"I reckon I might want some warm milk," Jaspert says, nodding in the direction of the kitchen. "With a biscuit, maybe. Or two."

She gives him a smile – weak and watery, but real. "Come along then, dearie, and we'll put the saucepan on. And what do you think I ought to make for breakfast in the morning? Something special, hmm? Your last home meal for a while…"

Ma starts for the kitchen. Jaspert lingers before the fireplace for a moment longer, looking at the embroidery hoop with its trapped wee birds, then at the black-edged photograph of Da on the mantle.

"Midshipman Dylan Sharp," he says quietly, testing it.

Then he, too, goes on.