It would rain again in the garden. Feyd walked barefoot through the field, enjoying how the puddles felt against his skin. He'd taken to walking there at night over the past few months. It was a shame he'd promised it to his wife, for it had become his favorite place in the palace. Fireflies flickered in the trees like red stars twinkling, and he caught one in his hand, watching the insect crawl to the tip of his middle finger before taking flight – its crimson glow the color of a split pomegranate.

The concept he owed to Xalikar Vesryn. The man was smart: too smart to do away with but too smart to put in charge of anything with political weight, so Feyd had tasked the dressmaker with designing Irulan's new quarters. Xalikar seemed to understand the Princess even better than Feyd did, and rather than indulging in jealous paranoia, the Baron decided to put it to use. The resulting collaboration turned out to be a source of energy for Feyd, who listened with fascination at the dressmaker's descriptions of ancient myths, classical architecture, and rulers of old. And as he watched Xalikar choose between samples of relief sculpture, he began to wonder what changes he might make to other parts of the palace, which had been built in the image of his uncle's father and remodeled in the image of the uncle who raised him.

Of course, to make any great changes to the place, he'd need to find a way to bankroll it. Spice production was back underway, now that he'd installed a Governor on Arrakis: General Tharyn Voss, who had risen to the top of his unit despite his young age. He was a eunuch and had been since childhood due to the treason of his father against the former Baron, who decided an apt punishment for the offense was execution as well as the castration of his only living child, ensuring the man's family line would be permanently blotted out. Thus removed from his father's influence, the boy grew up with a clear desire to prove himself tempered with a humility – likely stemming from his impotence – that set him apart from his peers. He was methodical, clean, and followed instructions with diligence. Unlike other young men, he seemed to have little to prove aside from his loyalty to the Harkonnen miliary, which had taken a chance on him, despite his lineage. Indeed, he managed to avoid the foolish showings of bravado that led a many young man to his death. The Bene Gesserit had suggested a younger cousin for the title, but Feyd knew better than that. So far, General Voss was doing an adequate job. And adequate was perfect. More than adequate would be far too much. He made perfect sense as Governor. Raised to such a station, the man such as he would be sure not to squander it, and the lack of any heir of his own made him unlikely to usurp the current leadership.

The Baron wondered, as he often did, what Irulan was doing on Kaitain. He was curious about what she might be plotting with the crone, but he also found himself guessing about the more mundane aspects of her life – how she spent her evenings in a more familiar environment. Perhaps she read. He had begun to read more as well. Xalikar's knowledge of the ancients made him feel as though he had something to gain from the classics, and he began to search through the archives in his uncle's private library. Now that he was Baron, he had a bit more time on his hands, for now he was the one giving orders instead of rushing to carry them out. He'd even grown bored of the arena. Perhaps this was what his wife had spoken of when she told him she lacked purpose. Irulan. His wife. He wondered if she'd come back changed. They'd not spoken since her departure except through official channels. She'd return if he commanded it, but he'd held back for the time being. The garden was nearly ready, and he had no desire to show it to her incomplete. The roses were beginning to bloom, their smoky blue petals scenting the air with powdery sweetness. They grew in clusters around the marble columns that supported the roof above her bed, which would shield her from the rain while she slept. That had been his own idea, even if Xalikar had chosen the myth carved into the pediment. Feyd felt it important that the garden be his invention more than Xalikar's, and the dressmaker was careful not to outshine his ideas, focusing instead on how to enhance the Baron's own vision. Feyd watched the man closely and could tell that the dressmaker sometimes bit his own tongue, and furthermore, that he was smart enough to know when it might be necessary. Smart men rarely acted without purpose, which led Feyd to wonder what exactly might be Xalikar's intent. He'd keep the man alive until he figured it out.

At first, he wondered if the dressmaker had designs on Irulan. He'd watched the two of them together and saw that Xalikar indeed took liberties with his wife, and he'd seen how she blushed under his gaze. The dressmaker flirted almost brazenly. Too brazenly and too quickly for a man of his intelligence, which meant he either doubted the Princess's wits, or love was not his true aim, but rather, seduction, likely planned before he'd ever set eyes on the Princess, for his slick demeanor had not grown with time but had instead been present from at their very first meaning. He had ambition – that much was clear. The important question was whether he was acting alone. Feyd's instincts told him Xalikar was working with the Bene Gesserit, for he'd seen the man exchange a glance with the crone as they walked past him to the ballroom, but Feyd knew the organization preferred female agents whenever possible. He would find out. And while he got to the bottom of it, Feyd saw no reason to waste the man's talent for design. Besides, he told himself, it was better to keep the dressmaker busy. Too busy to grow idle… too busy to grow impatient.

Feyd ran his fingers along the hedges, nearly black in the dying light. They were almost there. Once he could no longer see over the tops of them, he'd let her see it. For the perimeter of the garden was a labyrinth of thorn and thicket, his lady's bed at the center of the maze. While he could still see over the bush, he knew he could not truly see the garden as she, and he wanted to know it, to taste it, much like he craved his opponents' experience of dark before the fight. It was nearly there. He had to lift up onto his toes to see pattern spread out before him. Of course, he knew that there was no way he could truly experience her wonder, for even once the hedges grew tall enough to obscure his view, he had memorized the garden by heart with all of its twists and turns. He suddenly felt like a swim.

He walked to the bathing pool at the garden's northern ridge and stripped off his clothes. The water felt perfect against his skin – not too warm or too cool – which had grown clammy from humidity, and he gazed up at the pregnant sky. It was always cloudy here, for Feyd detested use of artificial windows. He could always tell it was a screen, and it immediately pulled him out of any immersion he was supposed to experience. Of course, artificial screens covered the ceilings, but Feyd set the weather to a permanently cloudy state so as to shield them from view. Occasionally, a star or a beam of sunlight would peak through a breech in the clouds, and the effect was dazzling – far more dazzling than it could ever be if the screen were laid naked to scrutiny. Besides, he liked the rain. Preferred it to direct sunlight, and he knew it was more than just being accustomed to the dark: something about the hot summer downpour as well as the cool autumn drizzle did something for his soul, if indeed he had one at all. The sound of it, the sensation of it, felt like a lullaby.

Her lullaby.

For he once had a servant named Anara. He remembered her as his governess, but that couldn't have been her station, for she was far too young. She had bathed him, hadn't she? That felt right. She'd been with him nightly to put him to bed until his uncle began summoning him for assistance with his own nightly baths. Why couldn't he remember her smile without tears in her eyes? For she surely must have smiled before that morning. She used to hum. She would run her fingers over his arms and hum until he fell asleep.

Feyd sank deeper into the water, which tickled his flesh as it disappeared under the surface. He would marry her someday… that's what he once told her, and she laughed. It was a beautiful laugh that reminded him of bells.

"I'm old enough to be your mother," she said.

"No you're not."

"I'm a servant."

"I don't care."

"Someday," she said with a smile – he could see it now clearly – and she put a soft hand on his cheek, "you'll marry a princess. A beautiful one."

"I don't want to marry someone I've never met."

"You will when you see her," Anara said. "She'll be beautiful."

"You're beautiful."

And she laughed again. "I'm homely."

"What's that?"

She shook her head and smiled. "When you get a little older, you'll understand."

"You don't wish to marry me?"

"I don't," she said, "but not because I don't love you. What we share a different kind of love. A familial love. Like a mother and a son, though I don't wish to speak out of turn. You have a mother already."

"I wish you were my mother."

"Go to sleep, sweet boy," she said laughing, and he did. Though when he woke up, it was his real mother at the foot of his bed, and she was cross with him. She was always cross with him.

Feyd's face was wet, and he told himself it was just the water. He stood in the pool and looked out at the flickering red lights, which began to melt. He wiped his eyes. He needed to kill something. There were animals in cages, engineered by the Bene Tlailax, which had yet to be placed in the garden, but he knew that a caged animal would only make him feel worse. He wished his uncle were alive, smiling and naked and waiting for him in the center of the labyrinth, his great body sweating under the moonlight, perspiration beading on his terrible flesh.

Why couldn't he remember any songs that she'd sung him? Any melodies she'd hummed for him? And why could he remember with such perfect clarity how the tears shone in her eyes on that morning when he came to her.

"I'm sorry," he had whispered, through shuddering breaths.

"It's okay," she said, gathering him into arms, "it's okay," and he clung to her, dropping the blade, which clattered to the floor behind her. He would never forget how gently she placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back, kneeling before him to fetch the knife and hold it out to him with shaking hands. When he refused to take the weapon, she took his fingers in hers and closed them around the handle – how serene she had looked, despite the shakes, though she couldn't have been older than fifteen.

"Stop blubbering," snapped his mother from behind him. "She's a servant. Not your sister."

"Do it," commanded his uncle. "The punishment fits the crime."

"I didn't really mean to kill you!" Feyd had cried, whipping around to look at the Baron, who puffed tobacco while watching the scene unfold. His beady eyes crinkled with mirth.

"Don't lie to me, boy. You had murder in your eyes, and I admire you for it, but I detest stupidity. And trying to kill me in my own bed as I slept was both stupid and cowardly. I expected more from the Na-Baron."

All the while, Anara was running her fingers up and down the boy's arms as if to soothe him.

"I won't do it!" he cried.

"Feyd," Anara whispered and shook her head.

"I can't," he whispered to her as tears leaked from his eyes.

"The things they'll do to both of us if you don't." How could she call herself homely? Even as a grown man, Feyd would have called her beautiful.

"I can't."

"The whore is right," said his mother. "If you don't, we'll make sure she dies screaming."

"Don't make me do this," begged the boy. He held the dagger outstretched in his shaking hand.

"Feyd," breathed Anara, "This will make you strong."

"I don't want to be strong."

"It is an honor," she whispered hoarsely, though her young voice shook, "to lose my life to your blade. You will carry me with you whenever you wield it, along with the others whose lives you claim."

"I grow bored of this. You know when she's not putting you to bed, she sucks cock for a living," snapped his uncle. "Take her to the surgeon."

"Wait!" cried Feyd. And Anara lunged for him, gathering him into her arms as he wept into her chest until she slumped against his shoulder.

"Feyd," she whispered against his ear, and he stepped back to look at her, and the blade pulled from her chest, scraping against her ribs as it did so – he hadn't felt it go in. She smiled at him, though he could tell it covered a wince. She opened her mouth to speak, and then she coughed and fell over.

"About time," snapped his mother, and Feyd knew in that moment he would kill her someday, too.

"Yes," said his uncle. "Now kill the rest of the whores."

So he did.

And it was easier each time. He stopped crying by the time he got to the third woman.

"That's right, boy," crooned the Baron. "Don't be upset now. We'll get you replacements."

Feyd clenched his jaw and slashed the throat of the woman who'd made him ejaculate for the very first time, while his uncle and his mother both watched. She held her neck out for him willingly, though there were tears in her eyes. The boy felt nothing. Or rather, his grief for Anara overshadowed anything else he might have felt.

"She made a man out of you," said his mother.

"In more ways than one," said his uncle with a rumbling laugh.

The boy would carry her with him, too.

He later killed his mother with that very same blade, and he kept it with him always until his uncle confiscated it, years later, after another assassination attempt. The boy wept when he lost it until he could weep no longer, and then he never wept again –

At least not until that night when he floated on his back in Irulan's bathing pool, though it could have been the rain – it was probably the rain – it fell on his cheeks like icy daggers, and he'd nearly convinced himself that's all there was too it, until he felt the heat of his own tears against his skin, and he swam back to the edge of the basin and hoisted himself out into the now frigid air, shaking and furious.

He needed to kill something.

Something that fought back.