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CHAPTER 11

Father Denis and Alphonse went immediately to work, both well-known for late nights in the chapel scriptorium, they set about disseminating their early plans, as the rest of the party found themselves tired, even as the night was young and committed themselves to rest. Richart in particular practically had to be carried as the sheer physical fatigue of his efforts came to take their toll all at once in the absence of immediate danger.

Lidia and Gram had gone to bed together, and their night was chaste and gentle. After the invasive acts of her mother, neither of them felt particularly amorous, and Lidia fell to deep slumber with her nose in the hollow of Gram's throat and his arms around her. She mercifully did not dream.

The following day was busy, to put it mildly.

Lidia lit out of bed early, roused by Gram waking with the dawn. She took a few minutes to engage with her morning ritual, watching her nearly-naked lover stride the room in which he was raised, wearing naught but smallclothes and pride. She didn't lavish him with praise, or tawdry invitations — she simply watched him with wide, inhuman eyes, taking in every facet of the casual intimacy of this man who she loved so.

Had this been what things had been like for her mother? Had she watched papa from afar like this, simply indulging in the naked desire of something so… pure? Pure was a word she would rarely associate with her life, but Gram was that in curious ways. A pure, uncomplicated soldier. He had layers and interests and so much she loved about him — but Gram was ultimately, just Gram. He was direct about who and what he was, and there was a brutal honesty there she clung to like an anchor. She watched him dress as she always did, noting the new scars from his duel with Karnov, and a dozen little bruises and bumps from odd bouts of heroism neither of them had noticed — did Cithara do this with Bart, she wondered as she buried her face in his pillow, clinging to the last moments of safety in their shared bed. Did the Queen of Love ogle her champion every morning? She seemed the sort to do so, she'd often made even Lidia blush with how forward she was with Big Brother and her attentions. Something about that made the act feel less… predatory, borne of love rather than hunger — which wasn't to say she didn't crave him purely as a woman, her fae lineage aside, Gram was a very good-looking man.

“Turn 'round, Loverboy," she breathed after a moment, getting his attention with a subtle raise of his eyebrow at her, a smile ghosting his lips, “I cannae see yer belly an' chest over here."

A soft chuckle left him as he did as he was bade, turning that chiseled, lean torso to her gaze and sending a fresh little tickle of butterflies through her stomach. He was quite fetching without a shirt, she found herself drawn to the hollows of his neck and hips, and that stark divot from collarbone to breadbasket between his pectorals… Mother's blood wasn't required to rile her desires, just being a woman in this case did it well enough.

“Good enough?" he asked softly, walking to the bed as he pulled his shirt on, leaving the laces undone as he leaned down to kiss her softly. She welcomed him, and there was nothing torrid or ravishing about that kiss, gentle and warm.

“Aye, good enough."

She rose to dress for him then, part of her wanted to simply be bare before him, but that barrier still existed between the pair as she covered herself with the sheet, smiling at him softly. She liked it, oddly. The limitation, the need to be properly wed before pursuing her desires… it made her feel more human. It was normal, proper and true. His demand she be his wife before bedding her had made her feel more wanted than she had ever before. She was not his fae bride invited to his bedchamber for his pleasure — she was his bride-to-be, mother of his future children, and other half of his heart and soul. All said without words, by the simple desire to do things the right way.

He was good for her. Too good for her.

“We have tae run again, loverboy," she breathed from behind the shade as she pulled on her common attire, trousers, jerkin, hood and boots. Gram nodded, his own silhouette given pause.

“Only for a while, we will return."

His voice was solid and sure, and it buoyed her own confidence with it, she'd run plenty already. Run from Lachheim, run from the Queen's beasties, run from her own home years back. She'd been running most of her life from things greater than she. This time would be different, she was running to a solution, not away. Baudelaire Keep would not go the way her home had, either of them.

They surreptitiously packed their things for a march, the goal was the northern monastery they had spoken of. Gram's mother would be there, and grant them admission and by that use of their Messenger Hawks, and from there they could spike Karnov's wheel with good, old-fashioned bureaucracy. She had a few tricks in mind as well for his more martial threats, but those were for later. Saddlebags and equipment arrayed nearby, Gram laid his armor out as well, casually dressing in simple clothes that his gambeson and harness could be easily exchanged for.

“I have something for you," Gram said to her as he carefully adjusted his swordbelt, his saber laying naturally across his hip. She perked up at that with a wide-eyed smile.

“Oh? I like gifts," she said playfully as he drew a long bundle of oilskin from his wardrobe.

“I wasn't sure father had kept it, and I went looking for it after your bout with Louis and Karnov," he began, slowly unwinding the oilcloth from the bundle. “I've been teaching you the way of the Darrowmite saber, but doing so with an improper blade."

The oilskin came free from the curved hilt of a saber. It was a simple affair, not unlike the one she saw him wearing now, but it was subtly different. It had the same curving handle and straight langets at the crosspiece of the Ivory Spears' chosen weapons. However, unlike the nearly guardless, sleek weapons Louis and Karnov carried, as did many of their men — this one bore a narrow, angular L-shaped knucklebow that came down over the fingers on its bottom edge in addition the straight quillions Gram's bore, and out-thrust on it's leftward side was a curled thumb-ring that sat much like the 'nagel' did on her messer.

“I was not always quite so large, and my training required I learn live steel. My novitiate blade," he explained, drawing it forth with a silvery ring of quivering steel. The blade was a bit shorter than his current one, the handle a touch smaller — which made it ill suited for the rangy soldier now full-grown, but her heart fluttered as he smartly inverted it and handed it to her, hilt first.

“It is unseemly to learn my people's way of fighting with a stopgap weapon, father had planned to give this to my firstborn son…" he met her gaze over the blade, and one of his rare, warm smiles crept over his lips, “I think it is better served safeguarding his mother."

With eyes wide, she took the weapon, gingerly at first — but it slid into her hand with ease as if it were made for her. Gone was the awkward feeling she'd felt even with Avalov's nigh-magical blade of the length and grip being ever-so-slightly off, it felt natural. Like she could feel Gram's hand still upon it, guiding her fingers to the proper places. She glided it through the air a few times, the balance was superb even to her less-schooled fingers, the blade perhaps half a span shorter with a heavier curve to its belly and a final, thicker false-edge that lent itself well to a strong cut.

“Lady's Teats, I…" but the words died in her mouth as she looked at her beloved, holding the weapon in hand, she realized any denial would be for her benefit, not his. She felt unworthy of such a gift, a piece of his childhood, a piece of him. He smiled.

“It is no band of unalloyed gold, but we have been pressed for time."

She bit her lip, looking down at the blade, unadorned but crafted with care and love — the blade was much like Gram. Elegant, graceful, dangerous. She hugged the weapon gingerly to her chest, pressing the rounded downward-curving pommel to her cheek.

“I love ye, Gram Guillaume Vauquelin Baudelaire," she said simply, carefully saying every syllable of his name, there was a clear effect on the man, his face coloring and his breath coming a bit faster as she named him properly. The Lady had done it to them before, spoken their names to them as they did to themselves, and she had carefully rehearsed the way he said it until she could do so, even with her messy kluge of a Middlelands accent.

“I love you, Lidia Shaw," he said… and he got it exactly right. She flushed as she also felt that magical little plucking of who and what she was, not unpleasant when said by the man she loved. He probably didn't even have to practice. “I look forward to appending Baudelaire to that properly."

She made a small sound in her throat as he took her hand, and lead her forward for a soft kiss that lasted a small forever, before they separated and she looked up at him through her lashes like a giddy schoolgirl.

“So do I, loverboy."

Gram helped her situate the saber on her hip, it had a simple black and silver scabbard much like the weapon itself, it hung lower on her waist that the more straight-bladed messer had, but she found the weight complimented her fairly wide hips well. She might not have much in way of breasts, but the lithe girl did not lack for curves elsewhere — much to Gram's devoted attentions.

They emerged from their room to a bustle of activity, people moving back and forth and shouts happening at odd intervals as they left the isolation of Gram's tower dwelling and entered the main keep proper. The two exchanged a worried look, and made their way to the nearest people.

“What happened?" Lidia asked a servant, who was wild-eyed carrying a large crate.

“A fire in the scriptorium! The candles and lamp oil stores nearly caught, and the storeroom itself is a ruin," he said anxiously, hefting the crate he had, “We're moving the latter to make space for repairs."

Lidia and Gram exchanged yet another glance, and nodded to the man, patting his shoulder as he quickly went back to delivering his burden.

“Father Denis is far more conniving than I feel I gave him credit for," Gram mused and Lidia grinned.

“Oh aye, canny old churchbell, that one," she agreed, tugging him along, “Let's go see what he's about."

The pair pushed their way through the chaos of commoners and house staff carrying and moving things about, once they breached into the green where all the commonfolk's buildings were situated, the scent of smoke drew their attention to the lazy plume rising up from the chapel.

The building itself was suitably stout and outwardly unremarkable, it wasn't all that different from the little church on the hill back in Fairharbour that Bart and The Lady had been wed at, perhaps a smidge smaller. It was tucked to the far end of the yard, the southern-most end where the yard, outbuildings and their defensive bulwark peeked out from beneath the Navel's massive stony overhang, casting it in such a way that the midday sun passed right down into it's narrow, sturdy windows. It was as typical as could be otherwise, a peaked roof, doughty little bell-tower and blocky little pair of additions sticking out on sides and back for study and sleeping for Father Denis. There was little in the way of ostentatious display or decoration save for a single symbol of the Eye-And-Horn over it's front doors in glittering Unalloyed Gold. It was a lot like him, she remarked internally — unpretentious and honest.

It was also still just a little bit on fire.

The plume of smoke rose out of the leftmost addition, a greasy smudge of soot blackening one of its whitewashed walls by a window, clearly thrust open to vent said miasma from the stout little building. People ushered in and out with armloads of scrolls, books, crates of effects and whatnot as Father Denis sat, blackened and a bit shaken on the steps.

“What happened, Father?" Gram asked as they came to his perch, the old man looking up with a rattled gaze, but he managed a smile through the smears of soot.

“Oh… a bit of a tragedy, my son. A fire in the early morning hours," he said with a heavy sigh, looking at soot-stained hands, “The scriptorium… I… I am afraid I fell asleep while working late, I was troubled in my rest, so I thought to simply spend the twilight hours updating the rolls," he explained, shaking his head with a grimace, “It is meditative, it always helps me sleep. Alas… too well this time."

“How d'ye start a fire by sleepin'?" Lidia asked, her demeanor suddenly worried, perhaps this wasn't a clever plan. The old man shook his head with a sigh.

“A candle, I must have knocked it aside into the loose papers when I dropped off. The heat awoke me, and I scrambled to save what I could but…" he looked to the lazy plume of smoke and simply let it lie.

“Come, Father — let us adjourn to your chambers, they are whole yes?" Gram asked, lowering his hand to the old churchman, who nodded grimly.

“Yes, yes… the young men here are more spry than I am, they contained it to the scriptorium, and even averted much of the damage, but my foolish pride… I never did move the stores of candles or oils, it is only by their valiant efforts that the whole thing simply didn't ignite like a pyre!" He sighed and took Gram's hand, letting him lead them through the chapel proper.

Inside was a hazy mess but far from a loss, smoke drifted to and fro between the pews, hung lazily in the rafters, but the damage seemed to be as he said — Lidia spied the scorched and charred remains of a desk and lectern around a mess of scrolls and books all similarly rent asunder by flame.

“Come, come, I'll close the door… please sit," Father Denis said as he ushered them into the office chambers, outside the rattle and smash of people carrying away debris and salvage was loud, distractingly so. With a heavy thunk of wood, the old man shut the door… and turned to them with a canny gleam in his eye, and a crooked grin on his face. Lidia's eyes lit up, and even Gram seemed taken aback.

“Oy, ye were funnin' wit' us?" she hissed in a harsh whisper, and the old churchman laughed.

“Oh no need to be so quiet, little one. These old walls are far from anywhere Mister Koval could perch — and the din itself far too loud, I made sure to tell the boys that all of the damaged pieces must go, down to the mounting spikes in the flagstones," he explained, putting on that same, immaculately grave expression, “It is a sad thing, but the chapel is old, and due many a repair. Shame that we will have to store all our candles and oil in the surrounding buildings and rooms for now."

Lidia's eyes widened as his face melted into another devious little grin and he walked, quite pleased with himself, a little skip in his shuffling step to his seat behind the desk in the little office.

“Alas, I had aspired perhaps to stagecraft before the call of Our Lord in Ivory drew me to my work, it is fine to see my skills have not dulled in the totality of time."

“You canny ol' churchbell!" Lidia said with a giggle, even as she pulled her hood up around her ears a bit — he was right, even her sharp ears were barely able to hear him over the din of hammers and crunching wood, stone, and ash. Gram folded his arms with a faint, knowing smile. Father Denis inclined his head with humble grace.

“I've sorted that the stores be taken to the surrounding common folk, your rooms and as well Richart's and others. Plenty of good candlesticks in there, the wax plenty soft enough to stuff a few drafty doorways and windows," he explained, wiping his sooty hands and face on a handkerchief, his eyes caught Lidia's waist and a genuine smile spread on his lips.

“Oh… I see Master Gram found it," he said, Lidia peeking down to see the gleaming hilt of the saber peeking up from where she'd maneuvered it around the chair legs, she bit her lip a bit and nodded.

“Good, I remember the first time he got that blade, cut himself immediately hitting the pell like a man possessed," he chuckled.

“I still have the scar," Gram mused, rolling up one of his sleeves a bit to show off a long-present, very, very thin line on his left forearm, “I learned to tuck my offhand rather quickly after that."

“So that's where that wee little cut came from," she mused, taking his hand and idly threading her fingers over the barely-visible scar, nearly older than she was. Father Denis chuckled.

“Oh quite, but he bled like a stuck pig, came here first — not running, not crying, not even all that much in a hurry," he said and grinned a little, assuming a stodgy, stern face, “Father, I appear to have wounded myself," he said in a comedic approximation of Gram's signature stoicism, getting another shared little titter between the old churchman and young changeling. That was her Gram, careful, cool, collected Gram.

“It was but a nick, no sense in being dramatic about it," Gram said lightly, rolling his sleeve back down and leaning over to kiss Lidia's cheek as Father Denis beamed at the two of them.

“With any luck, by the time you two are finished with your trials, the chapel will be right as rain to wed you both," he said, looking around at the old walls. The office stuck off the back of the chapel, right behind the pulpit, a place to take confessions and speak in private, it had no windows, and its walls were thick masonry for such privacy concerns. Lidia made a note of this, should they need to speak privately the old priest's chambers were quite formidable. He let out a sigh.

“It has been far too long since these walls have hosted a Baudelaire man's oaths, it will be good to see one more wed properly within them before the Pale Dawn calls me."

“I am sorry you had to sacrifice your works to help us, Father," Gram said with a bow of his head, “I know it must have pained you to set the torch to that which you had worked on for so long." He said, but the old man shrugged his shoulders and leaned back into his chair with a serene smiled on his lips.

“Oh, it was a worthy sacrifice, besides mine and Alphonse's illumination work was well aware from the blaze, I would not burn the lad's greatest efforts for a simple ruse," he said with stolid, quiet conviction — his eyes hard as agates as he said it, “I love you both dearly, but there are lines a man of words cannot cross."

Gram nodded and Lidia followed suit, the churchman beaming at them both before making to stand.

“As it is, my part in our little charade is done, and we should not dally here lest the sound stone and doughty mortar prove not enough with the din to put off our would-be eavesdroppers, that aside Lord Richart and Master Alphonse are out on the green, and I believe they wish to speak with you," he said as he rose, the other two following suit.

“What about, Father?" Gram ventured as he offered Lidia his hand as she stood, untangling the saber from the chair legs — it'd take her a bit to get used to the slightly longer blade still. Denis raised a finger with a little 'ah'.

“I believe they wished to show you the Navel and its stores proper, the young lady did mention an affinity for caves, ours is quite special," He explained with that mischievous gleam in his eyes, clearly Richart was plotting alongside them all, and if they were to make their escape via the caverns, fae assistance or no, a working knowledge of the settled parts of the cavern complex would be invaluable. As they made for the door, the hazy smoke stinging her eyes a bit as they neared it, she paused and turned to the old churchman with a curious expression.

“Iffin' ye didn't burn ye work an' books, what was all that mess o' papers and bindings that got put tae th' flame?" Father Denis' eyes turned up in a faint smile, and his bearing grew straight, and a bit smug.

“Tax rolls," He sniffed disdainfully, “I'm afraid that the good people of Baudelaire Keep will have to be given a remittance this year on account of tragedy."

Lidia could not contain her laughter.

~ ~ ~

The pair left Father Denis to oversee the work, his mask of chagrin returning easily, the old man far better at falsehoods than one would expect, but she supposed acting desires aside — one did need to be able to soften some hard truths for those seeking absolution now and again — much less sparing the dying. She took her estimation of the churchman up another notch, she had a lot of biases to reconsider it seemed.

They made their way across the green, under the great shelf of stone that formed the mouth of The Navel. Even now days into living here, she found her gaze trended upwards to the literal ceiling of stone and stalactites, spears of stolid rock poised above them in eternal stasis. She shuddered to think what a good tremor might do — but she supposed this keep was centuries old, predating the Black March, if the sky hadn't fallen in all that time, it wasn't going to any time soon.

Yet and still, there was a curious duality to the place, both cozy and foreboding. Like a proper cave, she supposed.

They drew more than a few eyes, once again the dueling colors of red and blue surcoats were on opposite sides of the yard from one another, training, working, commiserating with their own. Karnov didn't seem to put much stock in the ideas of fraternization and his men made no real efforts of their own. They never truly seemed to antagonize the local men, but their presence alone was antagonistic enough, taking their places on patrols and watches. The men knew they were being occupied, even if not a single blow had been swung just yet.

“Spoilin' fer a fight out here," she murmured to Gram as they passed, more than a few eyes lingered on her new saber, and more than a few turned flat with disapproval. Karnov's ideals seemed to take root in many of his underlings, and that made them dangerous. True believers always were.

“Tense," Gram agreed as they made their way up the yard. Its far end slowly sloped upwards, until it became a series of masonry steps ascending the external walls to the yawning mouth of the Navel proper, the great cave was illuminated by torches in wrought-iron sconces hammered directly into the living stone, giving the place an eternal glow of sorts that banished much of its cold foreboding presence. The whole of the complex was somewhere nestled into the yawning mouth of the cavern, shielding beneath the aforementioned overhang of thorny stone, but the true entrance to the cavern proper narrowed to what a mere twenty men could walk into abreast, with a series of buildings cut straight into the rock further narrowing that natural entrance into a defensible redoubt, the walls and outbuildings converging all to the central, rearmost point where the cave sank deep into the ridge.

The wolf-emblazoned uniforms grew thicker as they proceeded up the steps onto the battlements, Lidia paused, a flicker of movement caught her eye, twisting to look out across the ramparts. A soft gasp left her as she found herself breaking away from Gram to wander to the edge of the massive wall. She'd glimpsed the view from Gram's windows, but admittedly she'd been… otherwise engaged, but now she saw the sun shining down over the steppes like fields of swaying gold, a wall of clouds closing from the west casting the gleaming brightness of the summer day in striking contrast. The view stole her breath, and she leaned forward over the wall in wonder. The last time she'd looked down from the ramparts of a fortress, all she had seen was the ugliness of war, the slaughter of good men by monsters in the name of God and Lady both, and now she looked down across the lands that this redoubt stood in defense of at peace. She saw the Steppe for what it was, the gleaming golden bounty of the plains writ bare to her gaze. Far below she saw the moving dots and blurs of the wild horses the Steppefolk were renowned for taming, they ran across the golden fields wild and free, cutting through the sea of stalks like they had wings instead of hooves, barely seeming to touch the ground even at this distance.

“Magnificent, isn't it?" Came a low voice. Lidia jerked her head to the side to find the tall, severe man from the previous day, Marshal Shkuro, standing beside her. Her eyes grew hard, but he held up a hand as if to stay her blade as much as her anger, his eyes were calm, his bandy-legged frame at ease.

“I remember herds like that, some two decades past," he continued as he watched the horses in the distance continue their capering across the wide open plains, his eyes were distant — he was somewhere else as he spoke, another place, another time, “My first mount came from such a herd, I chased him down and took him by rope and main strength until we understood each other. He was fiery, proud, a true beast of the steppe. He would not be tamed, only allied with."

Lidia listened, turning her gaze back to the distant steeds… there was more to what he was saying, Gram had caught up to the pair… but held back a ways off, Shkuro took a breath.

“That is what we used to be, in another time. We Steppefolk, were were not tamed, not gelded. Proud allies of Darrowmere, the shield of our mountain-dwelling cousins. My own wife hails from the highlands cities, we were united. Separate but equal. The hammer to their mighty anvil, it was a proud time. A good time."

“What happened?" Lidia asked, and Shkuro tilted his head almost imperceptibly.

“Politics," he said simply, leaning over the rampart, his long mustaches bristling, “Peace. Two hundred years of preparing for war that never came, for ambitions never realized. We stood sentinel against myths and legends to the common Darrowmite, and our ways became fashion more than function," he explained, turning his mouth down.

“Generations born viewing the way of the Steppe as something that could be bought, purchased with coin and influence rather than lived. A way of life turned into an attraction for those with deep pockets and shallow morals."

“Ye think o' Lord Richart as such?" She asked, contempt clearly in her voice — to her surprise he shook his head, following the maverick stallion of the distant herd with his eyes.

“No, I do not share my own Lord's views of the Baron. Lord Richart is a man of quality, however ill-suited those qualities are to this redoubt, he is not weak. The ability to wield a sword is not the only way one can be strong," he said with easy conviction, in a tone that suggested this was not the first time someone had asked this of him.

“Then why d'ye follow him?" she pressed, and it was Shkuro's turn to harden his gaze, he turned his hand over to look at the simple band of gold there.

“It is my duty to speak truth to power. When he called me to his side, it was because I challenge him, I question, I demand answers," he said plainly, nodding his head. “I follow, and I obey — but I do not do so unquestioningly, as is my role. I do my Lord the service of perspective."

“How's that workin' out fer ye?" Lidia asked plainly, looking around at the red-clothed men on the ramparts, the Red Wolf banners hanging from their poles, the hard-eyed men with bitter faces at their posts. Shkuro closed his eyes, there was pain in his expression.

“It has… been better. Koval has my Lord's ear more often than not, and he finds more reasons to deny my council for that of those concerned more with vendetta than tradition, he is angry. I feel that anger is directed at his old friend."

“Richart?" She asked, and Shkuro nodded.

“It is not my place to speak, and therefor I will not in depth — but they grew up together, traveling the same circles. They were as brothers once. That time has long-passed."

“Richart said sommat tae that, they'd been boys together…" she mused, Shkuro nodded. Lidia felt conflict enter her heart anew, it had been so easy to dismiss them all with the broad brush of Koval and Karnov, monsters in the shape of men… but Shkuro dashed that simple, easy bigotry from her mind. She caught Gram's shape out of the corner of her eye, keeping a careful distance. A cant of Shkuro's head told her he had seen the Cavalier's arrival as well, but that distance remained intact. She leaned a little closer.

“Why?" She asked simply, shrugging as she looked around, “What made this th' only way?"

Shkuro simply fished into his surcoat, and out came a simple length of braided hair. Three colors, ranging from deep black to a fiery red, each braided with a black length of horsehair.

“I raised three sons, sat each to their first horse. Struggled to feed and clothe them as my lands were divvied up to men of Lord Richart's class but not his character. Men of soft hands and soft morals. They took much and gave nothing in return," he said and simply tucked the keepsake back away, his face distance as he returned his gaze to the horses.

“I buried three sons."

Lidia fell silent at that, she had expected… something worse. Ambition for it's own sake, perhaps. Shkuro's pain was visceral, and she could not question it.

“Never again shall a man of the Steppe bury his son before they are grown enough to marry, slain by an empty belly instead of an enemy's blade," he said with quiet conviction. There was no wavering in those words, they were steel and granite in his soul, “This I vowed."

Lidia had nothing to say to that, she watched the galloping herd go by in silence for a moment. Shkuro moved his hand to her shoulder after a moment.

“Thank you," he said in a solemn tone, “For listening. It is a hard thing to hear a foe as a man rather than an adversary, and you had no reason to do so."

“What made ye wish tae tell me such things?" She asked, turning to meet the sun-browned man's gaze, and he smiled at her with a simple shrug, the jerked his chin over the wall.

“You looked at the Steppe as I do, as my wife did. It is how it should be, and it told me all I needed to know."

The little changeling fell silent at that, unsure what to think of such things as the Marshal stood up, turning and nodding to Gram with his hands folded behind his back, he paused in his leaving, turning his face slightly to her.

“I mourn the fact we must be enemies, Miss Shaw. Your blood matters not to me, you would be a fine person to call friend."

He left before she could respond, walking back down the battlements, troops coming to attention as he passed. Gram's familiar presence filled the space behind her, and she leaned back into his arms as he wrapped them around her, she touched his wrist lightly as they both watched the man go.

“What was that about?" He asked, ever-constant Gram. Too proper to eavesdrop.

“Understandin', I think," she answered, and there was sadness in her voice.

She could have called him friend just as easily.

~ ~ ~

They found Richart and Alphonse with a small retinue of maids and manservents, the indefatigable Master Khanenko in his usual stoic attendance with scroll and pen, Richart giving a litany of thoughts and orders to be recorded.

“The whitewash is flaking here, the summer is only going to get hotter. Move up the resurfacing of the walls along with the mending of roofs and thatch, the summer storms already threaten the horizon," he said as they walked up the steps that Lidia and Gram had already just ascended, catching his eye from below.

“Ah! Good, I had thought you lost!" Richart said, and Lidia laughed a bit, Richart's warm tone sweeping much of the cold regret from her heart after Shkuro's words. The disquiet would linger, but the Baron had a way of warming her that he shared with his son, both always seemed to know just what to say.

“Nae, jus' a bit caught up in sightseein', been tae busy wit' all this drama tae really 'ave a proper look around, Milord," she explained, and Richart smiled at her with genuine pleasure.

“The Navel is the jewel of the southern ridge, it is one of my greatest duties and joys to maintain such for those it guards, both within its walls, and far beyond," he said, mounting the stairs with his retinue to meet her and Gram at the top, “Second only to the raising of my children, truly my best work was done there."

Gram smiled at that, and Richart raised a hand to his cheek for a moment before turning to the others, “Very well, you have your tasks. If you find anything else out of order, do not be afraid to take initiative. I will have you all comfortable and safe as I can make you,"

“Yes milord," came the litany of voices in unison, the commonfolk bowing to him at the waist before dispersing on the green to handle various tasks assigned them. Richart smiled.

“Good, hardy folk. I never once asked more than they were willing to give, and yet they give more of their own will," he sighed, shaking his head. “It is difficult to call myself their Lord, I have known many of them for years now, seen their children born within these walls," he said and shrugged with a rueful little smile, “I never was good at maintaining distance."'

The mention of children hit her gut like a lump of ice, Shkuro's story still fresh in her mind. The vagaries of the wider world could go straight to hell, she found that she preferred the dark of the streets and alleyways to all these shades of gray. Richart smiled at her, his hands folded behind his back as he cast his eyes about to the men on the walls, to the ominous clouds approaching from the west.

“A storm is on it's way it seems, dear ones. I had thought it prudent to check our stores and larder, the first cloudburst of summer is always heavier than one expects," Richart's soft voice carried with it the subtle weight of portent, the dark clouds might as well have been a sign from God himself.

“Didn't ye churchmen call ye a subtle divinity?" Lidia muttered under her breath as she all but skipped to catch up to Lord Richart and his pair of remaining attendants, the indefatigable Khanenko ever at hand, and young Alphonse looking still a bit peaked from their previous evening's encounter. He none-too-subtly caught Lidia's eye as the group convened at the entrance to the Navel, fidgeting obviously until she noticed, She idled back as Richart bent Khanenko's ear on appearances, catching the young man alone towards the rear of the group.

“Somthin' on yer mind, Al?" She addressed him fondly, getting a fresh little blush from him for the familiarity, she'd already warmed well to he and his siblings, sans Louis if not for trying. The slight lad nodded, eyes flicking up to where Gram had joined their father and Khanenko, tapping figures on a ledger as they poke.

“You and Gram have more experience than anyone else, so I wanted to ask you about things like… well…"

“Me mum?" She offered him gently, a smile on her lips, Alphonse nodded.

“Yes, Dame Morgana and her… blessing," He murmured, touching his lips unconsciously as a shiver pulsed through him, “You spent time around The Lady, no?" He asked, to which she nodded simply, her mannerisms intentionally mild, coaxing — he seemed a flittering bird, easily rattled. So much to prove, her mum really had riled something in him.

“Do you ever get accustomed to how…" he made a vague, blooming gesture with his fingers, “… much, they are?" he asked, a haunted sort of wonder present in his features, he absently touched his lips again. Lidia shook her head.

“Nae, laddie. Th' Lady was a task tae be 'round, ye became accustomed tae it like ye did sittin' next tae a bonfire," she said with a casual shrug, “Wee weirdness like me an' parlor tricks is easy comparin' tae th' weight o' things like Th' Lady or mum."

“I dreamed about her, last night…" he said quietly, fingers on his lips once more, Lidia felt a twinge of concern, but the glimmer in his eyes instead put a smug little gremlin smile on her lips. Oh he wasn't enspelled, he was infatuated. For all his maturity and bravery, she had simply forgotten he was also barely in his sixteenth summer at best. She remembered boys his age, and being a girl his age besides. He colored a bit as he saw her knowing gaze.

“Apologies, that was quite untowards, this is your mother, the Dame Morgana…" he said and Lidia gently touched his arm, giving him a gentle smile with just a hint of fangs,

“Dinnae make excuses fer bein' human, Al," she said to him, giving him a slow wink, “Ain't nae bit o' shame in bein' attracted tae th' creature what hunts by bein' attractive."

Alphonse colored a bit more at that, but she gave him an earnest little bump of her hip, “Nae like yer leerin' over me mum puttin' out the washing, she even stirred somethin' in Khanenko an' I'm nae certain that man ain't jus' a very clever statue yet," she quipped, putting her back between the rest of the group and Alphonse, her face growing serious; “All said… be wary o' such things, mum is th' queen o' temptress fairies, and she seems to have a taste for Baudelaire men."

Alphonse's eyes widened a bit there, a mixture of fear and excitement, but he swallowed and his logic seemed to win out, “She… was just overwhelming, I wanted to run… but when she kissed me, I just wanted to surrender and have her never stop…"

“Aye, but that ain't nae bit o' faerie magic, that's jus' kissin'," she told him with a wicked little grin, still barely sixteen summers indeed. “Gram can make me feel as iffin' I'm floatin' away."

Alphonse nodded, hugging himself a moment as she hung near him and he took a deep breath, “Good, good, I was concerned, stuck in my own head. She is so… much more than just sight and sound. I thought she had bewitched me, cast some geas upon me," he admitted and Lidia smiled at him.

“Oh she bewitched ye fer sure, jus' only yer juices and not yer spirit," she teased him lightly, giving him another little reassuring wink, “Jus' be wary o' her," she cautioned, touching his arm again, finding his hand and giving it a little urgent squeeze, “She's pitch-black evil, or nearin' as it gets with the fair folk. Jus' 'cause she cannae lie dinnae mean a whit that she cannae lead ye false."

Alphonse smiled, and gave her hand a little squeeze in between his — there were still ink-stains on his fingers, “I'm young, not stupid but… it feels good to hear it from someone with experience," he admitted, drawing himself up as Lidia turned back to catch Gram's eye, the tall Darrowmite slyly having caught her gaze out of the corner of his own, a brief wink the only exchange between them other than Gram's subtle, answering smile.

“Aye, laddie," she said honestly, folding her remaining hand over his and leaning in and giving him a little kiss right on his brow… a habit the Lady had rubbed off on her, “Yer jus' a lad who 'ad his first kiss, 'tis all," she reassured him with a little smile and another wink.

“Mum seemed well pleased with it, an' she cannae lie."

Alphonse blushed brightly, but he puffed up, squared his shoulders a bit as she pulled her hands away, propping them on her hips. Didn't hurt to give the boy a bit of confidence, and if Gram was any indication — being a good kisser was a family trait.

They rejoined the pair a few moments later, Richart noting their appearance with a smile and Khanenko and Gram both with stoic raises of the eyebrows. God in his Heaven, the more she stayed around here the more she saw every little which way her loverboy had grown up, the entire staff and keep itself impressed upon him like the facets of a mold.

“Oh splendid timing, Gram just helped us finish with the final details," Richart said, his son smiling mildly.

“Soldiery at its most basic, division of troops and their stationing, Avalov could have done as much," Gram explained humbly and Richart gave a patient smile.

“He could have, but such does not devalue your council, son."

Gram smiled, but said nothing. Lidia looped her arm into his, hip out-thrust jauntily, her new saber catching the light over the walls. Richart's eyes alighted upon it and his smile widened ever so slightly,

“No need to wait for escort then, I am so ably attended by seasoned adventurers," Richart said pointedly, the two of them meeting eyes for a moment before grinning in unison, Richart's little wild hair since his experience with Dame Morgana had not fully faded yet, perhaps it was not just Alphonse who had found themselves riled by the presence of the lethal fae muse.

“Truthfully I am eager for purpose to show off, it has been some time since we had an outside visitor to our natural wonder turned fortress," Richart explained as they came to the heavily reinforced doors that blocked off the access to the greater cave like a gatehouse. There were red-cloaked guards there as everywhere, but a steely-eyed exchange with Khanenko had them stand down and away, Karnov's men lacking much of their presence here without their leaders. None had made the invaders comfortable.

“Where is Karnov?" Lidia asked Richart quietly as they entered the building, the tall man paused at the door.

“Abed, to be candid. He is feigning introspection on the topics of station, but to be frank… whatever bite you took out of him was enough to take quite a bit of his edge off, we spoke this morning," he explained, furrowing his brow at her speculatively.

“He's not dyin' is he?" Lidia asked reflexively, and Richart smiled at her warmly.

“No, he is definitely hale, but he looked haggard and worn through the brief exchange he spared me," he mused, opening the doors beyond. “Quite like I had been after meeting your mother's price."

Lidia nodded at that, eyes distant. It felt… better, that she hadn't killed him with that little gobbet of… whatever, she'd bitten out of him. Killing wasn't something she particularly enjoyed doing, but she'd been introduced to the brutal necessity of it more than once… but to kill a man by ripping out his essence like that? She shuddered and followed Richart inside.

“Beggin' yer pardon, Milord but… ye let on ye an' Karnov were lads together, can ye tell me more o' that?" She asked, and Richart squared his shoulders, that untamed id seeming to run loose in his mind for a moment.

“It is no secret, people simply respect the privacy of the matter," he said simply with a patient smile, pushing into the surprisingly busy warrens within the first section of the inner workings of the Navel.

It was much as the rest of the keep had been so close to the natural edifice, natural stone and mortar blended easily, the walls chiseled and cut into flush fit for hand-worked flagstones so the cave seemed to grow organically into the structured lines and crisp angles order and geometry. Around them milled a surprisingly common assortment of servants and locals, the scullery boys bustled back and forth through interconnected paths throughout the walls, the smell of musty stores and sharp spices chasing them as they went, the larders were clearly kept this way. A smart way, what was a cave but a great, big cellar?

“Matevi and I were indeed boys together," Richart continued as he lead them through the bustling halls, they paused here and there as they walked. Peeking into great stores of supplies both perishable and military, one such room bristling with well-tended pikes and halberds clearly intended for arming the common folk in a siege. “It was nothing so uncommon among those of our station, both our fathers were serious men, men of duty and station, they had little reason to find their way to the capital despite how their retainers and children craved the High Darrowmite culture," he explained, glancing over many a manifest and report, Khanenko making notes as ordered.

“Our baronies are — were — somewhat close, our fathers were comrades of a sort, and the previous lord of The Navel was a respected man of the Steppe. Naturally, we grew up near one another, to the point that come our younger years of adulthood — my father and Matevi's decided I would be his tutor in things scientific and statistical."

“Ye were his teacher?" she exclaimed in some degree of surprise, getting a smile from the older man.

“Not in so many words, 'tutor' does truly suffice, our fathers thought our natures would balance one another," he said with a smile, nodding to a few members of his staff and sending them on as they continued their tour of the settled parts of the cavern. The path deeper was more living rock than masonry, to the point that the floors gave way from floorboards and flagstones to hand-cut steps into the bones of the Navel itself.

“I dinnae think th' idea took," she mused in a deadpan tone, but Richart tsked at her,

“Nay, they were right, our fathers were far cleverer men than we gave them credit for, Matevi was a fiery youth but no dullard," he explained as he paused, looking up at the great gallery of stalactites that hung above them as they had pushed just beyond the boundary of the major larders and stores — a quiet place with little traffic compared to the busy front-end, and it bore a signature chill. Lidia pulled her hood about her as they walked, Gram and Alphonse in silent attendance, both having the calm, laconic gazes of those who more or less already knew what was being said. Khanenko was Khanenko, unflappable in all things.

“Truly? He seems sharp, but surely he was a proper beast as a lad," Lidia hedged.

“He was my best friend, my closest companion. The nearest thing I ever had to a brother."

Lidia was struck dumb by that, but Richart simply smiled, eyes still distant. Memories of earlier days occupying their far-cast gaze.

“We became close, as those forced to be tend to. Our fathers were obstinate about it, our Baronies were once close, sister territories separated by distance alone," Richart continued, folding his arms behind his back. Behind them, Gram, Alphonse and steadfast Khanenko paused. Their eyes said they had heard those before, in whole or in experience. “Matevi was all the things I am not, a Warrior, an Adventurer, a firebrand proper. He was always full of such fire, such burning passion."

“Ye cannae say ye dinnae 'ave that, I've seen yer sketches, Lady's Teats I've featured in them!" Lidia argued, and Richart smiled at her, turning his gaze from his memories momentarily to bless her with his warm, beatific gaze.

“It is different, I have a passion for knowledge, for my duties. It drove me to excel, but Matevi was consumed by it, and still is, evermore."

Lidia paused at that, the way he spoke of this… beast she'd come to know was comfortable, almost longing. The Baron continued, his voice tinged with a tone of regret.

“I miss those days, when we were like that. When we were like brothers, when his fire fed mine own, when we spoke of the future like nascent demigods destined for greatness…" he sighed, taking his spectacles from his face, “We got everything we wanted, I think. Too much for both our own good."

“How did…" she paused, and her gaze slipped to Gram, and she winced. Her loverboy ever understanding, seemed to happily ignore the obvious indication, Richart sighed and looked towards the floor.

“People change. Power changes them fastest, tragedy even faster," Richart said with a bitterness that had no bite to it, a tired old hurt. “Simone was… a mutual interest, both for our fathers and ourselves."

“Nae fer nothin', but I can see how she opted fer ye over him," Lidia said in a small voice, hugging herself around the middle, Richart frowned, looking down at his lenses with sadness and old anger haunting his eyes like ghosts.

“Matevi did not used to be this way. His father's death changed him. He went to the Steppes to honor him he came back from his services wearing that stole… and he was different. Harder, a sharper sort of person."

Silence ruled for a moment as the Baron regarded the gallery of spires hanging from the ceiling again, this part of the cavern was mostly unworked, a simply natural passage that was serviceable and simply smoothed out and cut into, the walls driven with heavy wrought-iron scones, floors and surfaces worn smooth by decades of servants and lords alike striding through it, touching, brushing and rubbing against the limestone walls until they were ground smooth.

“He was a different man that day on, and it lead us to very different lives." He said crisply, replacing his glasses with a gesture that signaled quite keenly the topic was closed. Lidia frowned.

“Yer a bigger man than I'd 'ave managed, bein' able tae forgive him after… that."

“I never forgave Matevi, Lidia," Richart said in a sudden, quiet voice that was devoid of every blush of his usual warmth, cold as the cave walls. Gram, Alphonse, and stalwart Khanenko all turned sharply to that barely-audible tone, the boys with a familiar, child-like anxiety in their eyes. Lidia looked up to those coffee colored eyes and found them empty and flat, his face serene but…. still. Mask-like.

“I am not a wrathful man, but neither am weak-willed. The rive he created between us can never be mended. It is only because I am a man of station do I deal with him as I do, with courtesy and a modicum of decorum," he explained in that calculating, icy tone.

“Were it for my heart and not my head to judge, I would have him thrown from the tower walls."

Lidia's eyes widened at that, Richart's transformation from the gentle, studious, wonderfully gregarious man to this frosty-eyed figure of implacable authority was seamless and without effort. Unconsciously, the mere presence of that tone had caused both Gram and Alphonse to stand straighter, and Lidia felt a very real desire to append 'Milord' and 'Sir' to her responses.

“Ye… do a good job o' bein' the better man, milord," she said, doing just that. Richart's gaze warmed after a moment, and he sighed with a rueful smile. He touched her cheek fondly.

“Worry not, you mean well — it simply tasks me with how familiar it is to speak with him still. The hurt and outrage boil right here," he tapped his heart, but his face fell to mute sorrow, “Yet… it is so easy to fall into our old rapport, I even catch Matevi slipping into his old mannerisms, his old self." The tall man shook his head.

“I see him with Colette, and he is genuine and gentle. I see the old Matevi I read poetry and history with, and I miss him."

The gallery beyond answered with silence, the faint trickle of water and the pervading chill of the air seeping in to fill the emptiness, a literal frozen moment of pain. A soft sniff was all the sound he made, straightening his glasses and turning his face towards the coaxing tendril of cold.

“Ah, I do believe I promised to show off a little, no?" he said and once again, despite the pall, he was Richart again. Lidia accepted the offer, an olive branch and quiet plea, sliding closer to the older man.

“Aye, I'm jus' a provincial woodcutter's lass," she said, looping her arm in his, giving him her brightest smile, “Dazzle me wit' yer fanciness."

Richart's smile showed genuine gratitude, aye… she wasn't so good with people, but she knew what hurtin' looked like. That part she was good at.

They continued on, the rest of the party closing the distance they had given the pair, Gram ghosting up to take her free hand, forming a warm chain of hands between Richart, Lidia and Gram. She flushed with a sudden surge of desire for this man… his family had hurt so much, these men and boys hurt so much… she wanted to take care of them, like she had her little gang of street-rats back home. Maybe she'd get them some red scarves, the thought brought an earnest smile to her face as she squeeze the hands of father and son together.

She liked this place. These people. Damned if she was going to give it to Karnov.

The galleries wended and wound, the natural cavern actively and aggressively repurposed to the uses of it's caretakers. She could see places where the path of natural tunnels was adjusted by walls of brick and mortar quarried from the said-same stone as the cave itself. There was an artistry to the placement of brick and flagstone, the natural beauty of the cavern itself was in as many places as it could be, preserved — above them at all times hung a glittering forest of stalactites as they passed into the deeper parts of the complex, the air growing noticeably colder. Some sections had simply chest-level walls of bricks roping off dead drops, or wide, open spaces beyond with too-still water, or glittering strings of pearlescent, dripping stone like ribbons of wax pouring down the walls. All was lit carefully by the now-familiar torch sconces driven into the limestone.

“The caverns go quite a ways, but only some of them were deemed safe for traversal by man. The original founders of the fortress have extensive documents of the natural features of the caverns, and seem to have taken great care to preserve it where they could," Richart explained, the subtle joy returning to his voice as he gestured to another distant gallery beyond the warding barriers, this one with a long, deep passage that lined by curving, undulating walls slick with moisture around a lazy, still stream that poured near-silently through, torchlight illuminating the long, crystalline canal in eerie light.

“This is part of the natural spring that feeds the whole complex, and in truth cut these caves into the mountain in ancient ages past to begin with," he said and his breath fogged ever so slightly as he spoke.

“Why's it so cold?" Lidia asked, pressing up against Gram for warmth, she was dressed for summer, bare arms with thin clothing besides, and the chill as they'd descended slowly down had slowly grown from refreshing to biting.

“Ah, we are close to the icehouse, our destination on this little jaunty tour," Richart said as they passed under another series of doors, he paused nearby and took a woolen smock off a hook nearby, and handed it to Gram — who proceeded to bundle it around the more sparely-clothed changeling. She smiled and burrowed into his side nevertheless, the others were more appropriately dressed, Gram's gambeson adequately cutting the chill, and Richart and Alphonse both dressed in their customary scholarly housecoats, draw closed against the cool air.

Khanenko might as well not have noticed. Man was made out of stone, she swore.

The passage ended in a wide arch of tight-fitting stones made of dense red clay bricks, expertly fitted together around a large iron-banded wooden door, its edges and gaps filled by large leather lips that sealed it snugly. Gram rose to the occasion to pull the heavy doors open, a blast of frigid air rushing out and fogging the breath once more before the warmer air of the passage equalized.

The inside of the chamber was a large bowl-shaped room with more and more of that heavy red brick. Every surface was carefully lined and insulated, and covered with a powder-fine layer of frost. Even the brief contact with the outside air had begun to melt that paper-thin layer of rime, covering the whole of the area in a glittering blanket of diamonds. The outside area was lined with shelves, casks, barrels and bottles, all covered in that shimmering sheathe of icy stillness, it was easily the size of the chapel upstairs all on its own. The center area was simply stacked with massive, rectangular blocks of ice, each one thick as her waist and long as her leg. They were all stacked and arranged in some mad sort of order, some more worn and oblong than others with the melt and remelt of the opening of doors, fusing together into a solid icy floor in the middle of the bowl-shaped room

“The room itself is built on a long sort of fissure, that lets out into a treacherously narrow gallery beyond, you can see the access there," He said, gesturing to the far end of the bowl-shaped room, where a chute of sorts was kept carved clear where the bricks gave way to a more natural cut in the stone, where the ice funneled with runoff from melt into a passage perhaps half-again as wide as Lidia's shoulders, not enough room for two men to stand adjacent — and too low to stand besides.

“How's it stay so fookin' cold?" Lidia breathed in wonder, holding her hands near her face and watching her breath. Richart laughed a little, cheer returning despite the nip. He tapped the walls.

“The clay of the bricks is packed in layers with straw and loose fill, it keeps the cold in here, and the air being pulled naturally through the cavern down into the chute creates a sort of cooling effect." He said, drawing a line from the door and the natural entrance to the room and the chute at the end. “We restock the ice every winter, it does melt some, forming that heavy plug of permafrost in the bottom, but the combined efforts mean there is fresh, solid ice here year-round, as well as the benefits it garners,"

By way of example, the tall man scooped a tin cup off a nearby shelf and gently blew the rime off it, and turned the knob on a nearby tap in a frost-rimed cask. A foggy amber liquid poured from the spigot, chips of frost glittering in the stream as he halted it and handed it gregariously over to her. Gamely, the little changeling took the cup, and sipped at it curiously. Her eyes lit up with delight.

“Cider!"

“Casks of it," Richart confirmed as she greedily knocked back the rest of the bracingly cold beverage, spreading his hand to the far wall and it's heavy iron-banded racks stacked taller than him. “The ridge and its foothills are alive with apples and cherries, the ice lets us store it year-round with little effort," he said as she upended the empty cup to drain the last drops — Richart inquiringly laying his hand on the spigot once more, a knowing smile on his face. With a shy smile, she nodded and placed her cup under the tap once more.

“The good Master is content to show off, but the rest of us have responsibilities to see to. Your attention, if you please," Khanenko reported crisply as Richart filled the little redhead's cup, smiling at his friend's rigid demeanor as he marched with purpose to the opposite end of the round, dished chamber, with aplomb he indicated the previously mentioned chute. It was perhaps ten spans deep, at a lazy, easy grade to its incline. In the depths beyond gleamed a heavy iron gate, wrought bars glistening with a thin layer of ice, picks and mattocks hung nearby for the obvious purpose of keeping such clear.

“We clear the gate of blockages on the regular, and the hinges are fortified with fresh oil seasonally, however the gates tend to freeze nevertheless and require a bit of force," he said, turning a raised eyebrow to the pair near the casks; “Master Gram however, should find it offers him little challenge with a bit of gumption."

Gram flexed his fingers thoughtfully as he looked down at the gates, though Richart's easy smile faded to a frown of dubious concern.

“We put that gate up for a reason, there is far more danger than mere darkness within the depths of the Navel," Richart said with a tinge of fear in his voice, “Horrible losses, always the unaware, careless, and the young." His voice ached with the familiarity of loss, Alphonse as well seemed suddenly a bit more pale, nothing to do with the chill in the air.

“One of my… friends, when I was a boy got lost in the caves, his name was Alain," Alphonse said, eyes on that grate with wary concern, “We weren't supposed to play down in the cellars but everyone did anyways. He went past the ice chute on a dare. We were following his lantern for a while… and then it just, disappeared." Alphonse looked very upset, Richart took over.

“Alain had tripped and fallen into a small chute, too small for an adult but… the boy was maybe twelve. He tumbled in headfirst and wedged in too tight to scream," Richart explained, raising his hands up against his chest and miming them pinned there.

“Could not scream. Could not call out. Just alone there in the dark until he expired."

That grisly statement hung heavily in the air between them, the darkness of the tunnel beyond suddenly as forboding as the grave. Lidia's sensitive vision extended further beyond the glimmering frost-rimed gate than the rest. She saw into that gloom, the twisting, organic tunnels beyond. She had not been truly underground, into the wild bones of the earth since Bart had come riding from the Glade limned in golden fire and divine fury. Trepidation caught her words in her throat as a shiver went through her that had little to do with the ice and rime. Fear dared to stay her tongue and her feet, fear of the deep, cold places underground. Fear of friends dying in the dark.

“I can do it," She said in a quiet voice. Images of Franc's headless body fountaining gore came unbidden to her mind, twisting her guts with a wrench of remorse, and she squared her shoulders against it and the chill alike.

“I 'ave tae do it."

Richart's face was grave as he nodded, turning his eyes away from the dark chute.

“I will not press it further then, you are not children playing at adventures in the dark, no matter how my heart still feels on the matter," Richart said, and the convincing edge of his tone was directed inward at himself as he looked at the pair, particularly Gram, “You are staunch adventurers, heroes even — with the aid of a dark fairy I have paid handsomely for your safety," he continued and his voice grew suddenly soft. Urgent. Desperate.

“But you're still my little boy, and I am sending you into the dark."

Here, in the cold and dim of the Icehouse, with fingers numb and lips turning blue, the weight of things had settled on everyone. The ghost of young Alain seemed to be in attendance, a pall of sorrow and worry falling over all, even unflappable Khanenko seemed diminished by it. Richart looked Gram right in the eyes, and all pretense was lost.

“My little boy is going into the dark without me, and I am afraid."

Gram met his father's eyes, and he smiled, his back straight and his shoulders set.

“I fear not the dark, father. I have things and people worth fighting its grim pall for."

Richart nodded, his throat working silently as he turned his eyes away the dark passage beyond, emotion and fears running high in this cold place, his hands shook slightly as he pulled his robes close tight around him.

“I know, son. That is what frightens me."

~ ~ ~

The plan set, the would-be conspirators dispersed to their duties, little else to do to prepare until the Dame arrived with her Murk and guidance. Lidia was glad to be free of the chill of the icehouse and its larders, rubbing her arms as the sun baked the chill from her bones — she'd miss it before long, the summer's heat was already rising as they approached noon.

Gram surprisingly, caught Khaneko by the arm as they left, staying him as his father and brother continued on, Khanenko caught the soldier's gaze with an inquiring eyebrow but nothing else.

“This Alain, this tragedy in the caverns, I don't know of it."

Khanenko's eyebrows both raised and he nodded, drawing himself up straight and looking to Lidia, who had joined her lover, wrapping her arms around his rightmost and leaning her face into his bicep. Gram nodded.

“Anything fit for my ears is fit for hers."

The Steward nodded and squared his shoulders, arms snugly folded behind his back, eyes distant for a moment. Even his thoughts were neat and orderly.

“It was some years after you had left, Alain was the child of two of our commonfolk, Derek and Liselle, the cobbler and his wife," He said, Gram nodding in remembrance, his intense gaze not leaving Khanenko as he continued. “Alain was a good lad, formed a fast friendship with Alphonse, the 'Two Als' they called them. He did much to help Master Alphonse open up and creep out of his shell after your departure."

Gram was clearly stung by that, she felt it more than anything, a now-familiar tensing of muscles in his arm and neck, silently she tangled her fingers with his, squeezing his calloused fingers in her own, tiny digits. Immediately, the tension slacked. Gratification flowed through her as she nestled to his side, his hand squeezing hers in return.

“Sparing much, they were fairly inseparable, as young boys are. They had taken to exploring the grounds, playing as adventurers. This lead them of course to the Navel, its stores, and the wild tunnels beyond the Icehouse," Khanenko summarized crisply, turning his gaze to Richart's back as he crossed the green, following his son back to the chapel where the bulk of the scrambling and smoke had died down.

“Alain was the bolder of the two, as is obvious to anyone's reckoning. When they discovered the tunnels beyond the chute, they made a plan to map the tunnels. Parchment, ropes, a lantern, everything you'd expect," Khanenko related tersely, his mouth worked into a frown. “Alain went first, Alphonse and their playmates watching from the edge of the chute. They said he simply disappeared as if the ground swallowed him."

The steward took a moment, and the gestured to the ramparts. Gram nodded and they all began to walk, the cool breeze bringing with it the scent of rain on the horizon. Khanenko was silent a moment.

“Alphonse came to your father. You know Lord Richart, so you know how he responded."

“He went personally," Gram stated with surety, the steward nodded.

“I joined him, as did Avalov and much of his corps of engineers. The passage was honeycombed with dead drops, cubbyholes and natural vents, the ice and moisture makes the stones past the chute slick and treacherous," he said and took a breath.

“We found the lad some distance around the bend, spotted by the rope they'd tied around him. A small opening no bigger than a serving platter, he'd clearly lost his footing and fallen forward. He'd wedged head-down some twenty spans below, the light from the lanterns only barely reached him. All attempts to free him only hurt the boy, or risked collapsing the chute, none were small enough to fit after him." There was another pause and Khanenko turned to face the wind, the stormclouds looming on the far horizon.

“He was trapped like that nearly two full days before he expired. Richart and his father never left his side until they were sure."

Lidia made a small sound of misery in he throat, squeezing tight around Gram's arm. Khanenko's stoic demeanor wavered only a moment as he straightened his back pointedly.

“I brought their meals to that place. Richart and Derek stayed with him as he screamed, cried, begged… and eventually simply fell unconscious and never woke," there was another pause. Khanenko closing his steely eyes against the memory before continuing. “Derek and Liselle left the Barony after that, with Richart's blessing and a nestegg to start anew with, and he installed that gate and banned all children from the deeper stores, yet he never really recovered." The stoic steward turned his gaze to Gram pointedly.

“He had just lost you, and Lady Simone. It was too much."

Gram had nothing it seemed to say to that, his jaw worked tightly but his gaze turned beyond the wall. She wanted to comfort him with words, but she had none to give either. She clung tightly to him, holding his hand in hers. Khanenko continued.

“He shut himself away. He drank much, ate little. He only was himself when his children needed him, expending every scrap of kindness for them, and leaving none for himself," The steward's impassive gaze was hard and his chin rose in the air. “It was the wedge that ultimately began the events you see here today. Louis began to grow more distant as Richart smothered him in desperate love, Alphonse withdrew to his studies, and Lord Richart simply… bled."

“Karnov scented the blood and like any good predator, took advantage," Gram said grimly, and Khanenko nodded without objection.

“He used Louis' bitterness as a wedge. I do believe he cares for the boy in some fashion, but as one would a useful tool… or perhaps an untrained hound.

“I should never have left," Gram stated, Lidia squeezed his hand and Khanenko spoke before she could find the words.

“With respect, Master Gram — I would ask you to cease flogging yourself so else I will put you in the stocks and do so correctly."

Gram blinked. Lidia leaned around the tall man's side with wide eyes. Khanenko was unflappable as he turned his gaze back to the horizon.

“It does none of us any good, and if I am forced to watch you and Lord Richart bleed on one another for presumed past inadequacies of judgment I daresay I will do something drastic," the steely-eyed man added, straightening his shoulders once more. “Life is as it will be, nothing more, nothing less."

“I think that is the most words you've said in one place since I was a child," Gram mildly, Khanenko nodded.

“An indulgence, but I felt the need to be clear."

Lidia in spite of herself, giggled softly into Gram's side. Khanenko's face turned serious, for Khanenko.

“Go to him, Master Gram, before you leave this night. Speak with him earnestly, forgive him. He has never forgiven himself."

“Forgiven himself for what?"

“You."

Gram fell silent at that. It was a simple answer, but a total one. Khanenko continued after a moment.

“He loves you. He never forgave himself for allowing Baron Karnov to cuckold him of being your sire. Many nights when he was deep in cups and pipes he has lamented to me that you are not his, not as Alphonse, Colette and Louis are — but he does not curse you, blame you for that. Only himself." Khanenko shifted his shoulders irritably.

“Were it put to me, young master — I would simply switch you both until such mummer's foolishness left both your minds. This house has too-long been shadowed by the auspices of your birth, and not the light of your life," he said and quite pointedly looked Gram dead in the eye.

“Change that, before you leave again. Karnov is abed and your father is hurting. You have your chance."

There was a silence then, the growing storm taking all of their attention. A better metaphor for the night's coming efforts one could not ask for, as with many things lately — God provided.

“It is good to have you home again, Master Gram," Khanenko said after a silence, straightening his posture and taking a deep breath, “I have missed you dearly."

Gram, himself a changed man, responded in such a way that showed those changes, that growth she'd personally witnessed. He extended an arm, and simply embraced the man, his arms around them both as they watched the ominous clouds gather. Khanenko managed a minor smile — and put his arm around Gram as well.

They watched the clouds like that for a while. The world could wait.

~ ~ ~

Lidia left Gram after a while, though not before she pulled him aside for a long-overdue, and very thorough kiss. Khanenko gone to attend his duties, and none else paying great amounts of attention to them upon the wall, she pulled him into the shadow of a parapet and all but climbed him to pour her personal brand of affection over him. She kissed him with purpose, with passion, with need — doing her level best to push past all that pain, all that hurt and touch her mouth to his heart through his lips.

“Ye should do as ye were asked, loverboy," she purred. They had made something of a session of it, and she found herself pushed back against the masonry of one of the far turrets, easily a foot off the ground in Gram's arms, his mouth feasting on the pale length of her bare throat. Her legs wound around him and her fingers had long since found purchase in his glossy black hair, but still she moaned her orders in his ear.

“I shall, once I am finished here," He agreed and she gave a little mewl of delight as he buried his mouth in her throat again, his mustaches tickling and caressing her sensitive flesh, and her legs tightening around his waist — much easier without the armor, she mused as her mind fogged briefly again with pleasure, Gram's lips finding her ear and getting a little jolt of delight from her.

“Iffin' ye keep that up I'm th' one who's gonna finish…" she gasped, and his mouth and tongue did not cease their questing despite that, causing her to undulate and writhe beneath him in breathy desire before slowly they came back down from the passionate high. She had come to know Gram well, and she knew he needed an… outlet, for lack of better phrasing in her provincial mind. When he hurt, she made herself available to him, to hold, kiss, caress — he was a duty-focused sort of man, and he viewed loving her as a task to focus on, and focus on her he did. Times like this, where his heart hurt and he wandered the corridors of his memories, reopening old wounds — these were the times she would force her way into his arms, his heart, and his mind, blotting out the old hurts with new love.

“A wonderful woman you have turned out to be," Gram growled against her and she giggled lustily, this wasn't even close to the first time the pair had stolen away to neck like lusty teenagers, a long-awaited desire none seemed to really begrudge them. She quietly found herself even fonder of the Radiant Order, for a bunch of stuffy churchmen — having the Queen of Love as their patron had made of them all romantics.

“Ah'm jus' a little Redcap," she teased and cupped his face, turning his mouth to hers. She'd be lying if she tried to claim this was only for him, she as well thrived in his arms, under his calloused, careful fingers. The emotional, elemental release of intimacy was something she had long-craved and now had even if it was somewhat arrested by propriety. There were no customs against making out like a pair of lovestruck shepherds.

“My Little Redcap, and a fair lady besides," Gram countered in a low voice before his tongue invaded her mouth again. She lost track of time for a blissful few minutes as their mouths tangled back together and her legs and arms tightened around him, feeling his warmth as a sharp contrast from the cool, damp breeze riding ahead of the storm.

“Flatterer," she teased and took another share of his lips for her own. He did not object.

The desire to stay there was powerful, but Khanenko's words echoed in her mind. Reluctantly, she drew her mouth back, pressing her brow to her beloved's.

“Ye should go tae him, loverboy," she breathed, stroking his face, her alien eyes intense and intimate as she gazed into his own. Gram's face sobered, and he nodded, stealing one last soft kiss from her before setting her back on her feet. She was a fright of mussed hair and disheveled clothing… and she didn't care one whit. Let Karnov's men see Gram's love written on her face in red marks and a winsome smile.

“Will you walk with me?" He asked, taking her hand, and she smiled with a flash of fangs and joy.

“O' course, loverboy."

The pair descended the walls hand in hand, and in spite of it all, she felt the pall lift just a bit. They could do this, they could save everyone. Her heart sang at the thought.

They found Lord Richart in the study, Alphonse had returned to help Father Denis with the cleanup of the chapel, and Khanenko had returned to his own multifarious duties. Louis had been absent the entire day, not even Gram was sure where he'd gone but none seemed concerned. The entire walk over was a bustle of activity, the fire and resulting tumult had joined with the coming storm preparations. The wall of clouds was growing more ominous by the minute.

Richart's face looked up from his lectern as Lidia lead the way, peeking in the door with Gram just out of sight, she smiled softly and looked up to Gram, who pushed the door open a bit more. Colette sat nearby on the floor with a doll and a large book, also glancing up with wide, innocent eyes.

“Oh, I expected you two to spend the remainder of what little sunshine we would have on the grounds," Richart offered, casting his gaze to one of the narrow windows and the oncoming storm, before him were a series of papers, rolls, and ledgers — he was the Lord of this keep, and it had responsibilities beyond reading books and sampling fancy cheeses.

“I wish to speak with you father, if your duties permit it," Gram said, joining them fully in the room, he met Lidia's eyes with a bit of shame in his own, “Alone, if you don't mind my love."

“Nae one bit, loverboy," She said, leaning up to kiss his cheek. Richart turned from his work with a raise of his eyebrows, the seriousness in Gram's tone drew one's attention. Colette looked between the two men quietly.

“Colette, sweetling," Richart said softly, she looked at him but didn't say anything — Lidia supposed she was still miffed at the previous exchange, “Go with Miss Shaw for a while, would you?"

The little girl seemed to hesitate a moment, but nodded, closing her book and gathering her doll to her chest, she turned to Lidia who caught Richart's gaze as well, and he smiled softly.

“Why don't the two of you go down to the kitchens for a little repast? I'm sure the staff will have a few treats on hand," he offered, Lidia nodding and reaching out her hand to the little girl… only to be denied as she hugged her doll more tightly, that bright-eyed curiosity replaced by wariness.

“Well… we can jus' walk together then," she said and Colette nodded, The pair leaving as Gram sat down by his father. She caught his eyes one last time before the door closed, blowing him a kiss.

Alone in the hall, she bit her lip and looked down at the small child, giving a little shrug.

“I hate tae admit it, but I dinnae know th' way tae th' kitchens."

Colette's face turned from stoic to a bit peaked, the changeling having to suppress a giggle as she wrinkled her nose the same way her father did before stepping out front with intense, almost comical seriousness, leading them down the corridors. Lidia supposed she wasn't talking to her still.

The trek was silent, Lidia idly toying her hands across the hilt of her saber. The weapon was still new to her, and she found herself fidgeting with it as she walked — it'd take her days to find a truly comfortable way to sit it on her hip, it had with her messer before. Sometimes she missed the simplicity of a simple knife, but the reality of the world she lived in demanded a full length of steel. Colette's eyes tracked to it as well, watching her fidgeting as they walked.

“That's like brother's sword," she said after a while, her voice somewhat stiff and pouty — ah, to be a wee girl again, full of pique and stubbornness… fairly, she hadn't fully outgrown that herself. She nodded.

“Aye, Gram gifted it tae me, I'm rather fond o' it," she said, playing her hands across the worn hilt, feeling where Gram's fingers had worn it smooth. She liked that part, even now she could feel his hand in hers as she wrapped it around the hilt.

“Are you going to hurt brother with it too?"

Lidia balked at that, and she came up short, turning an incredulous, hurt gaze on the little girl.

“Why would ye say somethin' like that?" She breathed, the pair alone in the hallways. The little girl's eyes were wide and full of a familiar kind of pain. She'd seen them reflecting back at her in dirty pools and cracked mirrors far too often.

“You hurt brother before, in the yard. He said you cheated."

Lidia gaped at that a bit, folding her arms around her middle at the chill that ran through her. Louis, that right bastard, she shook her head.

“Nay lass, I dinnae cheat one whit, A'hm jus' what I am, I cannae help being quick an' bendy as a willow branch, and iffin' ye forget — he hurt me too."

Colette seemed to consider that, her face far too serious for a girl of maybe ten summers — much like Alphy and Louis both — she seemed to have been forced to grow up too fast in some ways. Lidia's heart ached at the familiarity, the little girl nodded a bit, but her eyes didn't lose that gleam of betrayal.

“Baron Karnov says you're not to be trusted," she hedged, and Lidia felt her belly drop again.

“Does he now?" She answered icily, her frown unable to hide. Colette nodded, her brows knitting seriously.

“He says you're just pretending to love Gram, and that you're going to take him away from us forever, Papa too."

Lidia felt white-hot fury replace the dull anger, and she had to marshal herself to not simply start spitting and swearing, she turned her face away and let out a breath.

“What do ye think?" She asked testily, her voice clipped. Colette didn't seem to notice, but she still had discontent in her eyes.

“I think things were nice until you came… but… you also brought big brother Gram home…" she said warily, gripping her doll as she seemed to carefully feel around at the ideas, her eyes searching back and forth on the tiles for words. Lidia let her think, her own mind a raging torrent of fury. How dare they. She was a child, she had no business being leveraged against her and her family like this. She hadn't kicked Louis in the bollocks nearly hard enough. The little girl frowned a bit.

“… But it's nice to not be the only girl anymore, I don't really remember Mum, Papa says she was nice but… he gets so sad when he talks about her," she added thoughtfully, frowning as she struggled with far too adult concepts for her to really needs be coping with, she looked up at last, confusion in those dark eyes.

“Gram seems happy around you, Papa too… Papa's been sad for so long," she mused and Lidia sighed, kneeling down to put herself on the level with the child.

“Colette… I love yer brother, it isn't sidhe magic or sommat mystical thing, nae it's jus' love," she said, folding her hands over her heart, “He was good tae me when he nae had to be, saved me from th' dark places, I could ne'er hurt him… Gram is my loverboy, my shinin' star…" she sighed as the girl's eyes remained skeptical.

“What'll it take for ye tae believe me?"

The little girl stared at her hard, the Baudelaire Stare might as well be its very own phenomenon, she'd seen it in Gram, Louis, Alphy, and Richart alike — and now this little blonde girl put it to her the same as they had, she then stuck out her hand, pinkie extended.

“Swear."

Lidia stared at that herself, and an incredulous smile spread across her lips, she hooked her own pinkie finger into the girl's own, taking a very serious expression.

“Don't swear if you don't mean it," Colette said, and Lidia nodded gravely.

“Cross me heart, may th' Empty Queen tear me soul apart," she said seriously, drawing two lines across her chest with her free hand, the little girl's eyes widening at the very, very serious schoolyard oath. Lidia knew how to speak to the young ones, and a pang of loss flitted through her… she missed the rest of her little Redcaps.

“Do… you hate Louis?" She asked warily, still not drawing her hand away — the hooked fingers practically a lifeline as she spoke. Lidia sighed and closed her eyes.

“… Nae, nae I dinnae hate him. I'm angry, right furious — he hurt me, an' then Karnov hurt me worse, and worse than that, they both hurt Gram," she explained, and Colette's eyes widened as she continued, “I can take some harsh words, iffin' I 'ave tae, nae shortage o' men sayin' sharp things tae me on account o' me blood — but they hurt Gram, in his heart." She suddenly found her cheeks wet, unexpected tears briefly falling as she took a breath… she hadn't said it out loud before. It had more power with words.

“They hurt his heart, wee one. How could they do that? How could anyone hurt that wonderful man an' his great, big heart…" She trailed off, wiping her face with her free hand, “Lady's Teats, I'm cryin' all th' bloody time now."

To her surprise, Colette's little hand came up, holding a little, lacy handkerchief, her doll tucked shyly under her chin.

“… I cry a bunch too, Papa says it's ok but… I wanna be like my brothers, they don't cry all the time."

Lidia took the little kerchief and dried her eyes, smiling down at it as she looked at their hooked fingers again, and with a breath she met Colette's gaze.

“Iffin' I was a sidhe, I could nae lie straight, right?" She asked, and the girl nodded. Lidia nodded back.

“I swear tae ye, upon the Lady, Love, and God's Light, I cannae ever hurt Gram, I love him. I love him madly wee one, it drives me crazy how much. I wanna stay here, forever. I wanna wear dresses an' have babies an' grow old wit' him and ye all, an' that's the truth."

The girl's wide eyes grew somehow wider at that, and the ideas clicked into place in her too-young mind, she bit her lip a little — clearly embarrassed by her pouty behavior, but Lidia smiled at her.

“Hey, hey nae need fer that… ye were worried for yer family, that's good… I worry about my Big Brother too."

“Ser Bart?" Colette prompted, she'd listened to their tale as much as anyone had, Lidia nodded.

“He's big an' strong, even bigger than Gram… but he's got a soft heart, I worry so much… that… that he won't come back tae me someday."

“… Like Gram," Colette concluded, and Lidia nodded.

“Aye, jus' like Gram, an' Louis, an' even Alphy, they need us, aye?"

Colette nodded fiercely, and Lidia smiled.

“We square?"

The little girl frowned a scoche, and bit her lip before she answered.

“I… think so, at least for my brothers, and Papa… but… why do you and Baron Karnov fight so much?" She asked, eyes wide and her face lost, “He's so nice and handsome, and gentle too… he reads me stories and does all the parts, he even gets up and acts out the swordfights!" she said, clearly excited… and Lidia felt the jab of pain, Richart's words of 'The Old Matevi' ringing true… nay, she couldn't break the child's heart about him, not yet.

“Karnov an' I… he's jus'…" she sighed and closed her eyes, “He worries I'm nae what I say I am, an' that I'm leadin' Gram an' everyone by th' nose."

“And… you aren't." Colette surmised, Lidia nodded, “Why doesn't he believe you?"

Lidia shrugged, shaking her head. She had an answer… but one not for a girl of ten summers.

A gurgling growl came from somewhere behind the doll tucked to the little girl's chest, and she blushed. Lidia grinned a bit.

“Iffin' I've passed yer muster, wee one… why don't we go get some o' that lovely cheese an' venison?"

“Can I have a cherry tart?" The little girl wheedled, and Lidia laughed, standing back up.

“We'll 'ave two."

~ ~ ~

Lidia and her tiny charge spent the better part of the afternoon doing absolutely nothing worth nothing, as was good and proper. Lunch and treats of cherry tarts had, Lidia was herself treated to a surprisingly mundane time just enjoying the young girl's enthusiasm. As soon as they'd squared away that she wasn't some monster here to ruin everything, the tiny blonde maiden was simply bursting with questions and desires for play. Lidia indulged herself and the little girl the same, and before long a full day of laughter, stories, mild gossip, and cartwheels through the green had passed. They were out on the lawn before the church, heedless of the oncoming storm even as the moisture danced on the winds — the sun still shone for now, they danced to spite the stormclouds, physical and emotional both.+

“How do you do that?" Colette asked with a little seethe of playful jealousy as Lidia casually stretched after their tumbling antics — staying limber was important in her lifestyle, and quite frequently while Gram was doing press-ups and the like, she would bend and twist herself to keep lithe and loose.

“D'what?" The changeling asked blithely, lifting her leg straight up from the turf to point toes-up to the sky in a single, fluid motion, never once faltering in her balance. The little girl scowled at her.

“You know what!" She fumed a bit, trying to mirror Lidia's boneless grace, and serving only to get about halfway to the pose, lock up and totter over into the grass with a thump. Lidia laughed in spite of the face she got for it, carefully rotating her hips to lower her leg back down to the grass, wiggling her toes in it. Both of them had abandoned shoes a quarter-hour beforehand, she felt like a proper kid again for a few hours.

“Well, first of ye need tae be born o' fae blood so yer bendy as anythin'," she said with a crooked grin, looming with a bit of theatrical smugness over the little girl before reaching down and propping her back up on her feet, “An' then ye need tae spend hours toilin' away at practice on whatever ye can," she said, pointedly turning a cartwheel past the little girl and alighting upon one of the nearby planters, it's rim no wider than two fingers — her form at ease, she'd practiced on worse.

“I don't think I have any fae blood, daddy is just pretty like that," Colette said with such frankness that Lidia couldn't contain her snicker in response as the blonde girl hopped up behind her red-headed playmate, much less artfully, much less gracefully, and followed along with sprightly eagerness.

“Aye, I suppose he is," she tittered, walking across the narrow ledge with a comfortable dexterity, turning in place where the little girl walked, arms out, brow furrowed in concentration as Lidia leaned down, walking backwards on the ledge with a smug little grin, “Iffin' ye start now, surely ye'll manage the toil," she teased, getting a little tongue sticking out at her in return. More laughter. More distant thunder.

The wind was wet and cold as Master Khanenko found them, turning handsprings in the grass and telling stories of far-away places.

“Lady Colette, Miss Shaw," he prompted them, the early-evening sun itself shying behind the oncoming clouds. The calm laying like a too-heavy blanket over the compound, Lidia peeked up from the grass, splayed out, fresh green stains on hands, knees and bare toes. “I must inform you that Lady Colette is due for her lessons in scripture at the chapel," he said with a heavy set of his shoulders and brows at the mirrored green smudges on the tiny blonde girl — plus extra where the less-graceful lass toppled rather than tumbled. Both girls grinned at him.

“G'on, then. Father Denis is to old tae be waitin' on us wee folk," Lidia said, nudging the little girl who seemed quite ready to try to wheedle more time with the changeling, and in other circumstances she'd likely do the same — but there were things to do.

“He'd wait if I asked him to," Colette sighed ruefully, but the tone of her tiny voice made it clear she never would. Precocious as she was, the little girl had also inherited her family's apparently wide streak towards justice. Khanenko nodded crisply.

“Very good, Lady. Miss Shaw, Master Gram has requested your presence in the study as well," he said with an inclination of his head. Colette sprang up from where she sat on the green, and ran over to wrap Lidia in a sudden, unexpected hug around her middle, the little changeling caught off guard, wordlessly giving her a little squeeze back before she grabbed her shoes and made for the chapel, pausing before she went.

“Thank you for playing with me. It's nice, like having a big sister," she said, beaming, “I always wanted a big sister."

With that she scampered away, barefoot and grass-stained and full of life. Khanenko raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the exchange, Lidia rising to dust herself off with a shrug and a rueful sort of smile.

“Wee ones," she said, Khanenko nodding along.

“Quick to hurt, quick to forgive, I daresay the young Mistress has some experience," he answered, and she smiled at him.

“Ye, somethin' like that."

The cold wind blew in behind them, with it the scent of the coming storm. Couldn't be helped.

Lidia found her way back to the study without Khanenko's help, but maintaining his company. She allowed him to open the door and announce her, he did seem to very much enjoy his work.

“Miss Shaw, as requested Milord," the severe man said, raising an eyebrow at her as she entered, still quite disheveled and grass-stained from the afternoon's fun and foibles on the green. Richart and Gram both turned to her, the pair sharing the chaise lounge rather than the usual chairs by the fire. Lidia's eyes widened as she recognized puffy faces and red eyes on both men. They had been crying, even Gram's deep-set, blue eyes were rimmed with the exertions of tears. She set her teeth to her lip, must have been some talk.

“Lidia, just who I wanted to see," Richart said, and there was a catch in his voice as he rose to meet her, Khanenko quietly fading into the background, closing the door behind him — as the master of the house seized her in a powerful hug. His slender frame was like steel as he crushed her to his chest, and she felt a shuddering sob wrack his shoulders.

“Thank you," he breathed into her hair, laying his cheek against her as he squeezed all the tighter, she felt fresh tears moisten her locks as he grasped her as if she might vanish into mist, “Thank you for bringing my son back to me, bringing him back hale and whole."

“I dinnae do anythin' so grand…" she hedged, the Baron taking her face in his hands and looking her in the eyes.

“My son is home, my house is more whole than it once was, and I owe that to none but you," he said and she tried to look away, only to have him turn her face back to his once more, “Your love did that, you filled his heart with it, made him whole, and brought him home — and for that, I will forever be in your debt." He said and promptly kissed her brow, leaning his cheek against her hair again, crushing her to his chest.

She had no response to that, her hands shook… and she embraced him back, her arms easily going around the slender man. He held her like a father should, and it felt so, so nice. She hugged the Baron, let him hold her like that, his hands stroked her hair and she felt his heart beating against her cheek — and for a moment, she was back in the forest. Back in that little cottage, a mere six summers old again. He wasn't as big as her father had been, not as brawny… but he held her right all the same. That tore it, her heart rose in her throat and she leaned into Richart.

This was home. She was home. Moreso than she'd even felt at Bart's place by the mill, or the comfortable faces of Fort Ivory. In a few short days she'd come to love this place, its people. Her fingers curled into little fists in his doublet as she squeezed her eyes tight.

She'd fight for her home. This time she'd win.

Richart let her go, and truth be told she was loathe to go, a father's warmth was something she'd missed, his hand on her cheek was a salve to wounds she'd long since ignored the ache of, tears brimmed on her eyes but did not fall — nay, they'd done enough crying already. Richart was ahead of her anyways, his face streaked with fresh tears as he drew away from her. Gram's gentle fingers snared her as he did, pulling her back into his lap where his strong arms enfolded her in another crushing embrace, this one stole her breath for entirely different reasons. Her fingers found his as Richart went back to his lectern.

“Gram and I talked," the Baron said softly, “About… a great many things, things left unsaid too long," His hands worked about papers, stacking, shuffling, folding. “Things I was afraid to utter, that I make them real."

Richart turned to them, holding a packet of sorts in his hands, a stick of sealing wax in one, rolling it deftly over a candle before dribbling it onto the packet, pressing it sealed with his signet ring. He blew on the wax gently as he approached her, cooling it to solidity, the crisp image of the Hound clear and sharp.

“I know you must go… and I know you'll return. When you reach the monastery… give this to Simone, please." he said, handing the thick packet to her, his voice soft. “I write her often… but she does not tend to write me back, only the children." His eyes were full of old pain and new hope.

“Make sure she reads it, please."

Lidia leaned away from the packet, but found her escape blocked by Gram's sturdy chest, the black-haired soldier entrapping her in his loving arms, she took it but shook her head.

“I cannae be th' one tae do this, surely Gram is better," she argued, and Richart smiled

“I am trusting you with it because you are an incorrigible, tenacious, scrappy little redcap who will not take no for an answer, and are furthermore uniquely gifted at making old, hard hearts soften."

Lidia gaped at that, looking down at the thick letter and it's still-warm seal, Richart sat down heavily next to them, his body and bearing both weary.

“Simone is… stubborn, headstrong. I miss her terribly, and I am finally courageous enough to speak it aloud," he said, lowering his head, “I miss my wife, Lidia. I miss her like one would a limb," he said, touching his heart. “There has been a hollow space here for more than a decade, an empty yearning that no amount of smoke nor drink nor pleasant company could fill."

Gram's hand found his father's, pulling it into his lap, where Lidia's joined it. The older man smiled and took a shuddering breath, “I have been… alone, in a house full of people for a very long time. My heart lives in a monastery to the north, this body merely moves and cares for it's duties for there is nothing else for it to do."

“Ye act like I've done all o' this on me onesies," she protested from Gram's arms, squeezing Richart's hand while looking up at his son's warm, loving eyes, around at the walls, the crackling fire, “Ye've given as much, iffin' nae more… I 'ave nae home tae speak of, burned with th' rest o' Lachheim, nae family as well, jus' me an' distant ghosts…" she met his gaze and hers was full of warmth and happiness. “Ye gave me that… this wonderful blue-eyed boy an' all." She said, reaching her free hand up to cup Gram's face. She took a breath, pressing Richart's hand to her cheek.

“Ye've made a place fer one little redcap, an' that's more than I could ever dream."

She kissed Richart's fingers, and gave him a little tug, soon she had pulled both men together, Gram and Richart enfolding her in a tight hug, the Baron digging his fingers in his son's hair, leaning their brows together as they all stayed like that in silence for a long moment.

“Well," Richart said after a moment, a distant peal of thunder catching his attention, “Our efforts are complete, I've notified the staff that you two are not to be disturbed until morning," he said, and gave her hand a little squeeze. “Time enough to settle things before the appointed hour."

Gram nodded, lacing his fingers with his lover once more. Lidia smiled at him winsomely, turning her gaze back to Richart with an expression rife with vulnerability.

“What about ye? Ye seem…"

“Fragile?" Richart supplied, and she nodded. He smiled a wan little smile. “Oh, most assuredly — I am a ruin, but… I will be fine." he said and looked up at the large, quiet spaces of the room.

“I think it won't be so bad to be alone in this old house on this night."

The packet in hand, the pair left the scholarly lord in the study, his eyes on the windows, watching the shadows lengthen as the storm rolled in closer. Thunder rumbled in the distance, not too far away now.

They journeyed back to Gram's rooms — their rooms — without encountering another soul, the entire house was in a hush of sorts, bracing for the wall of clouds in the distance, bracing for the events of the later evening. The tension in the air was palpable as the wet chill on the winds.

“Hold me, loverboy," Lidia said softly as she gazed out the window. It faced outwards, showing the clouds and night approach all the same. The stormy bank might as well be fate itself, slowly rolling towards them. Inexorable. Patient.

“At once," Gram said from where he had been stoking up the fire against the chill, she did not need turn her head, closing her eyes as he he embraced her from behind, their weapons abandoned but nearby, their bodies flush again as she guided his hands around her.

They stay together like that, in the window, the creak and groan of the keep the only sound as they gazed out upon the odd stillness of the keep, even the sentries on the walls slowly retreating to guardhouses, thinning out to weather the oncoming rain. Gram's hands roamed her and she basked in his attentions… she knew he needed this. Needed to care for something right now, she knew her loverboy, and when his heart ached he sought out others to see to. She leaned back in his arms with a quiet sound of distant pleasure, the two transferring to the bed as the lights played across the vaulted ceiling.

They didn't speak, they didn't really need to. There was a rapport between them now, and she nestled herself into his arms and let her mind drift, his hands caressed her in every which way, stroking arms, belly, cheeks and hair. It was not a solicitous touch, his hands were firm not teasing. Slowly though, her touches overtook his, their positions shifted. No longer was it her swaddled close to his breast, but he to hers. His long black hair had come undone its usual thong and spread across her like a silken sheet, her fingers idly playing through the ebon tresses as she held the powerful man in her arms. Silence reigned still, words having no place in this realm of quiet intimacy.

She held him for she knew not how long, hours at least. His breathing grew more regular after a while, and she drifted herself off to a light doze… she didn't begrudge him the quiet rest. He'd had a full day. She was simply glad to be there, to hold him as he recovered from what doubtlessly had been a soul-wringing experience — God's Blood, to think of him suffering as such without her here put an ache in her insides now. The amulet splayed along her belly under that ache, it's chain running down her midriff and the egg itself just below her navel, Gram's breath softly ruffling her jerkin's laces — the pair still dressed, still ready even as they dozed. Half blackened by now, she felt an urgency tighten her throat as she saw it. Her loverboy's time ticking away, touch by touch.

“Truly, too fine a specimen to lose, I forgive you seeking mine opposite's aid in preserving such a singular thing."

Lidia froze, the soft voice hadn't roused Gram, but her heart leapt into her throat. Instinctively, she looked up.

A bright pair of great, slitted, green eyes glimmered above her in the lengthening shadows adjacent the bed. Her own widened big as eggs as the shape of Dame Morgana resolved out of the gloom, leaning down into the canopy of the bed with a curiously pensive expression on her face. She was as massive, as imposing as her Seeming had been before.

“Do you treasure these moments?" Came the sibilant voice again, her face leaning down over the sleeping soldier, “Hold them in your heart and mind? Revisit them like well-read books?"

There was… question in the tone, not mere curiosity. The Seelie Queen's pensive look had not abated, and for a moment her long, taloned fingers seemed poised to stroke Gram's cheek, withdrawing suddenly as if recalling where she was. Lidia was still shocked, eyes wide before she managed to rouse herself to the oddly… companionable way her mother had spoken to her. Her response was quiet, as not to wake her lover.

“Aye… I do, even wit' him so close as all… I think o' him like this, or a touch of his hands…"

“The taste of his lips, the thrum of his pulse… the way smells, the way he sounds…" Morgan concluded in a quiet voice, seeming to perch bird-like over Gram, her head tilting slowly as she watched him slumber with a distant look in those unblinking eyes, the pupils widening as she focused. “Dwelling on it, the sensations alight on the flesh and in the mind…"

“Yer talkin' about Papa," Lidia said in a soft voice, and there was a furitive sort of silence as the Summer Fae seemed to withdraw backwards, her gossamer hair flowing around her like a cloud of black in in clear water. Her fingers twitched as she watched Gram still, eyes dilated and wide. Like a predator.

“Yes," she answered as she almost inquisitively leaned forwards towards the pair again, the silence of the motion eerie, “We often lay like this before you were born, he was a delicate, careful creature even though he could not harm me even if he wished…" her fingers twitched above Gram's cheek again, and that red-rouged mouth quirked downwards. Her talons were more like bone than nails she realized, the ends of her fingers simply hardening into blackened carapace, needle sharp, like the prickly end of an insect limb. This close to her, in such intimate confines, Lidia was really able to look at her mother.

She was beautiful, this close. Her silky body was muscled and lean, carrying with it a suppleness that made her seem made from wet clay, still glistening. Her features were alien, too symmetrical, too perfect. At this distance she could see the faint creases up her cheekbones where that too-wide mouth stretched ever-so-slightly beyond human norms, the largeness of her eyes in comparison to her face… and her size, overall. Her head was wide across as Lidia's shoulders, much like Baba Yaga had been, not merely tall but built to a titan's scale. She imagined her father, the big, burly bear of a man as she knew him, laying across Morgan's lap as Gram did now. Caressing his cheeks she could not recall, long claws in red hair she couldn't quite picture.

It fit together neatly in her mind, somehow. A memory, or simple intuition?

“Papa was always gentle, I cannae remember a point he put out a whit o' strength more than he needed…" she mused, the Seelie seeming lost in her own memories as she nodded silently in assent. “Richart's like that," she added suddenly, unsure why. Morgan's eyes drew to hers inquisitively.

“He's jus'… careful, cautious, warm… a good man, a man that made good men…" she said, looking down at Gram and caressing his hair once more, the emotionally exhausted soldier not stirring as he slumbered in her grasp. Morgan tracked that movement as well.

“Lachlan was much the same, a unique, brilliant specimen that shan't be wasted nor ignored… I could not resist him any more than he could I," she mused in return, eyes upon Gram again with a considering weight, lips pursed. “Seeing him as I did, singing in the woods as he hewed and cut, I should have been incensed, furious at this mortal daring to violate my borders for his banal trade."

The Seelie Queen turned her eyes back to Lidia, voice a hushed thing as she seemed winsome, her face distant and unabashed — somewhere else. Sometime else.

“I was not. I was curious. I am not often so."

The little changeling was mute with shock. She wasn't at all sure how to handle such… vulnerability did not seem the right word, not for such a vast thing as Dame Morgana, Queen of Summer… but there was a nakedness to this interaction that defied her experience.

“I wanna grow old with him, Mum," Lidia said in that bare quiet, the sidhe's eyes turned to hers with renewed intensity, “I ne'er wanted anything like I want this, I need mum, I need him. All o' them. Gram, Alphy, Richart, Colette, Stodgy Khanenko and Avalov and his booming voice… I knew 'em all but days, but I need 'em mum…"

“Are you asking a boon of me, Mine Child?" The Queen seemed curious as she leaned closer, “Are you asking that I make of them yours, wrest them from the Pale God and bind them to you?" She continued, her face turning cryptically thoughtful. “I could, were it my interest."

Lidia's eyes widened and she shook her head mutely, her hands subconsciously going more protectively around Gram's slumbering form.

“Nae! Nae that… but… I want them, th' right way," she said and Morgan tilted her head inquisitively, “I want this tae be me home. Me real home, where I raise my babies an' watch th' years pass."

“Ah," Morgan breathed, her eyes lighting up with an emerald gleam of understanding; “You desire a demesne of your own… a proper want for a scion of the Sidhe."

“Ye… I suppose ye'd understand it like that," Lidia sighed, looking down at Gram again, “I dinnae suppose I can make ye promise me that I get tae come home tae them?" Lidia asked in a resigned whisper, and Morgan smiled at her sadly.

“No, Mine Child. I cannot tell lies."

“Aye… I dinnae think so."

The silence fell again for a moment, Morgan turned her face back to the sleeping man, features both softening and growing more intense. Her hands fidgeted again and for a moment… Lidia felt a pang of sympathy for this monster.

“Ye think o' him often, don't ye?" She breathed, and Morgan closed her eyes, her smile was edged with razors grit together.

“Yes, often." She admitted tersely, not seeming so monstrous for a moment as those alien eyes opened to a familiar sorrow, “My memories are not like yours, Mine Child… I do not simply see distant places nor people, to remember as a Sidhe is to be there, in perfect, full clarity. Perfect memory of every moment, every fractional accounting." her hand drifted out to Gram's slumbering form again as her voice trailed off. Lidia realized what was plaguing her so…

“Go ahead," the tiny changeling breathed. Morgan looked at her with wide eyes, such permission unexpected and surprising, the towering Seelie Queen looking shocked, her long ears laying back as those large eyes stared in a moment of all-too-mortal trepidation.

She reached her hand down to Gram, to his sleeping frame in Lidia's arms — and gently, almost as if she were frightened she might break him — she caressed his face as he slept. It was a thoughtful, deliberate motion, delicate as she drew the soft flesh of the back of her long-fingered hand across his cheek, gently letting her knuckles brush along it. Her eyes were distant… and for a moment, she truly was somewhere else, Lidia believed. Lost in a memory of another man beneath those inhuman claws.

“So tiny a thing, to fascinate us so…"

She withdrew slowly, her sinuous body withdrawing from the canopy as a whole as she shrank back into the darkness of the room, the fire burned down to cozy embers, its light doing little to illuminate the dark fairy as she with drew to the window.

“They are fine creatures, these Men. Bright and potent, brief as the sparks of the forge but oh-so-beautiful as they burn."

Lidia's mind found its way to Bart, even as she held her beloved in her arms — her Big Brother leapt to mind, wreathed in holy fire and golden might, hurdling from the darkness like God's own clenched fist.

“Aye… burn themselves tae ashes fer wee little us," she murmured. She needed not raise her voice above a whisper, her mother heard her fine — and her own hearing was nearly as sharp. Gram slumbered on as she caressed his cheek again. “Fit tae tear down Heaven an' Earth alike iffin' it means th' good o' their loved ones," she mused over her beloved. He as well, fixated in her mind as he leapt to her aid, wrung himself bare for her.

“Love. Love makes for a pretty torch, and these fine Men burn brightly with it."

There was another peal of thunder, closer this time, and there was a sudden crack of bone and sinew. Gram bolted awake, hair askew, and hand already on his weapon — a roundel dagger leaping from beneath his pillow to hand, the blue-eyed soldier alert and aware.

Dame Morgana stood, hands together in an exaggerated clap of her palms, her talons clattered against one another with delight, and her grin spread wide, her winsome mood gone in a flash of razor-edged teeth.

“Wake now, Black Dog — for it is time to set light to another of you pretty, pretty torches. The storm has arrived, and with it the appointed hour," she said, raising her finger… and on cue, the bells of the chapel rang, the midnight toll. “Burn bright little torches, burn bright so that I may find you within my darkness."

There was another clap of thunder, the rain sheeted against the windows, the clouds had broken in earnest. A fork of lightening stroked across the sky, the dark fairy's face alight with predatory delight.

The calm had broken. There was only the storm.