FicWad

Jack sits bolt upright in terror. He is drenched in sweat, and his heart is not beating. He cannot breathe, thus he cannot scream. Familiar things surround him. He realizes that his horrible dream gripped him for half an hour while he was awake. He falls back onto the pillows and remains immobile for a long, slow hour staring at the clock in his room. He gets out of bed after another hour of agonizingly attempting to reawaken his limbs. He has never been so fearful. He sits on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands and tries to pull himself together. It is dark outside by the time he goes downstairs. He stumbles into the living room where his brother is staring into the fire.

“Kerrigan still here?”

“Aye. In the kitchen wi’ Lynn.” He looks up. “Faith, Jack! Ye look a mess!”

Jack stumbles into the kitchen where Lynn and Kerrigan are making dinner. John begins to cry as Jack stands in the doorway. Kerrigan draws him close to her heart. He reaches out toward his father, causing Kerrigan, who had not noticed Jack’s presence previously to look up at the doorway. Jack takes the infant from her arms, and the small boy reaches for his father’s face, which still has a bandage on one side of it from his unfortunate fight.

“Jack, the Lycanthropy means that you ought not to hold him.”

“I don’ care. I want to see me son.”

“He goes back to his mother tomorrow morning.”

“Feck!”

“Jack, please mind your language,” says Lynn in a horrified manner.

“What for? Me son’s leavin’, an’ I hardly got t’see him a’ ‘tall.”

“Do you want his first word to be a curse?”

“Why not?”

“Jack, why are you like this tonight?”

“I don’t ken!”

“Jack, stop shouting. Please, Jack!”

“Shut your gob woman!”

“Why, Jack? Why are you shouting?” Lynn asks, sitting down at the small table and beginning to cry.

Kerrigan takes the baby from his father’s arms, and Jack takes a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass from his liquor cabinet. He drinks to calm his nerves, which are suddenly and inexplicably wire-tense. “Lynn, come here.”

“Why? So you can shout at me some more?”

“No, Lynn, I’m sorry. I never meant to scare ye. Come here.”

Lynn rests her head on Jack’s shoulder, and he gently strokes her long hair. She hugs him tightly. When John begins to fuss, Kerrigan hands him to Jack. The child rests quietly on in his father’s good arm. Kerrigan sits near the liquor cabinet waiting for Jack’s extreme pain to return, which it does shortly. Jack does not drop the boy in his left arm, as Kerrigan braced for, but his right shoulder remains in excruciating pain until Kerrigan delivers another injection of opium. Lynn puts the baby to bed and comes back to find Jack eating dinner. He does not look well, and Lynn is somewhat afraid of Jack’s temper. Kerrigan is standing in the corner sadly staring at him wondering whether or not her husband will be angry at her for being out so late, though it is only sick o’clock. Jack speaks to no one, though Lynn and Shane sit down to eat with him. Kerrigan does not eat with them, nor does she speak. She tries to be strong for her dear friends’ sakes, but she is reminded constantly of her dear son who once looked very much like Jack. She finally breaks the silence.

“Jack, could I use ink, a pen, paper, and wax?”

“O’course. They’re in me office.”

“Thank you.”

She writes a note to her husband and seals it with her signet ring. She then sets off into the night hiding a piece of Jack’s letterhead and a poison ring given to him by his sister. After bidding adieu to Jack, Lynn, and Shane, Kerrigan goes to a man named McAlpine in the District Thirteen section of Bridgeton. McAlpine is a silversmith for whom Jack once worked. She knows where to find him at dinnertime, for he is unmarried, and his shop is between two pubs, one open during the day, the other at night, so he habitually eats at one or the other. She commissions a signet to be struck within the week to the size of the ring and bearing the seal on the paper to be made by McAlpine personally, not by an apprentice. She then rides to the city in which she lives. Near an old haunt of hers, she finds a messenger whom she hires to deliver the note she wrote at Jack’s desk to her husband.

“Dear Morietur,

“I have been to see Jack. His Lycanthropy is quite severe. I fear for his life. I will be home at a very late hour because I will be visiting with our son Lyritur. You know where he lives. If you wish to join us, you may.

“Love,

“Miltaedovinatulinia”

Morietur reads the letter over his fifth glass of wine. He is not happy with his wife’s letter and wonders what she is doing without him present. He dons his robes of state, crown of office, shoulder armor, black cape, gauntlets, and sword and saddles his steed. He takes the high road to Bridgeton and the gravel road to Highton where Jack lives. He ties his horse outside and bangs loudly on the door with the side of his fist, rather than using the door knocker. Lynn answers the door and jumps backward in surprise.

“Morietur, what are you doing here?”

“Where is she?”

“What?”

“Where is my wife?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do not thou bear me false witness. Where is she?”

“She’s not here.”

“Where didst she go?”

“She didn’t say. Come inside.”

“I ought not to stay.”

“Why not?”

“I must find her. She hath been insolent.”

“What did she do?”

“Read this,” he growls, pushing Kerrigan’s note into her hands.

She reads it and hands the note back to Morietur. “She is at Lyritur’s house.”

“I doth not believe thee.”

“Morietur pushes past Lynn and into the house. He goes into the drawing room and finds Jack smoking his pipe. Jack looks up and jumps to his feet, stumbling behind the sofa. For Jack, the mere sight of Morietur is terrifying. He draws himself to his full height, which, while intimidating to most, is slightly shorter than Morietur. “Why are ye here?”

“I seeketh my wife.”

“She’s not here. Have a drink?”

“What art thou drinking?”

“Whiskey, probably twenty years old now, comes from the northern coast, ‘sa Witch thing me sister sent t’me once, an’ I’ve been tryin’ t’find forever since.”

“Dunleavy Black Label Special?”

“’Sthe one.”

“I wouldst enjoy a glass.”

Jack pours some for Morietur. They sit on the sofa drinking strong whiskey and staring into the fire. “So, why are ye so intent on findin’ Miss Kerrigan?”

“She hath disobeyed me.”

“How so?”

“I hath given her permission to visit thee, and I know that she hath done so, however, in regards to my wishes, she hath failed me. I told her to come straight home, and she hath sent me a most discourteous note instead. Is she still here?”

“Nay, we all saw her leave.”

“Whence did she travel?”

“She didn’t say.”

“In which direction didst she depart?”

“Toward Bridgeton, I think, but the road either winds up in Bridgeton or in Kilainaigh City dependin’ on which way ye go, an’ they’re both big cities that’ll connect ye anywhere. What’d her note say?”

“It saith that she is with Lyritur.”

“Who’s that?”

“I forget that thou dost not know my family. He is a son of mine. It is most interesting that she shouldst visit with him, for he is quite ill as well. The boy was no fighter, and-”

“He’s the one wi’ Lycanthropy?”

“Thou knowest?”

“I ken o’ him, but we’ve ne’er met. I’d heard, for ‘tis well enough known, that a royal son caught the Lycanthropy before I got here, an’ I asked Miss Kerrigan ‘bout him, an’ she told me all but his name. I’m sorry.”

“We hath lived with his illness for many years. His wife brings in some income, but ‘tisn’t nearly enough. The house in which he lives and the servants who doth care for him are gifts I gaveth unto him out of guilt. ‘Twas an ancient row of mine that led to his illness. Thy sons are still young, but think about it. If a law thou hath passed didst lead to Jason getting injured by his schoolmates, just for being the son of someone their families dislike, wouldst thou not blame thyself?”

“I would.”

“Now, think if he were disfigured and nearly died. Think if he were always in as much pain as thou art now. How wouldst thou feel? Think if nobody could help him and everything made it worse.”

“Jaysus…”

“Now thou knowest why I have remorse. It pains a father to go through that, but for a mother to watch the son she bore and raised become so hopeless, scared, and helpless, lose everything, and be so vulnerable, is torture.”

“Jaysus…”

“I hath had enough of thy whiskey, fine though ‘tis. I shalt seek out my misfortunate son and ask if he hath seen his dear mother.”

Morietur leaves briskly, and Lynn enters the parlor with a somewhat astonished expression on her face. “Jack, how did you do that? I’ve never seen anyone able to calm him down enough to prevent him from destroying everything in sight and attacking his wife.”

“I’ve no idea. I’ve no idea how I talked him out’ve it or how I passed that ammendment.”

“I’ve seen your track record, Jack. You’re a brilliant senator. Even his wife can’t calm him that well, and she’s had thousands of years of practice. My brilliant Senator!” She embraces him tightly, glad that her sister will not be injured at Morietur’s hands.

Kerrigan stops at the little pub where she found the messenger. She has not been here in many years. This is the pub where her son was attacked, and she has not forgotten. The sign over the door proclaims proudly that the name of the establishment is “The Black Dog,” and the hanging sign depicts a vicious, large dog. As she enters, everyone turns their heads and the room falls silent. Not many women drink at The Black Dog, and she is well-known. Though the room is full of Demons, a small woman walks to the bar. The bartender is too young to remember the days of her patronage, but he does recognize her. His hands shake violently, and he stares and stutters.

“M-m-may I help you?”

“I would like a half-pint of cider.”

“C-c-coming up.”

Kerrigan pays for her drink and takes a seat at a table by the fireplace and warms her hands and feet from the cold night air. One of the men nearby informs her that the barman is a fan of hers who has dreamed of meeting her one day. She saunters over to the bar, and the bartender blushes. Most people in Hell can recognize Kerrigan and her sister, and anyone who has read the Annals or seen their manners of conduct in person can tell them apart, though they are physically identical.

“Is it me or Magrietas whom you admire?”

“Who t-t-told you?”

“The man by the fire told me.”

“I’m a fan, yes. I started tending bar here when I read the Annals in school. I was fifteen. I know from the Annals that you used to drink here, and-and-and I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

“Do not worry about it. I am en route to visit with one of my sons.”

“C-c-could I have your autograph?”

“Of course you may. Do you have pen and paper?”

“I have my copy of one of the Annals under the bar.”

“What year do you have here?”

“The year when your sons were attacked here. I just read that on my dinner. I’m so sorry to hear that. I thought after that happened you’d never come back here.”

“Not a day goes by that I do not worry about Lyritur, and it took me many years to return here, but traveling from Highton in the Vampire District to my son’s home via Bridgeton, this is a very convenient place to rest. I am surprised you have the full volume. Most people only ever read the condensed, compiled version.”

“I like books. I like history.”

“I like both as well. Why did you not come looking for me? I am not difficult to find.”

“I thought you wouldn’t like that. I thought it would be impolite.”

“Morietur would dislike visitors, however I am the lady of the house, and I do quite like company on occasion. It is unlikely you would see my husband for long, for he hides when I have visitors, but he can be quite a likeable gentleman when you know him better.”

Kerrigan leaves The Black Dog and goes to visit her son. The house is large and ornate, and the dishes and cutlery are made of very fine silver. There is a crystal chandelier over the entry. Kerrigan knocks sharply on the door, and the butler answers. He recognizes her as his master’s mother and leads her into the parlor. The lady of the house comes downstairs after being informed of the unexpected guest. She, like most women in Hell, fears her mother-in-law. She curtsies cordially, and Kerrigan stands stiffly.

“Hello, ma’am.”

“Honestly, Farinina, how many times must I ask you to either address me as my son does or to use my name?”

“At least once more, as always.”

“Is my son here?”

“Of course. Would you like me to fetch him?”

“No, I will go upstairs. Is he in bed?”

“He is.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, just very exhausted. The children are yet to go to bed. They are in the nursery. Millixtenrok is doing his homework. Sartinina is sewing a sampler. Shall I call for them?”

“I suppose.”

“Millixtenrok! Sartinina! Come downstairs!”

There is a rush of bare feet on the stairs as the children race to answer their mother’s call. When they see their grandmother, they rush over to greet her. The children are dark-haired like their mother with the fair skin characteristic of their father’s family, including their grandmother, and the blue eyes of their father and grandfather. Millixtenrok is eight years old and hardly shorter than his grandmother. Sartinina is ten and the same size as Kerrigan. They hug their grandmother and merrily sit on her lap, though they are far too large for such childish behavior. She does not have anything for them, her visit having not been planned. Millixtenrok puts his reading glasses on and reads a short poem out of his primer. His sister dismisses his schoolwork as easy, and he calls her embroidery foolish and useless. Their mother apologizes and sends them to bed.

Kerrigan shortly mounts the stairs and knocks at the bedroom door. A voice within the chamber calls, “Enter!” She gently pushes the door open, and he inquires, “Who is it?” He expects one of his children, for his wife does not enter into the bedchamber until well after the children are silent for the night.

“Lyritur, may I light a candle?”

“It matters little to me, mother.”

Kerrigan lights a candle and sets it on the desk. The sight of her son still makes her shiver. She remembers the days when he would climb the trees in Morietur’s apple orchard as a child. She remembers his many suitors and his brilliant prospects for work in government. In his youth, Lyritur was a tall, handsome man with hair as red as fire and sparkling blue eyes like jewels. He was slight, though tall, and his mother sees Jack in the memory of her son. For her, the sight of her dear son is a prediction of what will likely happen to her dear friend. Lyritur struggles out of bed. He follows the edge of the bed to find his mother, who, he does not realize, is across the room. She crosses to him and takes his hand, and he asks to be led to the liquor cabinet. He offers whiskey to his mother by filling the glass up to his fingertip. The dark wood of the walls and furnature shine grimly in the firelight, which reflects off of Lyritur’s white hair. The two of them drink together in silence for quite some time.

Lyritur asks, “Is your Senator friend the reason you’ve come?”

“My son, you are as clever as ever! He looks so much like you once did.”

“I am glad you came. I had a feeling you might. My wife tells me the news. I last saw you in June. I have missed you. My children, as you may have noticed, have grown quite tall. My wife no longer allows them to come in here without knocking.”

“They are quite darling.”

“They are quite mischievous as well, and they are also fairly uncouth and rambunctious. I think it runs on their mother’s side of the family.”

“We found you hiding up many an apple tree and under many a table waiting to ambush your father, uncles, and grandfather.”

“My children are cruel. I played tricks on father in jest. They torment me with malice. For them, it is a game to jump upon me, hide my things knowing that I cannot see to find them, mock me, and jump out at me to try to make my heart stop.”

“They are children, Lyritur, dear son. They do not understand how much pain they cause you.”

“Mother, is father here?”

“I came alone.”

“I wish I could visit with you.”

“You may, my son, at any time. Your father and I miss you and would love to see you. It is not far.”

“I have not been abroad since Midsummer’s Night.”

“Why will you not come outside now? You have a lovely orchard, and it is a clear night, though it is cold.”

“I will sit with you in the orchard tonight, for I have long desired to feel the air of the outside world. Though the children are not yet abed, I will brave the halls. My coat and cane are in my closet. Would you fetch them for me?”

She does as her son asks and leads him downstairs. The children watch their father come downstairs. He does not come down often. They eat dinner without him, and he does not often have visitors, so they see very little of their father, except when they visit him in his room. Lyritur walks stiffly down the narrow halls relying heavily on his cane to do so. Shortly after he married, Lyritur broke his leg, and, due to his weakened condition, he never recovered full strength or function in his knee. He is more frail than his mother remembers. Suddenly, Millixtenrok jumps onto his father’s back.

“Get off, boy!”

“Never, old man! I’m a dread pirate!”

“Farinina! Help me!”

Lyritur’s wife comes running and sees her husband fall. “Do not worry, Farinina. I can move my grandson.” Kerrigan easily lifts the boy off of his father. With a voice as sharp as broken glass, she says, “Do not ever do that again.”

“It’s a game! It’s fun! Daddy likes it.”

“I do not, and I have told you so.”

“Millixtenrok,” Kerrigan says in a deceptively sweet voice, “do you enjoy hurting your father?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to see him dead?”

“Yes.”

“Why is this so?”

“I dunno.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Yes.”

“I do not like it when you hurt your father, and if I ever hear about you or your sister doing so again, I will personally come here to deal with it.”

“I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

“Now, apologize to your father.”

“Sorry, father.”

Kerrigan helps Lyritur to his feet and brings him downstairs and outside into the orchard behind the house. Lyritur’s house is narrow and has four stories. It is made of dark stone, and the inside is furnished with very dark, highly polished wood. Aside from the chandelier in the foyer, the house is remarkably modest, though classy. Lyritur, like his father, is essentially a very private man, though he can certainly put up a façade. Like his mother, Lyritur is a quiet intellectual, though his blindness poses a problem for reading. His wife tries to inform him of things, but she often does not know how to respond to the questions he asks. One of his servants takes dictation for him, and he can still play the piano, though he can no longer read music, and his children must be in school for him to brave the ground floor alone. He and his mother go into the orchard, and he takes her hands in one of his.

“Your scolding still scares me after all these years. Is father still drinking?”

“You are truly asking about how he behaves while intoxicated, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Your father is very old. He has been like this for far longer than you can fathom. He will likely never change. I certainly do not expect him to do so.”

“And my aunts, how have they been?”

“Liraevillia has married Jack recently.”

“Is Jack your Senator friend?”

“Yes, he is.”

“And he has Lycanthropy?”

“Yes, he does.”

“I feel badly for his wife.”

“She will be alright. She has survived far worse.”

“How is aunt Maxtinivia?”

“You know how she is. She is busy, therefore she is surviving.”

“How is aunt Graevenias?”

“You know how estranged we are. I do not know or particularly care how well she is or is not.”

“I thought I might ask anyhow. How is father?”

“He is set in his ways as usual. He has not left the house since your aunt’s wedding.”

“Nor would I expect him to leave the house, for he and I are of like mind on the matter of society. There is nothing in it for either of us, thus we ought not to conform to it.”

“I only wish that I could repeat what you have said to your youthful self. You hated your father and swore that, aside from your looks, you shared nothing in common with him.”

“I will not deny that I despise him still, nor will I deny that I am becoming him.”

“What do you mean?”

“As the days, weeks, months, and years pass, I grow yet more violent. I fight with my wife ever more frequently. I have yet to hit her, though that is mostly due to the blindness. She fears and avoids me, a man so frail he would break like glass if she but resisted. My children despise me, and I do no part to raise them, though I am always home. At the end of the day, I threaten my wife into sleeping with me. Without her I would die, yet I do not care about her, and every time we fight, I buy her something nice in order to keep her here.”

“Miltaedovinatulinia,” inquires a man’s voice from behind them, “do I do that?”

She turns around but does not answer. He draws his own conclusion from her silence and sits beside his wife and son on the little bench behind the house. Lyritur stands, resting heavily on his cane. “Hello, father,” he says icily.

“Hello, Lyritur.”

“It is interesting to find you actually visiting someone.”

“I came for thy mother. It is interesting to see thee outside thy room.”

“Mother brought me out for some fresh air.”

“It is all my fault. I know. Blame me. I am not home in my proper place in bed. Instead, in light of seeing a very dear friend, and, I might point out, brother-in-law, critically ill, I came to visit with my darling son, who might have some insight that I could pass on to my sister and her husband, who, I might mention again, happens to be sick in bed with a severe case of Lycanthropy and has been for a relatively long time with no improvement, which is, I might add, why I left my proper place in bed this afternoon and, by consequence, why I am here now, so do your worst. I am waiting.”

“I didst not come to hurt thee.”

“You did not?”

“Nay. Your Senator friend hath spoken to me. I doth surmise that how calm he was perhaps made the difference. Liraevillia, of course, didst fear greatly for thee, though her reaction was one of revulsion. The Senator jumped behind the furniture, but he did not run. I suppose the wars hath taught him not to run from drunken old men. He instead sat by the fire with me and offered unto me a drink. The time spent with him, though little was said, hath made the difference betwixt what I woulst have done and what I doth.”

“How much did you drink?” asks Lyritur.

“Five glasses of wine and half a bottle of high-proof whiskey.”

“I have you beat, father. I have had far too much drink, as I have been drinking since the bells rang eight this morning. I am weary of this monotony. I wish I could do something, but even if I could, Farinina would never allow it. I have never seen my children. How can I even know that they are mine?”

“Lyritur, do you trust me?”

“More than anyone, mother.”

“They are yours. Aside from the color of their hair, they both look just like you did as a child.”

“My son, why do you doubt Farinina?”

“Why would she want to be with me? I’m horribly useless. I cannot earn money to keep her in fine clothing and jewels. My children do not respect me, and I do nothing to help her around the house. I occasionally play the piano, but that is always when she is not home. Other than that, I sit in my bedroom and drink to excess.”

“She would not have married you if she could not care for you. You could not dance at your own wedding. It cannot have gotten any worse than it was then.”

“Perhaps you are correct, mother. For my pains, I have two children who are impossible to raise. They see no sense.”

“Why do you not teach them to play the piano?”

“My children? Do something that requires concentration and gentility?”

“Have faith, Lyritur. You take after your grandfather. Your children, I feel, probably do not know you.”

“Father? Will you visit with the children?”

“Must I?”

“You should, Morietur,” Kerrigan says. “They would love to see you.”

“Shall we go inside?” asks Lyritur.

“I suppose we should. It is quite bitter weather tonight,” replies Kerrigan.

Lyritur and his mother sit in the parlor and drink by the fire. Morietur finds the children in the nursery and carries them downstairs, one in each arm. The fire crackles merrily, and Farinina brings drinks from the kitchen for the adults and milk for the children. Lyritur sits on the piano bench. Millixtenrok and Sartinina have never heard the piano played. For them, the privilege of being in the parlor with their father is great and rarely given. Millixtenrok sits on his grandfather’s lap. His sister works on her sampler over tea with milk and sugar. The children sit awe-inspired by their father’s skill. They have never heard him play before this night. They have never seen their father do anything more than drink, eat, sleep, discuss scholarship and politics, argue, and sit about. They never knew why there was a piano in the parlor. Farinina bustles in and out serving drinks to her husband and in-laws between movements of a very old symphony. For her troubles, Kerrigan asks her to sit with them and relax.

When Farinina was young, she dreamed of becoming a princess. In her youth, she met Lyritur. Many women wanted to marry into the royal family. Lyritur was a tall, handsome prince. In his youth he had hair as red as fire, and he was fond of riding horses. His favorite horse belonged to his mother. The stallion’s name is Miskentillor, and she gave it to him for his twentieth birthday. The stallion was not bred by the family but bought when Lyritur was young for the purpose of pulling Kerrigan’s small buggy. It is a warm-blooded black horse with feathered feet and no markings. Farinina is four years her husband’s junior. She remembers him riding that horse through the streets and smiling at the girls. She presented herself as a suitor to his mother, who let her in for tea, though Lyritur was not home. The prince had many suitors, and his dismissals of them were frequent and the reasons varied. Within the year, he had only three suitors left. The other two were of higher social standing than she. This meant that she never believed that Lyritur would marry her. She was also still a child and too young for him. Lyritur spent much time deliberating between them. When he was twenty, he proposed marriage to her. According to Lyritur, his mother had suggested that Farinina ought to be his wife, despite her age. The night before the wedding, Lyritur’s mother personally rapped on the door of Farinina’s parents’ house to tell her that Lyritur and his brother were injured and ill. She asked if she could see her fiancé and accompanied his mother to the hospital where Lyritur was, and, despite the pain, he smiled when he saw her.

“Would you still marry me?” he asked.

“Of course, though I think the ceremony ought to wait until you’re better.”

She saw him suffer Lycanthropy for three years. He often asked if she would still marry him. She always replied in the affirmative. Morietur himself was often by Lyritur’s side, a display of affection not customary to him. About two years after the treatment began, Lyritur went completely blind. His father was devastated, though they had all known it was happening slowly. Lyritur wanted to call off the wedding, but Farinina refused to give up hope in her fiancé. Their wedding, like his hospitalization, became highly public. Everyone wanted to read about the poor prince and see a picture of the new princess before her official coronation. Morietur financed the wedding and bought them a house as a present out of guilt that a feud of his was the cause of his son’s illness. There was no dancing at the wedding, for Lyritur could not dance himself, and, upon Farinina’s suggestion, if the groom could not dance, neither should anyone else. For the groom’s mother, the wedding was a solemn occasion. She visited often through the first decade of their marriage to care for her son. There was no reason for her to do so, but she insisted. Morietur offered them anything they wanted.

Farinina always insisted that things were fine. She was wrong. Since their children were born, he has become a reclusive monster. She still sees the man she loved, but she has to look ever harder to find him. She wishes she could tell her mother-in-law, but there is no way that she would ever understand. She seems so happy with Morietur.

Morietur sits on the floor with the children and plays games with the shadows on the walls to amuse them, Lyritur smiles for the first time in years at the sound of his children laughing and playing without destroying anything. Morietur asks Lyritur to join them in a game of skill that he loved as a child. He joins them on the floor, though he will need help to stand again. The women leave their husbands and children in the parlor and speak in the library alone, far from the prying ears of men, children, and servants.

“Farinina, you are not well. Tell me what ails you.”

“My husband, ma’am.”

“Marriage is seldom happy, dear. Give him time.”

“Since the children were born, he has been so different.”

“Morietur became most difficult after our first grandchild was born. She died in infancy, but the next was easier on him. Lyritur is afraid. He has always been quiet and scholarly, as you know, more so since his accident. Children are loud and energetic, particularly your son, and he does not know how to speak with them.”

“I suppose.”

“I suggest that he spends more time with them. They do not know what to make of his illness, and he does not know how he can understand them or make them understand him. Let them see him downstairs if they are calm. Send them away, not him, if they are not. Perhaps they should see his old armor. I suppose that ought to be done outside and in better weather, but I feel your son might find his father’s power and past most amusing. They might respect him more if they see him do something.”

“You have a point, but…”

“You are worried about Lyritur hurting you.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“He feels nothing but self-loathing. Let him ride his horse. Bring him outside. He, like his father, cannot simply sit about, though they share the tendency to hide themselves away. I know how you feel. To be perfectly honest with you, I do not respect most of the women to whom I am related. Two of my sisters, my husband’s only sister, one of my daughters, and you are the only female relatives I respect.”

“Me? Why?”

“You care for my darling son. You are a woman after my own heart. I convinced him that you were the proper suitor, despite your youth and background. I convinced him that he should still marry you after his accident. I knew you really cared, and I know you still do. I knew it the night I told you what had happened. Any of the other women he considered would not have been strong enough to venture with me on the eve of their wedding to see their love so mutilated as he was. I know you doubted your ability to care for him in the years when he was in hospital, but you still said you would marry him every time he asked, every time he offered you a chance to leave. You knew he needed you to survive. You were his wife long before the wedding night. Since I do respect you, I will tell you a secret that your husband has known all his life. Morietur and I are far from happy with each other. We both drink too much. We both have terrible tempers. I am Wrath, and he has had a bad temper longer than I have been alive. We were not married until well after we had children, for, though nobody else was married, I was a slave when I became pregnant with Death, and I was not freed until he was born. I had four young children before I was a bride. I had essentially no choice but to marry. It is not that I did not love Morietur, but that if I did not consent to marry him, he may have killed me or the children or left us to die. I had no money. He was poor, and I was a recently-freed slave. I did what I had to for the children, for Morietur can be a truly cruel man at times. He is unusually benign tonight, however most nights I am a slave within my own home, and I pay dearly and physically for any disobedience. That is why he came here tonight. He came looking for me because I disobeyed his orders. I know how you feel, for though I am desensitized to the threats and actions now, I remember how utterly terrifying my husband was when I was young. My son is far gentler than his father, having seen and feared the violence done unto me all through his youth. Have faith, child. He will calm himself. Trust me.”

“Why did you come tonight? Did Lyritur send a message to you?”

“He sent me no messages. I am here because my dear friend and brother-in-law has Lycanthropy. There has been no improvement thus far, and I do not know how to help him. His severe injuries cannot be healed until he has recovered. It almost looked as though he would recover until he brought his son back to boarding school. When he returned home, he fell ill again. Morietur may have figured this.”

“I really do not know what to do to help.”

“Do you remember my sister Liraevillia?”

“Which one is she?”

“She was at your wedding. She wore a green gown and sat with your parents and brother, my husband, and myself. She has long, red curls, green eyes, and a figure to envy.”

“Now I remember who she is. What about her?”

“She is his wife. They have only been married for a few months.”

“What can I do?”

“Send her a note. Write to her with support and advice. Extend a hand to her. She needs sympathy. I wish you could see her husband. He looks very similar to how Lyritur looked in his youth. He is of similar long, slender proportions, has the same sparkling blue eyes and shoulder-length red hair, and has the same affinity for the drink. I have suffered from Lycanthropy myself, and my sons cared for me. Morietur left during my illness. I cannot fathom how to help my sister.”

“Your presence, despite your busy schedule, comforted me. You always helped us by negotiating legal issues and explaining the difficult-to-understand language to me. I always loved receiving your home-cooked food as well. It tastes far better than my cooking, and you always know just what to bring and just when to bring it. I have seen his photograph in the papers. The Senator does quite closely resemble Lyritur. Perhaps we could visit them. Do you have a coach?”

“Unfortunately, neither Morietur nor I brought the coach with us.”

“We could ride. We could lead Lyritur. The servants can look after the children. Let me fetch my cloak.”

“Farinina, thank you.”

They fetch their husbands and saddle the horses, telling the servants to mind the children. They leave for Highton into the cold night air. For the first time in months, Lyritur leaves his property, and, for the first time in years, his destination is not the theater haunted by his younger brother. For the first time since his accident, he can help someone else. Growing up, he was very fond of his aunt. Now, he longs to hear her sweet voice and help her husband. He has never met his new uncle, but he is certain that the Senator is a good man, for his mother would not have given such high praises to a man of less esteem. Morietur leads the procession to Jack’s house. Lyritur and his horse have missed each other for many years. There is a difficult uphill ride, but he is able to follow his father closely. They arrive at Jack’s house and Morietur knocks. Lynn answers promptly, and she is quite surprised at whom she sees. She calls Shane to help with the horses. Then she sees her sister.