Beatrice stared down at her bond-daughter, fighting to conceal what she felt.

“D—does the mirror door appear in the air? With shimmering colors all around it?”

“Mhm,” said Victoria, reaching out to tug the sleeve of Beatrice’s robe. “Read the rest!”

Her hands shook, and she swallowed.

“I…I don’t…” Beatrice trailed off, took a deep breath. “I think we should spread it out, a new part every night, every time you can’t sleep. That way we don’t run out of story before I’ve had a chance to finish writing it.” She made her best attempt at a calm and kindly smile. “Don’t you think so?”

Victoria’s lips twisted and her nose scrunched, but then she gave a curt little nod.

“I think so.”

Beatrice let out the breath she’d been holding, her smile steadier this time.

“Excellent. I’ll let you get back to growing now, shall I?”

Almost automatically, she ducked down to kiss the girl’s forehead just as she had her littler sisters’ a thousand times before—feeling as she did a pang of homesickness. Resolved to write to each and every family member the instant she could, she bid Victoria sweet dreams and near dashed out of the room with the journal tucked under her arm, D’artanien ever her shadow.

Jemison had already disappeared from view, but his lingering aroma was bright in its freshness and easy to follow. It lead her down to the house’s first level and a heavy door she hadn’t noticed before. Beyond was a stony and rather damp corridor that seemed to be carved directly into and through the mountainside. A soft rushing sound filled the space, growing louder as she progressed, and Jemison’s citrus-salt aroma intermingled with the mineral scents of wet stone.

She stepped out of the open-ended corridor and into a small cave just ahead of her guardian, its mouth draped in dripping greenery. At its outer edge lie a steaming blue-green pool which flowed through the cave’s open maw to stream down the mountain face. At the hot spring’s edge stood Jemison, paint-daubed robe discarded on the stone at his feet, hands working at the lacing of his trousers.

On her approach, he straightened—a smile brightening his countenance even as Beatrice’s burned with embarrassment.

“Have you come to join me for a soak, Lady Fox?”

Her free hand shot up to wave about between them, dashing away the very suggestion.

“Oh, no no, of course not. Forgive me my lord, I—”

“Oh, no. Forgive me.” Bending, he plucked up his robe from the mossy stone, whipping it about his shoulders in a sudden sweep that drowned her in a rich gust of his aroma. Beatrice’s throat constricted as his scent burned into her like fine liquor, and for a moment she near forgot why she’d followed him. Pulling her own robe tighter about herself and pressing the book to her chest as though it were armor, she forced herself to look up into his glinting eyes.

“I apologize for following you, Lord Jemison, but our daughter has just told me something most alarming,”

At that the Tiger shifter burst into laughter.

“I think you’ll find that’s a habit of hers,” he replied when he’d finished. “What was it this time?”

“That she’s got another papa, her blood-father, and that he visits her through a door that appears in the air. A portal.”

Jemison shook his head, chortling.

“Ah, the fabled Papa Demitri. Yes, she’s fond of that one.”

“So then he is merely a child’s fancy? An imaginary friend?” The fist of apprehension that clenched about her heart eased its grip. “You’re certain?”

“Well, there’s not much else he could be. Even if there were somehow another Fox mage out there portaling into Highreach, we’d know it. Darcy’s spirits see all. They’d alert us of an intruder.” He sighed, his gaze drifting to the water. “It makes sense, in any case. Poor child.”

Unwittingly, Beatrice took a step closer. “Whatever do you mean?”

His attention returned to her.

“She’s never known her blood-father, nor who he is. And then after losing her mother, too, it’s no wonder she began to imagine herself another parent. An answer to the mystery, to come and comfort her at night.”

Beatrice shivered, her discomfiture returned.

“I don’t understand. What happened to her blood-father? Why has she never known him?”

Jemison shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Alice was already pregnant with Victoria when Darcy brought her home. She would never speak of the father, nor even where she came from. And neither would Darcy. Bound by some League blood-oath or another, I don’t doubt.”

An answer that only raised more questions, including one she’d been suppressing for some time already.

“Whatever happened to her? To Alice?” The words burst from her lips almost of their own accord.

It was easier, she supposed, to let propriety slip in the presence of one who had little care for it.

But Jemison’s cat-like eyes went wide.

“You mean you don’t—? Oh. Well. She left us.”

“Left? But Charles made it seem as though she’d died!”

The Tiger shifter looked almost troubled, and when he spoke it was with an edge of bitterness.

“He would. And I suppose she could have, by now. But we’ve no way to be sure. One day, she was just gone. Left absolutely everything behind. She never returned, she never sent word, no one ever saw trace of her again, and that was that.”

Beatrice’s eyes were beginning to dry from all the incredulous staring she’d been doing in the past few hours. She blinked, hard, and there was the distant sound of a door opening and closing, and then of footsteps. Arron’s scent preceded him, as rich and arresting as ever, and she froze on the spot. Jemison smirked.

When the Wolf shifter stepped into view, he was wearing naught but a rough linen tunic over loose trousers, his eye wide in surprise at the sight of her.

“Is it done?” inquired Jemison, looking past Beatrice to the newcomer.

Arron nodded, and the Tiger exhaled in relief.

“Is what done?” wondered Beatrice, trying not to breathe through her nose.

“Gray managed to drag Darcy’s memories forward another year, thank the Seven. To a time just after she’d managed to become a reasonable person. Got her listening to her own spirits again. Hardly ideal, but at least she’s cooperating now. And it would seem she’s now off and on her way to the capitol.”

Beatrice’s hands tightened around her journal.

“Is there no chance that she might slip again and lose more memories while she’s away?”

At this Arron frowned, his bright gaze skirting away from Beatrice the moment she caught it and fixing on Jemison again.

“There is a chance,” he said. “But all we can do is hope she does not.”

Beatrice’s lip quivered. Bringing up her free hand, she covered her mouth and her nose at once.

“Poor Darcy,” she murmured. “I don’t understand. I thought Gray was a brilliant mage? I thought he knew what he was doing. I thought—“

“He is a brilliant mage,” cut in Jemison, expression gone suddenly hard. Arron’s brows came together and his lips dropped open in silent distress as he looked from one to the other of them.

“Memory magic is some of the most difficult there is,” growled the Tiger shifter, his hackles raised. “It’s not even something that’s openly taught anymore. He’s done the best he could with what he had to work with—which is better than anything anyone currently alive in this world could do, I promise you.”

Shocked by his sudden vehemence, Beatrice shrunk back.

“Forgive me. I…I didn’t mean to—”

“If you’ll excuse us, now, Lady Stagston. I mean to ease my aching muscles, and I’m certain Arron would like to do the same.”

Stung by the cold edge of his tone, Beatrice took another stumbling step back from him, head bowed.

“Of course. M-my apologies, my lords.” Turning to leave, she held her breath as she scurried past a concerned-looking Arron. D’artanien, who’d remained near the corridor’s entrance, turned to follow. But as she tripped down the stone corridor, the teardrops that pricked the corners of her eyes burst suddenly into streams. Her knees buckled beneath her, and before she could think to pull herself together, she was falling apart. Collapsing under the weight of every new thing which had gone horribly, inexplicably wrong since the moment of her debut. A few paces away, her guardian creaked uneasily about on the spot, seeming at a loss for what to do.

Then there was a pounding of footsteps and Arron’s scent intensified, blanketing her once more even as the air burst into the fractured rainbow of her transformation. Her journal bounced and fell open as it hit the stone beside her. For a few heartbeats after she lay huddled on the slick stone, unable to move save to shiver, her sobs turned to keening whines. And then a warm and gentle pressure surrounded her, and she was lifted up—bundled against the Wolf shifter’s sparsely clad chest by one hand as he closed and picked up her journal with the other.

“There, there,” he murmured, and though his voice was barely above a whisper it somehow still possessed an echo of the resonant beauty it had when he sang. Though whether that was just the Call working at her perceptions, Beatrice couldn’t be sure. “All will be well, little Fox. All will be well.” At that, he carried her all the way up to her own chamber on the third floor, pulled back her sheets, and laid her down upon the mattress. Then, patting the journal’s covers dry with the hem of his tunic, he lay it out on her bedside table.

“Get some rest, little Fox,” he said, turning to go. “It’s been a hard time for you.”

In a burst of distress at the idea of his leaving before she could express her gratitude, Beatrice willed herself back to human form. Arron blinked rapidly, looking almost dazzled.

“Th-thank you, Lord Arron,” she said. “For your kindness.”

He blinked once more, his lips sealed shut, and a redness crept up past the edges of his beard. Inclining his head to her, he turned and hurried from the room. Her heart ached at his leaving, along with some other parts of her as well, but D’artanien shut the door after the Wolf before she could give in to the urge to call him back.

The thought of Victoria’s mysterious “Papa Demitri” haunted Beatrice, but just enough light had bled into the morning sky that she might sleep. Daylight would be little help, of course, if indeed some strange Fox mage was spiriting his way into their home in secret. But it made her feel safer, nonetheless. And besides, she had her ever-vigilant D’artanien and his sword of bone.

Her exhaustion took her quickly.

When Beatrice woke it was a little after noon. She’d barely stepped out of the washroom—refreshed and properly dressed at last—when D’artanien opened her chamber door and a Suit with a lunch trolley showed itself in. She set upon the meal, devouring the little candied walnut and chicken pies, the baked green apple brie and all of the coldriver crawfish bisque. Unremitting chaos, it seemed, bolstered ones appetite.

She’d only just finished and began to dab the crumbs off her lips when there was an urgent knock at the door. At a nod, her guardian swung it open, and on its other side stood Charles. His face ashen pale and his hair disarrayed, he swept a hand through his dark locks for what looked like the hundredth time that hour. Beatrice leapt to her feet.

“My lord, what is it? What’s wrong?”

What now?

Charles swallowed, took a deep breath, and swallowed again.

“It’s my mother,” he said at last. “She’s on her way.”