Keeping time for the whole manor meant life in the church itself was also governed by a strict routine. On midday, young acolyte Jerald would normally be found trailing after Friar Tumney, recording his observations of the pea plants in his experimental plot.

On this particular day, however, Jerald was observing and updating results on his own; Friar Tumney had trusted him with the task as he hosted the visiting alchemist Tyberne inside the church.

He was counting pea plants with pink flowers when the sound of violent retching rented through the quiet sunlit afternoon, causing him to lose track.

Jerald straightened up and turned towards the noise. The retching, which echoed from the back of the church, continued in earnest. Being a monk armed with knowledge in medicine, Jerald instinctively hurried to see to the presumed sick.

He turned the corner then skidded to a halt at the sight of a fair-haired young woman around his age, bent on all fours before a plot of herbs, coughing and sputtering. The hems of her Crosset Green tunic flowed on the ground around her like melted mint paste, held down by a wicker basket sparsely strewn with plucked sprigs of basil and rosemary.

At long last, she seemed to have exhausted the contents of her stomach. Taking heaving, rapid breaths, she sat up and dabbed at her mouth with her apron. When she turned to him, Jerald recognized her as Tyberne's maidservant. Her brown eyes widened in fright at the sight of his priest habit, and she snatched her basket then scrambled hastily to her feet.

"Sir Acolyte." She gasped, her voice hoarse from the tang of lingering acid in her throat, bowing so low that the tail of her braid caressed the soil, "Please forgive me. I've retched all over your sacred herbs."

Jerald dismissed the apology with an absentminded wave, covering the remaining distance with brisk, gangly strides. Bending down to the maiden's eye-level, he surveyed her pallid, sweat-peppered countenance, his brows tied in worry.

"Are you..." He began, hesitant to pry into such private matters of a fair maiden, yet succumbing to the urge of his training, "by any chance...pregnant?"

The answer was evident in the maid's bulging, wavering brown eyes. With a start, she averted her gaze and glared down at her apron, now twisted in her hands. Having somewhat guessed the circumstances surrounding her pregnancy, Jerald knew better than to prolong her shame. Noticing the spatters of sick on the leaves of their precious herbs, drooping in dollops to the oozing pool below, he snatched the watering can and got to work washing them away.

"You'd do better to stay away from herbs. Even healers still aren't certain what the aromas could do to you and your babe." He couldn't help dispensing some advice, nonetheless. Setting the can down on the barrel where it usually sat, he turned and faced the maid with a frown of disapproval, "And you definitely shouldn't be working in the labs, for that matter."

To his surprise, the maid hitched up a cool, mocking grin.

"That's swell, then." She retorted, her bright voice dripping with sarcasm. She cocked her head towards the herbs she had vomited on, "I was hoping I could perhaps retch the thing out while I'm at it. Turns out the uterus isn't connected to the gullet."

She spat bitterly then turned away, heaving a deep, sobbing sigh as she covered her face. As he watched her dilemma, Jerald could only dither in silence. It was against his teachings to allow the woman to rid of the life within her. But to force a reluctant woman to carry a babe to birth and raise it would be an affront to his mother.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by twin tugs on the wrists of his sleeves. The maid was staring into his eyes, beseeching.

"Please don't tell." She begged in a tear-choked whisper, her head shaking slowly from side to side as she rattled his arms, "If they know, they'll make me keep it. And they'll kill me if I don't."

At the sight of those anguished brown eyes, Jerald felt his blood freeze to ice then boil with fury. He knew those eyes. He had witnessed that gleam of living pain ever since he could remember. And to see it replicated in this woman's eyes. After all the years that had passed...

His numb lips moved of their own accord.

"He forced you, didn't he?"

The maid's eyes grew, if possible, even wider. Like a fish gasping for life, she mouthed wordlessly, then breathed in terror.

"How have you known?"

Jerald averted his gaze to the grass beneath his feet at the dull pang of pain throbbing in his heart, his voice quiet.

"My mother has that look in her eyes whenever she looks at me."

A brief silence stretched between them as the maid processed the revelation. Her grip on his arms slackened, yet he could feel her eyes still lingering on his downcast face.

"So, you're like my babe." She whispered, and Jerald felt his heart seize up with emotion as her hand traveled absently to caress her middle. My babe, she had said; she had accepted the babe as her own. She moved a step closer, a sign of trust and camaraderie, as well as curiosity, "Do you know your father?"

Jerald shook his head, eyes still idly roaming the earth. He wasn't one to spill his family's most embarrassing secrets to every other soul on the road, but he felt compelled to. Her predicament had hit too close to home.

"My mother was ordered never to reveal his name." He relented a wan grin as he settled down on the shaded patch of grass along the church's wall. The maid cautiously followed suit. He could feel the heat of her gaze on his cheek, as he stared ahead into sunshine and blue sky, reminiscing his bitter reality,

"I reckon he must have been powerful enough; even my Lord Uncle didn't dare confront him. He forbade my mother from exposing his deeds, and encouraged rumors that I was born from a passionate affair. As soon as I weaned, I was whisked away to live out my days here in relative secrecy."

Having mustered up his courage, Jerald finally reciprocated her gaze, a melancholic grin still splayed on his lips. The maid paled as realization dawned on her. Jolting slightly back on instinct, she let out a strangled gasp.

"You're the bastard of Lady Arynea?" Jerald bowed his head in confirmation. The maid clutched at the bosom of her tunic as she edged further back, gawking at him in astonishment and fearful suspicion.

"Why have you told me all this? We barely know each other. Aren't you afraid your Lord Uncle would be angered?"

"I believe my mother might be able to help you." Jerald willed every last dredge of sincerity he possessed into his beseeching gaze. Yet, the poor woman shook her head vigorously as she rebuffed without pause.

"No-one could help me! Not with the father being Lord Crosset!"

The words of the strident cry slammed into Jerald like blows of a battering ram. Even after what had happened to Jerald's mother—his little sister—his Lord Uncle still chose to take this woman by force. How dastardly. How heartless. How selfish...

"You're Lord Uncle's mistress?" Jerald's voice petered out in a hoarse sigh as he dipped his head in shame. The mistress tensed and whipped around, her delicate hands clenched into trembling fists.

"Please don't call me that." Her command struck the air like a clap of lightning, sending Jerald jolting out of his misery. She straightened, her nose high and her eyes flashing with determination,

"I'm an alchemist." At Jerald's unwitting stare of bewilderment, she blushed and turned sharply away, adding hastily, "Someday. Hopefully. I'm more than a broodmare for your uncle's demon-spawn."

It took the alchemist-to-be a pause before she realized the unintended harm of the words she had let slip in her anguish. Whirling around to find Jerald, head bowed and eyes closed, lips pursed against grief, she scurried back to his side,

"Oh, Freda. I—I'm so sorry, sir." As she stammered, he could feel the warmth from her hesitant hand hovering over his elbow, "I didn't mean to; after all, you seem a decent man..."

She trailed away, her voice superseded by a brief yet nevertheless torturous silence. Jerald shook his head, repressing his scrabbling grief back inside his heart so it would not leak onto his face.

"I understand. My mother probably feels the same way about me—sometimes, hopefully." He added with a bitter chuckle that subsided to a slow death in his throat. The alchemist kept a rapt vigil. Her brown eyes scrutinized his stricken profile, then wavered in sinking horror,

"So, your mother still cannot love you?" She breathed, her voice barely escaping her lips. Jerald turned to her, and somehow, the heartbreak on her face was a warm balm mending the wounds on his heart. Her gaze swept over him from head to toe, her eyes welling with disbelief and pity,

"After all this time? Even as you grew into such a fine man?"

Jerald did not know the answer. And he would rather it remained that way for the rest of his days. The alchemist seemed to have taken his mournful silence for a yes; she turned away with a sigh of despair. Shaking her head in sorrow, she muttered bitterly,

"I knew it. The babe would be better off not being born. And I should do it soon, before Freda bestows it a soul."

At that, Jerald shook his head with a wan smile, as again warmth enveloped his heart,

"Don't trouble yourself unduly. I can see you already care for your babe."

As the woman gawked in confusion, he met her gaze and widened his smile in reassurance.

"You're so afraid of not being able to adore your babe, you're willing to risk your life to end her suffering before it began." As he shook his head in admiration, his eyes never left hers.

"Should you choose to become her mother, I'm sure you would be loving and responsible. At the least, you would try your best, like my mother did."

He cocked his head, reminiscing the moments he shared with his mother, the love subtly weaved into her interactions with him, even as his presence was a constant reminder of her trauma, then bowed in apology.

"I mean no offense, but merely seeing you fret for your babe has comforted me greatly."

The alchemist blinked, surprised and somewhat bashful. She looked down and cradled her still-level belly, then glanced up when Jerald continued,

"To keep your babe or not is your choice." He enunciated solemnly. The woman visibly relaxed as she smiled in relief and gratitude. Jerald returned her smile, then bowed and reiterated his earlier request,

"But, if I may, I beg you at least to meet my mother. Lord Uncle is fond of her. He allows her some freedom when it comes to me. She might be able to help you in some way."

The lady held his gaze for a moment before wandering, smoothing the creases of her tunic over her babe as she pondered. At long last, she turned back with a question as soft as the summer breeze tickling the young grass.

"What should I call you, Sir Acolyte?"

"My name is Jerald."

The alchemist nodded, her once cold, hard eyes growing gentler for the first time.

"And mine is Erina." She reciprocated with a slight smile, then added in that same bold, candid manner Jerald would come to know—and love, for the rest of his life.

"Thank you, Sir Jerald. I hope my babe would grow up to be as kind and just as you."

⏳

The muffled shouting from the other side of the door subsided into murmurs, then gave way to the still night, leading the women in the conjoined bedroom to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Out of the gloom, a triangle of brownish orange light blossomed from the opening door, backlighting the silhouette of a young woman with glowing green eyes suspended in thin air.

Noticing the glinting eyeballs all staring back at her, Meya froze, then added her own sigh to the pile as she closed the door softly behind her, sheepishly asking the obvious.

"So, you all heard that ruckus?"

The other girls nodded. Heloise braved a timid follow-up,

"What were they fighting about?"

Meya shook her head.

"Nah, just had a heartfelt talk."

She grumbled. After a quick survey revealed no other sufficient empty spots, she gathered her nightdress then settled down on the mat before the door. Fione edged to the foot of her hay mattress, blankets bundled around her,

"Are you sure? That sounded pretty explosive." She challenged with a hint of a grin in her voice. Meya shrugged,

"Take it or leave it, my lady." She retorted flatly as her eyes wandered the moon-bathed floor. The venom in her tone sent the room's occupants tensing up once more, especially as those eerie, glowing eyes shot up and glared knowingly at Fione. "I'm not recounting their every word to you. Not tonight—Maybe ever."

Having ended her tirade in a sullen mutter, Meya shifted sideways and stared morosely out the window. A pause of uneasy silence interluded as Agnes turned her worried gaze to Arinel in counsel. At her determined nod, the scorched lady rose onto her knees then treaded her way over to Meya. She slumped down beside her and took her hands.

"Meya, I know this may sound shamelessly demanding—" Meya succumbed to a quick glance before turning sharply back. Her sign of relent was encouraging, "—But please, forgive Lord Coris. Just once more."

In the moonlight, Arinel could see Meya's silhouette tensing in shaky resolve. Agnes squeezed her hands, pleading in earnest,

"The laudanum—it destroys our reason. It alters our very selves. It binds us to it, life and body." Her voice broke into a shudder of fearful remembrance, and Meya spun slowly towards her, eyes wide in alarm. "I'm sure he hadn't wanted to lie to you. He might have even tried to wean himself off it, but the hunger was too great for him to resist."

Agnes stared unseeing down at her lap. By the time she glanced back up, Meya had already tore her gaze away, and Agnes shook her hands in desperation.

"These following days are crucial. He'll need you as he fights the withdrawal, more than ever." She begged and reasoned, bowing to the peasant girl, who hastily grasped her shoulders to stop her,

"Please. Take pity on him, at the least."

The impatient silence washed back in to reign supreme the instant her words died. Meya gingerly withdrew her hands, having made made sure Agnes wouldn't topple face-first to prostrate before her again. Her countenance, half-lit by moonlight, was of sorrow and indecision.

"Of course I won't abandon him now, Haselle."

At long last, she reassured her with a sigh. Taking Agnes's hands in turn, she leaned against the door, behind which her troublesome beau laid awake, awaiting her return. Her weary eyes staring into space, she gave a feeble shrug,

"But, after he recovers...I dunno. It might've already been one lie too many."

Her honest verdict reverberated in the night, anticipated yet chilling nonetheless, as it could very well become the end of a dreamlike love affair that had already endured staggering odds.

"Lady Jaise is right—He's a Hadrian. He'll always have his duty, his priorities, his circumstances, which don't include me."

Meya continued in that same soft, level voice, shaking her head numbly,

"I've known from that first night. I should've been prepared to lose him at any time, but I'm not. And tonight proved just how much."

Meya shivered, probably seeing her piteous state tonight flashing by before her eyes. Having been independent and indomitable her whole life, it must have been harrowing to acknowledge how vulnerable and helpless she could be in the face of loss.

"I've never lost control like that in my entire life—and I'm not ready to go through it again." She confessed, her voice undulating through an onslaught of staunched tears, then turned away once more, ending with a resolute command.

"I need to think, so please don't pester me about this right now."

Meya's voice was undercut with such finality, even the girls of noble birth made no move to contradict, save for a large serving of fidgeting and worried glances. As if to quell the brewing dissent, Meya turned to Arinel with an abrupt demand.

"You still owe me an answer, Lady Arinel."

Arinel averted her eyes from those probing, glowing dragon orbs. Even as she knew in her fluttering heart that it was futile, she tried to evade.

"To what question?"

"I asked what was wrong with you. You've looked dreadful all day." Meya rebuffed, flat and impatient. Arinel forced out a scoff, shaking her head with a patronizing smirk.

"Don't try shifting pressure onto me; I am perfectly fine."

"Very well. If the Lady insists on playing the fool, I shall tell you myself."

Arinel whirled around as that harsh voice rented through the silence. Gretella had sat upright, and was shifting against the pillows supporting her curving back. She turned and surveyed the wide-eyed girls one-by-one, one brown eye reflecting the splash of moonlight on her face.

"My daughter Erina was murdered by the alchemist Dineira Sameri." Her blunt revelation drew gasps from around the room. Arinel dipped her head into her hands in shame, never one to burden others with her private affairs. Yet, Gretella went on in that same bold, ruthless manner,

"She put her and Tyberne to sleep, stole their treatise, then set the lab on fire."

Through the gaps between her fingers, Arinel saw Meya's questioning eyes, asking for proof. Naturally, Gretella had anticipated it.

"The Lady found the treatise hidden in her lab." Gretella cocked her head towards Arinel, who hastily closed her finger-blinds and cowered lower. She desperately wished for more fingers to plug her earholes, especially as Gretella added, "But the Lady is reluctant to expose her; she fears it would hinder Dineira's work on dragons."

The word ricocheted in the silence despite the heavy implications it carried. Arinel peered fearfully through her fingers. Gretella was eyeing the dumbstruck Meya, and she steeled herself for the fallout.

She had anticipated Meya's reaction. She wouldn't begrudge her friend for prioritizing the living dragonkind over some dead lab maid that happened to be Arinel's mother. Yet, she couldn't explain why she was also silently praying she would be wrong.

At long last, Meya turned to her. Arinel had been expecting hesitance. An excuse. Perhaps an apology. But all Meya had for her was disbelief bordering on exasperation.

"So that was why you were in my room? You wanted my permission to avenge your mother?" She demanded in a shrill voice, jabbing a finger towards the door, then her chest, then Arinel's. Arinel avoided those bulging eyes, and Meya swore with a curse so obscene Agnes and Heloise cringed in unison,

"Why in the three lands—You act as if nobody else in Latakia could study dragons!"

"I've said as much." Gretella sniffed. Shaking her head in annoyance, Meya sprang to her feet and marched towards the bed,

"I swear to Freda, you and Coris would make a great pair." Arinel watched her somewhat misshapen toes coming to a stop before her. Arms akimbo, the peasant girl lectured down at her unresponsive form. "Listen, Lady. I wouldn't hack through Zier's guts to liberate my kind. And I wouldn't bargain for it with justice for your mother, neither!"