My last interaction with the Queen was unsettling, to say the least.

In all my time working with Her Majesty, I had never observed her to be so reckless, so dictated by emotion when it came to decision-making. It was clear just how profound of an impact the loss of the Princess had on her rationality. Such a response might be forgivable if we weren’t on the precipice of a war where our defeat would be assured — a war the Queen seems hell-bent on initiating.

My attempts to convince Her Majesty otherwise were quickly dismissed. If she is unwilling to listen to me, then there’s but one animal left who can prevent this catastrophe:

My mother, Ariana. The prior Head of Staff who served monarchs for over four decades.

Enlisting her help won’t be easy.

Usually, communicating with my mother would be a trivial affair; a quick call on the phone would happily suffice. But in the aftermath of the tragedy in the weald, my father has been less than amicable to my existence. Mother has only been able to call when he’s not present, and I wouldn’t dare risk the chance of calling myself and having him pick up on the other side.

Oh, sure. I wasn’t lying when I said my family was in communication with the Durhams over funeral arrangements. But that effort has largely been spearheaded by mother. As if the misery over losing my partner wasn’t enough, father chooses to fixate on the damage to our family’s reputation for failing to protect the princess. So far, nobody — not even the Queen herself — has blamed me for her passing. But to him, it matters little.

To think that the security of the Kingdom could be thrust into jeopardy by one man’s petty ignorance!

And so this afternoon, I find myself on Oak Island, the elite residential neighborhood in Varecia where my parents live on our family’s estate. A trip to my parents, even with the cloud of hatred that is my father, would typically be an ordinary affair. But today is different. Today is the Rabbit holiday of Sorcuth, the festival of family and good tidings. To enlist my mother’s help, I will have to face my extended family’s scorn for failing to protect the Princess and tarnishing the Almandoz name.

I set out from the air transfer station and make my way along the forested lane, past the towering hedges and gated fences of other residences. It seems silly that such measures would be necessary on an island where outsider access is by invitation only. But the animals here are such that even preventing your neighbors from seeing your wealth and luxury is preferable.

Eventually, I reach the bend in the road where our family’s wealth and luxury are located, passing by the metal gate left open for today’s expected visitors. With no steam carriages allowed on Oak Island, the entrance is only big enough for a drawn cart to pass through. The hike up to my parent’s house is pleasant, at least. Groomed fruit trees line the pathway, surrounded on both sides by fields of freshly cut grass, fallen leaves filling the air with pleasing autumn scents. I pass by the pond, and around the stone wall that separates the fields from our home, a two-story country estate that my parents love to flaunt was very expensive to build.

I trot up to the path to the front door and take a moment to collect myself. I don’t know how well I’ll be received, but I’m only here to talk to mother. If father confronts me, I’ll see myself out, but not before I talk to her. With the very fate of the Kingdom in the balance, I can’t be concerned about lasting damage to our relationship.

Knock knock.

It’s strange to knock on one’s door, one I’ve allowed myself into countless times before. I feel like a visitor in my parent’s home for the first time.

“Helloooo!! “Come o— oh!” A cheery voice rings as the door swings open to reveal a small doe with peppered, shoulder-length hair and large, circular glasses. She’s wearing a trained tea dress adorned with thick green velvet and brown trailings — not too formal, as I understand it.

“Aunt Torie,” I smile, relieved it isn’t dad. “It’s been a while.” While she answered the door in the Goddess language, I replied to her in Lagoran, the language spoken between Rabbits.

“Duncan!” she exclaims as the joy drains slightly from her face. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

“It’s not a problem, is it?”

“Well, no, of course not. It’s just…” As she trails off, her ears droop slightly to their sides. “Well, come on in.” She pulls the door open and beckons with her ears to follow. I enter the front chamber and close the heavy wooden door behind me.

Inside, the sound of the door closing reverberates through the quiet house. In front of me, a long oak stairway draws along a curved side wall to the house’s second story, where the bedrooms are located. Oil paintings cover the plaster-trimmed walls, adorned with cuts of lavender and satchels of dried-up flower buds to give the room a pleasant aroma. Lavender is mother’s favorite flower; she loves to hang it when guests visit. I hand Torie my frock and get to work unclasping my boots.

“We just cleaned the floor, you know how your uncle Myron is about brushing his feet.”

“Oh, yes,” I say, kicking a boot into the side closet. “Is my mother home?”

Torie shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. She left a little while ago but didn’t mention where she was going.” She angles her ears to follow, leading me down a well-lit hallway adorned with oil paintings towards the kitchen. “I think she needed to pick up some more rhubarb for the mousse.”

“Mother loves her rhubarb,” I chuckle hesitantly. Mother gets her rhubarb from Arvilla, the Ruffy down the road with an immensely sized garden. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be cause for concern. But Arvilla is well-known for talking up a storm whenever there’s company, and mother is known for her conversational quirks. An errand involving those two could drag on until sundown.

“Oh, goodness!” Torie exclaims as she enters the kitchen. She hurries past the counters, entirely covered with ingredients and cooking utensils, around the table and towards one of the three wood-burning stoves against the outside facing wall. She peers inside, jiggles the ash gate, and watches as the flames regain their strength. “Phew! The fire almost went out. Your mother would’ve been devastated if the soufflé failed.”

“Heh-heh,” I chuckle half-heartedly. “Oh yes. That would have been terrible.”

“Duncan,” Torie’s face turns sour as her hand falls gently against her hip. “I know you didn’t come for your mother’s soufflé. What are you doing here?”

Hmph. Guess the jig is up. So much for cordiality. “I need to speak with my mother in private.”

“In private?” Torie’s eyebrows furrow. “Deary, I’m certain you have telephones at the palace.”

“Our only receiver is in the kitchen,” I say, pointing directly toward it. “Our conversation requires discretion. It concerns national security.”

A glint of surprise colors her face before turning sour again. “Duncan,” she lowers her voice to a whisper and closes the gap between us. “Just what are you doing, handling matters of state?!”

“It’s my job,” I deadpan.

“So soon after the tragedy?”

“Queen’s orders.”

“She believes you’re fit for duty?”

“Quite.”

Torie blinks, then quickly averts her gaze in contemplation. “How could that possibly be the case? After everything that’s happened?”

“Your auntie is right.”

My heart stops as a new voice echoes outside the kitchen, interjecting our conversation like a scythe’s edge. It’s that voice, the scruff and elderly voice I least wanted to hear today. The slow plodding of heavy footsteps follows, each once raking my soul with dread.

I turn to see an elderly buck strolling around the door to the kitchen. Not so much a Rabbit but a pile of rags and bones, tattered and disheveled, barely able to support the morning robe wrapped around him. His face is slack-jawed, and his fur gray and unkempt, as if he had just rolled out of bed. Or a grave. It’s not difficult to imagine him returning to life solely to make mine miserable.

In a voice that belies his age, he rumbles with contempt, “You’ve got stiff ears coming here, boy.”

“Father,” I respond half-heartedly. “Am I no longer welcome in the very home I grew up in?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be, Duncan. Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve caused to your family’s reputation?”

Predictably, father believes he is the singular victim of the tragedy in the weald. I straighten my back to try and appear as tall as possible. “I have done no such thing. You should direct your anger towards that monster from the Northern Continent.”

“Hrmph,” Father grunts as he strolls into the kitchen like the walking dead. “Blaming your failures on everyone but yourself. As usual. If you had any sense, you’d have resigned so your sister could take the position.”

I cast a glance at Aunt Torrie, standing near the stoves, curious to see how she’s processing this undignified assault on my character. To my dismay, her face is plastered with a scowl just like father’s — surely she agrees with everything he’s said. I’d be remiss to expect her help, but even a crumb of sympathy for the sorrow I’ve been subjected to would suffice.

Recognizing I’m alone in this fight, I square my shoulders and turn back to father. “Annie no longer wants the role. And even if she did, the fact remains that I’m the most qualified to navigate Her Majesty through this crisis.”

For a brief moment, father looks genuinely surprised before chuckling to himself, “You aren’t qualified to choose your clothes in the morning. And you think you can still help the Queen?”

I flail my arms in frustration. This is going nowhere. Father is singularly interested in making my life worse. “You can believe whatever you want. Once I finish talking to mother, I will happily leave your sight.”

Father slinks around the counter in the middle of the kitchen and stares down at me with a face like death itself. “You’ll leave now.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Get out.”

“You don’t understand!!”

I pull myself back from his face — unaffected. Cold as stone, until it twists into an expression almost smug. “I understand you perfectly well,” He says, stepping towards the outside-facing window in the center of the kitchen. He stops to admire the oak tree outside and continues, “You’ve been this way for ages.”

Such a waste of time! This argument has devolved into pointlessness. I could see myself to one of the other rooms and quietly wait for mother to return, but now I’m curious. Curious what a sclerotic old man like him could possibly know about me. “What are you babbling ab—”

“You thought the military could fix you,” he says, slowly crossing his arms. “And for a while, you were right. …Almost right. They called you an exemplary cadet, pinned medals to your chest, and promoted you all the way to Commander. But in the end, you’re still the insubordinate boy who deserted this house fifteen years ago.”

What a feckless argument. My past — as checkered as it was — is a long and distant memory. Thank God. It’s not even worth justifying a response, but I know a certain part of my conscience won’t allow me to stay silent. Not to him. “I am no longer the broken soul I was back then.”

“Then why does everyone around you die?”

What?!

His heartless words hit me like a brick, knocking the air from my lungs and nearly pushing me backward. I always knew my father to be cruel to a fault, but to lay at my feet the deaths of my best friend, my partner, and the Princess… I can’t believe this. How could somebody be so heartless, so cruel to their son?

Father smirks, clearly pleased by my shock. He folds his hands behind his back and continues, “First, it was that best friend of yours. You thought you could leave him alone, even though you knew he was doing—“

“Leave Isadore out of this,” I warn, strained emotion seeping into my voice.

Father smiles like a petulant child. “What’s the matter? Don’t like being told the truth?”

“Why are you doing this?!”

“Because,” he responds plainly, pulling the sides of his robe closer. “Your failures have consequences, Duncan. Three animals lie dead at your feet.”

“Stop this,” I mutter, buying my hands into my face. The terrible memories of the night I found Isadore mix with the memories of finding Calypso, suffocating my thoughts.

But he doesn’t, and instead continues in a soft voice, “One of them Kelani’s daughter, the other that lamentable Knight of yours.”

“Shut UP!!” I explode, dropping my hands and forcing myself to see him. To show him my fury.

“Or what?” He grins, stepping out from around the counter. He strolls forward with a smug little gait and asks, “You wouldn’t try to hit your old man again, would you?”

“Keep talking and find out,” I challenge with a voice like steel, rationality departing me. If father’s goal was to break me, then he is succeeding. I know this, and yet I don’t care. I won’t allow him to execute who I am. Not in front of my family and not in front of those I’ve lost.

What must Calypso be thinking, watching me now from beyond far? How much pity must he harbor, seeing his dear bunny reduced to sordid emotions long buried? Isadore’s death shook me out of my turbulent years — I realized if I continued that life, it wouldn’t be long before I too injected too much in the back of some decrepit alleyway. Calypso couldn’t believe the stories from back then — imaging the Queen’s trusted right hand as a directionless, drug-toting youth was too outrageous. But those days are not as far behind me as he thought. Perhaps I’ve given him some perspective today.

And then there’s the Princess. Heh, how poetic. Is this how she felt that morning when she was moments away from tearing a canyon-sized rift between herself and the Queen? I told her on the Blue Daemon I spoke up to prevent that breach, but the truth is that I sympathized with her vitriol for a parental figure — I was all too familiar with those intense feelings, courtesy of the man standing before me. Her and I were far more alike than she ever knew.

I never got to know Asha very well, but here against father… I’d like to imagine she’s rooting for me.

The stage is set, and the audience is seated. They’re waiting to see how the obedient, perfectly-composed yes-boy responds to this assault from his miserable father. So, whatever’s about to happen… I have no regrets.

Father frowns at my sudden confidence and shoves his face straight into mine. “You don’t deserve to be Kelani’s head of staff, and you never have. You’re a failure, Duncan. And the longer you stay there, the closer—“

“Alonzo!!”

A familiar voice from behind me interjects the conversation, putting a swift end to father’s charade. My hand falls gracelessly to my side as I spin around and see mother standing in the doorway to the kitchen. With a travel sack around her shoulder and a half-opened traveling coat, her fawn-furred face is cold with shock at the scene unfolding in the kitchen. But to me, her arrival is like sunshine emerging from parting clouds. My savior has arrived!

“Mother…!” I gasp, trying to quell the hostility stuck to my tongue.

“Torie?!” She asks aloud after noticing the quiet spectator of our group. “What in the blazes is going on here?”

Trying to retain control of the situation, Father quickly rumbles, “Our insubordinate son decided to pay us a visit. I told him to leave immediately, but—“

“Ohhh, no!” Mother screeches like a hawk, stamping into the kitchen and staring up at father. “I heard what you said to him! I don’t care what he did, you will NOT cause a scene on Sorcuth!! We’re supposed to come together as a family today, not be torn apart at the seams!”

Father looks distraught but keeps his distance. “He was about to—“

“That’s enough!” she dismisses, making slicing motions with her hands. “I don’t want to hear it, Alonzo! You’re going to frighten away our guests before the celebration even starts!”

“Guests?” Torie asks sheepishly, all the snootiness in her voice dissolved.

After releasing a breath to calm herself, mother answers, “Yes!” in the Goddess Language. She turns to direct her voice through the kitchen doorway and continues, “Everything is fine! Come on in!”

Heavy footsteps trod down the hall, and two Ruffies emerge in the doorway: A tall, middle-aged couple in well-worn, pedestrian clothing — not at all the type of attire you’d expect to see worn on Oak Island. The male has a grizzled ruff and dons a dirty flat cap, and the woman the most ordinary travel dress imaginable. Indeed, these Lemurs are not from our exclusive island, or even Varecia. They’re the Durhams: Calypso’s parents.

“E-Elias,” I mutter in surprise, strained emotion overpowering my voice.

Seeing me, his face wretches in pain. “Oh, Duncan.”

He lumbers forward and embraces me with a hearty bear hug — the same hug that Calypso used to comfort me. I bury my face in Elias’ coat as the pain from that day rolls into my head like a dismal fog. Since then, we’ve spoken over the phone but have yet to see each other in person.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers, rubbing his hand into my hair. Is this what it feels like to have a real father?

“Elias used a pay phone to call me from the transfer station,” mother explains. “Even though I told the station ahead of time, nobody believed they were invited onto the island. ”

I swivel my gaze between mother and Elias in shock. His assured expression confirms her telling of events. “That’s horrible!!” I say.

Elias looks down at me with gentle eyes and smiles softly. “It’s not the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. What’s important is we made it. And so did you, Dunc.”

Gosh, what a lovely man. I sniff, wipe my nose, and return the smile as a part of my soul is mended.

Mother steps forward and places her hand on my shoulder. “And what about you, dear? I’m sorry I didn’t send you an invitation, but I know how difficult things have been. What compelled you to join us?”

“Well,” I say, straightening myself up. Finally, we can get down to business. “I came today because you and I must speak in private. It concerns Her Majesty.”

After flashing surprise, her expression turns as grave as a cemetery. More than anyone else alive, mother understands the gravity of this request. No doubt she’s been glued to the radio the past few days, as everyone has. She has to know Kelani hasn’t made a public decision yet about the peace delegation from Mortha.

“Torie,” she commands solemnly, unlike the voice she used in the palace all those years ago. Her eyes are locked with mine. “Finish preparing the soufflé. Duncan and I have matters to discuss.”