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“There were others,” she said, dismissing her own efforts despite the train of food she’d hauled to the tents. Then she swallowed, eyes falling to her lap when she asked, “Is that what you want, then? A home cooked meal?”

Fenrir blinked down at her, not expecting the offer. Did he? “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” she said, like it was that simple and not years of resentment and regret filling the space between them.

“Thanks, Mum.” It wasn’t a lot—it was hardly a little—but the look on Vera’s face made it feel like it was enough.

And it gave him an idea.

“You like organizing things, don’t you? Making a plan, following through?”

Vera’s eyebrows lifted, head cocking to the side with interest. “What are you suggesting?”

“Let’s get the nobles to submit their problems ahead, then build a schedule of meetings based on priority. Critical stuff first, then everything else after. So, I’m not wasting my time every day and miss something important.”

“That’s a good idea.” Vera didn’t sound one bit surprised when she said it, and that, more than the compliment, warmed something cold inside Fenrir’s heart.

He changed the subject before he could confront it. “I’ll see you later, then? For dinner?”

Vera met his eyes for a moment without responding, then nodded. “Okay, until then.”

Chapter XIX

The Visitor

When Orpheus woke, it was to the cool, comforting glow of Netherflame.

And the scent of warm soup.

He rolled towards both, moving sluggishly, like he’d worn his robes into a river and had to fight against its current. Inside his head, his thoughts compounded one another, snippets of memory warring with what remained of his dreams: a sensation of flying. Or was it falling? The ground rushed up to meet him, cold and unfeeling, golden hair whipping in his peripheral, a blackened blade catching the starlight. And on the back of his tongue iron soured, but Netherflame too, his veins icy with it—hardening a place in his chest where his heart should beat.

And agony, unbinding in a scream.

“Fifi, hey, wake up!”

He knew that voice. Remembered it.

Ice again licked his face. Netherflame, but not his. Who’s?

Gwen’s.

“What” —Orpheus opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. Light flooded his vision, blinding. How long had he been asleep? “How” —He cut off again, rolling over to get his hands under him then slamming into a wall of stiff pain. He somehow made it upright without using his hands, unsure of whether they could take his weight let alone—

“Wait, wait, here. Be careful.” Hands touched him, first his arms and then his shoulders. Gwen crowded into his space, helping him sit up before inching back to sit on her heels. “Sorry for waking you, but I think you were having a nightmare.”

A nightmare? As if reality could get any worse. Orpheus cradled his hands to his chest and blinked the sting of light and tears from his eyes. “I’m fine,” he snapped. Then, he noticed the source of their light: Gwen’s Netherflame.

It danced in the darkness, a tiny little wiggle that threw shadows across both their laps.

“Is that” —he choked— “why are you…”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “I knew the gag was overkill. I don’t think you’ve managed a single sentence.” In her lap, something small and silver caught the light. Beside her, a bowl of soup steamed atop a battered tray, and beside that, two identical mechanisms waited.

Silver. Like his archanics. His first task.

“So that’s why you’re here?” he finally got out. “Did Atticus send you?”

Gwen didn’t say anything. She looked up at him from her place on the floor, a dark smear across her pale cheek, shirt equally stained, like she’d crawled through a furnace to reach him. He glanced up at the slot in the door and found it sealed shut. Through the window, a moonlit sky sparkled silver, the haunting hymn of some dissonant chorus rising from Sanctuary’s depths while the cathedral’s bell tolled gently in response.