In Which Geneva Traces Engraved Letters

January 24, 1162

Geneva's travels had taught her there were many different places to bury the dead. Some countries laid their late nobility to rest in underground catacombs; others, outside under the sky, like peasants.

The Dovian custom differed slightly. In Geneva's homeland, the nobles were buried on the ground floor of their castle's chapel, as sermons were held on the upper levels. There were windows in these rooms--five in this particular one, it seemed--allowing the sunlight to enter and the grass to grow around and over top of the graves, a macabre garden of stone walls and stained glass.

Medea, Geneva knew, would have been more at ease with the idea of a catacomb; she had always hated grass and sunshine.

However, she found comfort in the fact that, at the very least, Octavius did visit the grave. The candles were alight, Geneva noted, and indicating a recent guest, and a bouquet of pink roses lay at the foot of the obelisk--pink, her favorite color.

The obelisk itself was a bittersweet relief. Medea had been buried as lady of the castle, as she had always wanted; back in Dovia, she would have only had a simple slab, as the daughter of the Earl of Sarona or the daughter-in-law of Lord Felonis. The word 'baroness' had been inscribed as clearly as any other--not so high as she had ever hoped, but if nothing else, it was better than no title at all.

Sighing, Geneva fell to her knees as she reached the grave, shaking her head as she studied the slab of rock that marked the final bed of her dearest friend. "Maybe you should have come with me after all," she muttered under her breath. "I know you hate traveling, but it would have been better than this. Maybe eventually we could have set up a shop or something somewhere, in Normandy or Flanders or some such place... ah, but you would have hated that too. You were born a patron of castles and finery, and perhaps you did truly die one as well.

"I do get the feeling that this may have been my fault... and if so, then I am truly grieved. You were one of the few things in my life not worth losing, and through my own foolishness, it would seem I lost you anyway. What a cruel ultimatum placed upon us by the games of the aristocracy--my happiness, or yours, but never could both coexist. I hope that you can forgive, as I will never be able to forgive myself."

Taking a quick sniff, just to be sure that they were still fresh and sweet, Geneva placed the flowers she had brought atop of Octavius's, then continued to gaze at the name engraved upon the obelisk, her eyes tracing each letter with a precision she had rarely ever found use for in her life.

"I suppose I shall see you in heaven, my friend," she whispered in resignation. Then, as an afterthought, she added, "Oh, who am I kidding? We shall both be burning in hell--but if that is what it takes to see you again, then so be it."

She wanted to cry, but she would force herself otherwise; Medea had always hated tears.

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