In Which Severin Catches Sight

September 8, 1176

Severin slid the record book back into its place on the shelf and sighed. Not much noteworthy this week--only a couple weddings, one shop changing hands, and one birth. A local tanner's red-haired wife had birthed a baby girl, the curls on her head already bouncing. They'd named her Elena. It wasn't quite the same name but it was close enough to sting, if only just a little.

Alina had been dead and buried for nearly a decade now, but there were parts of the world where she lingered and his heart was one of them. Today she felt nearer than most and for the life of him he couldn't get her off his mind. She was everywhere--in the name, in the book, her hair sparkling in the firelight though the hearth sat cold, everywhere. Thank God for Nora and her own lost love; had he married some maiden, she never would have understood.

Ah... Nora. She'd ridden to Tetran earlier that afternoon, intent on paying Arydath a visit. She suspected she had another baby on the way. What would Alina have said to that? All those years of his refusal to give her an eighth child and now here he was, four going on five with another woman. But it wasn't like that, he wanted to call to her, as if a ghost could be assured. I tried not to get you pregnant and you were miserable. I tried to get you pregnant and you died. Can you blame me for leaving it up to fate now?

Someone knocked at the door. It wasn't Falidor's knock, hesitant yet firm, nor Jadin's, bold and carefree. It was a quiet knock, a dainty knock. Almost like Alina's knock. "Yes?"

Ah, Vera. His sweet, beautiful daughter--her mother's last child, Alina's sad blue eyes sparkling beneath his own dark brows. He found himself smiling. Of all Alina's children only she and Jadin were still with him, and it wouldn't be long before she left him too; he couldn't waste her last however long on his sorrows, and especially not when she had her own. "Everything all right, baby?"

She shook her head and ran toward him, seeking refuge in his arms like her childhood self had always done when the thunderstorms rolled in. She was shaking; he pulled her closer to steady her.

"Vera, what's wrong?"

She said nothing, responding instead by sobbing into his shoulder. He thought he knew what it was but he didn't want to make assumptions, especially if there wasn't anything he could do about it. "Vera? Is it...?"

Vera nodded.

As she collapsed into a fit of tears, he decided against inquiring further. How strong was it? How near? How long? He had to know but he couldn't ask, not if it would upset her further. "Vera..."

Something nagged at him from the corner of his eye, some amorphous cloud of smoky cinnabar that approached and retreated with sadistic glee. His grip on Vera tightening, he let his eyes follow. If he squinted, he could almost catch it.

NEXT CHAPTER: