In Which Severin's Fear Fades to Fairytale

September 1, 1182

Falidor had not lied.

Rarely did strangers call at Severin's castle on the first of the month. The first of the month was the day the tax collectors went about from house to house, and most of the people were cooperative enough to stay close to home--and those who weren't certainly weren't about to march up to their lord's front door. After the collectors had what they came for, they'd go to the knights, who would have to recount, and then later in the week, the knights would come to him, and he and Nora and Raia would count again and pay everyone accordingly. There were always those who needed more time with their payments, of course, but they most often had the sense to call a few days before the first. The odd visitor from another shire aside, many a first of the month came and went without him seeing a face that wasn't a part of his household.

But today, sure enough, there was a young green-eyed woman, a woolen purple coat for the unseasonable chill, a swaddled infant in her arms. He didn't think he'd seen her before, and she didn't look to be in dire need of a tax break, and something about her gave him the sense that she would have taken care of it earlier if she was. What could she have needed?

For all he was wondering, it was Nora who asked. "Can I help you?"

The woman shook her head. Most people had reservations about meeting lords and ladies with gestures, but the way she was biting her lip, perhaps she deemed it preferable to what she had to say. "Thank you, my lady, but I'm as well as I can be." As well as I can be. What did that mean? "My name is Morgan, but the way. My companion is tying up the horses; I'd explain why we're here, but he told me he'd rather tell you himself, and he does have more right to the story than I do."

More right? Severin frowned. No one claimed to lack 'right' to a pleasant story. "What do you mean?"

Morgan's green eyes fell to the baby as she stepped forward, stopping only a few feet short of him. Severin couldn't claim to be an expert on baby faces, but he saw little resemblance between mother and child. "I'm sorry, my lord. Um... this is your granddaughter."

She bit her lip, likely expecting some stunned silence, and not to be disappointed if she was. Severin stared at her, then at Nora, who'd crossed her arms and lowered her brows, no doubt thinking the same word he was.

JADIN!

Severin leaned in for a closer look at the baby. She had fine, fair hair like little Celina, but other than that she bore little resemblance to any of Jadin's other children. Not that siblings always looked like each other or their parents, but on some strange level Severin suspected beyond the visual, she just didn't fit with the rest at all, even if she was only a half-sibling. And if she didn't look like Jadin's family, why didn't she take after her mother more, at least so much as babies could take after anyone?

She did have Severin's eyes--unlike any of Jadin's children, or any of his blue-eyed children's children at all, if he thought about it. Come to think of it, had he ever seen a brown-eyed child of two blue-eyed parents? Or a blue-eyed parent and a green-eyed parent?

...Lonriad? No--this little one looked even less like Lonriad's children than she did like Jadin's. Less like Lonriad too.

"She's... very cute." She was, but that wasn't the point, and everyone in the room knew that. Luckily for all of them, the baby yawned.

"Sounds like someone could use a nap." Nora shot Severin a quick grimace, then took Morgan by the shoulder and led her past him. "You look a little tired yourself as well. Severin, we'll speak with Jadin and Xeta later?"

He nodded. If the baby wasn't Jadin's, then there was no point in worrying him and Xeta unnecessarily, and he wanted to hear Morgan's side of the story first--or that of the companion who apparently had more right to it. Somehow.

Nora shut the door behind her, her footsteps and Morgan's fading out of earshot as they walked toward the guest chambers. With any luck, they wouldn't run into Jadin or Xeta--or Jadin, at least, if he was the father. Nora had probably already thought up something to tell Xeta if necessary, and surely Morgan would have the sense to play along? She seemed like a sensible young woman...

"Uncle?"

Severin turned his head. His son-in-law stepped in the door with a look of death beneath his eyes and the mystery fled at the sight of him. Morgan had been right. The baby was Severin's granddaughter.

His mistake had been in assuming that Morgan was her mother.

"Searle." Years now he'd lived in dread of Searle turning up without Viridis in sight, having resumed his old habits and lacking the decency to at least strand her with those who loved her, but if the pieces added up, then the true story turned that fear to a fairytale. "Viridis... never wrote that she was expecting."

"She didn't want to get your hopes up." As if his hopes would have ever been an issue! "She'd lost a few before, and I think she thought that with her health..."

Her health. Searle's health, from the look at him, from the rasp in his voice. Viridis's body had never refused a passing ailment. Poor darling. "Was it the birth, or did she catch what you have?"

"She had ten days with the baby." Ten days. If Severin could guess the age of the baby, then she hadn't been gone much longer. How ever long it was, it was still too long ago, and not long ago enough. "She spent all of them in bed, but I'd never seen her happier. She wanted her so badly..."

Severin clenched his hand and dug a nail into his palm. He wanted his daughter too. "God."

"The baby's name is also Viridis. They have the same birthday, and... well, after the birth, I kind of knew that it wouldn't be long." Searle wheezed, shrinking into himself as his lungs collapsed and sputtered. It wouldn't be long for him either, and Severin suspected he knew it. "Morgan is the nurse. She's a godsend, I swear; she turned up the day the baby was born, even though her own baby didn't make it. She even helped me bury Viridis beneath the tree where we used to picnic." Viridis had shown Severin the tree the first time he'd visited. He'd wondered if her resting place had been her idea. She'd always thought far too much about her own death. "When I die, write my father and tell him to lay me beside her?"

They'd always had that in common, her and Searle. "Searle..."

"It's all right, Uncle. I was lucky. I had more than ten days with her." So had Severin. It meant little. "I don't want another without."

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