In Which Vera Drifts Off

March 12, 1187

"Vera?"

Lucien's soft snores ruled him out as the speaker. The voice was too male to be Morgan's and too adult to be one of the children's. That, and Vera knew the door was locked. After some months' debate, they'd reached the half-reluctant decision to try for another baby, and tonight had been the first attempt of what--if the past said anything--would have to be many. The stress of it all robbed the act itself of all enjoyment, leaving her guilty and hollow as Lucien would ease himself out of her, looking down with concern as if he'd done something terrible, all too aware of her translucent lack of pleasure.

Why couldn't it have stayed as it was, that hungry, impassioned lovemaking of their engagement and newlywed days, back when a baby had been inevitable and she'd assumed her fertility on par with that of Raia or Riona? Why had it become... this? This chore, this ache? This futile effort?

"Vera?"

And why did she have to think of this now, again--and just as she'd thought she'd finally found some semblance of sleep, if the voice said anything?

There could not have been another person in the room.

"Vera, please. You're the only one I can talk to."

Her lashes parted and what the room caught of the moonlight leaked in. Surely, she was dreaming. "Sparron?"

Her brothers' friend--her father's friend's son--nodded. Barring their shared scenes in the university's play, he'd never sought her out, except maybe for that one odd party back when they'd been children when they'd awkwardly flirted before he progressed to the apparently more interesting Riona and then disappeared for the rest of the evening. She certainly couldn't have been, as he'd said, the only.

But she stood anyway. It was a dream, after all. Dreams didn't have to make sense. "What are you doing here?"

"I... I need you to pass on some messages for me. I wouldn't have bothered you had there been anyone else; I didn't want to drag another person into this." But there was not making sense, and there was that feeling of having skipped half the pages of a book. "But I guess it doesn't matter now, does it?"

She might have agreed, had she known what 'it' was. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You'll know soon enough. I don't want to burden you too much when you're tired. But I need you to tell your brother--Searle--" Why wasn't she surprised that it had been Searle? "--tell him that I'm sorry I never said it."

"Said what?"

"He'll know. And he knows I did, but he still wanted to hear it, and I couldn't say it. I wasn't strong enough."

For what? "Sparron..."

"And tell him and Lettie both that they were better friends than I ever deserved. Camaline too. And my father and Jeda... tell them things are better this way. I think they both know, but they may need to hear it aloud."

"How are things bet--?"

"I'm sorry to keep interrupting you, but I'm running out of time." Was she to wake so soon? Just as she'd finally drifted off? "Most importantly, I need you to tell my son that I love him, and that I always will and always would have, even if I'd lost all concept of everything else. Tell him I'm sorry that it wasn't enough, but that I'm not sorry he didn't have to suffer the burden of me. Tell him he'll make an excellent baron and I'm so proud of him."

Even in her dream... why was he telling her this?

"And my daughter, if she ever finds out about me. Tell her I love her, even though I shouldn't."

Daughter? Sparron didn't have a daughter. "Wait, what--?"

She'd cut herself off this time, anticipating an interjection that never came.

He was gone.

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