I See Myself in Your Eyes

Summary: Victor departs, leaving Remy to his new beginning and new family.

Author’s Note: I thank anyone who’s still sticking with this story. I’ve been so blocked.

An hour past daybreak, Victor was gone from the cottage; there was no sign of him or Brutus, and Cerebra seemed to have left with him. Her psychic signature was gone, and Betsy had no idea of where else to look for her. She sighed as she looked in on Remy, currently ensconced in the larger of the two boys’ rooms, in the cot across from Warren’s hammock.

She smiled fondly at Warren and the way he curled himself, creating a “nest” around his body with his broad white wings. He looked the epitome of an angel, innocent and breathtaking in sleep, but he had just as much of a proclivity towards mischief as Bobby did, and the two of them frequently played pranks on Sam, their favorite victim.

From what Henry could tell, Remy was roughly the same age as Warren, too, and if anyone could draw him out and relate to him, he could. Remy had been hysterical when they brought him home, under cover of Ororo’s fog. Warren and Ororo each offered to fly him, but Henry was adamant that he would be less unsettled if he took him on horseback. He strong-armed the wiry youth onto the horse and held him in front of him, and Remy relaxed slightly at the feel of Henry’s warm bulk at his back. His tears were frozen on his cheeks and he was weak from hunger.

Betsy saw to Victor’s needs, riding in front of him on Brutus, as she’d decided he wasn’t fit to handle the temperamental horse’s reins. She calmed the beast’s fears with a thought, and he accepted her touch, nuzzling her hands before she carefully mounted him. Victor slipped into a stupor from blood loss, and he couldn’t appreciate his “predicament” of sharing his steed with a beautiful woman.

She goaded Brutus into a punishing gallop that he seemed to enjoy, beating Henry home by nearly a half an hour. She worked quickly to get Victor into bed and his horse into their meager stable, keeping him out of Remy’s sight by the time Henry ushered him inside.

*

Flashback:

He fought the large, blue-furred man with the deep voice that was underscored by a light growl. He spoke the king’s English with a lilt, but it was odd to hear words of any kind coming from the almost feline mouth. Henry watched him with dismay and worry as Remy held him back at arm’s length, wild-eyed and terrified.

“You’re safe now.”

“Nay!” Remy insisted. “Y-you leave m-me alone! I don’t belong here! Take me home!”

“We don’t know where home is for you, young man,” Henry reminded him gently. “And until we know, this is it.” Remy’s eyes widened, and he shook his head emphatically.

“You can’t keep me here! I won’t stay!”

“Where will you go?” Betsy inquired. “You’re freezing. You have no coat or boots. You look ready to pass out.”

“I don’t care,” Remy argued, but his resistance was flagging. He swayed on his feet, but when Henry moved forward to help him, the boy grasped the fireplace poker and brandished it over his head.

“We care,” Henry sighed. “It’s late. You’ve been through an ordeal.”

“I don’t know you! I can’t trust you! You’ll hurt me and try…try to make me…”

“No. We won’t make you do anything like that awful woman forced you to do,” Betsy said, her voice almost a scold. Anger still bubbled in her heart, and she felt little regret over the way she’d had to dispose of Madelyne. Remy was so young and vulnerable, so much like Warren and Sam, and the things he’d seen were no less traumatizing. “Henry said you’re safe here, and he meant it.”

“Tell us your name, lad.” Henry could have sworn Victor had called him Remy…hadn’t he used a title, too? Master? It puzzled him. The boy’s clothes were soiled and torn, but they were made of rich, expensive fabrics that were much finer than his own.

“I…I don’t know,” Remy stammered. “I don’t know!” His voice sounded panicked, and his grip on the poker wavered; he wasn’t holding it as high, but he still held out a hand in warning to Henry. “I don’t know where my home is! I want my papa!”

“What’s his name, child?” Betsy asked politely. Her blue eyes were sincere, but something about her was odd to Remy. Her hair…it was an unusual shade of…violet? Were his eyes playing tricks on him?

“I don’t remember,” Remy admitted, and his voice broke.

“It’s all right,” Betsy soothed. She held out her hand. “Calm down. You’re among friends.”

“I…I don’t have any friends,” he told her. Remy didn’t realize how true it was; he had no peers his own age whose company he enjoyed at all. The children of his father’s contacts were spoiled, haughty, and condescending, whereas the castle’s staff were like a surrogate family, and they loved him from the moment of his birth.

“Och,” Rahne tsked. She hurried forward, not caring about the poker. She closed in on him and tugged at his sleeve. “I’ll be your friend.” Remy’s eyes searched her face, and he scowled at the outfit she wore.

“I don’t like your dress,” he muttered.

“Nay. Neither do I,” Henry chimed in. “It’s entirely unsuitable for a ten-year-old girl.”

“I’ll be eleven next spring,” Rahne pouted. That was a vague guesstimate at best; Rahne was too young to know her own birthday when she was abandoned. Henry gave each child a birthday according to the day that he found them, with the exception of Sam, who already knew his.

“C’mon, Rahney,” Dani encouraged, gesturing for her to come with her. “Let’s get you a bath.”

“I don’t want a bath,” she whined petulantly, but she still hadn’t shaken off the chill, and she’d been in her human form so long that she’d had the chance to let her lupine metabolism and thick fur warm her. “So will you stay with us?” she said, pressing Remy for an answer. “Please? You and Dougie both can stay.”

“Dougie?” Betsy murmured.

“Our other houseguest,” Henry said, gesturing to the small blond who was slumbering in Sam’s lap in the well-used pine rocking chair beside the fireplace. Betsy sighed.

“Another mouth to feed.”

“Not unless we find his family,” Henry corrected her.

“What about mine?” Remy accused. “You keep saying you’ll help me!”

“First, put the poker down,” Betsy suggested. “Put it down, now.”

He obeyed, ashamed, setting it carefully in the corner. He stared at his feet and folded his arms across his middle protectively. When she touched his arm, he flinched, and it broke her heart.

“Remy? Would you sit with me, please?” She led him to another chair beside the modest dining table. He lowered himself into it and only realized then how exhausted he was. His stomach was caving in from hunger, and he watched her warily as she reached for his hand. Her grip was gentle and warm. “I need your permission.”

“For what?”

“I need you to tell me what you remember of how you ended up at Shaw’s.” Remy recoiled, attempting to shake off her grip.

“I don’t know!”

“Please, child, don’t worry, it’s for your own good! Help me to help you!”

“We might have to take a different tack,” Henry decided gruffly. He walked up behind Remy and caught him in a bear hug, restraining his arms. Remy looked terrified again, hating the confinement and the look of pity in Betsy’s eyes. “Betsy, go ahead. And be gentle.”

“As a new kitten, Henry.” She lightly brushed his forehead with her fingertips, and her voice was a soft, hushed murmur. “That’s it…relax, child. I just want to visit for a minute.”

“What…are…” Remy’s voice tapered off, and his eyes grew glassy and drowsy as she subdued him, altering the serotonin levels in his brain. Henry felt the boy grow limp in his embrace, and he gathered him against him as he passed out. Henry carried him to a battered, overstuffed chair while Betsy maintained her psychic connection to him, and Henry cradled him in his lap while she read him.

“Much nicer,” she mused. “Goodness, he’s a lanky one, just like Sam.” Remy’s legs dangled over the arm of the chair and his soft, tangled hair tickled Henry’s neck. He wrinkled his nose at the various scents on Remy’s skin and clothing, disgusted at the faint aroma of tobacco and alcohol that the men holding him no doubt enjoyed before they used him. “Will you examine him, Henry?”

“You read my mind. Yes, but not now.”

“That’s fine. Everything’s such a blur,” she muttered. “He was scarred. There are memories he’s fighting me for, trying to lock them away.”

“Anything that might help us to identify him?”

“Give me a few moments.”

The snatches of memory that she could sift through the shadows in his mind were just glimpses. Betsy saw faces materialize before her and felt the boy’s emotions that were tied to each one. She recognized his father, and she was surprised to see him in rich garb, wearing a tunic with a royal seal. The man had his son’s handsome features but not his otherworldly eyes. He looked proud but not haughty; his bearing was dignified, and his face was kind. Betsy smiled to herself, wondering what kind of life the boy led.

The next face was just as kind and loving, but one Betsy never would have expected. The woman’s face was beautiful, with chocolate brown skin and soft, full lips. There was something eerily familiar about her, and Betsy felt Remy’s calm, loving regard of this woman, bordering on worship. Surely she wasn’t his mother? Perhaps someone whom he respected as such? The woman was reading a book in his memory, perhaps a fairy tale? Betsy also saw something in the background of the memory, sitting up on a shelf. It looked like a doll. Odd item to have in a boy’s chamber, she wondered.

She recognized Victor in his thoughts, and this time, the memories were muddled and conflictive. In some, Remy reacted with pleasure and trust; the next moment, Remy broadcasted unbridled fear. It made sense; Rahne’s transmissions to Dani painted a different picture of Victor as someone who was ready to take his life, because he was supposedly coerced. Betsy fumed again that a grown man could take it upon himself to frighten a young boy, let alone harm him.

Betsy froze and felt her heart pound at the sight of an enraged, desperate Victor wielding a knife. She shared Remy’s terror and fought to soothe him, but Remy was fighting her, trying to shake himself free of her influence and intrusion.

Her body jerked and she reeled back. Warren moved forward to catch her, supporting her. Remy had kicked her out of his mind. Betsy’s breathing was harsh, and she was sweating.

“Goodness,” she muttered. “Amazing, troubled child…”

“What did you see?”

“Still too little. And he’d fighting me. I might have to try again, once he’s had a chance to accept me.”

“He needs rest,” Henry grumbled. “And my legs are going numb. Get this young man to bed.” He rose with difficulty and carried Remy from the main room, careful not to jar him. Remy moaned in his sleep as he was laid down on the cot and covered with a heavy fur. Henry left him reluctantly, and the boy’s scent still infused his fur, marking him. Warren followed Henry into his room, hovering over their guest. He knelt beside him and stroked a lock of his tangled chestnut hair.

“It’s like a girl’s,” Warren murmured thoughtfully.

“Leave him alone for now.”

“Doesn’t he need another blanket?” Warren inquired helpfully.

“We’ll find him one, but his cheeks are flushed,” Henry pointed out. That worried him.

While Henry saw to Remy’s needs, Betsy began to settle the other children for the night. Rahne was given a brief, perfunctory bath, and the homely, inappropriate red dress was tossed into the grate. Dani watched the black lace smolder as it caught fire, and she poked it more deeply into the flames. She didn’t like it on Rahne, either. Rahne always wore simple clothes, brown or green dresses made of muslin or heavy wool, and she occasionally borrowed Bobby’s outgrown trousers whenever they went tramping about in the brush. Rahne was a natural tomboy, and her brutally short hair suited her well, too.

“Can I have some tea?” Rahne asked.

“Not now.”

“I’m hungry,” Rahne complained.

“Some bread, then, and a little milk.” Betsy regretted that she hadn’t had the chance to feed Remy before they put him to bed, but he was so tired and weak. Rahne and Dani rushed into the kitchen and found the bread covered with a tea towel in the pantry, each of them helping themselves to thick slices. Sam and Bobby followed suit before Betsy shooed them off to their respective rooms.

The cottage was eclectic, an odd mishmash of remnants, secondhand goods, and added on rooms. The rooms were well-insulated with thick curtains and reinforced shutters, and there were thick rugs and furs on the floors. There were several bookshelves and a large table in the main room with several maps and a large, ornate globe. There were two ottomans, two rockers, and a wide bench seat, barely enough to seat all of them comfortably; what furniture they didn’t buy secondhand or find, Henry built with his own work-roughened hands. A short stool was lying by his workbench out in the stable, only needing a third peg.

Betsy made Warren give her back the book that he tried to sneak into bed with him. He grinned at her sheepishly, then huffed in disappointment when she let him know she wasn’t fooling. She shushed Sam and Bobby sternly when they continued to whisper in the dark, and she did the same when she went into the room she shared with all three girls. Ororo was dutifully combing and braiding her fall of hair, and she was already dressed in her nightgown and robe. Her blue eyes were pensive.

“Is he going to be all right?” she inquired.

“Is he going to stay?” Rahne added eagerly.

“I don’t know. And again, I don’t know. We need to find his family.” What was more, they needed to know if his home was a haven to him, or a bigger danger than the brothel they stole him from.

*


Victor made his way back to the castle, and he was greeted by two of Jean-Luc’s footmen at the stable. They rushed toward him and gasped when they noticed what sorry shape he was in.

“Robbers,” he grunted by way of explanation. He waved them away when they tried to help him, and he scolded them that it would help him more if they would unsaddle Brutus and curry him, not to mention feed him. Brutus whickered at him indignantly, as if to accuse him of poor treatment over the past two days.

He entered the servants’ door and Emily, the scullery girl, stopped him in the kitchen. She was aghast at the sight of his bloodied, torn tunic and the thick bandages wrapped around his waist, visible when he removed his coat. “Victor! Good heavens!”

“Wish that was where I came back from, lass,” he admitted wryly. “Have we any rum?”

“Nay. Just some brandy. But you need food, and a doctor to look at your wound –“ He held up his hand and growled defiantly, stopping her lather.

“I must report to my king.” She nodded numbly and took his soiled coat, promising she’d take it to the castle’s laundress to be cleaned. Victor took the brandy and poured himself a stiff finger of it, then tossed it back, hardly tasting it. It burned on its way down, warming him immediately, and he needed the courage it gave him to explain to Jean-Luc that he had found no trace of his son, after all.

It was the only solution. If Jean-Luc knew that Remy was alive, he would send his troops out to search for him. If Remy returned to the palace, Raven would snare him again, and she would know Victor betrayed her confidence by defying her. Remy would once again become her victim in her adulterous schemes and her mad desire for power.

Victor knew that concealing Remy’s whereabouts, and even letting his memory loss persist was the only way to protect him. It broke his heart to know he wouldn’t likely see the boy again, and that his father would be left to grieve. Victor’s part in this deception shamed him and would follow him into the grave.


When he entered Jean-Luc’s chamber, his grim face told the king all that he needed to hear. Jean-Luc flew into a rage, hurling aside the marble topped table, flinging random objects at his huntsman and charging at him, savagely beating and kicking him wherever his boots lit. His cries and curses were guttural and hoarse, booming through the corridor. His voice sent his servants running to separate them, but Victor merely knelt, nearly prostrate, as his king punished him for circumstances that he couldn’t control or reverse. Jean-Luc took out his anger and anguish upon him, beating him until Victor mercifully blacked out.

Raven watched silently from the doorway, restraining the urge to smile. She feigned concern along with the rest of the staff, when she should have been weeping. N’Dare wept in her stead, devastated. She clutched the small rag doll to her breast, burying her nose in it to breathe in the last of Remy’s scent.

*

Jonathan read the scroll that his messenger delivered to his chamber and scowled. His son watched him with concern. “What’s wrong, Father?”

“Something horrible has happened. Our neighbor to the west has lost his son.”

“Jean-Luc?” His son’s expression mirrored his, and Jonathan silently thanked his father in heaven that he didn’t stand in the other king’s shoes. Jonathan loved his son dearly, valuing no possession more highly than the child of his sainted wife’s womb.

“Aye. His courier sent word that the funeral will be held two days from now.”

“Damnation,” his son muttered bitterly. “How old was he?”

“A mere babe. Thirteen, and he just passed his birthday.”

“How did he die? Did he have the scarlet fever, or typhoid?”

“Nay. He was killed while he was out on a hunt.”

“How on earth did that happen, Father? He was a young prince; surely he would have been accompanied by the king’s stable, or his huntsmen, or bodyguards! This is madness!”

“Aye. It boggles my mind.” Jonathan’s eyes looked distant as he stared at a map of his realm and the three surrounding territories. “This was where the boy was attacked.”

“Attacked?”

“Sounded like he was mauled by wolves.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. If he’d been in the company of adults, they shouldn’t have been able to touch him.”

“The boy went out alone.”

“Madness!”

“Stranger still, son, is that he left the palace during his celebration. Jean-Luc’s second queen threw him a grand dinner. I was overseas, and I received our household’s invitation too late. Now I regret it.”

His son crossed the chamber in three swift strides and enveloped him, clapping him on the back. “There was nothing we could do, Father.”

“It would have been nice,” Jonathan mused, “if there were two more pairs of eyes looking after the boy. Had it been my son, I never would have let him out of my sight.” Jonathan pulled back from James and clasped the scruff of his neck, giving it a hearty pat.

“You had eyes in the back of your head when I was thirteen, Father.”

“I needed them, by God. You were a demon.”

*


James Logan Howlett, heir to His Majesty, King Jonathan the Truthful, was his father’s only son and preferred his own company to anyone else’s. Logan, as he was also known about the palace, was a brusque man who didn’t suffer fools or liars gladly. Logan loved and respected his father, but they were often at odds when it came to Logan’s continued bachelorhood. Logan’s preferences were somewhat flexible, and he would accept love in whatever gender that knocked on his door, but Jonathan wished for a grandchild to bounce on his knee.

James was a compact, wiry man whose chest was as broad as a tree trunk. He was powerfully built, despite his lack of height, and he had rough-hewn good looks that made women whisper and sigh when he attended court. Some of them found him intimidating when they took the time to look into his hard, canny blue eyes that were dark as midnight. His hair was black and glossy as raven’s wings, and it was always windswept and unruly, as though he’d just come in from a brisk ride or a long hunt. Usually, he had.

His hands were calloused from handling swords, bows and other weaponry after his father trained him with his knights. James was skilled at hunting and trapping, and he loathed sitting idly in the parlor with boring houseguests or listening to the children of his father’s acquaintances try their hand at singing or playing the piano as part of the after dinner entertainment. They were often shrill or off-key, banging away at the keys with little skill or regard for his eardrums. Logan enjoyed children, certainly, but not watching them be spoiled or overindulged, developing their parents’ gossiping, spiteful habits and moving on to adultery and drunkenness when they reached adulthood.

James also enjoyed artwork, and he kept a small chest that held his sketchbooks and pencils and inks in a drawer beside his bed. He was very skilled, each line accurate and true no matter what subject he chose. James drew nesting birds and wildflowers, stable hands napping among the hay bales or the scullery girls playing cards with the footmen, knights practicing their attacks in the courtyard, and brooding wolves in the brush. James was well read, and the only room of the house he preferred to spend any time in was the royal library. He blew a cloud of pipe smoke every night after dinner, poring over captain’s journals, biographies, art history tomes and adventure novels. He was well versed in folklore and old legends, enjoying the ones that reached his ears from the villagers when he visited the town with the tax collector to receive the king’s tribute.

The death of the young prince shook him and robbed him of sleep that night. None of it made sense. How could a palace lose track of the king’s only heir, on what should have been his most special day? Logan pondered it well into the night. He knew Jean-Luc was grieving, but he was willing to risk a few questions, if the man would indulge him.

Pieces of the puzzle were missing. That gnawed at him.


*

Raven brushed her blonde tresses and contemplated her reflection. Then she addressed the face that stared down from the frame.

“You’ve been too quiet lately, Mirror.”

“Sometimes it’s better to be seen than heard, Mistress. At least it is in my case.”

“You’re decent enough company,” Raven sniffed, “for an inanimate object.”

“You’re too generous with your praise, Mistress.”

“I’m in a good mood. Can’t you tell? Don’t I look radiant?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Tell me…am I the fairest in the land?”

“You’re just and benevolent, Mistress,” Cerebra lied, offering her a saccharine little smile. Raven tsked, then shook her brush at her.

“You know what I meant. Am I the most beautiful creature in the realm?” Raven smiled expectantly, and she ran her fingertips down her neck, admiring how swanlike it was, how creamy her skin was. She was perfection…

“Nay.”

Raven snapped to attention. Cerebra realized her error and was struck by fear.

“WHAT?”

“I’m, er, sorry, Mistress…you see, I misheard you,” Cerebra sputtered. “I, er, thought you asked me if you were, um…”

“If I was WHAT?” Raven’s cheeks were florid, and her eyes flashed a sinister yellow in her pique.

“Um…the most…blue-tiful. Aye, that was it. Silly me. My mind…wandered?” Cerebra knew it was an even bigger, more shameful slip of the tongue than her first one, and Raven hardly looked pacified.

“Am I BORING you, Mirror?”

“Never! Not at all! You’re the most stimulating company, Mistress!”

“And the most beautiful,” Raven pressed. Cerebra’s golden head nodded atop the frame, and her expression was fawning and contrite.

“You’re the most beautiful creature in the realm, Mistress. Without a doubt.”

Cerebra hated herself for the lie. The lost prince was the most beautiful being in creation, far outstripping his stepmother, but she could never know that, or it would mean his life.


*

Remy tore ravenously into the loaf of bread, cramming hunks of it into his mouth. Betsy ladled stew into his bowl, chiding him that it was too hot. He contented himself with the bread and milk, scarcely taking time to breathe between bites.

“His appetite hasn’t suffered,” she mused to Henry. He chuckled under his breath, and the rest of the children watched him curiously, also amused.

“Doesn’t he have any manners?” Rahne whispered to Dani.

“Maybe when he isn’t so hungry,” Dani decided, but her dark eyes shone with laughter. The nervous pall lifted from the cottage once Remy got over his hysteria. Waking up in the cottage instead of the brothel made a huge difference, and the sparely furnished bedroom was comfortable and warm.

He awoke just before dawn, and the first thing he noticed was the large hammock. There was too little light for him to see clearly, and he fumbled in the dark as he rose from the cot. He almost kicked over an iron lantern, and he felt around the table he bumped into for a box of matches. He lit the kerosene wick and held out the lantern, surveying the room. He turned slowly to face the hammock, and he gasped at the sight of a young boy who appeared to be nestled in piles of pure, brilliant white feathers.

His face was perfect, his features were patrician and exquisitely sculpted. His hair was golden blond and slightly wavy, and it was tousled in sleep. The boy smacked his lips and turned himself slightly, stretching his arm up over his head in response to the faint light in the room. Remy quickly set down the lantern and crept closer, in awe of him.

He searched his memory of the past two days, and he recognized him from the Painted Lady as one of the strange band of misfits who came to his rescue. Remy didn’t remember ever getting his name, but he remembered his face.

Cerulean blue eyes snapped open, then widened in surprise. “Shit!” Warren hissed. He bolted upright, and the momentum flipped the hammock, spinning it over and upending it. He fell out onto the floor with a thump.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” Remy muttered, reaching out to help him, then thinking better of it. Warren’s wings rustled at him indignantly as he rose, dusting himself off.

“What’re you hovering over me for? You woke me up.”

“I couldn’t help it. I don’t know where I am.”

“Oh. I guess you don’t. You’re in my room,” Warren offered, yawning. His chest was bare, and he wore his daytime trousers to bed, with no slippers or stockings on his long, narrow feet. “Warren.” He held out his hand. Remy reached out hesitantly. “I don’t bite.”

“Okay.” Remy grasped his hand in greeting, and the other boy’s hand was warm, his grip strong. He smiled at Remy impishly.

“Your hair’s almost as long as Ororo’s. I’ve never seen a boy with so much before.”

“So?” Remy challenged, pulling from his grip and backing up a step. He looked irritated, but Warren watched him in admiration. His voice tended to crack when he got upset, and he had a faint accent that he couldn’t pin down. Warren picked up the lantern and held it up, studying him more closely without asking permission.

“It’s nice,” Warren husked. He reached out, entranced, and pulled a lock of it over Remy’s shoulder, rubbing it between his finger and thumb to feel its silky texture.

“Do you always just touch people whenever you feel like it?”

“No.” Warren was still fascinated by his hair, and by his unique eyes. “Where did you get those red eyes from?”

“Where did you get your wings from?” Remy pointed out, nodding to them.

“I’ve just always had them.”

“Mind letting go of my hair?”

“You don’t have to be so testy.” Warren let go of it reluctantly, and his voice held rancor at the rebuff.

“It’s not like I just walked up to you and grabbed your wings,” Remy told lied. He’d done just that, just to see if they were real, or as downy and soft as they looked. They were.

“As long as you don’t pull my feathers out, it’s okay,” Warren shrugged. With that, he took Remy’s hand and pulled him closer, until they stood mere inches apart. Warren rustled his wings, extending them fully, and then he folded Remy into their span, nudging him with them in invitation. “Touch them. I don’t care.” Remy felt heat rise into his cheeks, hating the tingle of embarrassment that washed over him when Warren quirked the corner of his mouth.

He touched them, sliding his palm along the grain of the lofty layers of feathers. He turned his hand and let the backs of his knuckles smooth over them, and Warren snickered, stirring him from his trance. “That tickles when you do it.” A flutter of pleasure bloomed in Warren’s gut, however, at the reverent look on Remy’s face, or the way he stroked his feathers again, enjoying the liberty.

“You’re… weird,” Remy confessed.

“You, too.”

*

Remy was hesitant about getting to know the occupants of the cottage, feeling out of place and lonely, knowing he didn’t belong there. Warren was helpful enough, even though he occasionally grew frustrated with his teasing sense of humor, but he still wasn’t as annoying as Bobby, who had a proclivity for pranks, including dropping ice chips down everyone’s collars when they turned around or freezing their fresh cups of tea before they could drink it.

“Bobby! You DOPE!” Dani cried as she upended her cup in disbelief, watching the frozen beverage slide out onto the table. She picked up the solid block of Earl Grey and threw it at him, earning a sound scolding from Betsy.

“That’s enough of that! Stop it, Dani! Bobby, pour her another cup, or I’ll tan your hide!”

“No, you won’t,” he argued sassily.

“I’ll give you nightmares for a month, then,” she amended, and her blue eyes were deadly serious. Bobby swallowed and ducked his head before he took up Dani’s cup and filled it with fresh tea from the pot. Dani longed to stick her tongue out at him, but Betsy was watching. “Clean up the tea you threw away.” Dani grumbled as she complied.

“Grump,” Bobby hissed at her.

“Dope,” she repeated on a mutter.

“They always like that?” Remy asked Sam.

“Yup.” The tall boy inhaled his bowl of porridge and reached for an apple. Remy was appalled at his seeming lack of manners. His own grip on his utensils was diligent and proper, but it had a lot to do with the fact that he wasn’t so hungry that the insides of his stomach weren’t sticking together, anymore, either.

Sam was probably the most laid-back of the children in the cottage. He generally did what he was told and frequently broke up arguments among his foster siblings, even though he was only Warren’s age. The lanky boy was awkward and frequently clumsy, not always watching where he was going or merely tripping over his own feet. Efforts on Betsy’s part to work on his grace had been futile, but he was a good-natured boy, despite his circumstances.

He also coped with his growing pains by sleeping incessantly. Sam did his fair portion of the chores, but in-between, he napped wherever he flopped. He was always the first to bed and the last to rise, and his snores were loud and shameless. It didn’t help matters that he also talked in his sleep, and Bobby slept with balls of sheep’s wool wadded up in his ears to preserve the peace, since he was Sam’s roommate. Sam wasn’t a prankster like Bobby, but the one person who he seemed to argue with the most was Dani. Her occasionally quick temper and stubbornness only shelved themselves for Rahne, the youngest of the lot.

Sam looked Remy over, unabashed. “Why ya like wearin’ yer hair so long? Ya look like Dani and Ororo.”

“No, I don’t!” Remy snapped.

“Ya oughta let Ororo make pigtails out of it,” Sam suggested.

“I’m a man. Pigtails are for girls,” Remy snorted.

“You’re pretty enough to be a girl,” Dani told him impishly as she mopped up the last of the tea with a small towel. Mischief twinkled in her dark eyes.

“I am not!” Remy snapped, but the corners of his mouth wanted to smile. Dani snickered and hustled off to the kitchen.

“Boys aren’t pretty, they’re handsome,” Rahne interjected, peeking up from her reading primer. Betsy poked her to make her pay attention to her lessons, and Rahne ducked her head back into her grammar, but her green eyes peeked up at Remy again, and she smiled shyly at him. At least someone was on his side, Remy mused. There was such a physical contrast between the two girls, but they really were close as sisters. Dani was tall and bony for her age, only a couple of inches shorter than Sam, and she was just as tough as the boys sharing the cottage, after a half a lifetime of playing just as rough. She loved it.

Remy found out over time that Rahne and Dani both loved hunting more than gathering or other domestic duties around the house. Sam was most content when he could help Henry make improvements around the cottage or build new furniture, or curry their two horses. Warren enjoyed the hunt but preferred fishing or trapping small game, something he could do easily from the sky. He was also the most scholarly, and quiet only when he had his nose in a book. The rest of the time, he had a jovial, teasing sense of humor and he was a bit of a flirt. Remy began to realize that no one he encountered was spared from it, and often, few were immune.

Henry stopped by the table to pour himself a cup of tea. He grunted briefly and reached out with one fuzzy paw, tipping Remy’s chin up to the light. “That bruise is purpling nicely. It’ll be gone in a couple of days.”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“If those men had done worse, I wouldn’t have used much in the way of self-restraint, lad.” Henry ruffled Remy’s hair fondly, and he was glad to see their guest wasn’t shrinking back from his touch.

Henry wasn’t expecting the young prince to reach for him before he could fully withdraw his hand. Remy caught it and carefully turned it over, examining it, stroking Henry’s fingers. He studied his thickly padded palms and bulging knuckles, his nails that resembled flat, shining claws. Henry was disconcerted at first, and he huffed a laugh to hide his embarrassment. “Do they meet with your approval?” Remy looked up from his intent study into Henry’s amused blue eyes and blushed. He released him quickly. “It’s all right.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” he murmured as he turned his attention back to his cooling porridge.

“Curious, I think, not impolite, lad. It’s all right.” He patted Remy’s shoulder and went back to his tea and book by the fire. He was still amused by Remy’s curiosity, which was far preferable to his previous fear. Henry was glad he seemed to accept all of their various differences. What intrigued him, though, was the burning question: Remy was “different,” too, but HOW different? He had unique eyes, certainly like none Henry had ever seen. But there was something else about him that Henry couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Remy didn’t react to emotions in the typical way. If Warren was angry about something, it was usually Bobby’s fault, and Bobby took amusement in getting a rise out of him. Or if Dani said something to Rahne to embarrass her, Rahne blushed, but Dani would respond with contrition and a grudging apology.

Not Remy.

Remy shared the feelings of whomever was closest; Henry didn’t think it was an affectation. He truly felt the anger, shame, joy or sadness of his peers as soon as they felt it. He noticed Remy’s facial expressions change, his body mimicking the postures of each person as they spoke. Once the person he “shadowed” empathically left the vicinity, he looked relieved or bereft, depending on what they had been feeling at the time of his sync. Henry suspected it was part of a more complex gift. If the young man would let him, Henry hoped he would let him help explore it, provided he chose to stay.

*

Logan rode into the courtyard of Jean-Luc’s castle shortly after sunrise. The palace guard was alert and ready for his arrival, which impressed him, further confusing him as to how the prince had slipped from their sight. The castle was well-fortified and surrounded by a generous copse, well-isolated from the nearby villages by many miles. Logan noticed several carriages parked along the road inside the gates. The walkway had already been cleared of snow in anticipation of the arrival of the area’s neighboring regents and royals. The palace guard wore black armbands with their uniforms and armor, indicating respect for their king’s day of mourning. Logan hated funerals.

Logan and Jonathan tramped inside, shaking off the winter chill. They were led into the main parlor, where they were served hot cider and tea. “So much black,” Logan murmured to his father.

“Aye. It’s a grim time, indeed.”

Logan and Jonathan felt the pall over the house, and in the hushed, furtive way that the servants moved about, taking coats and serving drinks. He accepted greetings with his peers with nods and firm handshakes, and Logan was polite to the servants as they approached. He left the study briefly when he heard younger, high voices coming from the back hall.

Logan peered around the corner and saw a small pair of feet in high-button boots disappear. His lips quirked; he’d wondered where the children were, and he imagined that Jean-Luc’s governess and other staff would be hard pressed to keep the children away from the chapel for the memorial service. It was a somber occasion, no place for levity, but Logan enjoyed the sounds of children, and normally found their mischief and quirks entertaining. He sighed. The young prince had just passed his birthday; the palace should have been celebrating the occasion instead of mourning his death. It was unfortunate, and Logan lapsed into a deep yearning that the fates had been kinder to Jean-Luc and his family.

Logan returned to the parlor and attended his father, chatting politely when necessary, but his heart wasn’t in it. The assembled guests slowly hushed as Jean-Luc entered the room; they bowed to him, giving him their respect and fealty. The king was dressed in black wool and raw silk, with shining black Hessians and a belt with a large silver buckle, carved with the family seal. Logan noticed the dark bruises under his eyes; he hadn’t slept. The clothing, while well made, hung on his frame. Jonathan was by his side in an instant, and Jean-Luc managed a smile for his old friend. They embraced, and Logan heard the king exhale a shaky breath as he clapped Jonathan on the back.

“This isn’t how I’d hoped to find you when we met again, Jean-Luc.”

“Nay. But my heart rejoices, old friend, to have you in my house. And with James,” he added, offering Logan his hand. Logan clasped it in both, and there was sympathy in his blue eyes.

“Thank you for contacting us, sire. I’m so sorry.”

“So am I,” Jean-Luc murmured grimly. His eyes misted over, and he stepped back to rub them briefly before he addressed the room.

“The service will commence in ten minutes. Please proceed to the chapel. My queen and I shall be in attendance shortly.” He swept out with no further delays or greetings. Logan heard a brief tsk from his left. Nathaniel Essex, one of the dukes to the west, stroked his beard thoughtfully. Logan chafed at the hard look in the man’s dark eyes.

“Strange that she hasn’t come down to greet us yet,” he mused.

“It’s none of our affair,” Jonathan mentioned coldly. “This household is in mourning, Essex.”

“You’d do well to remember that,” Logan added.

“I meant no disrespect. Although, there was no love lost between the prince and his stepmother. ‘Mourning’ might be a broad term-“ Logan’s hand darted out and snapped around the man’s wrist as he checked his manicured nails. The prince’s nostrils flared and his eyes dilated dangerously. His upper lip snarled slightly, pulling back over his teeth. The act revealed slightly elongated canine teeth, and the low, hunkering growl that issued from them made the duke recoil and reconsider his remarks.

“You said you meant no disrespect. You would do well to say what you mean, and mind what you say.”

“Aye,” the duke stammered. “I, er, spoke out of turn. Excuse me.” Logan released his grip on the man’s wrist and made a sound of disgust under his breath as he hurried away. He despised men who ran away from their own offenses, and Essex was a cowardly, hateful person who seemed to enjoy others’ misfortunes. Logan had the displeasure of meeting his son, Nathan, as well, at a previous engagement at court, and he found him woefully arrogant and cut from the same cloth.

The procession to the chapel was just as grim, but Logan was relieved to feel the fresh air on his cheeks, a reprieve from the stuffy feel of so many bodies gathered in the parlor. They filed inside and filled the few front pews, anointing themselves with the holy water beside the altar.

Jean-Luc took the seat at the head of the church, and there was an empty one beside him. A few of the regents peered around nervously at the sound of weeping that came from the back of the chapel. Hidden in the alcove was N’Dare, sniffling and dabbing her eyes in a crumpled handkerchief. She clutched an odd keepsake that appeared to be a small, brown rag doll. Logan eyed it curiously and wondered who the woman was, surprised at her coloring and exotic beauty. Who was she, that she wept so bitterly?

Jean-Luc’s staff slowly filed inside once the regents were seated, and they were a motley group. Logan thought he recognized Jean-Luc’s footmen and stable hands from the last hunt that he attended, but the one who stood out most was Victor, the palace huntsman. Logan was surprised to see him huddling in the read of the chapel, separate from the rest. He saw the large blond cross himself and bow his head as he waited for the service to start. Logan knew it was a somber occasion, but it still awed him to see the depth of the giant’s anguish, and to almost feel his…shame.

Odd, indeed…

There was a low rustling of skirts and light footsteps as Jean-Luc’s second wife made her appearance.

“Gods,” Jonathan mused, “she’s lovely. The boy’s mother was, too, but…” He didn’t continue, and Logan decided that he didn’t have to, awed as he was, too, at the queen’s golden beauty. She was tall, slender and elegant in her black velvet gown and cloak lined in shining satin. She wore a black veil of scalloped lace over her face in mourning, but it didn’t detract from her creamy skin or ropes of honey blond hair. Her blue eyes shone with tears, but she kept her head held high as she passed. Her bearing was still haughty and dignified. Logan wasn’t sure of whether to be impressed, given Jean-Luc’s haggard state.

She took her seat beside her husband and held his hand; he seemed to accept the gesture grudgingly, as if he meant to be polite. Logan’s scalp tingled. The bishop brought them all to their feet for his opening greetings, and then back down to their knees to pray.

“We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of a beloved son, but to celebrate his delivery unto the bosom of our Lord…” Logan hardly heard the words. He knew they were meaningless to Jean-Luc, when they wouldn’t bring his son back. The service was peaceful, and the guests gathered in the chapel were given the opportunity to reflect on the young prince and their impressions of him when he was alive.

There was no coffin. No urn. Nothing tangible of the prince to bury. That also unnerved Logan, that every trace of the boy was gone, but he was relieved not to have to view his body. It would unman him and make his father break down, as well.

The bishop allowed the queen to rise from her seat and gestured for her to approach a large easel with a drape over it. She slid off the drape, and the occupants of the church sucked in a collective breath. It was an oil portrait of the prince, and Logan felt a knot clog his throat at the sight.

If the painting was a true likeness of him, then Prince Remy was achingly beautiful. The oils were lovingly rendered, showing a boy on the verge of manhood, tall, slim, with laughing eyes and the faintest curl of a smile on his lips. His hair was a long tumble of auburn, shining and lush, and he had creamy, flawless skin. He had thick, long lashes that any woman would envy, arched brows and a high, poetic forehead. His cheekbones were sculpted and high, and there was a hint of a dimple in his chin.

But it was his eyes that seemed to stare back at Logan, piercing him.

“Red,” he whispered.

“Aye,” his father murmured. “Remy was a unique lad, wasn’t he?” Logan nodded, but he couldn’t stop staring at the boy’s face. The background of the painting showed the landscape of the palace, telling Logan the boy sat for it in Jean-Luc’s garden. His hair was suffused with sunlight, and his eyes…those eyes were unmatched, the true, fiery crimson of fresh spilled blood, but they glowed with an inner flame.

Queen Raven sat beside her husband once again, occasionally dabbing her eyes. Jean-Luc, on the other hand, sat with tears streaming freely down his cheeks, silent in his anguish. The bishop described Remy’s antics and his impressions of him as a child, detailing his love of the hunt and his close relationship with his father. Logan felt a keen ache when he heard more pronounced weeping from the back of the chapel, and he knew it was the dark-skinned woman holding the doll.

*

A candle was lit for the prince inside the chapel, and flowers were laid at a headstone outside, difficult for the undertaker to install due to the snow-caked ground. The regents uttered prayers and blessings as they passed, but they left the grave quickly, as if they didn’t want to share in Jean-Luc’s misfortune by prolonged contact.

Logan walked up to the grave and set down a scarf, kneeling down upon it. He kissed his fingertips and brushed them over the grave. Then he closed his eyes and set up a brief, fervent prayer. When he got up and joined his father, Jonathan held his hand and squeezed it.

*

The banquet in the main hall was sumptuous but subdued, the chatter lacking the exuberance that marked Remy’s birthday party. Logan sipped a cup of hot tea, eschewing the mead, ale, mulled wine and whisky that were offered at the table. Logan preferred to have a drink at the inn among close friends, or to pour a toast alone to old love and old losses. Jean-Luc ensconced himself at the head of the table with his cognac. His wife, on the other hand, made polite conversation and drank freely of the port wine, veil gone and revealed in all of her glory. Something about that still unsettled Logan.

He found the woman from the chapel and stopped her for a moment by the hearth. “Prithee, good woman. May I have an audience with you?” She looked up in surprise from her seat, and automatically she stood to her full height and curtsied. Logan was just as shocked to realize that she towered over him. Up close she was lovely, but her eyes bore shadows under them, just as prominently as Jean-Luc’s.

“Good morning, Highness,” she said softly. Logan reached for her hands, and she allowed him to clasp hers in greeting. Hers were warm and soft, and she smelled pleasantly of sandalwood and lavender.

“Tell me your name?” he inquired.

“I am the king’s…I mean, I was…the prince’s governess,” she told him uncertainly. “But…my name is N’Dare Munroe.”

“That’s a lovely name you’ve got.”

“Thank you, Highness,” she replied shakily, but she gave him a smile that took a lot of effort, not wanting him to feel awkward. “How may I serve you?”

“Walk with me for a minute,” he told her. She looked surprised, but she allowed him to lead her from the great room. “Gather our coats?” N’Dare nodded, pleased. She longed to leave the banquet and get away from the stuffy atmosphere of so many bodies pressed close in the chamber and the scent of alcohol. They bundled themselves warmly against the buffeting wind and strolled out into the gardens. Crisp snow crunched beneath their feet. They were silent for a few minutes, just enjoying the air and each other’s presence.

“I know you were close to the prince. I heard you mourn for him.”

“Highness, I’m so sorry to have been so undignified. I shouldn’t have made such a scene.”

“Don’t apologize for being heartbroken,” Logan chided her gently. “It’s clear to me that you loved him very much.”

“Oh, sire!” she mused. “He was such a special little boy. I have very little purpose left to living, now.” Her voice shook again, and this time she flicked away an errant tear from her coffee brown eyes.

“Surely Jean-Luc has other positions that you could fill in his household? He isn’t planning to send you away?”

“Nay, sire. My husband also works in the palace. Our place on his staff is secure, but my king has no other children, and…I feel empty. You see…it was always presumptuous of me, but I began looking after the prince, as his nursemaid, shortly after I lost my daughter.” Understanding drifted over Logan’s features. “It was wrong of me to feel the way that I did, but caring for him filled a hole in my life left when my daughter was stolen.”

“Stolen? She was taken?”

“Aye, Highness. She was. Someone crept into our house and stole her right out of her cradle. There was no sign of them anywhere. They took her baby blanket and left behind the dollie I made.”

“The one you held in the church?” She nodded.

“Aye. You think it’s odd.”

“Nay. It’s a token of your memories of your child. I don’t blame you for such a thing.”

“I let Master Remy have it. He saw it one day in my chamber and pointed to it. I couldn’t deny him, and it became one of his favorite toys. It’s fairly ragged now, since he was a little boy, and a scamp at that. But it helped me, sire, to see that it was loved.” Logan smiled. He took her hand and curled it in the crook of his arm as they continued to walk, and he felt her relax slightly beside him.

“Did you see him the day he disappeared?”

“Aye. He was dressed in his party clothes. Master Remy despised finery, sire. He loved rough, dirty togs that would allow him to ride and hunt with his father, or with Victor.”

“Who is Victor?”

“Our huntsman,” she explained. “Perhaps you’ve seen him. He’s easy enough to recognize. Taller than me, with long blond hair and blue eyes. Strong as an ox.” She gestured with her hand to demonstrate how tall he was, and Logan was surprised. He was certain it was Victor he saw in church, sitting alone, but he hadn’t imagined he’d be so large standing up, if her description was any indication.

“Where was Victor that day?”

“Here in the palace, when I saw him last. I made Remy get dressed in his birthday dinner outfit. It was a lovely new tunic,” she explained proudly. “He looked so handsome in it.”

“What did it look like?”

“It was a white tunic, with the family’s crest embroidered on it in red and black. Those are our kingdom’s colors, and wasn’t it fortunate that they matched his eyes?” she chuckled. Logan nodded. “He had on a new white shirt under it. And new leather pants. They were brown. He was impatient with me for fussing over it, but I wanted him to look perfect.” Then her smiled faded. “It was odd.”

“What was, good woman?”

“He seemed troubled. He mentioned that he wasn’t looking forward to spending time with the other children.”

“Did he have any that he didn’t get along with?”

“Master Remy was well-behaved, sire, but yes. Many of the children of my king’s peers are…very privileged,” she said politely.

“Spoiled brats,” Logan clarified for her.

“Er…aye,” she admitted, wincing. “Not to cast any aspersions, sire…”

“Go on.”

“Master Remy wasn’t fond of the Essex boy. They’d had a few confrontations. Remy complained that he used to tease him.” Logan wasn’t surprised to hear that.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Sire…I mustn’t be privy to such things.”

“You didn’t hear a word of it.” N’dare squelched a smile and they continued their walk.

“Master Remy wanted to start the hunt,” she told him. “It was all he could talk about, and he’d looked forward to it for weeks.”

“A hunt?”

“He was going to join all of the men in his first formal hunt. He’d gone on trips with his father before, but he was so excited about this one.”

Logan pondered this for a moment, and then he suggested they see the other side of the garden, where Raven’s apple and pear trees grew.

*


When they went back inside, Logan asked her for one more favor.

“Do you still have the dollie?” Her eyes lit up.

“Certainly, Highness.” She led him back down the corridor, to a closed off chamber.

It was the boy’s room. Logan felt an odd sense of peace steal over him as his eyes roved over his belongings and the simple furnishings. There was an enormous bookcase full of novels and texts. The bed was neatly made with a heavy patchwork quilt and pillows sewn from sturdy damask and linen. There was a large desk in the corner and a small iron stove, a cedar chest at the foot of the bed, and an armoire beside the window.

Logan spied the dollie on the desk, and he crossed the room, picking it up carefully. He smoothed back the white yarn hair, curious. “It’s well-made,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen one like this.”

“If it’s unusual, sire, then it’s because my daughter, herself, was unique. I made this to resemble her.” Logan looked up at her, once again surprised.

“Her hair was white?”

“And her eyes were the purest blue,” N’Dare explained. “She favored David a bit when she smiled, but Ororo was who she was.”

“Ororo?”

“It means ‘beautiful.’ And she was. Call it a mother’s pride, but I’d never seen anything lovelier than my little girl the moment she was pulled from my womb.” N’Dare stepped back and bowed her head, trying to stop the tears that fell again. “Until I met Master Remy. He was sweet and good-natured, and a pleasure to take care of.”

“You raised him.”

“Aye. From the moment that Her Majesty passed away. Call it a strange trick of fate, sire, that I lost my daughter before she was weaned, so soon before His Majesty sent out word that he needed a wet nurse.”

Logan contemplated her words as he studied the doll, turning it in his hands. The doll’s eyes, sewn so skillfully in robin’s egg blue thread, stared back up at him but offered no answers.

“Remy named the dollie ‘Sunshine.’ I don’t know why he did, but it pleased me.” N’Dare wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “He was the light of my life.”

*

Jonathan and Logan left the following night from a neighboring inn, not wanting to intrude further on Jean-Luc’s hospitality. The ride home was uneventful but fitful for Logan, who couldn’t stop thinking of what N’Dare had said. Remy had been troubled on his birthday? Why?

They reached Jonathan’s castle gates, and Logan was relieved to climb out of the carriage and stretch his legs. He hated feeling hemmed in, and his time in the gardens helped him immeasurably. When they entered the main hall, the guards bowed respectfully, and his father’s majordomo, Thomas, hurried over to greet them and take their coats.

“Sire, you’ve a message. I left it in your study. No one’s touched it,” he assured him.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

“Would you like some brandy to warm you up?”

“Aye. Two.” Jonathan gestured for Logan to follow him into the study, and Logan didn’t argue, even though he longed for a hot bath and some time to himself. He settled for the large, comfortable armchair and ottoman, and another of his father’s grooms hurried over to help him remove his boots. Logan relaxed and enjoyed the snifter of brandy, letting it burn its way down into his gut.

Jonathan cracked the wax seal of the scroll and laid it out on the large desk, lighting a candle to read by. “What is it, Father?”

“One of my contacts has sent back word to me on an inquiry I made.”

“Regarding?”

“A very eligible young woman in her twenty-fourth year,” Jonathan told him cheerfully. Logan choked on his drink. Jonathan hurried over to clap him on the back and take the glass from him, setting it down on the table.

“Father…*koff-huuuuurrrggh*…why…”

“You know very well why,” his father snapped. “Word has it she’s very fetching and pleasant. She isn’t some simpering young miss.”

“Instead she’s nearly an old maid,” Logan pointed out. Jonathan tsked.

“That’s an old fashioned view,” his father scolded. Logan mulled it over, and he had no argument for him. Logan had no problem with age, but he worried about being paired with a “fetching, pleasant” miss that so far hadn’t found a proper suitor.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She probably isn’t asking what’s wrong with you,” Jonathan muttered, shaking his head. He reached out and tugged a lock of Logan’s hair just behind his ear.

“OW!”

“I want very little from my only son most of the time,” his father told him casually. “That doesn’t mean my expectations aren’t high. I love you, son, but I’m not a patient man. I won’t watch you die alone. I’m not getting any younger, myself. You need an heir.”

“Do I really, Father?” Logan sighed, raising his brow. He sulked with the brandy warming in his hands, staring into the fire as it cracked and popped.

“Don’t be petulant. She could be a very nice woman. Give her a chance.”

“Can we wait until the weather is a bit more fair?”

“I’m sending back word that they may expect us in a month,” his father piped up. Logan wasn’t sure he liked his father’s smug grin or the way he brandished his quill as he dipped it into the inkwell.

*

Logan and his father made the promised journey through the mountains, traveling along the winding river, until they reached the secluded palace within the Silver Forest. When they reached the gates and rolled into the courtyard, they were greeted by the king, queen, and a host of guards and footmen. Once they were settled into the royal study, nursing cups of hot cider and almond cookies, the palace matchmaker made the announcement that his prospective bride was ready to meet him.

Small feet shod in jewel-encrusted silver slippers were nearly silent as she descended the stairs. Her dove gray velvet gown was understated, trimmed in silver lace as a demure backdrop for the diamonds she wore at her ears and throat. Midnight black hair and ebony eyes shone beneath the light from the sconces, and lips red as rubies smiled at him pleasantly enough, but Logan felt no immediate spark, no jump of excitement in his belly.

But the night was young.

*


Ororo was patient. It was the best word Remy could come up with to describe her, if anyone thought to ask him.

She put up with Sam and Bobby’s antics with good grace, and she tolerated Warren’s teasing with a roll of her eyes and a sharp tweak of his ear. She could easily see eye to eye with him, since she was even taller than Danielle, but she was less gangly, more gracefully built, her slim form promising more generous curves soon.

Ororo loved to watch the snow fall outside and see the flocks of birds fall into their formations, twittering and screeching as they took flight. Of everyone in the house, she loved to read almost as much as Henry, and she was very domestic. She enjoyed a neat living space and frequently helped Betsy in the kitchen, but the rest of the time, she spent most of her time outside, in the open air. When the rest of the children bumped elbows and shoulders crowding their way to the dinner table, Ororo would hang back, preferring to wait until everyone else was served. She took her bowl of stew but eschewed the chunks of meat, finding them distasteful. Like Dani, Ororo felt a kinship with the beasts of the forest, but instead of being able to communicate them, she could feel them, having a keen sense of her surroundings and all living things. It was a frequent point of contention between the two girls.

“How can you eat that?” Ororo murmured, watching Dani tuck into the squirrel and rabbit stew.

“It’s yummy,” Dani shrugged as she scooped up a generous spoonful of stew, savoring the piquant seasonings and the textures of the meats.

“It’s cruel. They were sweet, furry little things just this morning,” Ororo said with distaste.

“So? They weren’t anyone I know,” Dani argued as she dipped her bread into the broth.

“If they talked to you before you or Rahne caught them, would it make a difference?” Ororo folded her arms and watched her expectantly. Dani wrinkled her nose.

“Maybe. But right now the squirrel’s telling me he needs more salt.” Henry smothered a chuckle as he drank his tea. Dani wouldn’t be phased or turned away from her usual point of view easily, no matter who argued with her.

Ororo spent a lot of time by herself. When the winter gave way to the first new green buds, she took to the sky, with Warren eagerly following suit. They were impressive to behold, and Remy envied them their gifts. He felt their joy keenly, anyway, even from his vantage point of having to look up at them. The sunlight and starkness of the sky made her white hair and Warren’s wings almost blinding to behold. They dipped and danced through the air, occasionally taking each other’s hands and pinwheeling around and around. Remy felt Ororo’s exuberance, completely out of character with her demeanor when she was in the house. It puzzled him. How could she contain so much bubbling, infectious delight?

Whenever Ororo flew, the weather patterns changed, and the air would go from placid to a near-gale wind that made the trees around him toss and the shutters bang against the cottage. Her blue eyes would frost over to a silvery white whenever she used her gift, something that initially unnerved him, but he grew used to it, and she smiled at him to allay his fears as she nudged aside a cluster of clouds with a mere thought to let the beams of sunlight shine through.

Sometimes, Remy would follow her outside or throughout the house. If she thought his attention was odd, she said nothing, merely making room for him in the main room if he wanted to sit beside her or help her build up the fire. Remy wouldn’t explain that his empathy drew him to her. Her emotions were calm and tranquil most of the time, unless she was closed up in a too-tight space. Remy felt her icy, stark fear when Bobby and Sam jokingly locked her in the armoire in Betsy’s room. He hurried back at the first taste of her terror, feeling it push up in his own chest, choking him. Remy felt himself hyperventilate the closer he drew, and when he unlocked the armoire, his hands shook.

Ororo nearly bowled him over, and she was pale and shaken. Henry took the boys aside and threatened to soundly thrash their hides if they didn’t apologize, and quickly. It was too little, too late; Ororo fled the cottage, hurling herself up into the clouds, and she didn’t return until dinner.

Remy waited for her in the melting snow, watching it drip from the tall oaks in the fading sunlight. She landed in a clearing a few meters from the cottage; he’d been watching her flight with difficulty before he finally enlisted Warren’s help. Warren had the keen, peerless eyesight of an eagle, and he tracked her easily throughout the sky from the ground.

Warren was about to greet her as she lit in patch of sunshine, cheeks no longer pale. Her eyes shone and her hair was a wild tumble around her shoulders, still whipping in the faint breeze. Remy stopped him; he felt her unease and wariness. Warren scowled at Remy in confusion.

“Not yet,” Remy murmured. “Let her come.” Ororo stared them down, almost in challenge. Warren’s feathers rustled, a sign that he was unsettled that Ororo radiated, but there was concern in his eyes. Ororo sighed, as though she made up her mind, and she slowly closed the gap between them. She glared up at Remy, something that baffled him, and he felt how indignant she was. His cheeks flushed at her irritation as it swallowed him up.

“Are you two just going to stare at me?” she accused casually.

“Who’s staring?” Warren flipped back.

“It’s getting dark soon,” Remy pointed out. Ororo narrowed her eyes at him and sighed as though he were an idiot.

He wanted to remind her that she didn’t like the dark, or small, tight spaces, if the emotions he’d read from her before meant anything. He didn’t want to share that information with Warren, however, since he wanted to preserve her dignity. But Ororo was doing a fine job of that herself.

She breezed by them both haughtily, walking in long, angry strides. Remy could have sworn he picked up a hint of relief within her, and she was calm as she entered the kitchen. Bobby and Sam were generous once more with their apologies, and Warren watched her as she helped Betsy roll out the dough for the evening’s bread. He periodically peeked over her shoulder at what she was doing, and his wings unfolded slightly, seeming to shield her back. “Are you just going to hover over me all night?” Ororo muttered.

“No.” Warren handed her the rolling pin as she punched down the dough, deflating the bulbous white mound with satisfying thumps.

“Good,” she added sourly as she took it from him. Warren backed off. Remy knew how he felt, too, as he drank in the blond boy’s disappointment and his sense of having been rebuffed.


*


When the first of the bluebirds returned to their nests and the new shoots of grass covered acres of land in King Jonathan’s territories, word was sent out of his son’s impending nuptials, and the people rejoiced. The union would bring together two celebrated families and fruitful lands, a merge that would benefit both. Rumor traveled rampantly through every village of the gruff, bold prince and his stunning, dignified bride.

Their wedding day was filled with revelry. Their wedding night went as could be expected, two bodies and two souls uniting out of simple need and a modicum of passion. Logan was a kind, tender husband, and his queen, Kayla, was a reasonable woman who cared for his needs.

Her soul left him the moment his daughter came squalling into the world, breathing her last the moment that Logan took the babe from the midwife. Jonathan gained a grandchild and lost a beloved daughter-in-law on the same night, by some cruel trick of fate.