Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was generally agreed that the visit of state that King Fortinbras II of Norway paid to his distant cousin, Hamlet II of Denmark, was not a resounding success.

The Danes had begun with high hopes of healing the breach between the two nations, for the young King Hamlet took after neither of his predecessors. Old Hamlet had been a bluff military man, and Claudius had been a murderer. The new king belonged to a younger, more civilized generation. He had been educated at the University of Wittenberg, and upon his accession he filled the court with philosophers, poets, and even a wizard. He had begun his reign somewhat inauspiciously, having been poisoned with a near-fatal dose of Danesbane at a fencing match, but as soon as he was able to leave his bed he welcomed Fortinbras graciously. Hamlet had praised the Norwegian king’s high courage and his decisiveness. Fortinbras, in turn, had spoken with great warmth of his Danish counterpart’s wit, scholarship, and skill with rhetoric.

Unfortunately, it took the two kings only a few days to discover that they didn’t particularly like people with the qualities they had just been praising to the skies. In fact, they thoroughly bored each other. Things got worse after Hamlet’s court wizard, an eighteen-year-old Englishman named Severus Snape, remarked that Fortinbras appeared to have his head stuffed with gunpowder instead of brains. Hamlet, unwisely, laughed. One of the Norwegian courtiers overheard, and conveyed the remark to Fortinbras.

By the day of the fateful council meeting, things had become very tense indeed.

Voltimand, the ambassador to Norway, shuffled some papers. “Now, for the matter of the land King Fortinbras claims, I fear we shall be hard pressed to avoid another war.”

“What land are you talking about?” Severus asked. He was a time traveler, so he tended to feel extraordinarily lost at council meetings. “And why does Fortinbras want it so much?”

“Well you may ask why he wants it,” said Hamlet. “‘Tis no more than a corner of the northmost part of our kingdom. The part of it that is not stony is marshy, and the part that’s not marshy is stony. It will grow nothing, and is worth nothing.”

“Then why –”

“My father won it of his father at single combat. Old Fortinbras staked it against an equally worthless measure of Danish land, and it so fell out that my father slew him.”

“They did this for a wager? Were they drunk?”

“Most probably, I should think, at least in Old Fortinbras’s case. But I hardly see how that has any bearing on the matter before us. The bond making the land over to my father is fairly drawn up and legal, but Fortinbras – the present King Fortinbras, that is – has vowed that he will not rest until he wins it back; ‘tis a point of honor with him.”

Voltimand nodded. “He very nearly went to war over it in King Claudius’s time, but his uncle was living then; Claudius wrote to old Norway and ordered him to put a stop to his nephew’s plans. He suggested, moreover, that Fortinbras might find invading Poland more congenial. Poland is a very pleasant country, I understand, especially at this time of year.”

Osric coughed. “It is not called Poland any more, my lord. ‘Tis Southeast Norway.”

“Just so,” said Hamlet. “Having conquered Poland, and his uncle being dead, Fortinbras seems to have turned his sights once more to Danish lands. I suspect he came to invade, and not merely to parley, when he arrived at our court; but with the election and my life hanging equally in the balance, he had hope of becoming king of Denmark without shedding blood, and dismissed his followers as he did not wish to show himself too eager. Since then, I have detained him at the court – but he grows restless, and Cornelius sends word that his army is massing again at our borders.”

“Are there any other countries we might encourage him to invade, my lord?” Voltimand asked.

“There is Bohemia,” Laertes suggested.

“Which I suppose will soon become South-Southeast Norway,” said the king, “and then Bavaria will be West-Southeast Norway, and by degrees we shall be surrounded, and have no choice but to become South Norway. No, that will never do. Besides, I think my sainted uncle’s methods, though they may have been excellent for the Danes in the short term, were rather hard on the Poles.”

“Southeast Norwegians, if your most celestial and exalted majesty will permit the correction,” said Osric.

“As I was saying,” King Hamlet pursued, “before I was interrupted, I do not think Fortinbras should be encouraged to invade any more countries, or to try his army at all. I propose that we settle the question of this piece of land as it began, by a gentleman’s contest between one king and another.”

There was a short silence. “Do not, my lord,” said Horatio, the Lord Chamberlain. “Your life is worth too much to risk.”

“Who said anything of risking my life? Do you think me mad?”

There was another uncomfortable silence, broken at last by Severus. “Yes, but not mad enough to get killed over a wedge of bog and stones.”

Hamlet laughed. “Aye, there’s the point. I see no reason why this cannot be settled without bloodshed. Suppose I challenge Fortinbras to a friendly wager at – well, billiards, for instance.”

“He detests billiards,” said Laertes at once. The task of entertaining Fortinbras had fallen mainly to him.

“Another game, then. It does not matter which one.”

“Chess?” suggested Horatio.

Hamlet shook his head decisively. “I do not think I could bring myself to lose at chess to Fortinbras. Nor do I think he could win, no matter how hard I tried.”

“You, er, want to lose, then?” Horatio was plainly as confused by this as Severus was.

“Of course I want to lose! If I win, he invades for the sake of his honor; if I lose, we lose nothing but a strip of worthless marshland, and gain peace. If I could be sure of losing at dice –” A sudden thought struck the king. “Severus, could you make sure of it?”

“Easily.”

“Very well. I will propose it to him after dinner. What is the next matter?”

“The pirates along the northwest coast, my lord,” said Marcellus.

Hamlet clutched at his forehead. “Pirates again? Did we not agree only yesterday that the sea-captains should be compensated for their losses, and a prize placed upon the head of any pirates they can capture?”

“There is more news since yesterday. One of your majesty’s university friends – Rosincrane, is it? – writes from Wittenberg in great distress. He wants to know if you have any knowledge of – what d’ye call him – Guildenstein. He has not been seen since he left for your court in April.”

“Tell Rosencrantz we have not seen him since April either.”

“Aye, but there’s the sticking-point. Someone has seen him. There are reports from the villages along the coasts that the most notorious of these pirates looks remarkably like him.”

Hamlet gave a sharp yelp of laughter. “Do you mean to say that Guildenstern has turned pirate captain?”

“It appears so, my lord.”

“Strange are the workings of destiny,” Hamlet mused. “We know our own actions, but we know not what curious effects may be wrought by them.”

Recognizing certain signs that the king was about to start philosophizing again, the council voted unanimously to adjourn for dinner.

* * *

“No, I will not stake my land at dice with you!” Fortinbras wheeled around and glared at Severus and Ophelia. “I do not play games of chance with a man who surrounds himself with witches!”

Hamlet was about to retort, angrily, that only an ignorant knave would accuse the king of Denmark of cheating, when he recollected that he had intended to cheat, just not in precisely the way that Fortinbras thought. “As you will, then,” he said through clenched teeth. “Name any other sport proper to the dignity of kings, and you’ll find me willing to try my skill against yours.”

“What say you,” said Fortinbras, slowly and speculatively, “to ... a dozen passes at fencing?”

Several of the courtiers gasped at the Norwegian king’s want of tact, and the rest stood frozen. Laertes flushed scarlet, and looked very much as if he wished the earth would dissolve and take him with it.

“I am content,” said Hamlet.

Horatio seized him by the arm. Involuntarily, Hamlet flinched. “Do not consent to this, my lord, I pray you!”

Hamlet forced a smile. “Why, Horatio, are fencing-matches to be forever banned? Or are they forbidden to me alone?”

Mercifully, Horatio released him. “A fair point. But I cannot say I like this match.”

One of the courtiers proffered wine, which Hamlet felt himself to be much in need of; the two kings shook hands on the wager, and there was a general toast to the winner of the match.

“I am sure your majesty will win this match, being excellent in all points of that most noble sport,” said Osric, who had the brains of a sheep, and had long since forgotten that Hamlet intended to lose.

“I think not,” said Hamlet quietly. Pain was still shooting up his arm; Horatio had unluckily gripped him in precisely the place where Laertes had stabbed him two months earlier.

“How, your majesty doth not think so? Why, your humble servant had the honor of judging your majesty’s match with Laertes – a most noble youth, stuffed full of admirable parts and qualities, and commended in especial for his great ability at that sport of which we speak – and as I recall, your majesty scored three hits against his one.”

Once again, almost all of the courtiers looked very uncomfortable, and Laertes mortified.

“I think Laertes’ heart was not in that match.” This time, Hamlet spoke loud enough for the entire court to hear, and he crossed the room to where his childhood friend stood and took him by the arm. “Wilt thou judge this contest for us, Laertes? I know no one with a more complete knowledge of the sport.”

“As you wish, your majesty.” Laertes did not seem to want to look at anyone or anything; but his sister was watching the two men intently, and Hamlet caught a flash of gratitude in Ophelia’s eyes.

He felt, suddenly, very weary. For some reason, the days seemed to last twice as long when one was a king. He drank off his wine and bade the courtiers goodnight, a ceremony that also seemed to take twice as long as it used to.

He was relieved when he was at last left alone to seek his bed, and dismayed to discover that his mother was already sitting on it.

“Forgive this late intrusion, my dear, but I have a question I must ask you.”

“What is it, Mother?”

“Are you in love with me?”

“Mother!” exclaimed Hamlet, genuinely shocked.

“‘Twas only a question.”

“Wherever did you come by such a notion?”

“Severus lent me a book on melancholy,” said Gertrude vaguely. “The doctor who wrote it says it is one of the main causes. And I thought – well, you never seemed to like your uncle Claudius very much.”

“That’s because Claudius murdered my father!”

“Oh. I had forgot.”

Hamlet blinked a little at this extraordinary statement, but he knew his mother too well to be very surprised by it. Gertrude was not exactly a foolish woman – in fact, sometimes she hit the nail on the head with uncomfortable accuracy, although Hamlet trusted this was not one of those occasions. She did, however, believe that people were essentially good, and had trouble grasping and remembering facts which contradicted this belief.

“And you have been king these two months, and have not sought to marry. I had thought Ophelia would be our queen by now.”

“Ophelia would never have me,” Hamlet explained with as much patience as he could muster. “She loved her father very much, and I am the instrument of his death.”

“Have you asked her?”

“Mother, she returned my letters and remembrances even before I killed her father.”

“So you have not asked her?”

“No, nor do I mean to. Good night, Mother, and try not to read too many books about melancholy. Who wrote this book, anyway?”

“A learned doctor of Vienna. I forget the name.”

“He sounds like a fool.”

“I think he is. He also says that women are afflicted with a great envy of that part proper to a man, which I assure you is not so. After all,” Gertrude added reflectively, “it is not as if men will not lend us theirs for the asking.”

Unable to find anything at all to say to this, Hamlet bade his mother good night a second time.

* * *

Severus arrived late to the fencing-match, but his friend Ophelia had already claimed one of the best seats in the hall, as her brother was to be the judge. She waved to him and motioned for him to join them. He supposed it would be rude to refuse, although he did not particularly care for Laertes.

“Did someone check the foils, this time?” he asked under his breath.

“Yes. Laertes did, and then Horatio inspected them afterward, and the king tried them himself. They are all bated, as they should be.”

“Good. What about the daggers, are they blunted too?”

“They are daggers,” said Ophelia. “The point of a dagger is to be sharp. Do you see treachery everywhere, Severus?”

“I don’t trust Fortinbras,” said Severus. He thought he was being very tactful by not adding “or your brother,” but Ophelia rolled her eyes and turned to watch the fencing.

Apparently, when Hamlet made up his mind to lose he did the thing thoroughly. The Danish king scored the first hit, but lost four more in rapid succession. Severus had seen only one fencing-match before, but it came to him that Hamlet was moving oddly; he seemed to be favoring his right arm.

“Five.”

“Judgment. Er ... judgment?”

Laertes had been leaning forward, watching the combatants with a strange, intent expression. “Oh, aye, a hit. My lord, are you fit?”

“Fit enough to lose mine own land at fair play, Laertes.” Hamlet spoke lightly, but his breath seemed to be coming in quick, shallow gasps. He reached for the cup of wine his mother held out to him, and drank deeply.

“Will you play again today, or next year?” Fortinbras demanded.

“Today,” said Hamlet, flexing his fingers and reaching for his rapier once again. The blades clashed once; Hamlet’s arm fell heavily to his side, and Fortinbras pressed his advantage.

“Six.”

“I confess it.” It was a good thing both contestants seemed to agree, because Laertes made no move to pronounce a judgment; the creases on his forehead had deepened.

Slowly, Hamlet raised his arm; Fortinbras hit him again before he had a chance to mount his defense.

“Seven.”

Laertes stood, shaking off the abstracted expression he had worn. “I declare this match at an end,” he said. “Fortinbras, King of Norway, is the winner.”

There was some scattered applause from the Norwegian courtiers, although everyone in the hall seemed to have found the contest profoundly disappointing. Several of the Danes muttered angrily at Laertes’ pronouncement. Severus gathered that it was the custom to play a match to the bitter end, even when the wager had been lost.

“You did well, brother,” said Ophelia quietly.

“No.” Laertes turned and walked out of the hall without another word.

“What is troubling him?” the queen asked. “Know’st thou, Ophelia?”

“I know not, my lady.”

“Ophelia,” said Hamlet, “I would have some private words with you after I make the land over to Fortinbras. Attend me in my apartments.”

Ophelia flushed and curtsied. “Aye, my lord.”

* * *

When Ophelia went to bid her brother good night, she found Laertes sitting before the fire, apparently sunk in thought. “Reynaldo said the king sent for you after the fencing-match,” he said, not turning to look at her. “What did he want?”

The question annoyed Ophelia; she thought she knew where it tended. “If you are asking whether he has designs on my virtue, he does not! There is no such thought in his mind!”

“What makes you so very sure?”

“He knows I am a witch,” Ophelia explained. She tried to sound matter-of-fact and not at all hurt. “Kings do not seek the love of witches.”

“O, heaven, is that what he said to you?” Laertes looked furious.

“No, he did not say any such thing! He has behaved to me with perfect courtesy, and I do not see why you should look so angry! Did you not tell me yourself that I should not regard his liking as more than a passing fancy?”

Laertes looked skeptical, but let it pass. “Never mind that. What did he want?”

“He asked me not to speak of it, but if you must know, he wanted me to brew him a potion of willow-bark and mandragora.”

“What is it for?”

“It eases pain,” said Ophelia.

Laertes scowled into the fire, his expression blacker than ever. He was plainly in no mood for conversation, so Ophelia said good night to him rather crossly.

In the morning he had disappeared, leaving a curt note that he was going to France and might not be back for some weeks.

Chapter Text

“Have you no idea why your brother went to France?” Hamlet demanded for the two- or three-hundredth time. It had been nearly a month since Laertes vanished.

Ophelia shook her head. “I have told you. No.”

“Might Fortinbras have said something to offend him?”

“He did not say so.”

Severus coughed. “Do we have any reason to think he is in France?”

Ophelia fidgeted, feeling deeply unhappy. Severus’s theory was that Laertes had gone to Norway with Fortinbras, and was most likely helping him plan an invasion of Denmark even now. The king refused to believe a word of it, but some of the courtiers looked as if they thought there was something in it, and with each passing day, Ophelia thought more of them were starting to incline toward Severus. She wanted to be angry at him, but he was her friend, and the only other wizard she knew – and she could not help being a little angry at Laertes, too.

“As it happens,” said Hamlet, taking a letter from his pocket “I have an excellent reason to think he is not in France. This arrived from Horatio this morning.”

My dear lord,
I have arrived in Paris and, at your instruction, sought out Laertes’ closest friends at the university. They report that he was with them one night only; he left for Roussillon on the morrow and, immediately afterward, sent them word that he was going to Florence, where the king hath lately sent many young men to the wars. They had the impression that he was following some one of his acquaintance, but they know not who. This is all that I can learn in Paris, so rather than waiting for further instructions, I have taken the liberty of guessing at your wishes. By the time you read this, I will be on the road to Florence, where I hope to hear more. I remain,
Your servant and affectionate friend,
Horatio

“So he has run off to join a foreign army!” said Severus triumphantly. “When are you going to see what’s right in front of you?”

“My brother is no traitor,” Ophelia protested, bitterly conscious that the last time she had said this, she had been proven wrong.

“Enough, Severus!” snapped the king. “Florence is not in Norway, unless it has moved since the last time I looked at the atlas! Besides, I have it on reliable intelligence that King Fortinbras is, at this moment, preparing to march into Russia.”

There was a brief, bewildered silence. “Russia?” asked Marcellus at last. “At this time of year? Surely, that is sheer folly.”

“I said as much to him before he left,” said Hamlet.

“He – er, confided his plans to you, your majesty?”

The king looked at the ceiling and whistled. “Why, no, Marcellus; I rather think he had never thought of invading Russia until I cautioned him against it. Well, so much for him.”

There was another silence, as nobody ventured to observe that this was a stratagem worthy of Claudius. Ophelia stifled a mad urge to giggle.

The king turned to her and asked in a gentler tone, “Did your brother say nothing else to you on the night he left? Anything that might shed some light on what he is doing in Florence?”

“We spoke of a private matter,” she said, only too aware that she was blushing. “Nothing of importance, my lord.”

Hamlet looked around at the Danish lords. “Give me some space to speak with her alone.”

Everyone filed out of the room, leaving Ophelia more wretched than before.

“Tell me,” Hamlet said quietly.

“He asked why you had sent for me, and I told him of the potion I had brewed for you. I am sorry, but he insisted on an answer.”

Hamlet searched her face. She had forgotten how penetrating his gaze could be. “That is not all. What else did he say, and how looked he when he said it?”

“He seemed to think that you sought my ... my love, and I told him I was very sure you did not, and then he frowned and looked angry. And I said that you had behaved very properly to me, and there was no reason for him to be angry with you. That is all.” Ophelia looked at the floor, wishing it would swallow her up.

Hamlet took her by the chin, forcing her to look up at him. “Ophelia, I –”

There was a sudden, loud knocking at the door. “Hell,” said Hamlet, taking a step back. “What is it?”

The voice that answered was Osric’s. “Your esteemed and bounteous majesty must forgive your majesty’s humble servant for this intrusion, but a certain person whose whereabouts have been of some interest to your majesty seeketh an audience with your majesty at your majesty’s earliest convenience!”

Another voice cut in, and Ophelia felt faint with relief when she recognized it as her brother’s. “Enough pleasantries, Osric! Let me speak with the king.”

Laertes wrenched the door open, and half fell at the king’s feet. “Forgive me my absence, my lord. I will explain.” He motioned to a woman standing just outside the door. “This is Helena de Narbonne.”

Helena curtsied. “At your service, your majesty.” She spoke with a French accent.

Ophelia’s first impression of Helena was that she was an unattractive woman, although she began to change her mind as she took stock of the stranger’s features. It was true that her mouth was too large for beauty and her chin too determined, but she had dark, glossy curls and a good complexion; she was not so very plain, either. She was merely very unhappy, and it was misery that made her face unattractive. She was dressed soberly but not poorly, and wore a small necklace with the scallop shell of St. James.

“Sister, go and prepare a chamber for Helena. She has had a long journey.”

Ophelia nodded and offered to take one of the boxes that Helena carried, but Helena shook her head and said that she could manage.

“‘Twere best for you to have my father’s room. It has not been used since he died.”

“I am sorry,” said Helena. “Has it been long?”

“Not quite four months, madam.”

“My own father is also lately dead. Some six months, or a little more. His name was Gerard de Narbonne; perhaps you have heard of him here in Denmark?”

“Why, he wrote one of my grandfather’s books!” Ophelia tried vainly to remember what the book had been about; she hoped Helena would not ask her.

Helena, however, did not seem inclined to ask any questions at all. She followed Ophelia up the stairs, looking a little dazed, and agreed gratefully when Ophelia offered to leave her alone to rest before dinner.

By the time Ophelia returned to the great hall, news of the new arrival had spread through Elsinore.

The queen pulled Ophelia aside. “Are you sure, my dear, that Helena is a fit person for you to know?”

“She is not my brother’s mistress, if that’s what you mean,” said Ophelia. “I am sure of that. He would hardly bring her here if she were!”

“That is true,” said Gertrude. “And she has the manners of a gentlewoman. But who is she, and why has he brought her?”

“I know no more than you do, madam. She would say little of herself, only that her father’s name was Gerard de Narbonne, and he died not long ago. She seemed too oppressed with grief to speak much.”

“Poor girl!” said Gertrude, instantly touched. “I cannot think any harm of her.”

* * *

At dinner, Laertes explained the guest’s presence to Hamlet. “Helena is a physician, my lord.”

“What!” said Osric. “A woman physician? Ha, ha! A very good jest, sir!”

Unable to resist the temptation to score a point off of Osric, Severus spoke before he thought. “Women are often physicians in my country.”

“In England?” Marcellus asked in surprise. “I have been there, and met King Henry; he struck me as the last man to allow such a thing.”

Severus resolved to hold his tongue in the future. He had not explained to anyone in Denmark that his real country was the twentieth century, as this seemed altogether too fantastic to be believed.

“She is the daughter of the late Gerard de Narbonne,” Laertes continued, “a doctor of great fame in France, and he bequeathed to her his book of receipts and the greater part of his knowledge. She is the one who cured the King of France of his illness, as your majesty may have heard. I have asked her if she would examine the injury I gave you at the fencing-match. She demurred at first, but at last she consented. I hope you will consent as well.”

There was a slight murmur among the courtiers. Severus gathered that it was not normal for a mere physician to have to be persuaded to treat a king.

“I do consent,” said Hamlet. “Thank you, Laertes.”

“Are you off your head?” Severus demanded, forgetting courtly protocol. Ophelia kicked him, hard, under the table. “Er – your majesty.” He refrained from voicing his suspicions of Laertes, as that would just earn him another kick from Ophelia, but he looked pointedly at the king.

“If she thinks she can do aught for me, I will undertake no treatment, except in your presence,” said Hamlet, with an equally pointed look. “Will this content you, Severus?”

“I suppose it must,” muttered Severus.

* * *

The king of Denmark was a young man about Laertes’ age, dark-haired and sharp-featured. He looked Helena over with keen, alert eyes, but she had stood in the presence of kings before, and she was not intimidated. Her father had always said there were two kinds of royalty in the world, those who were born to rule nations and those born to a greater power altogether. The de Narbonnes were of the second kind.

“I have heard of your majesty’s injury. Will you tell me how it happened?”

King Hamlet hesitated a moment before he spoke. “A fencing accident. My opponent wounded me in the arm; it would have been little more than a trifle, except that by an unlucky chance, the foil had been – er, contaminated – with the juice of an herb called Danesbane.”

“That sounds like a very unusual accident, my lord.”

“It was.”

“You need not shield Laertes. He has told me all.”

King Hamlet stiffened visibly, and she perceived that he was a man who disliked being played with. “If he has already told you all, what need have you to ask me?” he asked, with rather less courtesy than before.

“My father taught me it was always best to hear the story from the patient himself, sir. They often remember things that others do not.”

Hamlet relaxed a little, evidently satisfied with this answer, and Helena proceeded.

“Roll back your sleeve, my lord.” She saw that he had a faint scar just above the elbow, like the one Laertes had shown her, but Hamlet’s was redder and a little swollen. “This is not healed well.”

“No.”

Helena prodded the king’s arm, starting a little above the wound. “Does this hurt?”

“No. Not much. Yes. Ow!”

“What is the pain like, my lord?”

“‘Tis like being burned and stabbed at once. Must you do it again?”

“No. I am nearly finished.” Helena was almost sure she knew what was the matter, but she had a few more questions. “Are you quite well otherwise, my lord?”

“Why – yes. I suppose so.”

“Are you sure? Have you been very tired in the evenings, by any chance, with perhaps a touch of fever that is gone by morning?”

The king drew in his breath sharply. “You are a witch,” he said.

Involuntarily, Helena started.

“I meant only,” said Hamlet blandly, “that you have hit it precisely, and guessed something that did not trouble me enough to mention.”

But he was watching her even more closely than before, and Helena guessed that he had inferred more than he was choosing to say. Inwardly, she cursed herself for ignoring another of her father’s precepts: Muggles were not necessarily stupid, and one underestimated their ability to reason at one’s own peril.

“One last question, your majesty. Do you know what became of the rapier after you were wounded with it?”

“I stabbed Laertes with it. Well. I suppose he’s told you that, too.”

“I meant, after that.”

Hamlet shook his head. “I know not. Osric might be able to tell you, if you can translate what he says out of courtier into human speech.”

“It does not matter. I have seen enough to know what troubles you, my lord: the point of the rapier has broken off and lodged itself in your flesh, and a little of the poison is still seeping into your blood.”

Hamlet nodded and began buttoning his doublet. He did not seem surprised by this diagnosis. “Well,” he said with an air of excessive carelessness, “forecast the health of Denmark. How long is the kingdom like to be troubled with a pernicious ruler?”

“No more than fifty or sixty years, I should say.” It was difficult to predict, especially with Muggles; but he was a very healthy young man apart from his injury, and Helena had noted at dinner that he was not prone to gluttony or drunkenness.

The king looked up abruptly. This time he was surprised. Helena could not tell from his expression whether he was relieved or otherwise.

“Is there any remedy for the pain?” he asked. Helena guessed, from the urgency of the question, that he was in more discomfort than he was willing to acknowledge.

“Yes, my lord, I think so. I must cut the sword-point out of your flesh. That is, if I have your permission.”

“You do,” said Hamlet promptly. Then, abruptly, he seemed to remember something. “But it cannot be now. I have made a promise.”

* * *

In another room of the palace, Severus and Ophelia were having a fierce argument about the French physician.

“I don’t trust her, that’s all.”

“Queen Gertrude said she could not see any harm in her.”

Severus snorted. “Queen Gertrude is the stupidest woman I’ve ever met.”

“She’s not stupid,” Ophelia protested, “only very kind, and she does not like to think ill of people.”

“In my country, we call that being stupid.”

“If you cannot see the difference, I do not know why I bother to talk with you!”

“The difference ‘twixt what and what?”

Severus and Ophelia turned to see who had interrupted. Hamlet stood in the doorway, looking mildly amused.

“Nothing, my lord,” said Ophelia hastily.

“We were discussing the so-called difference between stupidity and kindness,” said Severus.

“Ah. Was this an abstract dispute, such as we used to have at the university, or was it in reference to any particular person?”

Abashed, Severus muttered something unintelligible.

“I see, I see. A particular person, whom you do not wish to name. Well, enough about my mother. Severus, I am going to place myself in the French doctor’s hands, but you may be present, as I promised.”

Severus scowled. “Must I speak plainly? In my opinion, she’s a hired assassin and it was Laertes who paid her.”

“My lord!” said Ophelia desperately. “My brother would not –”

“I know,” said Hamlet. He turned to Severus. “Give me leave to use my own judgment, if you will! I have known Laertes since we were children, and you do not know him at all.”

“Fine. I wash my hands clean of you. It won’t be a great loss if you’re murdered anyway,” said Severus – but he followed Hamlet into the room where Helena had set up her surgery, all the same.

* * *

“My lord,” said Helena, “I suggest you take some aquavitae first. It will dull the pain.”

Hamlet’s eyes met Severus’s. Severus shook his head; the detection spell he had cast informed him that the bottle had been adulterated with a potion of some sort, but he could not analyze the liquid any further without attracting Helena’s attention.

Hamlet swallowed. “Thank you, madam, but I do not need it. Proceed.”

Helena rolled back the king’s sleeve and swabbed the scar with a bit of cloth. Severus observed that she was wearing a gown with loose, tapering sleeves that buttoned tightly at the wrist; they would be ideal for concealing a weapon or a wand.

“This will cause your majesty some pain, I am afraid, but I will be quick. Keep as still as you can.” Helena took up a small, silver knife and slashed the scar open. Hamlet bit his lip but did not flinch or cry out.

Severus noted a quick flick of Helena’s left wrist as she searched the wound; she murmured something unintelligible, and a moment later she dropped a blood-soaked splinter of metal on the table.

“Is that all?” asked Hamlet, in some surprise.

“Yes,” said Helena, mopping up the blood and binding the wound. “I suggest you go to your chamber and rest, my lord. Take a little wine if you wish. Let me know at once if you have any fever or swelling about the wound; otherwise, I will change the dressing tomorrow and it should heal in good time.”

Hamlet nodded and left the room, looking relieved that it had not been worse.

Severus turned to Helena. “What in hell did you think you were doing?”

A strange, closed expression came over Helena’s face, but she spoke calmly. “Sir, my father was a very great physician, and he taught me something of his art before he died. It may seem, to one uninitiated, like some forbidden art, but I assure you that all I have done is natural and lawful.”

“I’m not uninitiated, you silly woman, I know a Summoning Charm when I see it. What I want to know is, what possessed you to stab him with a knife like some Muggle butcher, and why didn’t you heal him afterwards?”

Helena looked at him in surprise. “You are King Hamlet’s court wizard? I had heard that he had appointed one, but I was not sure that the rumors were true.”

“They are true. I am the Court Wizard. And I’m the one asking the questions, thank you very much.”

“You must know, sir, that you are happy beyond most of our people in being able to practice your art openly at the court. King Hamlet is an unusual man, and the Danes are fortunate to have him as their ruler. It is not so in most countries, and it is particularly dangerous for women –” A sudden thought seemed to strike Helena. “But are you not English? Surely you must know that your own Queen Anne was beheaded for the like cause not many years ago, the king having taken it into his head that she was a witch.”

Not for the first time since his arrival in Elsinore, Severus cursed himself for not paying more attention in History of Magic. He hadn’t the foggiest idea which queen she was talking about. “In my family we did not pay much attention to the affairs of Muggles,” he said shortly.

Luckily, Helena accepted this. “Know, then, that it would be fatal for me to show myself to be anything other than a skilled physician. I use magic when I can do so discreetly. Summoning a splinter of metal is discreet; healing a wound at a touch is not. I would have given him a potion to kill the pain, but you were the one who would not let him drink the aquavitae.”

Severus had to admit that Helena had a point. Discoveries like that always made him cross. “Why would you spend your life healing people who are so ignorant they want to kill you?”

“God has given us a great power; do we not owe a great responsibility as well?” Helena looked at Severus speculatively. “Speaking of healing, did you treat him when he was first wounded? I would have thought that any competent Healer would have searched the wound for contamination.”

This, as far as Severus was concerned, was the last straw. “I would have thought anyone who was not a complete idiot would have thought twice before turning up at court in the company of a confessed assassin, refusing to answer questions, and deceiving people about her background!”

Helena looked as if she was about to speak, but Severus wrenched the door open, feeling that he had made enough of a fool of himself already. “I have done! Goodbye!”

* * *

Some hours later – and against the advice of his physician, who had recommended a quiet evening – the king summoned Laertes to his chamber.

“How do you, my liege?” asked Laertes, hovering on the threshold.

“I thank you, very well,” said Hamlet, “save for this arm. Come and open this bottle for me, if you would.”

“Did you send for me to open a bottle of wine?”

“No, I sent for you to help me drink it. Come, Laertes, wilt thou try one of the chairs? They are for sitting on. For God’s sake, man, if I wanted a fellow who could do naught but bow and scrape, I would have sent for Osric.”

“Pardon me,” said Laertes, hoping that the king would understand that he was apologizing for rather more than not taking a seat. He handed Hamlet a glass of wine and sat down gingerly, as if afraid of committing a grave breach of etiquette.

“Thanks. That’s better. Were we not brought up almost as brothers?”

“Did Helena say...”

“She thinks it will heal completely in good time.”

“Thank God,” said Laertes, feeling a little of the guilt that had been with him these three months dissipate. He raised his glass. “To your majesty’s health.”

“To returned prodigals. Tell me, Laertes, who is Helena and how do you know her?”

“I knew her father, my lord, when I was a student at Paris. He was then reputed the greatest physician in Europe. It was him I went to seek, only to learn that he had died.”

“And, fortunately, left a daughter to whom he bequeathed his skill. Hm-mm. Was the late Gerard de Narbonne – as I understand the man’s name to be – an acquaintance of your grandfather’s, by any chance?”

Laertes stiffened a little, understanding what Hamlet was asking. “He was. Does it matter? He was a friend of the king of France, who thought highly of him. And thinks even more highly of the daughter.”

“Not at all, not at all. I was only wondering. If I may speak frankly, Laertes, your family’s connections do not seem to me to be any cause for shame, whatever you may think of them.”

Laertes sipped at his wine in silence. This time, he wasn’t sure what the king was trying to say, but if it had anything to do with his sister, he didn’t like it. (His family had served the kings of Denmark for time out of mind; they were not ambitious of becoming kings, and if Hamlet didn’t know that, Ophelia certainly should.) If it pertained to him, he liked it still less. (Laertes was not ashamed of being a Squib, or the son of a Squib; he regarded it as rather a blessing, knowing what he did of both worlds. That was not to say that he was ashamed of his ancestors, either. No; he had no greater cause for shame than his own deed, but the memory of it was enough to stay him from contradicting his king, now or ever.)

“More wine?” Hamlet asked.

“A little more.”

“May we drown all unkindness in this.”

“There is none to drown, my lord.”

“I am glad of it.”

* * *

Severus was hoping very much that he had seen the last of Helena de Narbonne, but he had not. On the following day, King Hamlet (who was evidently in good health and spirits, and suffering no ill effects from the operation) summoned Severus for a private audience.

“I have spoken with Helena. I offered to make her court physician; she would not accept. I could scarcely even persuade her to take any payment for her pains. She said that the only thing she desired was that I give her leave to travel to Florence and ask no questions. I could hardly refuse her request; she is no subject of mine, and the debt is all on my side. But it troubles me, Severus, and I have come to ask you to escort her there.”

“Why Florence?” Severus asked, none too happy about this turn of events. “And why me?”

“I would not ask this of you if I were not persuaded that the girl is in grave trouble. She will not speak of it, but I am very sure.”

“Well, what if she is? What, exactly, do you expect me to do about it?”

“I know not. Protect her. Or, if the trouble is of her own making – as I suspect it is – persuade her away from the course she is bent on.”

“What course are you talking about?”

“I do not know that either. She will say little of herself, and some of what she does say is untrue.”

“How do you know?”

“Severus, she says she is a pilgrim to the shrine of St. James. She is a Frenchwoman. The shrine of St. James is in Spain. Why on earth should she go by way of Florence?”

“How should I know? Maybe she isn’t very good at geography.”

“Find out. Go with her to Florence. I am the king and I order it.”

Chapter Text

“The king says I have to escort you on your way,” Severus informed Helena, with ill grace.

Helena didn’t look any happier about this prospect than Severus was. “Why?”

“How should I know? He ordered me to, that’s all. Are you really going to Florence?”

Helena nodded. “I had already started on my way when Laertes found me, but I had to stop in an inn for the night because everything was coming unraveled and I needed to weave it up again – I nearly fell to earth, and I lost my father’s only copy of The Prophecies of Merlin.”

“Unraveled?” Severus asked, baffled. “Fell to earth?” The light dawned. “You’re traveling by flying carpet?”

“Why, naturally,” said Helena. “How else could I have traveled here with Laertes? He’s a Squib, you know, poor fellow. He comes from an old wizarding family, but he was born without an ounce of magic himself, just like his father.”

“But magic carpets are –” Severus had been about to say “illegal,” when he remembered that they hadn’t been illegal in the sixteenth century. “Very dangerous – aren’t they?”

“Only if you are a fool, or know not how to manage one,” said Helena serenely.

“Will you show it to me?” Severus had never seen a flying carpet, although he had heard the rumors that Caractacus Burke had sold one to Abraxas Malfoy for a million Galleons.

“Of course,” said Helena. “How else are we to go to Florence?”

How else, indeed? Severus recalled that long-distance Apparation had not yet become commonplace; in fact, he might well be the only person in Europe who knew how to do it. He discovered that he was, after all, excited about the prospect of a journey to Florence, even if it had to be in Helena’s company.

Helena unfolded her carpet and spread it out on one of the terraces of the palace. “Have you all that you need for the journey?”

Severus nodded and gestured toward his suitcase. He had brought few possessions to Elsinore – just a change or two of clothes and some books, most of which he had left with Ophelia so that she could continue her studies in his absence. He did have enough gold to buy anything he needed in Florence, as Hamlet had given him an advance on his salary.

“Let us go, then. The clouds are low; it is a good day for a journey, and I have delayed long enough already.”

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

Helena ignored the question. “Put your cloak-bag i’ the middle of the carpet so that it does not fall; there may be high winds. Have you a warmer cloak? You’ll want it. Now?”

“All right.”

Helena settled herself in the middle of the magic carpet, stretched out, and remarked, with an air of excessive casualness, “O, I would that I were in Florence!”

“What are you complaining about?” said Severus. “You’re going there, aren’t you?”

“Hush!” said Helena.

Gently, the magic carpet lifted itself from the terrace and soared skyward.

“Always deal carefully with magic carpets.” Helena whispered in Severus’s ear. “They are too proud to take orders from any witch or wizard; it makes them fractious. You must let them think that going on a journey is their own idea.”

Severus thought the carpets must be remarkably stupid not to catch on.

* * *

Severus quickly discovered that he did indeed want a warmer cloak. Helena guided the carpet above the first layer of clouds, so that it would not be visible from the ground. The air was thin and chill, and the moisture from the clouds made him feel damp all over. He pulled all of his spare robes out of his suitcase and huddled under them, but it didn’t seem to help much. He hadn’t been this cold since the time he and Prince Hamlet had escaped from pirates. Flying carpets, he decided, were as overrated as brooms, which was saying a lot.

Helena didn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation, and neither was Severus, whose teeth were chattering almost too much to talk. They said little until Helena decided, at last, that it was time to stop for the night, and steered the carpet to a gentle landing in a field near a small village.

“Come, let’s find an inn. Night is falling.”

“Where the bloody hell are we?”

“Somewhere in Bavaria, I think. More than half-way to Florence.”

Severus wondered how they were going to go about finding rooms, as he didn’t speak a word of ... Bavarian? Was that even a language? Luckily, the innkeeper answered Helena’s questions in good, though archaic, English. (Severus found himself wondering, for the first time, why everybody at the Danish court also spoke perfect English, but he was too exhausted to speculate about this.)

Helena ordered dinner (pork with dumplings and dumplings with dumplings, and beer). Severus tried asking her about her plans once again. “So, er, are you going to Florence on holiday? Or on business?”

“Business, of a sort,” said Helena, and promptly changed the subject. “Laertes told me most of the king’s friends were students with him at Wittenberg. Have you studied with Dr. Faustus?”

“Briefly.”

“Oh, what is he like?”

“A bloody madman’s what he is. And very dangerous.”

“Oh, I wish that I could study with him! But women cannot be scholars at Wittenberg.”

“Pity,” said Severus insincerely. Privately, he thought that a university education would make Helena even more insufferable than she already was.

* * *

The following day brought sunny skies and fair winds. Severus and Helena had to Disillusion themselves and the magic carpet, since there were no clouds to hide behind. Flying on a nearly-transparent carpet gave him an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach; he tried not to look down. Helena took it in stride.

About midday they landed in Florence, and then Severus forgot all the discomfort of the journey, rapt at the sight of the great, domed cathedral and the baptistry. He had never traveled much, nor had he ever seen anything like this. Then he remembered it was all Muggle work, and tried to sneer at it.

A number of Muggle soldiers were marching through the piazza, with plumes in their helmets and brightly-colored banners fluttering in the clear light. A great many Florentine citizens had turned out to watch them, so Helena was able to remove the Disillusionment charm while they were distracted. Among the Florentines watching the soldiers were a small crowd of women, including a pretty girl in her late teens with dark, curly hair and flashing brown eyes.

Helena approached an older woman who appeared to be the girl’s mother. “Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?”

“At the ‘St. Francis,’ here beside the port,” the woman replied. “If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, but till the troops come by, I will conduct you where you should be lodged – the rather for I think I know your hostess.”

Helena smiled. “Is it yourself?”

“If you shall please so, pilgrim.”

Helena became absorbed in small talk with the hostess of the St. Francis and her daughter, to which Severus only half-listened. They seemed to be discussing a Frenchman named the Count Roussillon, who was part of the army marching by.

“He stole from France,” said the girl, “as ‘tis reported, for the King had married him against his liking. Think you it is so?”

“Ay, surely, mere the truth,” said Helena. “I know his lady.”

“There is a gentleman that serves the count reports but coarsely of her.”

“Oh, I believe with him! In argument of praise, she is too mean to have her name repeated.”

“Alas, poor lady,” said the girl. “‘Tis a hard bondage to become the wife of a detesting lord.”

“I warrant, good creature, wheresoe’er she is, her heart weighs sadly,” added the mother. “This young maid might do her a shrewd turn if she pleased.”

This meant nothing to Severus, but Helena was instantly alert. “How do you mean? Maybe the amorous Count solicits her in the unlawful purpose?”

“He does indeed. But she is armed for him, and keeps her guard in honestest defense.”

“That is he,” said the daughter, “that with the plume. ‘Tis a most gallant fellow; I would he loved his wife. If he were honester, he is much goodlier. Is ‘t not a handsome gentleman?”

“I like him well,” said Helena. But curiously, she did not seem to be looking at the man the Florentine girl had pointed out at all. Severus had the distinct impression that she was trying to conceal herself from him.

* * *

Almost immediately upon their arrival at the St. Francis inn, Helena drew the innkeeper’s daughter Diana into one of the bedchambers and gently, but firmly, shut the door. Severus decided at once that King Hamlet would want him to eavesdrop on their conversation, and cast an Amplification Spell; nevertheless, he found it difficult to catch more than a few words. Helena had sealed all the cracks in the room, and she seemed careful not to speak above a whisper.

He did hear her say “consent” and “wife” and “lawful,” but could make almost nothing of this.

The mystery deepened when Severus and Helena sat down to dinner with the hostess, her daughter, the other guests at the inn, and a few neighbors. Midway through the first course (a dish of flat noodles layered with spinach in a nutmeg and cream sauce), they heard someone playing the lute outside the window.

Alas, my love, you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously,
For I have loved you so long
Delighting in your company.

Diana rolled her eyes. “Shall I lose my virtue to one who cannot even write a new song?”

For Fontibel was all my joy,
Fontibel was my delight –

“Fontibel!” Diana and her friend, Violenta, exploded in giggles. Violenta nudged Helena, but she did not join in the merriment. The sound of the man’s voice appeared to cause her some distress.

Fontibel was my heart of gold –

The innkeeper rose from the table and closed the shutters. “For shame, girls, ‘tis no laughing matter. Be a lady never so virtuous in her own life, any rumor of unchastity may stain her good name.”

Diana laughed. “Why, Mother, I do not think my good name can be in much danger from a man who does not even know it! Now, this Fontibel, whoever she is, she may have need to be on her guard!”

“Well,” said her mother sententiously, “thou shouldst not encourage him by laughing at him.”

“I discourage him by laughing at him. That is a very different thing.”

“I would that thou hadst some talk with the good pilgrim, our lodger. She is not so much older than thee, yet she seems of a far graver and wiser turn of mind.”

“Oh, I have talked with her,” said Diana, with a final giggle, “and learned much from her conversation, indeed.”

* * *

Severus went straight to his chamber after dinner, relieved to be alone for the first time all day. He discovered, however, that he regretted leaving his books in Elsinore. He was brooding by the fire, his thoughts turning vaguely to Lily and to the world he’d left behind, when a sudden knock at the door startled him.

Helena stood there with a book under her arm. “Know you whether this Polyjuice Potion I have read of is real, or a fable?”

“It is real,” said Severus.

“Have you ever seen it brewed?” Helena asked eagerly. “I do not properly understand the account of it in Paracelsus. Do you add the lacewings before or after the oil of myrrh?”

“Neither. You must wait a month and add it at the very end of the brewing process.”

“A month?” Helena was taken aback. “Paracelsus says nothing of that.”

“Paracelsus was – er, is a theoretician. He has never brewed it. I have, and I can assure you that his formula is toxic if you do not age it properly. I can give you a safer recipe.” Severus was about to start writing down detailed instructions for brewing the potion, when a sudden thought struck him. “What do you plan to do with it?”

“That is a private matter.”

Severus crumpled the paper up and threw it into the fire. “Look here, Helena, I’ve had enough of your secrecy! I’ll tell you how to brew the potion if you’ll tell me why you want it, what you are doing in Florence, and why you insist on being so bloody mysterious about the whole affair. If you can’t be bothered to tell me the truth, well – you’re welcome to poison yourself for all I care!”

“Very well. The Count Roussillon, who so admires Diana that he sings every night outside her window, is my husband. And not my husband, yet.” She sighed.

“What do you mean, your husband and not your husband? I thought we had an agreement that you were going to stop being mysterious!”

Helena told her story slowly, as if it caused her pain. “We are wedded, but not bedded. The rites have been solemnized in the presence of the King of France, but he fled the court rather than live with me. I am of far lower birth than he, and he married me under protest. He left a letter.” She took a paper from the bodice of her gown, and read it aloud. “‘When thou canst get the ring upon my finger, which never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body that I am father to, then call me husband.’ He thinks he has set an impossible task; but he knows not what I am, nor that Diana, whom he would gladly lie with, has taken me into her confidence.”

“You’re planning to impersonate her and get yourself pregnant?” Severus asked, appalled. “You’ll do it without Polyjuice potion, then. I want no part in this.”

“Very well,” said Helena coolly. “There are other ways. I have heard all cats are grey in the dark.”

“You’ll still have to get his ring. What do you mean to do, steal it?”

“I mean to offer him another, of no less value, in exchange.” Helena removed a ring from her finger and held it out to Severus.

Severus reached out his hand to examine the ring, when it dawned on him what sort of charm Helena must have cast on it. Abruptly, he jerked his hand back. The ring clattered on the floor.

“You had no need to do that,” Helena said, picking the ring up. “It is not Dark magic.”

“That,” said Severus, “depends on how you define Dark, doesn’t it?”

“Know you what it does?”

“Yes. And I don’t want any brats, thank you very much.”

“You would be in no danger from it,” said Helena. “You would need to find a woman willing to lie with you first, and I doubt there is one in all of Europe!”

“You remind me,” said Severus slowly and deliberately, “of someone I used to know. A Muggle-born girl, and a fair-weather friend. She, too, insisted on throwing herself away on a fool.”

He guessed that Helena, a pureblood, would take this as a deadly insult. He was right, although slightly mistaken about the reason.

“Bertram is not a fool,” she said. “As the world sees it, I am far beneath him. It is as if I should set my love on a star, or on the sun in its splendor. Should I blame the sun for not thinking on me?”

“No, you should blame yourself for being stupid enough to fall in love with an astronomical object! Who does that?”

“What do you know of love? You seem to be completely heartless!”

“More than you might think! I have been in your place, if you must know, and I did not force myself on the girl against her will!”

No, said a mocking voice in the back of Severus’s head, you only joined a terror group bent on exterminating her and everyone like her. Makes Helena’s little plan look positively innocent, doesn’t it?

He uttered an inarticulate cry and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A moment later, he realized he had just stormed out of his own room. Well, that was stupid. He was damned if he was going back in while Helena was still there, though. He decided to salvage what was left of his dignity by going for a walk. Mentally, he added “agony aunt” to his ever-lengthening list of professions he wasn’t any good at, alongside “suicide counselor” and “royal bodyguard.”

He was only about a quarter of a mile from the inn when he was suddenly seized from behind. He was surrounded by a babble of voices, casting what seemed to be curses in a foreign tongue.

“Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo!”

“Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo!”

Severus wrenched one hand free and dived for his wand. He threw up a Shield Charm instantly, and then let loose with a few choice hexes.

“Boskos thromuldo bosk–” One of his attackers hit the ground heavily; another cried out; and someone shouted in English, “This is not Parolles, you fool!” The rest scattered.

There was a sudden flash of light, and a magic carpet descended into their midst. Severus whirled around and Stunned a figure who was approaching him with a raised wand. But his eyes were dazzled, and he did not see that there had been more than one person on the carpet until someone Disarmed him and hit him with a Full-Body Bind.

“I arrest thee on the charge of maleficium in the name of Hugo Vesey, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.”

Maleficium: the practice of magic with malevolent intent. He remembered that much from History of Magic. He associated the word with show trials, with torture, with death by fire.

Chapter Text

“What is your name?”

“Severus Snape.” Severus thought it best to cooperate, at least for the moment. His arms and legs were still bound, and he did not recognize the building where they had taken him. It appeared to be a courtroom of some sort; the stony-faced man interrogating him wore robes not unlike those of the Wizengamot. “May I ask who you are?”

“I am Giovanni Lotta, High Inquisitor for the International Confederation of Wizards. You must be a stranger in Florence, Master Snape, if you do not know that already. Of what country are you?”

“I’m English, but I live in Denmark.” It occurred to Severus that pleading rank might prove useful. “I am court wizard to King Hamlet.”

One of the men flanking him loosened the bonds on his arms at this information, but Lotta remained stern. “Severus Snape, you are charged with the practice of maleficium; also with the use of deadly force against a Muggle; also with impairing wizard-Muggle relations and endangering wizarding society throughout Europe; also with attempted murder; also with assault upon an officer of the International Confederation of Wizards. How do you plead?”

“Self-defense,” said Severus, trying to remain calm while the charges against him seemed to be multiplying by the minute. “They attacked me. What was I supposed to do, sit there and let them curse me into oblivion?”

Lotta frowned. “I think it highly unlikely that any of the men present were capable of cursing you into oblivion. They were Muggles.”

“Well, how was I to know that? They were saying something that sounded like a curse.”

“That is, as I said, impossible. Could they merely have been scholars conversing in Latin?”

“It wasn’t Latin. It wasn’t any language that I recognized. I took them for foreign wizards. And one of them grabbed me and held my arms before I did anything to them.”

“Was that the one who nearly bled to death?”

“It might have been. I can’t tell you. It was dark, and I don’t even know how many of them there were.”

“You would do well to pray that he lives. Your own life will be forfeit if he dies.”

“Give him some dittany at once,” said Severus. “It’s more effective than prayer, and there might not be any scarring if he takes it right away.”

Lotta nodded and turned to one of the servants who were guarding the door. “Do as he says. Now!” He turned back to Severus. “Master Snape, what is your parentage?”

“Half-blood,” Severus said, scowling. “My father is a Muggle named Tobias Snape. My mother’s maiden name was Eileen Prince.”

“The Princes are a prominent wizarding family,” said Lotta, evidently impressed. “I was slightly acquainted with the head of the family when I was last in England. I will write to him and ask if he can vouch for you.”

“No!” said Severus quickly. “I mean – the whole family cut my mother off when she married a Muggle. They don’t even know that I exist. Most of them won’t admit that she exists, either.” Even in his own ears, this sounded very lame, but it was more plausible than admitting that neither of his parents would be born for several centuries yet.

“Have you any friends here in Florence who can bear witness to your character and reputation?”

“Not really. Well, nobody I’d call a friend, but I came here with a witch named Helena de Narbonne. She’s a Healer. You might get her to have a look at the man who was wounded. She’s staying at the St. Francis Inn.”

“Go thou,” said Lotta to another servant, “and seek her out.” He turned back to Severus. “What is your opinion of Hengist of Woodcroft?”

“Who?”

“Your countryman. The founder of the village the Scottish call Hogga-smey-ah-dey.”

“Where? Oh, Hogsmeade. Decent enough place if you leave out the damp and the old fellow who smells of goats. I suppose the founder was all right.”

“You endorse his views, then, about Muggle-wizard separatism?”

“No, of course not!” said Severus quickly, guessing from the look on Lotta’s face that he had just stepped onto dangerous ground.

“What is your opinion of the fate of the late Queen Anne Boleyn?”

“I think it’s, er, appalling,” said Severus, grateful that Helena had explained about Queen Anne.

“So appalling, would you say, that any wizard is justified in taking revenge on Muggles?”

“I never said that! You’re putting words in my mouth, and I already told you it was self-defense. I’d like to see you sit still and take it while someone tries to curse you into oblivion!”

“You would like to see me cursed into oblivion?” asked Lotta. The court scribes were writing furiously.

“I didn’t say that either!”

“Is it your view that Margery Jourdain was a traitor, or a martyr?”

“I’ve never heard of Margery Jourdain in my life,” said Severus, “and I’m not saying another word until I can talk to – to –” He doubted that he would be allowed counsel, and he wasn’t sure he wanted a lawyer of Lotta’s choosing anyway. And he knew only one person who might be able to elucidate Lotta’s questions and save him from digging himself into an even deeper hole. “To Helena,” he said at last, reluctantly.

“I would speak with her myself. The hour is very late. Take him to prison until she comes, and keep him under close guard.” Lotta nodded at Severus’s custodians, and strode out of the room.

* * *

Helena paused for a moment and studied her face in Diana’s looking-glass. She would have to do without Paracelsus’s potion; but one could do much to alter one’s appearance with a few simple charms, and she and Diana were not so very unlike each other. Not very different in birth, either, or if they were, the advantage was all on Helena’s side. Who knew why Bertram loved one of them and hated the other? Unless it was because Diana had refused him and Helena had loved him too much.

She blew out the candle. His hour had almost come, and there must be no light in Diana’s chamber.

She wished she could forget what Severus had said. I have been in your place, if you must know, and I did not force myself on the girl against her will.

It was not, she told herself, a matter of force. She was Bertram’s wife – in form, if not in fact – and he had consented to the marriage. Within the hour she would truly be his wife, and there would be no undoing the knot that bound them.

She wondered why she felt so troubled about the heart when she had waited for this so long.

The clock in the church tower struck midnight, and there was a soft knock at the chamber window. Helena stood for a moment with her hand on the catch, willing herself to forget the doubts and fears that had suddenly crowded her mind, and then flung the window open.

And then Bertram was in her arms, as she had often dreamt of him: kissing her, stroking her hair, murmuring words of love that were for her and not for her. Part of her wanted it to go on and on until she smothered under his embraces, and part of her wanted to say Stop! and confess everything.

His hands moved downward, over her breasts, and she could not suppress a low moan, though she knew there was need for silence.

Then they heard a violent knock at the chamber door.

Bertram froze in the act of undoing her laces. Helena whispered, “Under the bed!” and he vanished in a single fluid motion.

“Who’s there?” she asked, not daring to speak above a whisper lest her voice give her away.

“Francisco, servant to Giovanni Lotta.”

Helena opened the door. One did not disobey Lotta’s men. “What do you want?”

“We are looking for a Frenchwoman named Helena de Narbonne, and have had information that she is staying in this house.”

There was a squeak from under the bed. Helena threw her shoe in Bertram’s general direction, and muttered something about mice.

“Are you Helena de Narbonne?” demanded Francisco.

“Certainly not, sir. My name is Diana, and my mother is the innkeeper here.”

“Is anyone of that name staying in this house?”

“I know not, sir. There are many pilgrims lodging here tonight; I cannot remember all their names.”

“How many pilgrims, exactly? When did they arrive?”

“I tell you, I do not remember! But if you must search the house, I suppose you may.” This seemed to be the only way to get rid of Francisco, and with Bertram concealed under the bed, she would certainly have to get rid of him at once.

Francisco shut the door and strode down the corridor, making no effort to avoid waking the guests. She heard him knock loudly on the door of the next chamber.

“Go!” Helena hissed at Bertram. “Go at once! And try to keep silent, for God’s sake!”

Bertram crept out from under the bed, looking dazed. “Helena de Narbonne was my wife. She is dead.”

“Well?” said Helena. “Then go and tell him so, you fool!” She was too agitated to think whether this was wise or not – but it was surely better than letting Lotta wake the entire house, including Diana and her mother. She could not think of a plausible way to explain why the innkeeper had two daughters called Diana, and acknowledged only one of them.

Bertram went. Helena sat down on the bed, hands shaking. She had never thought she could be so thankful to see Bertram depart from her company – and she could not quite believe that she had called him a fool and meant it.

* * *

The prison cell in Lotta’s palace was not a place of nightmares, not like Azkaban. The bars on the door and windows were mainly for show; since it was built to hold wizards, the real security came from anti-Disapparation jinxes and other spellwork that rendered the walls impregnable. There was an iron bedstead with a reasonably comfortable mattress, a washstand with a bowl of fresh water, and even a few books, although these consisted of sermons and a very long, very dull poem in praise of the International Confederation of Wizards.

Still, it was undeniably a prison, and Severus would have given much to be out of it. He hoped that Helena would feel inclined to corroborate his story. They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms.

He stretched out on the bed and tried to plan out some other line of defense, or a means of escape. He felt very naked without his wand; as a rule, he even slept with it.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, the cell was filled with the grey light of dawn, and a guard had arrived with a small loaf of bread, a sliver of cheese, and a mug of water. Severus tore into the food ravenously.

“Signor Lotta says that he would have some talk with you before your trial. He gave orders for you to wait here.”

Severus stared at him. “Instead of doing what, running off to Vancouver to play Quodpot?”

The guard blinked. “To where, sir?”

“Never mind. Did he manage to track down Helena?”

“Signora de Narbonne is dead,” said the guard flatly.

“Dead?” Severus put down his bread and cheese, suddenly no longer hungry. He was too accustomed to sudden death to be greatly startled by the news, but he did wonder how it had happened. Perhaps she had ignored his advice about the Polyjuice potion and poisoned herself, or perhaps the Count Roussillon had murdered her.

Or perhaps she had taken his advice too much to heart, and had committed suicide. Severus found that he did not like this thought, and tried to put it aside. He didn’t like any of the possibilities, come to think of it. Bloody hell, he didn’t want Helena to be dead, and he was sure she would still be alive if he had been there.

Damn it all. He’d moved to the sixteenth century to get away from this sort of thing.

“How did she die? She was fine yesterday!”

“I know not,” said the guard. “But there is a reliable witness who swears to it, a young lord traveling with the French army.”

“The Count Roussillon?”

“I do not know his name. Have you eaten as much as you will, sir?”

“Yes, yes, take it away.”

“Signor Lotta says you are to make yourself ready to receive a visitor as soon as you have eaten. There is one who would speak with you.” The guard picked up the tray and vanished.

Severus splashed some water on his face and tried to make sense of what he had heard.

The door at the end of the corridor creaked open. Severus looked up; his visitor was a young man about his own age, dressed in white robes and holding a candle so that it lit up his face. He was very pale, and he moved almost noiselessly – gliding across the floor, rather than walking. Severus found this slightly eerie until he noted that the young man was wearing slippers.

The man paused in front of his cell, but did not speak.

“Who are you?”

“Nay, know you not me?” said the stranger in a low, unearthly voice.

“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“Will you know me on the day of judgment?” intoned the young man.

Some sort of evangelist, Severus decided. Of all the things he didn’t need right now. “Look here, I don’t want a tract, and I’ve got no intention of repenting for something I never did in the first place, so you can go straight back to the Salvation Army, or wherever you came from, and tell them –”

“The French army,” said the young man in a more normal sort of voice. “Where, pray, is Salvatia?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” said Severus, feeling that this conversation was making less and less sense by the minute. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name,” said the stranger, with an attempt at the slow and portentious delivery he’s been using before, “is the Second Lord Dumaine.”

Severus snorted. “What kind of name is that?”

“I have a brother, born but half an hour before me,” said the Second Lord Dumaine in his ordinary voice, “and a mother with an unfortunate lack of imagination.”

Somebody else stifled a groan. Severus turned, and saw Lotta standing in the back of the corridor. He must have been spying on them the whole time.

“I am sorry, my lord,” said the Second Lord Dumaine to Lotta, “but I answered his questions as best I could. Some of them were out of my part.”

“Never you mind,” said Lotta, “I’ve seen enough. In sooth, he does not know you, I’ll be sworn.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“This is the man you wounded last night and left for dead,” said Lotta.

“I didn’t leave him for dead. I was arrested. As you well know.”

Lotta ignored this. “I thought to send him here in the guise of his own ghost. I have heard that murderers have often started at such a sight, and confessed their crimes.”

“Oh, for the love of – Look. Are you satisfied yet that I haven’t committed any crimes, or at least not attempted murder?”

“I believe more of your story than I did last night,” Lotta admitted. “When he came to his senses, Lord Dumaine owned that he and his companions did attack you, though they did it in error, and that they had agreed among themselves to gabble as if they were speaking a strange tongue.”

“There you are! He said it himself! May I go now?”

“Not yet,” said Lotta. “You say you are court wizard to King Hamlet of Denmark, but the only person in Florence who can confirm this is dead. I must say that I find this death strange, and peculiarly convenient.”

“Convenient for whom? As it happens, I find it very inconvenient to be locked up in prison, and if you’re insinuating that I killed her, I bloody well didn’t. She was perfectly well the last time I saw her. Apart from being mad as a hatter, I mean, but that seems to be put her in very good company around here. Give me a pen and some paper. I need to write to a friend.”

* * *

Dear Ophelia,

I’m in prison. Help.

Helena is dead.

I’m sorry to say that Helena is dead, I did my best but I wasn’t able to do anything to prevent it (why is everybody around here always getting murdered or trying to top themselves, anyway?) owing to the fact that I was in prison. I’ve been charged with attacking some Muggles, but it’s all a mistake. One of them even said so, but the Inquisitor refuses to let me go. Could you make ask King Hamlet to send a letter to Giovanni Lotta in Florence confirming that I am his court wizard and testifying to my good character, and if he implied that bad things would happen if Lotta doesn’t let me go it would probably help, only without seeming to threaten him, of course...

At this point Severus crumpled up the letter and started again.

Dear Ophelia,

I am in Florence. A lot of things have happened, I suppose I’d better tell you about them in order...

Severus tried to remember what had happened first, and found that he was drawing a complete blank. Had he really arrived only yesterday?

He spent some minutes clutching frantically at his forehead. Then his jailer entered, keys at his side and an inscrutable expression on his face. “Follow me to the courtroom, where you will attend Signor Lotta’s pleasure. You had better take all of your possessions with you.”

Severus pointed out that he didn’t have any possessions, except for his wand, which had been confiscated when he was arrested. The jailer shrugged and unlocked the door. Severus followed, trying to suppress his increasing sense of panic.

Lotta looked much as he had on their two previous encounters: stony-faced, nearly impossible to read. It was a shock when he handed Severus his wand. “Severus Snape, you are free to leave. All charges against you are dismissed. The Danish ambassador speaks well on your behalf, and as he reminds us, with these late wars it is imperative that Florence maintain her alliance with Denmark.”

“The Danish ambassador?” Severus was puzzled until he caught sight of the man Lotta had indicated. “Horatio! Thank God!”

“See that you do your part to keep the peace,” Lotta added sternly, “and do not presume from this that the law in Florence will bend to your will. Rather, I charge you to follow Our Lord’s example and turn the other cheek, even if a hundred men offer you violence, for it will go badly for you if I hear from you again.”

As things turned out, Severus heeded this advice for a grand total of half an hour. As far as he was concerned, nobody in his right mind would turn the other cheek to an Inferius.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing here?” Severus asked Horatio as soon as they were safely away from Lotta’s palace.

“I came to look for Laertes. Have you heard any news of him?”

“Oh, hadn’t you heard? He’s turned up. He's back in Denmark.” Severus attempted to give an account of the events of the last few days, but it came out almost completely incoherent. Horatio said, gently but firmly, that he thought they had better go back to Severus’s inn and have something to eat. Severus had the impression that Horatio was accustomed to dealing tactfully with the unhinged. He decided that he didn’t mind being dealt with tactfully, at least not for the moment.

“Where are you lodging?”

“At an inn called the St. Francis. It’s up this road, I think. Er, thanks for making Lotta release me, by the way.”

“You need not mention it. But why were you in prison?”

“That,” said Severus, “is a very long story.”

Horatio did not press him for further explanation, and by then they had arrived at the St. Francis. Severus led the way up the stairs to his chamber, only to find that Helena was sitting on the bed.

For an idiotic half-second, Severus thought, But ghosts are transparent – and then he realized what he was up against. He reached for his wand and surrounded himself with a circle of fire, the first line of defense against an Inferius.

Horatio, he saw to his horror, was trapped outside the circle, with the Inferius slowly advancing upon him. Severus shouted a warning, which went unheeded as Horatio retreated toward the door. For some reason, the Muggle fool seemed to be under the impression that Severus and the fire were the only dangers here.

The Inferius – no, Helena – cried, “Aguamenti!” At the same moment, Horatio darted into the corridor and grabbed a bucket of dirty water from the maid who was scrubbing the floor, and threw the contents onto the fire. The scrubbing-brush bounced off of Severus’s head and landed in a corner.

“Have you quite done,” demanded Severus, spluttering, “or would you like to empty one or two of the chamberpots on my head for good measure?”

He regretted his words immediately, as Helena looked very much as if she would like to do just that.

Horatio handed Severus a towel, and the three of them contemplated the damage in silence. Although nearly everything in the room was soaked, the floor was still sending up a faint wreath of smoke. Severus stood in the exact center of a perfect circle of scorched wood.

“This,” said Helena, “is the sort of thing that makes Muggles suppose that all witches and wizards are in league with the devil. And in all honesty, I am not sure I blame them.”

Severus recalled that he had felt a mad rush of relief a moment earlier, when it became obvious that Helena was very much alive. He was no longer sure why.

“I thought you were an Inferius. Someone told me you were dead.” He glared at Helena, feeling, obscurely, that this had to be her fault.

“Well, someone lied. For my part, I feared that you might be dead. Where have you been?”

“In prison. Lotta practically accused me of killing you.”

“O,” cried Helena, “I pray your pardon! ‘Tis my doing that he heard the rumor that I had died, though I never dreamt that you should be accused of my murder.”

Horatio turned away from the window, where he had been attempting to hang the bedclothes out to dry. “You were in prison for murder?” he asked.

“Well, not exactly,” said Severus. “I told you that it was a long story.”

“We have time enough to hear it.”

* * *

“I am glad that no harm has been done,” said Horatio when Severus had ended his tale. “But, Severus – if I may speak my mind – I cannot but think that you might have avoided much trouble if you had not assumed at once that Lord Dumaine and his companions meant the worst.”

“And if they had meant the worst, I might have been dead,” Severus retorted.

“That is so like you!” snapped Helena. “You see assassins everywhere – and you will not wait to hear any explanation before you judge people!”

“Perhaps, madam,” said Horatio quietly, “he has seen things that would make any man quick to judge and to fear. I have heard the times are very bad in England.”

He did not ask Severus exactly what he had seen; he was not even looking at him. Severus felt both grateful and humiliated, and even more so when Helena looked up at him with something like pity in her eyes. How in the hell had Horatio guessed?

A knock at the chamber door broke the silence. “Pardon me,” called a voice from the corridor, “but is there a lady here named Diana?”

“I answer to that name,” said Helena. “What is your will?”

“I have a letter for you from Verona, and also a message from the Count Roussillon.”

“Come in.”

To the consternation of everyone except Horatio, the man who entered the room was Lord Dumaine. Severus started to say, “Er, about last night –” but Lord Dumaine did not seem to notice anyone except Helena. “My dear lady! I had heard you were dead.”

“Do not believe all that you hear,” said Helena, as coolly as if she had not spread the rumors of her death herself.

“I – ah – I am glad you are among the living.”

“So am I. You said you had a message from Count Roussillon to Diana? I’ll take it to her.”

Dumaine blushed hectically. “Did I say that? I misspoke. I have no message.”

“Do not you lie, Lord Dumaine; you do it ill.”

“I do love the Count Roussillon, my lady; but were he mine own brother, I would think he shamed our name by treating you as he does. Pardon me. Forget everything I have spoken.”

Helena shook her head. “If I could forget that, I would still remember everything else too well. Tell him – as a message from the grave, if you will – that he is free to court what lady he chooses. I am glad that we were never properly man and wife.”

Dumaine looked relieved. “If I may say so, my lady, I think you are as wise as you are good.”

Severus was not sure that “wise” was the word he would apply to the woman who had been begging him for a recipe for Polyjuice only a day earlier. He must have snorted audibly, because Dumaine turned to him – a moment that Severus had been hoping to avoid.

“About last night,” Severus said again. “I’m very sorry. But, you know, you did attack me, and it was three against one...”

Dumaine looked blank. Confound it, Lotta must have Memory Charmed the man, which meant that Severus had just humbled himself for no good reason.

Dumaine’s face cleared suddenly. “Ah! I am the First Lord Dumaine. I think you must have taken me for my brother, the Second Lord. Very few people can tell us apart.”

“Right,” muttered Severus. “Never mind, then.”

“But you have some message for my brother? I will take it to him.”

“Did I say that? I misspoke. No message.”

Before Dumaine could ask Severus for any further explanation, they heard the voices of several women in the corridor, one of them distinguishable as the innkeeper’s. There was another knock at the door. Severus, Helena, and Horatio stared at the damaged floor and dripping bedclothes, appalled.

“One moment!” Severus called. “I’m, er, dressing!”

Snape cast a hasty drying charm, while Helena made an ineffectual attempt to hide the blackened circle on the floor by strewing rushes over it. Then Horatio spotted the magic carpet in Severus’s luggage, shook it out, and spread it over the floor. Helena and Severus uttered simultaneous cries of protest; but before they had a chance to explain why this was a bad idea, Diana and her mother had already entered the room, accompanied by Mariana.

“Master Snape,” declared the innkeeper, “I came prepared to hear you deny what Mariana has told me, and I might well have believed you, but I can conceive of no explanation for your present conduct, nor Mistress de Narbonne’s, neither. I was grossly deceived in you both. You presented yourselves to me as respectable pilgrims. And now I find the lady – if so you be – in the man’s bedchamber, and the man by his own confession only newly dressed, and further, two strangers whose presence in my house I cannot explain! This is an inn for honest travelers, not a house of sale!”

Severus blinked, and then snorted. “Are you accusing us of having some sort of orgy in here? Because I assure you, these are about the last people on earth I’d pick!” (This was not, strictly speaking, true. In point of fact, Severus could think of lots of people he would be even less likely to invite to an orgy – such as Hagrid, and King Henry VIII. But in any case, the innkeeper’s accusation was patently absurd.)

“Good madam,” said Helena, “calm yourself. It was I who came to his room to look for him, because I feared some mischance had happened to him when he was not at breakfast. He came in with this gentleman not half an hour since; we have not been alone together. I’ll warrant that his bed has not even been slept in.”

“Aye, I’ll warrant ye it has not!” cried Mariana. “You can say what you will, but I know what I know!”

“Just what is it you think you know, you stupid woman?” demanded Severus, now thoroughly out of patience.

“You had better tell the tale again, Mariana,” said Diana. “I did not half understand it the first time.”

“I heard it from a very noble gentleman named Parolles, who is an officer in the French army. He says that he was approaching the Florentine camp, at the very witching hour of night, on secret business. He did not say what, but I gathered he was gathering intelligence at great risk to his own life. He said that he saw – this part I would scarcely credit, but Monsieur Parolles swears it is true, and I am sure he is the soul of honor – he saw five or six men ambush a man who looked very like your guest, Master Snape. And Master Snape raised his hand, with something like a rod of wood in it, and these men fell to the ground screaming in pain, without him laying a hand on him. And then there was a flash like a meteor, and a great eagle swooped from the sky and snatched up Master Snape in its talons, and another one came for one of the wounded men. Monsieur Parolles himself scarcely ‘scaped with his life. I fear you are harboring a black magician in your house, Mistress Capilet. I pray the good Lord deliver us.” Mariana crossed herself.

“This is absurd,” said Helena. “I knew Parolles when I was in France. He was accounted by all to be the greatest liar and braggart in Christendom, and withal, a notorious drunkard. God help the French generals if they entertain him for an intelligencer!”

“That is quite true,” said Dumaine. “I serve in the army with him, and if anything, the lady speaks too kindly. Why, I’ve heard him swear that he killed fifteen or twenty men at the battle of Turney and Turwin, when more truthful witnesses saw him at a wenching-house eighty miles away.”

“There!” said Helena. “I told you that there was not a word of truth in him. The things he says Master Snape has done are clearly impossible; and if any wrong has been done in this house, I take it upon myself.”

Severus stared at her. He was not quite sure how the Confederation’s flying carpet had been transformed into a giant eagle, but apart from that, he knew that Parolles’ story was more or less the truth. Helena had to suspect there was a grain of truth in it too.

He did not understand why Helena, who had shown every sign of wanting to be rid of him as a traveling companion, had defended him. But he was beginning to suspect there was a lot he did not understand about people.

Mariana sniffed and started toward the door. “Well, if he is not a black magician, I am sure he is a very ill-tempered young man, and not at all a fit companion for your daughter. Diana, come away.”

“Diana?” said Lord Dumaine turning to the young woman in surprise. “Are you called Diana? I had almost forgot; I have a letter for you.”

“I do not think –” said Diana’s mother, Helena, and Mariana at once, all reaching for the letter.

Dumaine tossed it to Diana with a flick of his wrist. “It is not from the Count Roussillon,” he said hastily. “I had it from a messenger who came from Verona.”

“Verona?” said the innkeeper with interest. “My husband had kinsmen there; they are as rich as we are poor, but Diana went to visit them some two years since, and they always remember her kindly.”

“Oh, ‘tis a letter from my uncle Capulet; I know his hand.” Diana broke the seal of the letter and opened it eagerly. “Why, he writes that my cousin Juliet is to be married tomorrow! She is so young!”

Diana’s mother hovered over her shoulder, trying to read the letter. “Who is the bridegroom?”

“The County Paris.”

Severus found this baffling, as he had never heard of anyone marrying an entire county before, but the women seemed to take it as a matter of course.

“He!” cried Mariana. “Why, he’s kinsman to the Prince of Verona – and very rich – and, they say, the very properest young gentleman that ever was.”

“I wonder that it be done in such haste,” said Diana. “He bids me come to the wedding, but ‘twill be over and done before I can come to Verona. I would that I could! I should so like to see Juliet once more before she is the county’s wife.”

Abruptly, the carpet under Severus’s feet gave a lurch and began to rise. The innkeeper shrieked and jumped to the floor; Lord Dumaine, who had been standing on the bare floor, grasped Mariana’s hand and pulled her down to safety; Horatio, who had one foot on the carpet and one foot off, found himself clinging to the fringe for dear life. Severus and Helena grabbed him by the arms and pulled him in. By the time he was safe, the carpet had already flown out of the window and soared toward the sky. The streets and roofs of Florence grew smaller and smaller beneath them.

Diana sat wide-eyed and utterly dazed. “What has happened?” she asked.

Helena stifled a giggle. “You have your wish. We are going to Verona.”

“But how –”

“Some carpets have a will of their own.”

“Helena,” said Severus, “this is mad. Turn around at once!”

Helena shook her head. “It is too late. I tell you, the carpet has a will of its own, and it has decided to bear us to Verona.”

“There must be some way to make it want to take us back to Florence!”

“And what should we do in Florence, Severus? I have no love there now; you had no business there to begin with; the High Inquisitor has said that he never wants to hear from you again; and it would make Diana very happy to attend her cousin’s wedding. All in all, I think it best that we go to Verona.”

“You think! I suppose you also think your judgment has been impeccable so far – oh, apart from the bit where you nearly poisoned yourself, tried to trick a man who hates you into getting you pregnant, and then changed your mind at the last minute!”

“At least I know when I have made a mistake! You will scarcely own you are capable of being wrong, even when you have attacked an innocent man and spent the night in prison!”

Horatio had shut his eyes and was looking positively ill. “Please,” he said faintly. “Do. Not. Push. Each. Other. Off.”

Helena broke off at once and flushed, guiltily. “‘Tis well,” she said quietly, taking Horatio by the arm. “Be not amazed; there is no danger, however strange this may seem.”

Diana, meanwhile, was leaning over the edge of the carpet at an angle that made Severus shudder, rapt at the sight of the world below. “Oh, look! The houses are smaller than doll houses, and the forests like a carpet of moss.”

Severus pulled her back with a jerk. “What Helena means,” he said, “is that there isn’t very much danger, provided you don’t do anything idiotic. Which you were.”

He glanced, rather guiltily, back to the center of the carpet, where Helena had finally succeeded in coaxing Horatio to open his eyes. Luckily Horatio didn’t seem to have caught this bit of byplay. Helena had; she caught Severus’s eye as if they were sharing a joke. He found, to his own surprise, that he rather liked this.

By now the morning was well advanced; the mists had risen, and the sun was warm on Severus’s back. It was – if you left out the fact that they were responsible for two Muggles, and that he had no idea what they would do once they got to Verona – a pleasant day for a flight. He tried to relax.

After all, it was only a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?