Archive of Our Own

"Hello?"

"Hellooooooo?"

Albus opened his eyes. A woman's face crowded his vision, her big eyes wide and her brows turned upwards in concern.

"Hey, you're awake!" She grinned.

"Shanoa?" the whisper came out as barely a hiss. "No…"

"Oh gosh." The woman's face sprang back, and sunlight momentarily blinded him. "Oh gosh, don't cry. It's alright, don't cry! I can't handle men crying!"

Her hands patted his wet cheeks, and he wheezed in pain.

"Oh, bruises. Okay, I'll—" he felt weightless for a moment as she lifted him, and then shuddered slowly back to the ground, "—nevermind, you're tall. You just, just stay right there."

Failure. This was what failure felt like. He couldn't even move to hide his face. The blinding sunlight slowly coalesced into pale sky and the dark fingers of branches, reaching across the void. He was in some sort of forest—the air smelled green and fresh.

"Are you still okay!?" The woman shouted again. It was obvious she wasn't Shanoa. It would have been obvious even if he were blind; before Dominus, Shanoa had been a serious girl who grew into a serious young woman, more inclined to anger than to fluttering over strangers. Now that his eyes had cleared enough to see, this woman was too bubbly, and her hair was so blonde it was nearly green.

"Stay still." She commanded, and laid out a blanket next to him. It took her some time, but she managed to get him onto the blanket, limbs intact. The same couldn't be said for his dignity.

"Please stop screaming." She muttered. "People are going to think I put you in this state. What happened to you? Was it wolves? Bandits?"

"I should be dead." Albus groaned. "I wanted—"

The woman's face cleared in misunderstanding. "You did—nevermind. I'm taking you home; you're still bleeding."

The blood in his mouth tasted like failure. He closed his eyes.

—

Albus didn't know when he had fallen asleep, but he woke on a straw tick mattress. Exposed wooden beams crossed the ceiling above him.

He sat up. He tried to sit up. His stomach and spine ached in protest. He felt swollen and fevered.

Shanoa was dead. He'd failed. He'd succeed, actually, and it was worse that way. Had it been possession, or had it been mania, brought on by desperation? He didn't remember much of the fight either way, except for blood, and Shanoa's eyes, burning in betrayal.

Or… no. Why did he remember a smile? His head pulsed, and he pressed his hand to his temple, stifling a groan.

His heart throbbed. He went cold.

"No." He whispered. He stood. Tried to stand. Albus came crashing out of the bed and hit the ground. Every attempt to rise just resulted in him becoming so dizzy that he blacked out, so he crawled for the door instead.

It was supposed to take me!

Albus leaned heavily against the door frame, and realized that he was on the second level. A brief urge overtook him, to throw himself down the stairs and aim to snap his neck, but exhaustion mortared him to the floor.

It was possible that Shanoa was alive, but he was deluding himself to a better conclusion.

There was no choice, then. No chance for redemption. No sacrifice. Not the one he'd intended.

Albus tipped his head back against the wall. His face was wet again.

The blonde woman found him there, and spent some time fussing before she dragged him back into the bed and tucked a quilt under his arms. It was hand made—rather poorly, actually—but he only distantly felt any warmth from it. It was like a core of ice had taken residence next to his heart.

"I spent too long bandaging you up to have you trip and break your scabs." The blonde woman chided him. Albus glanced at her. "Don't give me that look. I've been glared at by bigger and scarier things than you. Stay right here, mister."

She wagged her finger and left the room. Albus heard the stairs creak as she walked down to, presumably, the kitchen, because she came back up with a bowl of thin broth.

"Here." She held out a spoon. "Eat this."

Albus grimaced.

"I'm a good cook!" The woman urged the spoon at him again. "And you've had nothing but water for three days."

"Three days?" Albus' voice was rusty.

The woman looked smug. "Take a bite and you'll get an answer."

Albus frowned, but took the spoon from her. His hands shook so badly that he splashed most of it down his front. It was thin and watery, and it reminded him too much of meals at the Order.

The woman pursed her lips, but took the spoon back.

"I found you wandering through the forest, and you collapsed. I dragged you back here and took care of your wounds, but you developed a fever. That was Monday night. It's Thursday now, just after noon. Your fever broke last night." She peered at him. "You must have been having some pretty bad dreams."

"Where are we?" Albus ignored the unspoken question.

The woman held up another spoonful. Albus took it, and managed to get most of it in his mouth this time.

"Outside of Debrecen. Maybe a day or two from the city. We like our privacy. Who is S? Shannon? Sonia?"

Albus flinched. "How?"

"You kept calling her name in your sleep. You were apologizing. Is she your daughter?"

Albus shook his head. "Sister. Adoptive. We… we grew up together."

The woman's face softened, almost imperceptibly. "What's your name, stranger?"

"Albus. Yours?"

The woman held up the spoon. Albus sighed and took it.

"I'm Ada."

"Thank you, Ada." It was easy to fall back on manners. It was rote, and he didn't have to think.

"You'd better thank me." Ada wagged the spoon threateningly. "You were beat to hell and back. Frankly, it's hard to look at you." She gestured to her face. Albus tilted his head in confusion.

"Here." Ada stepped over to the small dresser and retrieved a hand mirror. "You're in pretty rough shape."

Albus took the mirror.

His reflection was sallow, where he wasn't painted with a watercolor palette of red and purple in bruises. His cheeks were swollen, one looked broken. Albus pulled back his cut lip. He was missing a tooth. He poked his tongue through the gap. Both of his eyes were blackened, and the blue of his pupils looked striking against the purpled flesh. His hair was stringy and unwashed, and matted with blood on the side of his head.

Albus raised a shaking hand and found a line of stitches along his temple.

Ada was right: he was hard to look at. He felt pity for the man in the mirror, despite knowing he didn't deserve it.

"What happened to you?" Ada took the mirror from him. Looking at her in this light, Albus realized her hair really was green.

"I lost a fight." Shanoa had always been a better fighter than him. Even the throes of possession didn't change that.

"You look like you died." Ada said bluntly. She left a glass of water on the bedside table. "I have to be out for a bit. Stay in bed."

Albus nodded without protesting. He waited for the door to slam shut, and then he slipped out of the bed and knelt on the floor. An hour of sitting hadn't given him the strength to walk, and he hurt all over, but it wasn't a long crawl to the upright wardrobe. He barely managed to pull the door open, but he was mildly surprised to find men's clothing when he did. Ada had been wearing a cheerful yellow dress, presumably fashionable. That didn't mean that she didn't wear trousers too, but all of these looked too big for her. Albus glanced down at himself. He must have been borrowing a shirt. They were a little short on the wrists and baggy everywhere else. Too tall and too skinny. Barlowe had always chided him for it.

So, there was at least one other person in this house. Albus couldn't hear anyone downstairs, but he was big and heavy, and he didn't think Ada could have dragged him upstairs on her own. A husband, perhaps, or a brother.

The desk didn't yield much information either. There was a packet of old letters, tied in a silk ribbon from someone called Ortega, which would have been silly and melodramatic if Albus couldn't see how carefully the creased parchment had been cared for. But beyond that, there were no books, no journals, just a blank sheet of paper and a dried pen.

That was it. The room felt like an antiseptic, devoid of personality. Even at Ecclesia, he'd secreted away books and precious knick-knacks: a feather, the knife Shanoa had given him, the playbill from when they'd sneaked out to see Hernani. The emptiness was oddly comforting. If there had been shoes under the bed or a dogeared book on the desk, he'd have felt even more like he was intruding. Like this, he was an empty person in an empty room.

Albus realized that he couldn't make it back into the bed the second he had fallen out of it, so instead of expending the energy he didn't have, he grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled it onto the floor with him.

It didn't take any effort at all to fall asleep.

—

It was, without a doubt, the most humiliating month of his life. When he wasn't asleep, he was lying in bed, too exhausted to sit upright. Ada had prepared a bedpan for him, and he couldn't meet her eyes whenever she brought it back from cleaning. His initial exploratory crawl around the room had set him back weeks, even disregarding the multiple falls he'd had since then, and he had only just regained the strength to feed himself. Injury was like infancy: he could not take care of himself.

"Up and at 'em!" Ada crowed brightly, throwing the curtains back. Albus groaned.

"Stop complaining; we're going out today."

"Really?" Albus sat up. It still hurt, but the bulk of his injuries were on their way to healing.

"Really. You've got to start building your strength back." Ada pulled a pair of trousers and a jacket out of the wardrobe and tossed them at him. Albus held them up. A bit too small, but they'd fit.

"No waistcoat?"

Ada raised an eyebrow. "We're picking herbs in the woods. You don't need a three piece for that."

"Still." Albus frowned at the jacket.

"I don't think I've got any." Ada rummaged through the wardrobe. "My brother doesn't really dress nicely."

A brother then.

"Your brother?"

"I have two." Ada made her fingers into a 'v'. "But Henry is away at the church."

"He's a priest?"

"Something like that." Ada evaded the question. "Get dressed and meet me downstairs."

It took him some time to wiggle into the clothes, and the trousers, like the shirt and jacket, were short and too loose. His pale, hairy ankles showed below the cuff, and he had to look away from how skinny his legs had become. He could encircle his wrist with his thumb and forefinger now. Albus clucked his tongue, and tied his sock garters on, before pushing himself to his feet. He wobbled, and had to clutch the bedpost to keep his balance, but it was a far cry from the last time he'd tried this, and ended up crumpled in a heap on the floor, until Ada found him, the next morning. He stayed in bed, after that.

Everything except his cheek, which seemed like it was going to be permanently misshapen, and his wrist, which he'd broken during a fall, was well on its way to healing.

Well, he mused, poking his tongue through the gap in his teeth where his canine used to be, the tooth wouldn't grow back.

"Are you dressed?" Ada knocked on the door.

"Yes, give me a second." He braced himself, and let go of the bed knob. He stayed balanced until he shuffled to the end of the bed, and grabbed the next one, then, from there, to the door, where he braced himself against the wall.

"You should scoot down the stairs." Ada informed him. She had a straw hat tied 'round her head, and another tucked under her arm.

"Scoot?"

"Like this." Ada sat down on the stairs, and carefully levered herself down to the next step, sitting on that one too. "It's safer."

Albus cast his dignity to the side and sat on the stairs, carefully setting himself down to the next step and clinging to the rail in between.

"You know a lot about taking care of injured people." He huffed.

"My brother was hurt once." She said vaguely.

"Can I ask the circumstances?"

"I was kidnapped, and he saved me, and he got hurt because of it." Ada stared into the distance, fist clenching in the fabric of her dress.

"Ada?" Albus sat at the second to last step.

"Huh?" Ada rubbed the back of her head and held out a hand to help him to his feet. "Sorry. I drift off sometimes."

"I'd noticed." Albus took her hand. He'd assumed it was simple distraction—Ada was flighty—but this seemed deeper.

"Here." She tied the hat under his chin. "I don't want you getting burned on top of everything."

Albus nodded in thanks, and wordlessly accepted the walking stick Ada pressed into his hand.

"And take this too." She tucked a wicker basket into the crook of his elbow, well away from his damaged wrist. "Do you know what lovage looks like? Monkshood? Savory?"

"I know what monkshood looks like if it's blooming."

"Good," Ada opened the door and ushered him outside, "then you'll be in charge of harvesting that. I planted a little patch in the forest last year—I can't have it closer because my brother doesn't like it."

Albus nodded. Aconite wasn't something he'd like to have growing next to the onions either.

"What on earth do you use it for?" Albus leaned heavily on his walking stick as he followed Ada down a well-trodden path through the forest.

"Bears!" Ada walked backwards, facing him. "The hunters in town lace bait with it."

"You have bears in these woods?" It was irrational, but suddenly he felt eyes on him, peering from the shadows. Gaping maws dripping spittle. He missed Argatha.

Ada nodded. "And wolves and foxes too, but they keep away from the house."

A month of staring out the window had confirmed that, but it was a relief to hear it, nonetheless.

"How much should I pick?" Albus squinted into the underbrush, trying to pick out the distinctive purple blooms.

"Enough to fill the basket. Here," Ada handed him a pair of thick leather gloves, "I hope you know better than to try and eat any of it."

"I have experience in…" well, he used to, in order to further the Order's research in killing creatures of the night, but he wasn't about to say that. "Chemistry." He finished lamely.

"Chemistry." Ada raised an eyebrow. Albus didn't respond. "Alright, my mysterious chemist, have fun picking plants. Shout if anything happens; I'll hear you. And I'll come check on you in an hour or so. Don't overtax yourself. And don't sleep in a funny position if you doze off."

"Were you this bossy when your brother was hurt, too?"

Ada grinned broadly. "Oh, I was much worse. Have fun."

Albus headed up the left hand path, limping along until he found a dense patch of aconite, growing under a wide spreading oak. He sat down in a clear spot—perhaps unwisely, he wasn't sure that he'd be able to get back up under his own power, and pulled a glove on his good hand.

Picking flowers in the woods. How quaint. It was relaxing, at least, and it didn't leave his eyes crossed and his head aching, like most of his tasks at the Order.

He twirled a bloom between his fingers. It would kill him, fast, if he ate it, but what would that solve? He'd be dead, but it wouldn't bring Shanoa back, and it wouldn't atone for anything. It'd just leave a body in the woods for Ada to find. Perhaps he'd even serve as position bait for the bears.

Albus sighed, and tossed the flower in the basket.

How pathetic. He tsked at himself, and leaned over to pick another flower.

He squinted into the woods. Leaves and leaves. This forest was dense and old, and the underbrush here fought a battle to climb about leaf level. Moss draped over the low hanging branches, and it was cool enough to be foggy. Still, he managed to see a pair of eyes watching him through the shadows. Blue. Pale like ice.

The breath left Albus' lungs in a wheeze.

The eyes vanished.

He dropped the basket and snatched his walking stick from where he'd carelessly tossed it in the dirt and held it up defensively. His earlier prediction was correct, and he couldn't stand, so instead sat on his knees, twisting as he tried to keep his eyes on every cracking branch he heard.

"Who are you?"

The voice came from over his shoulder. He barely had time to register that it was a man—not Ada—before instinct took over and he swung the cane behind him.

The man caught the cane and ripped it from his grasp, easily, before grabbing his wrists and wrenching his arms behind his back. Albus yelped in pain and the man forced him down, forehead pressed against the dirt.

"Who are you?" The man asked again, jostling him. "Why are you here?"

"Ada." Albus managed to grunt, getting a mouthful of soil for his efforts.

Wrong answer. The man shook him, hauling his arms up higher on his back. The man's weight pinned him to the ground, and in this kneeling position, it was hard to breathe. "How do you know about her? Why are you here?"

"Told me…" Albus wheezed.

"Who told you?"

"Cornell!"

The man looked up, pulling some of his weight off of Albus' back; he gasped.

"Ada?"

"What are you doing, you dummy?" Ada demanded, shooing the man away from Albus and hauling him to his knees. "Oh, you got dirt all over your clothes."

"Those are my clothes." The man snapped. "Ada, why is he wearing my clothes?"

"Don't look at me like that." Ada mugged at him. "He's injured. I found him up near the mountain pass."

"Ada." The man despaired. "Why did you bring a strange man home?"

"What was I supposed to do? Leave him to bleed out?"

The man's flat gaze said 'yes', even as his mouth twisted in a silent frown.

"Albus, are you alright?" Ada crouched down on her heels and dusted some of the dirt off his hair.

"I'm fine." He still sounded a little ragged. "Fine. I assume this is the brother?"

"Oh," Ada's mouth popped into a perfect 'o' of surprise, "yes, this is Cornell."

Cornell was short, only barely taller than his sister, and quite slender. He was pale, like some sort of bleached shadow, a figure caught in alabaster. His eyes, and his pink mouth were the only spot of color on his face. And Ada was right: he didn't dress well. His shirt wasn't even fully buttoned.

"I'm Albus." Albus held up his good hand, although they were both quite sore now. "I owe your sister my life."

Cornell looked down at his hand and scoffed.

Albus frowned. "You don't need to be rude about it."

"Gloves." He turned away. "Ada, I brought you something from the village. I'll meet you back at home."

He vanished into the treeline, moving more like an animal than a man.

"That could have gone better." Ada propped her hands on her hips. "Sorry, he's prickly. I wasn't expecting him back 'til the end of the month."

It was mean to think it, but Albus half wished he'd hadn't come back at all. It would be simpler to live the same day again and again, sitting exhausted in bed, staring at the ceiling, too sapped by injury to think about anything but breathing and blinking. The brother's homecoming was a stark realization that time was ticking forward, and it was taking Albus with it.

Was it cowardly to fear tomorrow?

"Where should I put these?" Albus held up the basket of aconite.

"You should give it to me, and you should take off your gloves without touching the outside of them and put them in the basket as well."

Ah. Gloves. Perhaps he was the rude one too.

—

Cornell could hardly stand to be in the same room as him, but he refused to leave Albus alone with Ada, so it meant a lot of lurking in corners and glaring while Ada checked his re-injured arm and, humiliatingly, bandaged the wounds on his back.

"Gosh, you're skinny." Ada tsked, as she always did, carefully applying the plaster to the long cut running across Albus' shoulder. "You'd think that I don't feed you."

"I've always been like this."

"How did you ever get so tall? I bet your father was a mountain of a man."

"I wouldn't know. I didn't know my parents."

"Ah," Ada pressed the edges of the plaster down gently, "I'm sorry to hear it."

"You live on the street?"

"Cornell!" Ada glared at him.

"I was raised—" by an egomaniacal lunatic who wanted to end the world, "—in a church."

"And your sister?"

Albus flinched. Ada must have felt it, because her hands drew away, and she went quiet.

"Her, too." Albus said eventually.

"Well!" Ada's voice was overly cheerful. "All done! You're healing nicely, Albus. Now only if you would eat a little more."

"Thank you." Albus pulled his shirt—Cornell's shirt—back on, and buttoned it one handed. It was a tricky skill, but he didn't want to look like Cornell and go flashing his collarbones to everyone he met. He was still eating thin soup—one experiment with heavier food ended poorly—and it was just as appetizing as it ever was.

Ada left the room, bundling up the old bandages and patting down the bedspread, and Cornell followed her with a barely disguised scowl for Albus. He frowned back.

He went over to the wardrobe and turned all of the jackets so the clothes hangers were hooked backwards, and then felt very childish for it. It only lasted a moment though, because he also decided that he didn't care.

Albus sat resolutely at the desk and organized that too, hiding the ink bottle and sticking the pens in separate drawers. That was all he planned to do really, be childish and petty in response to childishness and pettiness, but his fingers brushed paper while he was ticking the pens away, and remembered the letters.

He pulled the ribbon wrapped bundle out of the desk, and sat it on top, flexing his fingers. He stared a glance over his shoulder, assured himself by the noise that Ada and Cornell were downstairs, and untied the bundle. The seals were already broken, so he had very little qualms about opening the first of the pile and reading through it.

The letter had been refolded messily and stuffed back into the envelope with very little care, so he had to smooth out the creases on the edge of the desk before he began deciphering the messy handwriting.

'Moon,' it began,

'I got your letter. You couldn't have sent it any slower? I could have walked to the city faster than the post.

'Ada is doing well. She keeps pestering me, asking when her brother will return. If you'd give me a date, I could answer her. Your sister misses you, and she's starting to bother me about it.

'Hunting is good. I took down a beast of a stag. It was gamey as hell, but you wouldn't care. You would have been there. It put up a fight worth anything, even tossed me a few times. I'm all bruised up. It made cracking the marrow out taste better.

'I miss you, Moon. I want to fight. I want to—

Albus stopped reading, folding the paper back along the lines as best he could and tucking it away in the envelope. He felt inappropriate and intrusive. It had been his intent to intrude, so perhaps it was best that he felt guilty for it. He bound the letters back up and tucked them away, in the back of the drawer.

He shuffled over to the bed and sat back down.

It was easy to guess what sort of person Ortega had been to Cornell. He didn't know what he'd been hoping to find in the letters: perhaps some scolding or a scandal, something to give justification to his dislike of a man who disliked him. Instead, it was too personal.

He must have dozed off, half sprawled on the bed and fully dressed, because it was dark by the time he awoke again, and Ada was knocking gently on the door.

"Sorry," he sat up, wiping sleep out of his eyes, "I must have fallen asleep."

"You need sleep to heal." Ada chided. "Come downstairs. I made food."

Albus followed her downstairs, still clutching the handrail, but at least he could walk this time. He sat at the table, and Cornell shoved a bowl under his nose. Thin soup, as usual. It was for his health, but he couldn't escape the nagging sensation of punishment.

Ada and Cornell ate vegetables and some sort of meat—cattle, perhaps. It was a celebratory dinner, a reunion between brother and sister. And Albus happened to be in the corner, slurping.

"Is that a new dress?" Albus asked quietly.

"Cornell got it for me!" Ada leapt up from her chair and twirled in the center of the kitchen. "Isn't it beautiful! This seamstress is the best in all Romania; look at the silk."

Albus nodded. "It's very lovely."

Cornell glared at him. Albus meant to match it, to sneer as good as he got, but guilt twisted his expression, and he stared down at the wood grain of the table.

Ada sat back down and continued eating, handing the bone out of her meat to Cornell, who tucked it in the corner of his plate. Albus' jaw twitched.

"How long 'til he's healed?" Cornell gestured to Albus.

"Longer, now that you've messed up his wrist again. You saw his cuts, Cornell, can't you have a little sympathy?"

Cornell grunted, picking up one of the bones and splitting it open with his molars. Albus got the impression that, if it had just been Cornell and Ada, he would have scraped out the marrow with his teeth.

It made cracking the marrow out taste better.

Cornell's teeth were long and sharp. It made Albus wonder what they could do to a throat. His hand twitched, defensive, he wanted to cover his neck.

"I'll be back in a moment." Ada took their empty bowls, and Albus' half finished one. "I have to slop the pigs."

Cornell watched her go, until the door slammed shut, before he turned on Albus.

"She made that for you. You should appreciate that someone bothered to cook for you."

"I—"

"Don't make excuses."

"It's not an excuse—it's not an excuse." Albus said again when Cornell tried to speak over him.

"What the hell is it, then?"

"When—where I grew up, I wasn't very strong. I couldn't do," Albus' eyes jumped, trying to explain without lying, "I couldn't do what was asked of me. I was physically weak. I couldn't fight. My food was… restricted, until I got better. Fasting. This… reminds me of that. I know it's not the case, but frankly it's like trying to eat ash. It's the memories, not the cooking."

Cornell stared at him, arms crossed and his foot drumming under the table. His expression was unreadable.

"My sister." Albus continued, not really sure why, "she would give me her food."

"What happened?"

"We were caught. She was made to fast as well."

"What happened to you?"

Albus smiled humorlessly. "You've seen it."

Cornell's eyes flicked to Albus' waist, where, on his back, were a dozen tiny scars from the switch. They were agony fifteen years ago. Now it was just skin.

"And you didn't think to ask for something else? You think Ada wants to bring back bad memories for you?"

Albus didn't respond.

"You're cruel if you think other people are as inconsiderate as you imagine they are."

"You are." Albus tilted his head back, keeping his eyes on Cornell.

"I don't like you." Cornell smirked.

"The feeling is mutual."

—

It was refreshing, being honest for a change.

Albus was a liar at heart. It was his comfort zone. Honesty felt like a sitch in his side. It felt like he was about to be caught. How much was Barlowe to blame, and how much was genuine guilt, residing behind his lungs, from lying to Shanoa?

But honesty with Cornell was simple, because Cornell never bothered to hide his dislike, so Albus felt no obligation to feign anything.

Ada got tired of their bickering around the third day of Cornell's return, and banished him outside to work in the garden, while Albus was propped in the chair in the sitting room. He still spent nearly fourteen hours each day sleeping, so it was more of an extended, upright bedroom.

"Oh!" Ada shouted. Albus jerked upright, blinking sleepily as he tried to find whatever had made her shout.

"Ada?" Cornell leaned in through the open window. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing!" She didn't look at either of them, instead focusing on the parcel in her hands. Cornell had left it inside earlier, glaring at Albus the entire time. "Someone is getting married!"

"Congratulations to the happy couple." Albus nodded absently.

Cornell glared at Albus, who sneered back.

"Ooh and that seamstress I like is making the dresses! This is so exciting."

"Who's the letter from?" Albus leaned forward.

"A friend of mine in that town," she gestured southward, "just over the border, in the mountains. He's a reporter, but he mostly runs the gossip rag. And he sends me new books from when he goes into the city. Although he says this one is a play." Ada folded the letter and tucked it in her apron pocket, and turned the book over, reading the cover. "Oh…"

"What's wrong?" Cornell leaned through the window. Half his torso was inside now, and his feet must have been kicking in the air. The man had no dignity, and no sense of shame. Albus had seen him last night, pacing shirtless in the garden, staring up at the moon. He half suspected that Cornell was waiting for some clandestine lover, before he realized that the man was just sprinting laps around the house. Madman.

"It's in English." She held up the book displaying the title. "I guess he forgets that everyone isn't as well traveled as him."

"How disappointing."

"Let me see." Albus held out his hand, squinting at the text. "It's a play."

"You read English?" Ada handed him the book.

Albus hummed noncommittally.

"What else?"

"English, French, Latin." Several variants of Latin, in fact. Dracula worshippers did love their arcane dead languages. "And I can read Greek."

"A classic education." Cornell snorted. "No wonder you look like you haven't done a day's work in your life."

"Would you like me to read this to you, Ada?" Albus ignored him. It was a little unfair to use Ada against him, but the easiest way to piss Cornell off was to steal his sister's attention.

"Would you?" Ada grinned. "Wait, let me get a little table."

She ran off to the kitchen to grab the small, collapsible table that she's once forced Cornell to carry when they went on a picnic. Albus couldn't make it back, so she'd had to carry the table while Cornell carried him. It was one of his less pleasant experiences here.

"You can listen too." Albus smiled sweetly at Cornell. Cornell slammed the window shut.

"Here." Ada placed the table on the ground, and spread her herbs out over it. Albus still only had the vaguest idea of what she did: it could have been selling poison or it could have been selling spice mixes. He'd believe either.

"Alright." Albus cleared his throat and scanned the page. "The Importance of Being Earnest. Ah, it's a pun. Ernest is a name in English. The pronunciation is the same as the word earnest. By Oscar Wilde. First performed in London in—"

His eyes fixed on the publication date.

"What's wrong?" Ada stood and felt his forehead.

"What… what year is it?" He felt his pupils shrink. It was like the world was becoming small around him, the entirety of existence shrinking to those four numbers.

"1895. What's wrong?" Ada leaned over him. "You look pale."

Six years. He'd lost six years.

"How." Albus stopped and wet his lips. "How long have I been here?"

"Just a month or two. I found you in September, and it's nearly November now. Albus, put the book down. Are you alright?"

"It was 1889." He stared at the paper in horror, rubbing his thumb over the print, willing it to change. "It was—because it had to be for Barlowe. That was his plan—to—to summon. There was a comet. He thought the Dominus would… i-it was a power resonance. That's why he chose it. I—"

"Breathe, Albus." Ada grabbed his face and pulled his gaze away from the book, but his thumb kept tracing the ink. It was raised just enough to distinguish the numbers. 1, 8, 9, 5. Did he look more than half a decade older? He was thirty now.

"Give me that." Cornell's hand slipped between them, taking the book. Albus' hands grasped at empty air. "Ada, get him some water."

"R-right."

Ada vanished from his narrow view, replaced by Cornell's pale face.

"Albus. Breathe. You're scaring Ada. Breathe."

"I—"

"Shut up." Cornell turned the chair to directly face the window. "Stop thinking. Look outside, and breathe."

His eyes snapped to Cornell's white teeth as he spoke.

"Have you ever killed anyone?" Albus whispered.

Cornell looked at him. His eyes were so transparent that the veins were visible behind his irises. "Yeah. I'll kill you too, if you hurt her."

"Good." Albus blinked, inhaling. "I won't."

"Good."

He only realized how much time had passed when the sun finally sank behind the trees, and he could stare outside without squinting. A whole day. What was a single day when he'd lost six years? Albus tampered down a hysterical giggle.

Dinner was quiet, somber, and Ada kept fussing over him. Albus barely managed to work up the energy to lie to her and tell her he was fine.

"You haven't eaten anything." Ada pointed out.

"I—" his eyes flicked to Cornell, who had a brow raised pointedly. "It's not that I don't appreciate this, but it reminds me too much of something I had to eat when I was younger, as punishment. The memory turns my stomach."

"Why didn't you say something earlier?" Ada despaired. "There are plenty of gentle foods we can try. You're just like Cornell, honestly."

"Hey!"

Ada ignored him. "He tried to power through everything and handle it all himself. Once I found him passed out on the porch because he couldn't open the front door he was so weak. You two need to learn to accept some help."

Ada tsked as she took away the bowl. It took every ounce of Albus' instinct to stop himself from calling her back. It was years of habit, of not knowing when the next meal would be taken away, when the next correction from his beloved father would happen, which mistake he didn't know he made. He curled his hands into fists in his lap.

"Told you."

"Shut up."

—

Six years.

The curiosity burned in him, when he had the energy for it. Albus fully believed that he was capable of having repressed six years of sorrow. It made him curious about morbid things. Had Shanoa left behind a body, or did Dominus take her whole? Had she been buried? Did someone bring her flowers? Was her tombstone marked? Did anyone know that she had saved the world?

The door opened. Albus smelled dirt and growing things. Ada had been out picking herbs again.

"What's wrong with you?" Cornell looked down his nose at Albus. He had a basket of herbs in his hands, piled so high that Albus could barely see his face over it.

"Nothing." Albus looked away.

Cornell squinted at him, and put the basket in the kitchen. He came back, and crouched down, staring Albus in the face.

"You've got tears." He traced a track down his own cheek. "Ada sent me ahead. She's picking monkshood again."

"You've got a rash. I could tell." Albus pressed his sleeve to his cheek, as casually as he could. "Hayfever?"

"Something like that."

"Ada… reminds me of my sister." Albus looked out of the window.

"She dead?"

"Excuse me?"

"Is your sister dead?" Blunt enough to cut, just like his piercing gaze.

"I—yes." Albus said quietly.

"Then Ada doesn't remind you of her, got it?"

"She was a good person and cared about other people—" cared enough to die to save the world, "it's not an insult to say that Ada is kind too."

"Ada is gonna live a long, happy life with dozens of grandkids. Don't think about death around her."

Ah.

"She was hurt, and you blame yourself for it."

A flinch proved him right. Albus needled on. He could recognize shame in other people. He had enough of it himself. Cornell looked wrecked.

"It was your fault." He realized slowly.

"Shut up."

"Was Ortega your fault, too?"

Too far. Albus regretted saying it the second it came out of his mouth. It didn't seem like Cornell's face could go whiter, but it did. He looked colorless. Then he flushed with rage.

"How the hell do you know that name?" He was practically trembling in fury. Albus shifted in his chair.

"I read your letters." No point in lying now.

"Those were personal!"

Albus took it the same way he took Barlowe's disappointment: straight faced and emotionless. "I know. I'm sorry for reading them. S—my sister was my fault too."

Cornell was breathing heavily. "You sound insane."

Albus shrugged. "It's happened before."

He traced his fingers along the window sill, rubbing them together and frowning at the dust. "Would you believe me if I said that I was possessed by Dracula?"

"Yes."

The surety of the answer threw him back for a moment, and Albus snapped up to meet Cornell's steady gaze.

"You said that you'd kill me if I tried to hurt anyone."

"Ada, yes."

"Is that still on?"

"Yes."

Albus exhaled in relief.

"I assume you still want to hit me. Will you listen, first?"

"If you're trying to wait out my temper, it won't work."

"I didn't expect it to. Give me an hour of your time?"

"You have it."

Albus took a moment to collect his thoughts.

"I told you I was raised in a church; that's the half truth. It was an Order, led by a man named Barlowe. He," Albus exhaled, rubbing his face, "he founded the Order after the Belmonts vanished, to—"

"Belmonts?"

Albus looked at him, his brow wrinkled. "You know of Dracula, but you don't know who the Belmonts were?"

Cornell shrugged from where he was leaning against the wall.

"They were a family of vampire hunters. They died out in the early 1800s. The Order was founded to continue their work. Barlowe studied," Albus gestured in the air, "ah, it's hard to explain. He studied glyphs: symbols containing magic power. The goal of the Order was to use these glyphs to seal Dracula away permanently—if a seal can contain magic, then logically it would be able to contain Dracula's magic. A vampire without its power is just a corpse in a coffin."

"That tracks." Cornell nodded.

Albus had thought so as well, for most of his life.

"My sister and I were orphans, raised by the Order. I was the chief researcher, by the time… everything happened. She was the most skilled at harnessing the power of glyphs. They can be," he waved his fingers, "imprinted, on a person, and that person can access the power of that glyph."

"You say power…"

"Mostly it's bound weapons. Some preternatural skills. Recall that the Order meant to prepare normal humans to kill Dracula."

"Imprinted?"

Albus looked away. "I was the second choice. I don't know the full details of the process. I can only hope it was less horrifying than I assumed."

He thought he could hear Shanoa screaming, sometimes, when he was safe in his bed and she was pulled away for additional training. Had they carved the glyphs into her skin, or simply burned them?

Cornell nodded. "Go on."

"Barlowe… there is a glyph called Dominus, a trifecta: Hatred, Anger, and… Agony. He claimed that the glyph would bind Dracula to mortality, that if a mortal had dominion over Dracula, they could tie him to their lifespan. I—my research." Albus paused. "I studied it, for days. I didn't sleep for nearly a week. I came to realize, to assume, that it would end Dracula's life, but only by ending the user's life as well. My sister was more powerful than me, she was more skilled with glyphs, so Barlowe chose her to use the glyph.

"I begged him to let me do it. I showed him my research, that even if Dominus didn't outright kill its master, it could rob them of their memories—imagine, would it bind Dracula to your life, or you to his? Would you age centuries in seconds?

"I was smart about it, or at least I thought I was: it's easier to teach another orphan to read Latin than it is to carve glyphs into someone's back. Barlowe told me that I could take her place, that I would be the sacrifice. I was so relieved that I believed him when he sent me to retrieve water from the Grail in the Vatican. I assumed it was protective, if not for me, then for the other members of the Order conducting the ritual. I don't know if I was deliberately being stupid, or it was just naivety."

Why do you confuse yourself by worrying?

He shook away the phantom voice.

"It felt wrong, the whole way there, and I got off my train at Budapest and took the return line back. I was too late to stop the ritual from starting, but I… interrupted it." Shanoa's confused face, Barlowe's mouth, twisted with rage, the sulphur stink of cordite on his fingers, a man in research robes lying dead on the ground. "It was too late to go back, but I stole the glyphs and ran. It botched the ritual. My sister lost her memories, and Barlowe sent her after me. I assume he told her that I had betrayed them. Technically true."

"Lots of lies are technically true."

Albus nodded in agreement.

"So you ran?"

"Dominus… in my research, I found that blood… Dracula is a vampire—his essence is blood, at its core. To feed his power, he needs blood; blood sustains him. My understanding of Dominus at the time was that it tethered Dracula's life to the user, but what if I could tether Dracula's life to blood. Like attracts like, correct?

"In theory, blood would… merge, with the Dominus. The idea then, was to poison it, to tether Dracula to a corrupted source of life. I initially planned to drink arsenic and laudanum and use Dominus myself, but I didn't think that would be enough to kill him permanently. Do you recall the Belmonts?"

"The vampire killers, yeah."

"I found that, while there are no trained hunters or direct bloodlines left, there are distant relations: cousins, nieces, grandchildren, and the children of all of those. Belmonts, their blood is an anathema to Dracula. I could use that blood, diluted though it was, and complete the Dominus on a homunculus of sorts. I—" he didn't want to admit to attacking the helpless villagers of Wygol, but something told him that if he left it out, Cornell would strangle him. "There is a glyph I came across in my research, originally meant to imprison magic users and siphon power from them. I… did that." He finished lamely.

"To the Belmonts?"

"Yes."

"Did you kill them?"

"No. The glyph isn't meant to kill, and the power in their blood was so dilute that it could be removed without harming them. All humans have some level of magical ability. In most of them it goes unnoticed, but it's why even normal humans serve as food for vampires, or sacrificed in rituals. You could just as easily think of it as… spare life energy. You make more than you need, and the excess can be safely harvested—just like how you can take the blooms off a flower without killing it."

Cornell nodded slowly. "Go on. You captured the Belmonts."

"My sister came after me before I could finish, almost completely amnesiac. Dominus took everything from her but her life: she had no memories, no emotions, no will of her own. I don't know what Barlowe told her, but I can only assume it was bad. By that point I had hidden two of the glyphs of Dominus, but my sister found them before I could retrieve them. I… I thought I knew how it functioned, so I fell upon my backup plan. I took my laudanum, and she caught up to me just as I summoned Hatred."

"And?"

"Dominus was never meant to kill Dracula. It was created from his ashes. It was meant to summon him." Albus barked a laugh. "I don't know if Barlowe ever meant to kill him. Summoning Hatred allowed Dracula to take control of my body, or, at least it allowed a portion of him to. If I had all three parts of Dominus… it could have brought him back entirely." Albus rubbed his fingers together.

"And? You aren't Dracula now."

"You don't know that." Albus smiled humorlessly.

"Yes I do." Cornell's eyes seemed to bore into him.

Albus was the first to look away. "I don't know what happened. We must have fought. I… I assume that I lost? Dracula has not risen, but—ah," Albus clutched his head. A smile? His vision swam with pain. "That was in 1889. The next thing I remember is your sister waking me. Only one of us could have lived. I know that. Dracula wouldn't let my sister live, and she wouldn't let Dracula live."

"Could she have hurt you enough to drive out Dracula, and then left you alive?"

"She was under orders from Barlowe to kill me… Dominus cannot be taken from a living person."

Albus' throat was dry. The sun was setting.

"Well, that's the whole sordid tale."

Cornell grunted, then walked over and lightly slapped him. "That's for going through my things. Just because I feel bad for you doesn't mean I forgive you."

"You feel bad for me now?" Albus raised an eyebrow, rubbing his cheek.

"It'll pass."

"Do you have a death wish?"

"Excuse me?"

"If I leave you alone, are you going to try and kill yourself again?"

Albus sat upright. "Again?"

Cornell looked down at him.

"It wasn't—it was to kill Dracula. I… I don't want to die, I just don't know what to do with myself alive. I was not the one who was supposed to live. I had no plans, for after, and now I have to have them. I feel like I've overstayed my welcome on life.

"Can you understand that?"

Cornell looked away and grunted tersely. "Yeah."

"Ortega…" he continued. "Was like you. He was consumed by dark power, and I had to put him down. He was my friend, before it."

Friends didn't write those sorts of things in letters, but Albus didn't mention it.

"Other… things happened. I intended to die for Ada, and I didn't."

"Should I be the one worrying about leaving you alone?"

"Shut up." It was without heat. "I'm saying that I understand. You feel moorless. How do you live after you've decided to not live? What do you do with a gift you weren't planning to get?"

Albus didn't have an answer for him.

—

Despite the initial circumstances of opening it, Albus was enjoying the play. Ada was as well, because she'd dragged Albus' chair into the kitchen so she could listen while she worked.

Cornell always chose to work near the open kitchen window, too, but he never said anything so Albus didn't mention it either.

It was an… uneasy agreement between two people who had decided not to hate each other anymore, but hadn't quite decided that they were friends.

He continued translating aloud, his voice pitched up into the high, nasal tone he'd been using for Algernon. "The amount of women in London who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing one’s clean linen in public. Besides—"

He had to pause and wait for Ada's peals of laughter to die down.

"Ada," Cornell despaired through the window, "we're barely through the first act."

Albus had to agree. He'd read ahead, and he had no idea how they were going to make it through Lady Bracknell.

"It's not my fault you have no sense of humor." Ada snipped at him, her knife moving so fast that it was a blur. It made Albus nervous, but even the overprotective Cornell didn't seem to care.

"Sense of humor? I—" Cornell looked up, towards the path through the forest.

"What is it?" Ada leaned out of the window.

"Someone's got a letter. Give me a second."

Cornell's head vanished, and Ada turned to Albus.

"You know." She said casually. "You're almost healed—the stuff that will heal, anyways."

Albus braced himself for the eviction notice.

"But we have a spare room, and I need help picking plants that Cornell can't touch. We have a place for you, if you want to stay."

The confusion must have been obvious on his face.

"Cornell's been sleeping on the couch."

Ada shrugged. "He hasn't been complaining."

"Ada…"

"We aren't really related, you know." Ada continued. "He raised me as his sister. We look enough alike that I never thought to question it. My parents died because of him. I suppose he thought he could atone for it by raising me."

"Did he?"

Ada shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know that I want it to matter. You know how they say that living well is the best revenge?"

"It sounds like you're ignoring your problems."

"Probably. So," Ada turned towards him with a grin, "want to stay?"

Albus was spared from answering by Cornell holding a letter through the window. "It's for you, Ada. And," he held up a parcel, wrapped in brown paper, "this too."

Ada opened the letter first, and squealed in joy. "It's a wedding invitation! End of November, that's short notice, but it takes a while for letters to be delivered here. Normally we have to go into town to pick them up. Here," she traded the letter for the package, and untied it while Cornell scanned the letter.

She pulled a bundle of fabric out of the package and handed the paper to Albus. When she shook it out, it was a dress, long and quite lovely, in a bold shade of red that reminded Albus of changing leaves. "Oh how lovely. Albus, is there a letter?"

Albus looked in the parcel, and was surprised to find a letter, and more clothes. "Here, from Monica."

"She's the seamstress." Ada nodded. The name seemed familiar, but Ada had plenty of finely made dresses from the village just over the mountains. She must have mentioned it before.

"Ah, 'Ada, I can't wait to see you; it's been too long. The post train is about to leave, so I'll have to keep this short. Make sure Cornell wears something nice. The last time he was in town, Irina nearly had a fit because of the way he dressed. I made some waistcoats and jackets for him. Yours, Monica.'"

"It's not like my bellybutton will kill her." Cornell grouched. Albus stared at him, scandalized.

"Let's see them, then." Ada folded her dress and leaned forwards.

Albus retrieved the first, which was eye-catching purple, with silver buttons. Ada laughed.

"She knows you too well, Cornell."

"Hm." Cornell reached through the window, and Albus handed him the waistcoat. The second was a more dull grey, but it was kept from being too boring by the finely spaced, tiny ridges in the silk. It had finely carved wooden buttons, in some sort of ebony.

"I assume this is the one she wants to wear, unless you intend to show up the groom." Albus held out the grey waistcoat.

"Two brides." Cornell shook his head, inspecting the narrow seams on the inside of the purple waistcoat. "Ada's got a better chance of showing them up than I do. You can't even see these stitches from the outside; why bother making them look good."

"She takes a lot of pride in her work." Ada chided. "What about the jackets, Albus?"

"Here," still a little stunned by the revelation, Albus unfolded those too. "Both black. The cut is English on this one. Pad stitched. The Italian cut will make you look taller."

Cornell glared at him.

"It's nice of her to give you options." Ada hid her smile behind her hand.

Cornell wanted to throw the suits in a corner, but Albus snatched them away and hung them properly in the wardrobe.

"Why are all of these backwards?" Cornell scowled, digging through the wardrobe for an empty hanger. Albus glanced away.

He cleared his throat. "Here."

"Thanks." Cornell took the coat and hung it up, next to a sachet of cedar. "You can come too, you know. We can get you some clothes that fit while we're there too, so you can stop taking my shirts."

"I'm not invited."

"I'm sure no one will care. You haven't spoken to someone besides us in months."

"I don't think I'll be any good at it. I've lost the habit."

"Get it back. Ada said you could stay, but that doesn't mean you can lock yourself up and stare at the wall all day. You've got your cane, don't you. The closest town isn't far."

He smiled as he spoke. Albus watched his teeth. Wondered what they could do to a throat. He swallowed.

"You aren't human, are you?"

It was little things, a culmination. His allergy to aconite—wolfsbane—his teeth, his unnatural color, the glint in his eyes when a rabbit bounded through the garden, the sleepless nights on the full moon.

Cornell glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. "I wasn't. I am now."

"Not entirely."

"Old habits die hard. What are you going to do about it?"

Albus looked hard at him. "Are you suggesting that I, what, put aconite in your dinner?"

Cornell shrugged.

"I—if you deserve to die, then so do I. I was Dracula's vessel, remember? Far more impressive than some mangy wolf."

"We'll both drink wolfsbane from silver cups, then." Cornell smirked. "You go, I go. And vice versa."

Albus handed him the jacket.

"Deal? Come on, Albus: deal?"

"Deal." And that was it. Nowhere to go now but forwards. A living pact. How quaint.

—

Exhaustion made him sleepless as much as it kept him awake. Albus stared at the whitewash ceiling, his eyes sore and gritty. Tossing and turning wasn't helping any. He sat up, and pulled his slippers on.

Ada and Cornell had moved him to the sitting room once he finally stopped protesting about staying, and partitioned off a small section of the room with folding screens for privacy. He and Cornell had a small fight about who was keeping the bed, before Cornell simply hauled it downstairs and challenged Albus to put it back. It solved the argument, and upon putting clothes away in Cornell's room, Albus discovered that he preferred sleeping on the floor, curled up on a sheepskin rug. Old habits indeed.

Regardless, it made it easier to get around, especially now that he had surrendered his pride and accepted his fate, and was permanently using a cane now. Whatever had happened to him in those missing six years, whether it was death and rebirth or something else entirely, had impacted his balance. Inner ear, perhaps. Maybe even a brain injury, which was why he couldn't remember.

Insomnia led him outdoors. He considered bringing a lantern, but the moon was full, and bright enough to see by, even in the deep parts of the woods.

It was then that he gave in to his guilt, and found a shovel and took it down to the aconite patch. The metal tip broke the soil. It was soft and well drained here, so the digging was easy, but he didn't have much strength and it was slow regardless.

A branch broke behind him. Albus whirled, shovel held defensibly.

"What the hell are you doing?" Cornell stepped forwards, moonlight into moonlight. He was sweaty and shirtless, his hair plastered back against his skull and his face ruddy.

"I…" they hadn't spoken much since their mutual reverse-suicude pact. Ada had discovered that Albus could do advanced sums in his head, and had been put to work managing her finances (it was both poison and seasonings she was selling, apparently), and Cornell was readying the garden for a weeklong absence for the upcoming wedding.

"It's past midnight. Don't you know there are bears in these woods?"

"There's a wolf in front of me right now." Albus said absently.

"Funny. Go to sleep."

"I can't." Albus shrugged, returning to digging.

"Fine. What are you doing?"

"Digging a grave." At Cornell's glare, he continued. "Not for me. My sister. I… I don't know what happened to her. I don't even have a body. But I… she deserves a place."

Cornell watched him for a long while, huffing and wheezing as he worked. He was nearly done before Cornell spoke. "You're so morbid."

"I know." Albus reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. An apology and an explanation. He placed it in the small hole, and covered it.

"You need a headstone?"

"I'd like one, yes."

Cornell sighed. "There's some slate in the shed. You can write her name until we can get it chiseled."

"Thank you."

Cornell carried the shovel back for him, taking the lead on the path back to the house. It was reassuring enough that Albus didn't bother looking where he was walking, which was probably why his foot caught on an exposed root, and his hand caught on Cornell's bare shoulder. Cornell twisted his head back and gave him an amused expression.

"Watch your step. Honestly."

He didn't tell Albus to let go, so their odd little train shuffled back to the garden shed. Cornell lit a candle while Albus leaned against the table, flexing his hand. There was quite a bit of clattering from the depths of the shed.

"Cornell?"

"Hm?"

"What would you do if I kissed you?"

The noise stilled. Albus almost regretted asking it before Cornell stepped out of the shadows.

"Why are you asking?"

"Huh?"

"Why are you asking?" Cornell repeated, crossing his arms. "If it's because you think you owe me or something—"

"You aren't wearing a shirt and it's very distracting for me." Albus answered honestly. "And you're handsome enough for me to ignore your personality."

"Funny." Cornell snorted. He stepped into Albus' space, propping his hands on the table on either side of Albus' hips. "Go for it."

Albus did.

After a while, Cornell pulled away, panting. "Don't you need to breathe?"

Albus chuckled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt flushed. Cornell looked flushed; the spot of red high on his cheeks was the only color in his face.

"Here." Cornell handed him a piece of slate. "Your headstone."

"Thank you." Albus held a small twig in the flame of the lantern, just long enough for it to smolder, then blew it out. He wrote Shanoa's name in his best script. "It's not permanent."

He held it out. Cornell's eyes went wide.

"What's wrong?" Albus asked him.

"Is this your sister's name?"

Albus frowned. "Yes. It's rather unique, isn't it? I don't think I've ever met anyone else named Shanoa."

Cornell looked up at him, before looking back at the slate. He pushed away and bolted, the door slamming against the outside of the shed.

Albus stared after him. Perhaps it wasn't alright.

He was about to hook the lantern to his cane and walk back himself, but Cornell pounded out of the house, a letter clutched in his hand.

"Look!" He held it up to Albus' face.

"I need to—"

"Read it you stupid man!" Cornell grabbed Albus' chin and directed him at the letter.

His jaw dropped.

—

Shanoa paced. It seemed that every missed opportunity for nervousness from her deadened emotions was coming with a vengeance now. She made to wipe her sweaty palms on her skirt, but thought what Monica might do to her if she stained it now, at the final hour, and wrung them together instead.

It made for something of a planning problem with two brides. Shanoa had been fine with simply waiting at the altar, but Laura had let it slip to Irina that they wanted a ceremony, and she'd overtaken planning with enthusiasm. They were to both come in, Laura escorted by her grandmother, who had taught her lapidary, and Shanoa walking herself. She'd had offers from everyone in town, but she'd declined them all. It felt inappropriate.

Members of the Order weren't allowed to marry, but Albus had once offered to give her away, when they were both too young to understand that they were being raised as weapons. Perhaps his ghost would walk alongside her, that fragment of soul she still thought lurked somewhere in the back of her mind. It'd grown quieter, as the years went by. Perhaps he was finally resting in peace.

Shanoa exhaled.

"Shanoa?" Monica poked her head into Jacobs shop. Outside, Shanoa could hear George tuning up his violin. "There's someone here to see you. You remember Ada?"

Ada and her brother, Shanoa glanced away, trying to remember, Cornell. Monica's friend. They lived just over the border in Hungary. Ada seemed to be responsible for Aeon's cooking becoming palatable, and Cornell sometimes sold hides to Eugen for the leather.

Shanoa nodded.

"She says she has someone for you to meet."

The majority of people that Shanoa knew were the people of Wygol, and by extension, the people they knew too. Friends of friends. And apparently now, friends of friends of friends.

"Sure."

Shanoa busied herself making sure her bouquet was neat—Daniela had picked the mountain blossoms for her, on one of their trips up to see the sunrise.

The bell on the door tinkled.

"Come in." Shanoa said without looking. "Give me a moment, would you?"

"Take your time."

Shanoa froze. That voice… She wiped her hands on her skirt, and turned.

"Albus?" Her voice shook.

Albus stood in the doorway, a little awkwardly, a little hunched. His face looked funny, and Shanoa guilty recalled the way it had shattered when she'd punched him, during their fight. He had a cane and an arm in a sling. He was alive.

"Albus?"

"Hey, hey." He stepped forwards, and they fell into an embrace. "No tears. You promised me a smile."

"You need to eat more." She hissed into his shoulder, arms wrapped around him so tightly that his back creaked. "You're too skinny."

"Later." He held her out at arm's length. "Let me look at you. Hey, you're smiling."

Shanoa wiped her eyes and sniffed. Albus looked just as wrecked as she felt.

"This is for you." He pulled a dirt encrusted letter out of his pocket. Shanoa took it, and threw it behind her without even opening it.

"You're here. You can tell me in person."

The music started up outside.

"After I get married. Come on." She tugged his arm. "You promised to walk me down the aisle."

"I don't always keep my promises."

"You will now. I'll make you."

They stepped outside.