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Nuvelle, 1183

Heinkel wanted to search for the other four mages, but in the thick and moonless night it was easy to see that this was a terrible idea. He was outvoted, four to one, by his section-mates. Even if Morges and Beaumont had agreed with Heinkel, the two generals would have still overridden them. Hubert and Ferdinand were the highest-ranked members of this twice-separated group—first from the rest of the formation, when the Faerghan surprise attack struck, and then from six other mages in Heinkel’s section, who vanished in the night as Hubert and Ferdinand worked to draw the attention of the knights who came after them. These knights were dead. There were ten of them but they hadn’t stood a chance against four highly-skilled mages and Ferdinand. 

That brought them to where they were in the present: a party of five in a pitch-dark clearing, surrounded by fallen horses and the smell of iron. They had waited for some time to see whether or not the other group would give some sign as to their whereabouts. After about half an hour, though, there seemed to be no indication that they would. Ferdinand and Hubert agreed that the appropriate course of action was to seek shelter.

The stars guided them to Groeneveld Hall, one of House Nuvelle’s lovely summer residences. Ferdinand had once been here himself, as a child, and though everything around the house was unrecognizable in the near-total darkness, he superimposed his memories of it over the sight before him. In his mind’s eye the yellow walls were as bright as ever, the flowers planted at the entrance still swaying like lazy blue and fuschia fireflies.

He could hear Constance’s launching into a lecture on whatever new spell she’d just learned; imagined Constance herself, young and haughty and unwaveringly peppy. Though he was glad he’d left Metis in Colonel Hovstadt’s care, Ferdinand suddenly wished his horse were here with him so he could take her to the stables, while the memory of little Constance walked next to him, chatting away.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert said. “You are familiar with this place, are you not? Where may we rest?”

Ferdinand thought of the bedrooms in the top floor, but he knew that they’d been stripped of furniture and he could not expect Hubert and the mages to lie down on fond childhood recollections. He said the salon would work best. Hubert nodded briskly, then split them into two groups so they could first make sure no Faerghans were hiding in the house, ready to ambush them. He allowed the mages to keep fire-summoning spells going as sources of light.

As they searched the east half of Groeneveld, Ferdinand came to realize that Heinkel and Beaumont were similar to Hubert: they were outwardly detached, brusque people with currents of obsessive intensity running through them. It was exasperating to realize he was lost in Magdred with three Huberts. One was bad enough. If only, he thought, he’d been separated from the formation while deep in discussion with Caspar, or Petra, or Professor Manuela. Or anyone who wasn’t Hubert von Vestra and his permanent scowl. Bad enough that he was stuck here like a sitting duck until dawn.

Still, he now had a rare opportunity to observe Hubert as an isolated element. Cut off from the Imperial Army, from Edelgard’s will, how would Adrestia’s most loyal agent behave? Hiding at night in an abandoned house hardly provided the chance for Hubert to make many memorable decisions, but Ferdinand would take what he could get.

Once they were done searching their half of the house, Ferdinand’s group of three headed towards the salon, halting in their tracks when they heard voices coming from inside. These weren’t Hubert or Morges’ voices, Ferdinand was sure. Neither were they the voices of any Nuvelle Ferdinand remembered. For a wild second he told himself that if any of Constance’s relatives wanted to haunt the living world, they would choose to reside in Groeneveld over Nuvelle Manor—a depressing, many-gargoyled prison of gray stone and steel in the heart of Nuvelle territory.

He drew his shortsword. His lance was with Metis, but Byleth insisted that he should never be unarmed.

“Sir, there’s no need for that,” whispered Beaumont. “I think I hear Kohlhoff.”

“Be alert,” Ferdinand told them. The two mages reached for tomes, and the three of them walked into the salon.

“Erwin! Selene!” One of the people seated on the floor of the salon called out. Then the entire circle of mages rose to give salutes. “General Aegir, sir!”

“At ease,” said Ferdinand. There were six of them exactly here, though he could not really make out their faces. The mages lowered their hands. “We should sit down; it has been a tiring night for all of us. Heinkel, could you light some of the torches? I think it will be fine as long as we keep the blinds drawn.”

“Yes, sir.”

In the light it was easy to see that these were all familiar faces. Ferdinand told them that it was better to report what had happened on their end when Hubert got here, so they would not have to say anything twice, and as they waited the mages quickly fell into an easy rhythm with each other, quietly joking and flashing each other relieved smiles. The six were wounded, but he couldn’t see anything that required immediate attention.

When Hubert and Morges arrived they again went over the stand-up-salute-sit-down routine. Hubert then asked for a report as he sat down next to Ferdinand. The one who first greeted Ferdinand delivered it—Kohlhoff, he reminded himself. As she spoke, she gathered up her long dark hair with both hands.

“It turned out they had a reserve force in the west, sir, just beyond Groeneveld Creek…”

She told them how they’d won their scuffle with the knights. They’d been outnumbered by at least three-to-one. “Still,” she said, smiling slightly, “fighting mages is never a numbers game. As you taught us, General Vestra, sir.” 

As she continued her account of how they made their way to Groeneveld Hall, the ribbon she just used to tie up her hair caught Ferdinand’s eye. It was a lovely, shining thing, a flash of pale mint green, cut out of fabric that seemed to glow in the faint light of the torches. Her hair was now in a neat bun. It left her neck bare—a neck, Ferdinand noticed, marred by a jagged line, such that the skin on both sides of it had been hastily pulled together. A jaw clamped shut.

Ferdinand pictured it opening up like a mouth. Pictured the blood spilling out, a liquid tongue. There was no magic in Fódlan that could heal a wound like that.

“Hubert,” he whispered.

Hubert did not look at him. Quietly, under his breath, he replied, “I am aware.”

“We should leave.”

“No.”

There was authority there, the same kind Hubert brought to the battlefield. Ferdinand readied his arguments to remind Hubert that neither of them outranked the other. Being trapped in close quarters with unknown quantities, now, that was always a bad idea, and these images of Hubert’s soldiers were certainly unknown quantities; but Hubert did not give him the chance to speak. He started to praise the six mages, each in turn, asking them about the techniques they must have used—special techniques each mage cultivated over the course of their careers, Ferdinand realized, and made their signatures. Hubert congratulated the mages on thinking of Groeneveld Hall as a place to shelter when it was only a minor fixture of the area.

While he said these things Hubert did not even smile. He wore the same expression Ferdinand usually saw on his face, the look of a man who had just found a fly in his coffee, or suspected that someone in his close vicinity had recently broken wind. Kohlhoff and her five comrades were a different story entirely. They attempted to maintain their stoicity, but they could not hide the straightening of their backs, the slight upturning of their lips, the renewed fire in their eyes as Hubert complimented them.

He once compared Hubert speaking positively to a singing snake, and only now did he remember that phrase, feeling some strange need to revisit it. He tried to imagine what it would look like. The snake would slither over the stage, ignoring the shocked gasps of the audience, and raise half of itself upright, impervious to the forces of gravity. It would reveal its fangs and forked tongue as its mouth opened to unleash music upon the theater. Ferdinand was sure that no one watching could bear to look away. He was even more sure that no one, not a single person who had seen and heard it with their own eyes and ears, could ever forget it.

Heinkel, Beaumont, and Morges, leaning on dust-sheeted furniture, had drifted off. As Hubert continued to speak with the six mages—or whatever wore their guises—Ferdinand, too, felt his own consciousness flickering. It was a bad idea to sleep. If these creatures turned hostile, Hubert would need him.

Then, as though attuned to Ferdinand’s thoughts, Hubert said, “You should sleep, Ferdinand. I will keep watch.”

“You should not keep watch alone.”

“I will wake you up for the dawn shift, then. Sleep.”

His own overwhelming drowsiness only made Ferdinand sure that it would be a bad idea to sleep. What if that was how this house—abandoned, now monstrous and hungry—consumed its victims: by drawing them in and coaxing them to sleep inside? 

But Hubert was once again urging him to sleep, his voice velvety and soothing, which Ferdinand thought was a neutral observation, really, as he had simply described the character of Hubert’s voice when it was divorced from the sentiments he expressed with it, and the unnatural smoothness of that voice made Ferdinand wonder if Hubert could be in league with the house; if, by some strange twist of fate, he had always planned to do this, pretending to be Edelgard’s loyal right hand, so he could lure her soldiers to Groeneveld, feeding the house…

Later Ferdinand would not recall the dreams he had as he slept. But he did dream, that night, of a great beast with dark fur, opening up its mouth with Ferdinand hovering above it. Rows of glittering teeth rimmed a well of blood, which swirled around restlessly, as though some invisible spoon had been forced into the beast’s maw to stir its contents. Hubert stood in the center of the whirlpool, looking up towards Ferdinand, speaking in unknowable tongues. Stranger than the dream was the total lack of terror Ferdinand felt when he was in it. The absence was so clear and undeniable that he remembered nothing of the dream upon being roused.

“Ferdinand. Wake up.”

He opened his eyes. From the gap between the curtains—pulled together, but not perfectly—a sliver of faint light slipped through like a knife slicing into the room. It threw half of Hubert into sharp relief. He stood with his back against a wall. Across him, Heinkel, Beaumont, and Morges were still asleep, although they’d moved into more comfortable positions during the night.

“The others…?” he asked Hubert as he sat up, remembering Kohlhoff and her scarred neck.

“They said their farewells and took their leave. We should, too, once there is enough light to navigate the forest properly.”

Ferdinand nodded.

“I have a question for you.”

“Hm?”

Ferdinand smiled at him. “What do you call a snake singing an aria?”

“What is this… Oh, alright.” Hubert gazed up at the ceiling with his brows drawn together. He took a few seconds; he really thought about it. “An abomination, I presume?”

Laughing, Ferdinand shook his head. Why had he expected anything else? He looked up at Hubert, who was waiting expectantly. He said, grinning now, “No! It is called a miracle. Hubert.”

“I hope you remain steadfast in your desire to serve in Lady Edelgard’s administration once this war is over. Clearly your talents do not lie within the comedic arts,” said Hubert dryly.

This only made Ferdinand laugh more, and at that, Hubert cracked a tiny smile as he moved from his self-assigned post. Then he sat by his three mages, ducked his head, and went still. 

Ferdinand spent some time just watching the spot where the ray of light touched the carpet, marking a vivid red strip in a sea of burgundy. The features of the room were clearer now. All the fine sofas and tables the Nuvelles had bought for their holiday home were dust-sheeted. Fabric-sheathed icebergs were scattered around Ferdinand. The portraits had all been removed. He did not have to rely on memory to tell him where they had once been; the spots where they used to hang were colored differently from the rest of the wall, forming a mosaic of light and dark teal. Somehow it now seemed more appropriate to call the room haunted than last night, when Hubert had spoken with the dead.

Once Ferdinand judged the sky light enough to provide them a good level of visibility, he roused the other four and they took off in the direction the company had been headed last night. 

After two hours of walking they found the six mages and the twenty-odd knights they had fought. 

Hubert allowed Morges to examine them. She concluded, after some confused blinking, that they had all been dead for at least a night. Ferdinand knew this already, and did not listen as Morges and the other two mages began trying to convince themselves that her assessment must be erroneous. He was kneeling next to Kohlhoff’s body, untangling the ribbon from her hair. It was impossible to tell what color it had been originally. The blood from her torn throat had saturated the fabric.

“Morges is correct,” Hubert said. “They must have died last night.”

“But, sir, we spoke with them,” Heinkel protested. “We saw them with our own eyes.”

“By the time we finished searching Groeneveld Hall, they were already dead.”

Beaumont’s eyes widened.

“That means that the people who were with us last night—they must have been—“

“No, they were not,” Hubert said in a tone that discouraged anyone from proposing counterarguments.

Ferdinand asked, “They must have been…? Do you have a theory, Beaumont?”

“Never mind, sir,” said Beaumont hastily. “A silly superstition, General Aegir. Some tales handed down in my family about shapeshifters.”

He knew there was more to it than that, but based on the way Hubert was carrying on it seemed like the chances of hearing satisfactory answers at this point in time were slim to none. House Vestra and the Sorcery Engineers have always had their secrets. It was strange to come up against one and be so sure of its existence, of its general shape.

They continued walking, now with a different veil of silence over them, not one of drowsiness but shock-stained grief. Even after they reunited with the rest of the company, the veil did not lift. Morges, Beaumont, and Heinkel remained grimly quiet as Hubert delivered the news of their fallen compatriots.

As was typical of Hubert, they never spoke of it again, though Ferdinand brought it up a few times. He even told the story when they were with the other Eagles. He thought this would surely trap Hubert in a discussion he must participate in. Hubert only turned away, withdrawing from the conversation. Everyone allowed him to do this without protest, as they were all certain he did it out of grief.

Hyrm, 1189

They took the long way to Gloucester: the trail through Hyrm and then Ordelia, instead of crossing the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Ferdinand did not know why Hubert had chosen this route at first, but he grew to appreciate how scenic it was, especially as they neared the mountains of Hyrm. The old forests rose to bracket them with pine-scented fog. Sunlight transformed the leaves above into little emeralds and the ground below into a light-dappled tapestry. Wherever the trees cleared, Ferdinand saw the mountains ahead rise, bluer than the sky, their snow-capped peaks disappearing into the clouds. 

Against all this Hubert was almost comically out of place, with his long black cape and somber traveling clothes. Ferdinand thought of Death riding into a tranquil village to announce that it would be taking all the children within the hour.

It was dark by the time they approached the foot of the Vaitremund. They were three hours of riding away from the nearest town, Lannoy, and they’d gambled on clearing the valley that led to Ordelia before dark. Even Hubert could miscalculate such things when freed from the pressure of war. As the borders of Adrestia were still a little unpredictable—quite unlike its practically bandit-free heartland—they both agreed that they should find somewhere to spend the night near the mountain. Turning back to Lannoy would put them at too much risk.

Just a few minutes after concluding this discussion, they came by a cozy-looking building at the side of the road with a sign reading ‘Mountainview Inn’ hanging above its door. When they entered and the jovial man at the desk greeted them, Ferdinand wondered how the inn kept itself afloat. Hardly anyone came by these parts anymore, as the road that passed through Myrddin was much safer and well-paved.

Hubert booked them two rooms. The middle-aged man at the reception introduced himself as Mats Brendel, proprietor and owner. His wife, Tina, came out to usher Ferdinand and Hubert’s horses to the stables. The scent of something delicious and savory—a roast, Ferdinand guessed—wafted from the kitchen. Perhaps noticing how Ferdinand’s face turned in the direction the smell was coming from, Mr. Brendel said, “We’ll start dinner soon. Will you join us? On the house.”

He winked at Ferdinand. 

“It would be our pleasure, Mr. Brendel,” said Ferdinand. “Though we insist on paying.”

“Oh, don’t think of it! I would find some way to return your coins. I may be no spring chicken, but I have some wits about me yet, young man.”

His blue eyes twinkled.

Mrs. Brendel, returning from the stables, chimed in.

“Where are the two of you from?”

“Enbarr, Madame.” 

“My, that’s quite far away. How did you find yourselves here?”

Hubert, that creature of needless secrecy, saw no need to introduce himself and Ferdinand with their full titles to the couple. Hubert said only that they were in Her Majesty’s employ, and they were headed to Gloucester to meet with a lord from the venerable House. Mr. Brendel nodded as he walked them to their seats at the table.

“My son should come to help you out with your things in a moment. What’ll you have to drink?”

“Just water, please,” said Hubert for the both of them. Mr. Brendel nodded and returned to the kitchen.

They kept their cloaks on. The kitchen, despite its proximity to the guests’ tables, was well-insulated enough that Ferdinand still felt the chill of the settling dusk.

“Were they cooking just in case someone would come along and bless them with some business?”

They could hear no noises from the floor above. There appeared to be no other guests.

“Oh, Hubert. You could stand to be a little less critical for just a few hours. Perhaps they were preparing a good meal for themselves.”

“Hm,” said Hubert. Still, he relaxed. Ferdinand saw it in his shoulders. “Speaking of a good meal, are you looking forward to anything in particular in Gloucester?”

Ferdinand had off-handedly mentioned a list of recommendations from Lorenz. He was surprised Hubert remembered.

“Ah, Almyran fare is apparently all the rage there…”

The prospect of sampling from a table of Almyran food with Hubert thrilled Ferdinand. Dining with Hubert gave Ferdinand ample opportunity to spy more of Hubert’s expressions. When dining together, Ferdinand and Hubert often engaged in a game which required them to describe their food in increasingly absurd, over-the-top terms until at least one of them failed to contain his laughter. The one to crack first lost the round. Ferdinand had come up with the game during the war. He used to pretend that his war rations were sumptuous feasts; with his words, he transformed dry bread into pork crackling and flat ale into aged mead. Hubert had joined him out of boredom and eventually began to enjoy himself in earnest—this was how Ferdinand learned how to spot real mirth in his eyes. They kept up the habit after the war ended.

Though Ferdinand would never admit it, the results of the game gave him enough reason to believe that, should the two of them begin writing comedies, Hubert’s plays would draw the larger crowd.

“Lorenz wrote that flatbread is usually swirled in various little sauces made of legumes, oils, the like,” said Ferdinand, thinking of the treasures awaiting them in Gloucester. “And there are absolutely fabulous clay-baked meats… Chicken with sweet sauces…”

He sighed happily.

“Did he mention where we could, perhaps, take part in the tasting of spiced liqueurs?" Hubert ventured.

“Oh! You would be amenable to this?”

“Indeed.”

“Delightful. Yes, yes, we must go.”

Hubert did not like to drink much. He would drink wine for politeness’ sake during a meal, but he disliked its effects. Pale as he was, there was nothing he could do to hide the flush it brought to his cheeks after a few sips. Drink affected Hubert’s appearance but not his behavior, whereas it had the opposite effect on Ferdinand. 

It was a shame. Ferdinand would have liked to see yet another side of Hubert von Vestra, who had as many facets as a diamond. Well, he mustn’t get too greedy. Rosy pink blots on Hubert’s cheeks entertained Ferdinand enough.

“Oh, and these pastries I’ve heard so much about, Hubert, paired with strong tea!“

Hubert’s small smile disappeared. Ferdinand fell silent, unsure what he had done to provoke the change in his demeanor.

“Ferdinand,” said Hubert, suddenly grave. He raised one bony finger to his ear.

Ferdinand could barely make out a faint, pitiful keening. He knew what its modulations, its tortured decrescendos and sudden crescendos, meant. The recognition shook him like a sudden chill. Soldiers only made this sound when they had been injured badly enough that even they knew they would not make it through the night. Listening closely, he could tell that the sound was more high-pitched than he would expect from a grown man. It came from a woman, then. Or a child.

They followed the sound to a wooden door opposite their table. The door was unlocked, giving way when Ferdinand gave it a slight push. Behind it, a staircase disappeared down into darkness. Ferdinand turned to look at Hubert, whose face betrayed little of the inner conflict he must harbor at the present moment. The unfortunate source of these pained moans may be in need of urgent aid; or this might be bait in some nefarious scheme.

“I shall go,” said Ferdinand. “You keep watch here.”

This was their standard arrangement, as Hubert was more accustomed to ranged combat whereas Ferdinand had the strength required to overcome most adversaries in close quarters, and, to Hubert’s frequently-voiced displeasure, was the more adept with a short sword between the two. Hubert grabbed a candle by the doorway, lit it, and handed it to Ferdinand. With a deep breath and a small nod—partly to Hubert, partly to himself—Ferdinand descended.

He went as briskly as he could, but time seemed to stretch on, like an endless staircase dissolving into inky darkness; the cries below grew thin and reedy with despair, as though the wounded soul had finally accepted they had been forsaken. Ferdinand strained his ears as the voice petered out, trying to follow it. The voice began to speak in words.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

A child was down there. Without a doubt, it was a child! Ferdinand hastened. The thought of Hubert standing watch behind him gave him a burst of courage. Finally, the staircase ended, and he turned a corner, brandishing his torch. He placed a hand on the cold stone wall and, finding another candle mounted on the wall, lit it. He continued until he’d lit candles around the room. Light revealed clay tiles and stone; the room he found himself in was barely large enough for three standing horses. It could have been used as a wine cellar, although it certainly wasn’t the kind of cellar that would have impressed the likes of Lorenz. He saw no doors, no hidden nooks or corners, no cabinets.

The room was empty. And silent. 

Ferdinand could only hear his own breathing, suddenly heavy. Each inhale tasted faintly of iron.

No, not iron.

“Hubert?” he called.

“Yes? Do you need assistance? Is the person alive?”

“No, I… No one is here. I will come back up. Be on your guard.”

Conscious of the fire risk, Ferdinand blew out each candle. As each went out, he angled himself to face the coming darkness, seized by a sudden childish fear of turning his back against the unknown. Knowing it would be dangerous and foolish to walk backwards up the staircase, he practically ran his way back to Hubert.

“I understand how absurd it must be, but I am certain I did not miss anything,” he said. “Hubert, I must have been mistaken. The room is empty.”

“You were not the only one who heard those sounds.” Hubert’s eyes narrowed. “Our hosts… They have not returned for the longest time.”

“We should go to the kitchen. See if…”

Ferdinand did not finish his sentence. He did not know what he could even expect. He thought Hubert might disagree with this illogical notion and insist on leaving the inn immediately. To his surprise, Hubert nodded briskly. They made their way to the kitchen, this time with Hubert at the lead, his gloved fingertips aglow with malevolent energy. Ferdinand gripped the handle of his sword. He took a deep breath as Hubert reached the kitchen door, grabbed the handle, and pushed the door open.

“Sothis,” Ferdinand gasped, taking in what lay before them.

The entire kitchen had been torn apart. Pieces of clay littered the floor, which was covered in large dark blots, as though some dark liquid had seeped into the clay over a long period of time. Chunks of torn-out wood were strewn about, as though an angry beast had crushed tables and stools in its jaws and spat them out. The air was heavy with the unmistakable stench of burnt flesh.

“An attack? How? When?” Ferdinand rushed past the carnage. “We have to find Mr. and Mrs. Brendel!”

“This was no attack. It can only be the result of an accidental and uncontrolled burst of magic,” said Hubert, grim. “Take that side, Ferdinand. I’ll search here. If you find no sign of them, I’m afraid it would be best for us to leave. Immediately. Meet me here again within the half hour.”

Even as he went to search, Ferdinand had the sinking feeling that he would find no sign of their hosts. Once he’d proven himself right, he returned to Hubert, who surveyed the destruction coolly. When Ferdinand realized the horrible smell in the air had disappeared, replaced by the crisp scent of the evening, he shuddered, thinking of the disappearing sound of the wounded child. Did the broken pots and turn-up furniture in this kitchen even exist? Would all this debris still be here, if he left and returned?

“There,” he pointed at a streak of darkened clay that led to the back door. “Evidence of bodies being moved outside the building. Whomever I found in the ground outside had been buried for quite a long time. We should go, Ferdinand. We can talk about this once we’ve found another place to spend the night. It would not be wise to stay.”

They took their coats, fetched their horses, and left. The problem of finding accommodation remained. Ferdinand and Hubert had slept with nothing but the forest for cover before, but in peacetime Ferdinand was not so eager to repeat the experience. As soon as he said as much they came upon a house by the road, a tiny thing, but quite obviously lit from within, though the window shutters were pulled closed. Light always found a way to leak.

They looked at each other, and after a moment’s silent deliberation, Ferdinand dismounted and walked over to knock on the door. It opened a sliver to reveal deep-set blue eyes on a face that might have been friendly, had it not worn such a furtive expression, half-hidden behind strands of straw-colored hair.

Ferdinand cleared his throat.

“Young man, my name is Ferdinand. My traveling companion and I have been traveling on horseback from Enbarr. Tomorrow, we wish to cross over to Ordelia. We were wondering if you could point us to somewhere we could stay for the night.”

He wondered if he should mention the inn and the strange Brendel family.

The boy said, “I’m afraid there’s nowhere to stay around here, sirs. You can stay here in my home until morning if you’d like, though it is quite small.”

Ferdinand knew he could not hide the surprise from his face—he had expected to be pointed to Lannoy—but he hoped the boy would take it as shock at the act of generosity. The boy went on to explain that there were hitching posts in the back of the little house for the horses, and though there was only one bed, the boy kept pelts that he and one other guest could sleep on.

“You’ve sheltered many travelers that come this way, then?”

“A few, Mister Ferdinand. It’s rare that anyone comes this way.”

Once they were inside, Hubert and Ferdinand were adamant in their refusal to take the boy’s bed. They fetched the bread rolls Edelgard had packed for them and shared them with the boy. In his own home, under the warmth of torchlights, the boy’s furtiveness disappeared.  His button nose and dimpled smile made him look very agreeable indeed.

“What is your name?” Ferdinand asked.

“Tom, sir.”

Hubert scrutinized him for a moment. “Tom Brendel?”

Tom startled, his eyes going wide and round. The color left his face. “J-just Tom, sirs. Though if you’d like, my full given name is Thomas.”

“And how old are you?”

“Sixteen, sirs.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Hubert, stop interrogating the poor boy.”

“I am merely making conversation,” said Hubert.

Tom said, “A few years, sirs. T-two years.”

“Since the war ended.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

“On your own? And how do you eat?”

“I help out the folks in Lannoy, sir. Help them move, with farmwork, with building. I… I have mastered a few spells they find useful. They give me bread.”

“Amazing! Such diligence at such a young age. I was such a silly boy when I was sixteen—wasn’t I, Hubert? I did not dream of using magic to help the townsfolk or sheltering weary travelers in my home.”

“Hardly any weary travelers would have chosen to stay with you except for your parents’ friends.”

“I grew up in Aegir,” Ferdinand told Tom, by way of explanation. “No shortage of inns there. Have you ever been?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, if you ever come to Aegir, you must stay with me. I can show you the fields.”

“I must ask you, Thomas,” said Hubert, in that calm but dangerous tone of his, as familiar to Ferdinand as the sight of his back, “whether you are familiar with the establishment known as Mountainview Inn.”

Tom paled once more.

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“Please do not insult me by lying.” 

Ferdinand frowned at him. Normally Ferdinand felt a kind of guilty pleasure when he had the opportunity to watch Hubert descend on his victims. But Tom—sixteen, kind, living alone—did not deserve to see that side of him.

“Tom, I apologize for Hubert’s conduct. He is just curious, that’s all. We were just there, you see, and it seemed a rather… unorthodox place. Perhaps you could help us understand it a little better.”

“You are not here to arrest me?” Tom squeaked.

“Arrest you? What for? Surely you cannot have done anything worth getting arrested for; you are only sixteen.”

“Ferdinand.” Hubert’s hand was on his shoulder, cautioning him against saying anything else. Tom looked like he was about to faint. “Very well, then. If you are so unsettled by the thought of speaking up, perhaps I could tell you about our brief visit to Mountainview Inn.”

Hubert told Tom about the Brendels. He left out the strange sound he’d heard, the empty cellar. He described the ruined kitchen in great detail; with each word Tom seemed to shrink further into himself. Comprehension crept up on Ferdinand like bile rising in his throat. He wanted to ask Hubert to stop. But then, Hubert paused, and his tone changed, growing gentle. He spoke of how the destruction he saw could have only happened due to an accidental explosion of magic, triggered by extreme stress or pain. 

“I have witnessed similar incidents occur,” said Hubert, “when young mages suffer torture. Such an explosion can only occur when the injury suffered by the mage is so great that it breaks any conscious control they may have over their magic. No mage can be held responsible for this. No court would rule them guilty for the damage they cause in this state.”

He delivered each word in the last sentence slowly, carefully. Tension bled out of Tom’s body, and he finally looked Hubert in the eye. He breathed in deeply. 

“I used to work at Mountainview. I used to live there. You were right, Mister Hubert; I was born Thomas Brendel. Tina and Mats were my parents.”

Hubert raised an eyebrow. “Were?”

“They’re dead,” Tom said quietly. 

At this, Ferdinand gasped. Hubert’s hand was on his shoulder again.

“How unfortunate. And you could not manage the inn yourself? Is that why you no longer live there?”

There was a long pause. Then Tom said, “Yes.”

“Did you bury them near the inn, Thomas? All on your own?”

“Hubert—“

“Yes.”

“And no one helped you. Lannoy is quite far, but one would think a child could receive some aid from the people in the town, if they knew he’d been orphaned prematurely. A number of children in Lannoy lost their parents to the war around that time; Ferdinand and I met them. They were under the care of an old schoolmaster. You could have joined them.”

“I… I prefer to live alone, sir.”

“When your parents died, did you inform anyone of your situation?”

Tom shook his head. 

“Hubert, that’s enough.”

Ferdinand glared at him. That must have been the worst time of Tom’s life. Ferdinand could scarcely believe Hubert was making him relive it. Hubert placed one hand on Ferdinand’s arm and squeezed, a placating gesture from their days in the war, which Hubert employed when he was asking Ferdinand to trust his judgment for the time being.

“One more question. Before they died, what was it like in your home?”

Tom avoided their gazes, hanging his head low. “It was… The war was bad for business, sirs. They’d always been… They were always strict about standards, at the inn. But when the war started we had fewer and fewer guests, and we were earning less money, and it was very difficult. For them. And as I said, I… I have this… I can do magic, sir, but I stopped studying Faith a while ago and sometimes it comes out when I’m stressed, and I could not always control it during that time, so my parents weren’t pleased about—about the disturbances.”

“Stop,” Hubert told him, softly. “I do not need to know more.” 

He cleared his throat. 

“Neither Ferdinand nor I will arrest you, Thomas, but this is a dangerous way to live. You must not underestimate the dangers of bandits.”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t know where else to go, sirs. My parents were never close to their relatives, and they didn’t have many of them. I don’t know where they are, anyway. Besides, if they took me in… I would have to live under their roof knowing… No, I could never.”

“You could come to Enbarr.” Hubert said this like it was simple. Tom stared at him. “You could live—not with me, that would be difficult, but I would make sure you would find yourself in an agreeable place of residence. You could choose a trade to master, together with other people your age. It would be difficult to farm in the city, but if you are so attached to the practice, I could arrange for you to live somewhere in Hresvelg.”

Hubert was offering Tom a community, Ferdinand realized. A future. A life.

“You would really do that, sir? You could?”

“My name is Hubert von Vestra. This is Ferdinand von Aegir. We are Her Majesty’s closest advisors, and the generals who led the war effort that gave your mother and father an excuse to harm you. This is our debt to you.”

Tom thought about this for a moment. Ferdinand was watching Hubert, caught by the seriousness of his gaze, the decisiveness of his impromptu offer. The sincerity of it all. 

“I would like to go, sir. To Enbarr, I mean. But I don’t know how I’d get there. It’s far and I do not have a lot of money.”

Hubert nodded. “A reasonable concern. In the morning, Ferdinand and I will write and sign a letter. You should keep it safe. When we reach Ordelia, I will send for someone from the capital to fetch you. You can take as many things from here with you as you’d like. Would that suit?”

“O-of course, sir! Thank you!” Tom exclaimed, his hands in fists over his knees. Then, after another deep breath, he said again, in a more level voice, “Thank you.”

In the morning, they did as Hubert promised: they wrote a letter explaining that Tom was to have his pick of trade schools, and that he would live with Hubert’s cousin Viktoria, at least until Hubert returned from Gloucester. Ferdinand placed his signature under Hubert’s. Hubert then stamped the envelope with the Imperial seal. Tom held it up in front of his face once the seal had set, awed at the mark of the twin-headed eagle on red wax.

Later, once they’d said goodbye to Tom and continued towards Ordelia, Ferdinand said to Hubert, “That was very decent of you.”

“I did say it was what we owed him. I stand by that.” Of course Hubert believed this. Once she found out about this, Edelgard would probably take the same position. Hubert continued, saying, “The day of his parents’ death should not be the most vivid one in his memory, nor should it define him. He is still a child. He deserves the chance to leave such dark circumstances behind completely.”

“I agree with all that, and still I insist that it was a very decent thing to do. Downright good of you, even.”

Hubert said, “How I hunger for your approval.”

Still, Ferdinand noticed, he was smiling a little as he looked up to the clear, blue sky. Perhaps not many people believed this, and he himself had been inclined to say otherwise just the other day, but Ferdinand thought, in that moment, that nothing could be clearer: Hubert belonged in the light, under the sun, surrounded by warmth. He belonged with all things bright and hopeful.

Edmund, 1193

Silence marked Ferdinand and Hubert’s first real period of conflict since they’d started thinking of each other as friends. They gave each other brusque greetings at meetings. They spoke cordially at negotiations. At dinners, Ferdinand would choose to mingle with one group of people and Hubert would stick with another. Of course they’d disagreed with each other often before this, on everything from thought experiments to rations. It was their habit to argue loudly, vehemently, and at length. The seriousness of this quarrel could be measured not by the volume of their verbal arguments but by their absence. Or so Edelgard had said.

She’d acted as the go-between, like a beleaguered teacher in a rowdy schoolhouse. She’d strong-armed Hubert into extending this particular olive branch: taking Ferdinand to Edmund, adding him to a roster that previously consisted only of Hubert, Beaumont, and Tom. It amused her that Ferdinand was nowhere as upset with her as he was with Hubert.

“I kept the same secrets,” she pointed out, reasonably, when she lunched with Ferdinand.

“But you have not sought out those secrets in peacetime so that they may put your life in danger, again and again, without even giving your friends the courtesy of letting them know what they might lose you to,” he snapped at her. 

He regretted it immediately. Edelgard avoided looking obviously wounded in front of him, but she cast her glance downwards, very quickly, just enough to make him realize the remark had forced her to consciously recalibrate her demeanor.

“It never makes anything easier,” she said. “Knowing.”

“Oh, Edelgard, I…”

“Don’t apologize. You’re right.”

One thing Ferdinand grew to learn about adulthood, which nothing in his childhood had prepared him for, was that there were times when being right only felt awful.

At least the Agarthan threat was nearly gone, according to Hubert, and though he still refused to allow anyone other than Byleth or Jeritza to go hunting with him, he would at least take Ferdinand on trips like this, low-threat expeditions where Hubert and his researcher-mages tried to pull at the threads of information the Agarthans left behind. 

There have always been stories about monsters in Edmund, often dismissed as the drunk ramblings of exhausted sailors and children with overactive imaginations. Doubtless some had been spread by those who feared Marianne’s family. Ferdinand had heard tales about cats with humanlike grins, women who stared at travelers with eyes like goats, wolves who wore their victims’ faces on their bodies as trophies. It was this last creature Hubert wanted to find this time, hoping that studying it would shed some light on how the Agarthans were able to shapeshift.

Their horses were with Marianne. For stealth reasons, Hubert insisted they searched the forest on foot. For that reason, also, they were quite muted as they shoved aside wet ferns and trudged on mulch. It helped that Ferdinand and Hubert were still not quite on talking terms yet.

Two hours to midnight, rain started to come down.

“Well, this is unfortunate,” said Tom.

“Lady Lowenthal lives nearby.” Hubert gestured east. “We should walk towards her residence, in case we need to find shelter. Marianne has sent word to her that we’ll be coming in at midnight. Perhaps she won’t be too upset if we turn up early.”

No one contradicted him. Not thirty minutes into their change of direction, the wind grew so strong that not even the dense foliage could shelter them from it. Water filled the spaces left behind by leaves. The storms in Edmund, it was often said, came from the sea, whirling with all the vengeance of the northern waves. Lightning flashed. Thunder was hot on its heels.

Beaumont hissed right by Ferdinand’s shoulder, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

The gates to Lady Lowenthal’s cottage were unlocked when they arrived, as was the entrance. No one was there to greet them after they’d knocked multiple times, so they simply let themselves in, over Ferdinand’s protests about impoliteness. He let them do it. The rain soaked him to the marrow. 

Once they were in the hall, Hubert brandished a tome, and a gust of warm air seemed to travel over Ferdinand’s skin. He was astonished to find that Hubert had dried everyone’s clothes and hair.

Ferdinand turned to Hubert. These days looking at him was a precarious action. The sight of him quickened Ferdinand’s pulse and tensed his muscles, like his entire body was itching to fight, or to flee, and once he did it, it was hard to look away. Ferdinand always felt like needed more time to observe Hubert, to figure out anything else he might be hiding.

“Thank you, Hubert.”

Hubert moved his arm in an elegant arc, palm up, towards Beaumont. “Thank Beaumont. She invented the tome.”

“Well, then, you have my gratitude, Beaumont. And that was some truly splendid magic.”

Beaumont smiled, shy. “It is nothing, sir.”

Just as Ferdinand was about to launch into a spiel about how it was not nothing—it was these wonderful inventions that would carry them to a bright future, thus Beaumont should absolutely take pride in her work—Lady Lowenthal arrived, saving Ferdinand from one of Hubert’s smart remarks. Or, even worse, his refusal to engage.

Though the storm continued to batter the cottage, Lady Lowenthal’s heels were apparently solid enough that her footsteps clearly announced her presence. She wore an embroidered maroon coat over a white dressing gown. Her hair had been fashioned into a neat but exceedingly simple bun. Though the smile she gave them in greeting was perfectly polite, the message she intended to convey with her state of dress was clear: I am a lady of fine bearing, but you have approached me at a time when I would have preferred to enjoy my privacy.

They all bowed.

“Welcome, Duke Aegir, Lord Vestra, and…?”

“Colonel Selene Beaumont, Your Ladyship, and, ah,” Beaumont said, hesitating between her desire to follow Hubert’s custom of discarding the old titles and Lady Lowenthal’s obvious preference for them, “Lord Thomas von Vestra.”

She decided to err on the side of courtesy, which Ferdinand appreciated.

Lady Lowenthal made a small noise of acknowledgement, then continued to scrutinize Tom. It was obvious to everyone in the hall that she was trying to figure out why she had never heard of this boy before, but it would be rude to bring that up, never mind outright inform her that Tom was adopted, though that must be obvious as well, since he looked so unlike any Vestra, with his blond hair—

“My cousin Viktoria adopted Thomas and she has named him as her heir,” Hubert said suddenly, with ill-disguised impatience. “I must also add that we—that is, Ferdinand and I—prefer to be addressed as Ministers Aegir and Vestra, Lady Lowenthal.”

Ferdinand smiled up at Lady Lowenthal in what he hoped was a placating manner.

“Or ‘Mister’, if ‘Minister’ sounds too stiff outside of Enbarr,” Ferdinand said.

Lady Lowenthal pursed her lips.

Coolly, she said, “I prefer to use forms of address befitting your noble birth.”

She led them up the stairs, to a hallway at the left hand side of the entrance, explaining to them that they would have to sleep in her children’s rooms—two sets of twins, all having departed for Dagda in what she assumed was an effort to get away from her. When they reached the middle of the hallway, something thundered above them that was not the sound of the rain. 

“That’ll be my Marius,” Lady Lowenthal said. “He keeps me young—you can hear his restlessness, can’t you? But he is an excessively shy creature. Perhaps he’ll come out to meet you tomorrow morning. The fickle youth.” Addressing Ferdinand, she said, “He has hair as red as yours.”

After she left them to their own devices, they agreed that Ferdinand would room with Tom and Hubert with Beaumont. It was, Hubert said, a familiar arrangement. Hubert had shared tents with Beaumont many times during the war. He omitted the fact that he’d shared tents with Ferdinand too. The fact that only Tom wasn’t aware of this seeped the end of their evening in carefully ignored awkwardness.

The room he and Tom found themselves in was beautiful, as was the rest of the cottage, though Hubert certainly would not think so. He would call it ostentatious. Hubert’s views on what constituted acceptable architectural grandeur led him to favor places like Garreg Mach and the castle in Fhirdiad: humankind’s best efforts to emulate great black volcanoes rising from the sea. Lady Lowenthal’s house—with the gilded leaves on the ceiling, the flowers carved into the furniture, the surprising flash of jewels embedded into the railings and metal lattices that covered the windows—no doubt struck him as an enormous frivolity. 

As he brushed his hair, Ferdinand tried to construct, from nothing but his imagination, the discussion between them. Though the cessation of rainfall made it easy for him to summon Hubert’s voice in his head, he found imaginary Hubert wanting. The real one was probably more humorous.

“What’s going on with you and Minister Vestra?” asked Tom, startling Ferdinand.

“Nothing is going on.”

In an exaggerated imitation of Hubert’s tone, Tom said, “Please do not insult me by lying.”

Ferdinand frowned. It would have been uncomfortable for everyone, but he suddenly wished he’d argued for rooming with Hubert. Not that there was anything wrong with Tom—he quite liked Tom, actually. It was just more likely that, if he had the cover of drowsiness to hide behind, he could make another attempt at restoring the ease between him and Hubert, and he would then hear Hubert’s actual words, not Tom’s memory of them.

“Until recently, Hubert hid everything about the Agarthans from me. I was upset that he did so,” he told Tom. “Do not worry about it, Tom. We have already had a serious conversation about our differing perspectives. I suppose we both simply need a little time to digest everything.”

“He even keeps things from you? He must really like his secrets.”

“Yes. I know you look up to him, but you would do well not to follow his example in this matter.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Aegir, if I told everyone my deepest darkest secrets, they would probably think I should be, uh, locked up.”

“I do not think so.”

“Maybe that’s why you get along so well with Mr. Vestra.”

“Perhaps,” he said, squinting at the ceiling. 

In the moonlight, it was impossible to tell what pigments covered the carved birds and vines above him, especially since the hanging chandelier remained unlit, but he thought it must be something appropriately striking: maroon for the wings, maybe, and blue that bordered on green for the leaves. Footsteps echoed from behind the decorations. They were as rhythmic and regular as the beat of a waltz. He closed his eyes to focus on the sound, hoping that it would carry him to a dream of dancing. It did not.

Ferdinand did not realize he had been falling asleep until he was suddenly awake again. The first wash of daylight had made it into the room. It was still impossible to make out the colors of the ceiling, but at least more carved details revealed themselves to him.

It seemed wrong to disturb the tranquility of dawn, but he did so anyway by rising from his bed. He predicted that Hubert would want to depart as soon as possible, leaving no time for Ferdinand to explore the ornate little cottage. Now was his chance. He would not waste it. 

He walked to the room that the hallway led to, a large and airy space. It was a place for strolling arm-in-arm with a friend. Two wide strips of light criss-crossed each other, meeting in the middle of the floor and leaving the rest of the room in relative darkness, until Ferdinand pulled back the heavy velvet curtains that covered the large windows on either sid,e and the glow of the morning made itself at home all around him.

Though the sofas were dusty, a painting at the far wall was immaculately clean: it depicted Lady Lowenthal next to a much younger man with short, wavy red hair and pale green eyes. Her hand rested on his shoulder, creasing the fabric of his jacket. Though their expressions were distant—and the painting’s placement, high enough that Ferdinand had to bend his neck to see all of it, added to this sense of separation—the artist’s brushstrokes bequeathed them with an air of ethereal gentleness. Tall, intricately painted vases stood on both sides of the painting. These were of Almyran origin, Ferdinand guessed. Hard to tell whether they were spoils of war or boons of trade. The rest of the wall looked like the walls of Groeneveld Hall’s salon: a plain of dusty wallpaper, disturbed occasionally by darker squares previously covered by portraits, now in storage.

Marius was probably Lady Lowenthal’s lover and her sole companion here. Ferdinand knew from Marianne that staff came by once a week to clean the cottage, but otherwise Lady Lowenthal preferred to be left alone. They had this entire house to themselves. They were free to do anything in it: to dance in this hall, first in circles, then all the way to the identical hall at the opposite end; to sleep in every bed; to dine at every place on the dinner table; to cook anything in the kitchens. There was something sad about the idea. Or perhaps Ferdinand was too attached to the outside world to understand the appeal.

Soft knocking interrupted his thoughts, and Ferdinand turned to face the source. It was Hubert, of course, and the strange predictability of this made Ferdinand want to laugh. Hubert’s presence in a room reminded him of light coming in through a window, unannounced by anything else but its own sudden ubiquity. Ferdinand smiled at him tentatively. Hubert made his way towards the space next to Ferdinand. He did not smile back, but with Hubert you had to assess every bit of his response, not just his words or the look on his face; he had chosen to seek Ferdinand out, to approach him.

Perhaps not many people would call Hubert beautiful, but his appearance never failed to elicit strong reactions from people who saw him for the first time. During times like this—early morning, or deep into the night, or under harsh sunlight, or any time when nature itself seemed to remove the world from reality by a few degrees—people who were merely beautiful would find their loveliness diminished, but Hubert only grew more striking.

Ferdinand turned his gaze back to the painting. Lady Lowenthal and Marius, whose faces were hauntingly regal just a moment ago, now appeared downright pedestrian in comparison. Hubert was standing next to him now. Ferdinand felt the warmth emanating from his body. He did not need to see him.

They beheld the painted couple together, Ferdinand and Hubert reflected in the images of Lady Lowenthal and Marius, steeped in silence that felt wholly different from that of the night before. Sometime in his sleep Ferdinand had forgiven Hubert. Or maybe he had done so before that, and only needed this moment of tranquility to admit it to himself. 

Here, as the brightening sky illuminated the faces of their hosts, lending them warmth that was never there before, Ferdinand realized that he’d missed this too, the moments when Hubert didn’t speak, but never felt too far away—like when they walked to the battlefield, or rode past the mountains of Hyrm. He tried to imagine explaining this to Hubert, but it was almost too ridiculous: I wish you would be silent, and I wish you would speak! It does not matter which, as long as you do it near me.

Hubert would call it insanity. Didn’t bards always claim that falling in love was a kind of insanity?

“Hubert,” he said, turning. He did not know what to say after this, only that he wanted to say Hubert’s name, just to see whether it would feel different to speak it out loud, now that he understood Hubert’s place in his heart. It did feel different. He wanted to say it again.

Hubert was already looking at him. The smile on his face was calm and indulgent, like he’d been waiting for Ferdinand to catch up. The window behind him wreathed his face in soft light. His hand, ungloved, brushed Ferdinand’s hair behind his ear, then trailed down his jaw, and came to rest against his neck. His thumb brushed against Ferdinand’s quickening pulse.

Then he slammed Ferdinand against the wall below Marius’s chest. With both hands he squeezed Ferdinand’s throat; with his body he caged Ferdinand. Arms pinned down arms. Ferdinand could not shake him off bodily. This could not possibly be Hubert—Hubert did not have this much physical strength. When Ferdinand aimed a kick at his knee, he hit not a firm, bony limb but something soft that yielded to him, and seemed to absorb his foot. His throat burned, the fire spreading to his lungs as his body noticed the lack of oxygen. The smile was gone from the impostor’s face. But he wore the same expression Hubert wore when he was curious, when he was observing something for the sake of it. 

If he wanted to watch Ferdinand die, he wouldn’t get his chance.

Ferdinand’s free leg swung sideways, knocking one of the Almyran vases off-balance. When it crashed, the noise of smashing ceramic echoed in the room, through the hall. Two more hands, black and leathery, came up to hold his limbs, to press them against the wall. Something else gripped his leg. Now the creature grinned, still wearing Hubert’s face. But this lasted for only a second. Suddenly it drew its head back, wide-eyed, and howled. Two hilts stuck out of its shoulders. And Hubert—the real Hubert, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his hands still bare—was there next to Ferdinand, whipping out a tome. 

Dark spikes pierced the impostor. With a flick of Hibert’s fingers the magic threw Ferdinand’s attacker upwards, into a corner of the room. Clouds of miasma swarmed towards it until Ferdinand couldn’t see his attacker’s monstrous form. Ferdinand’s legs failed him and he slid to the floor.

Beaumont and Tom rushed in, looking first at Hubert and Ferdinand, then in the direction of Hubert’s outstretched arm, which pointed straight towards the impostor.

“Make sure it’s dead,” he ordered.

He turned back to Ferdinand. Hubert knelt down in front of him, and as breathing became a possibility again, Ferdinand’s senses flared. He took in Hubert, his green eyes and worried mouth and the tiny scar near his chin from a battle near Merceus. With the oxygen, everything Hubert was to him came rushing in: rival, enigma, brother-in-arms, colleague, confidant, friend, and now the unsuspecting keeper of his heart.

“Ferdinand,” he said, low and urgent. “Ferdinand, what did it do?”

The spots on his neck where the creature had used its—Hubert’s—hands to strangle him burned still. As Hubert himself touched them to ascertain the extent of Ferdinand’s injuries, his fingers cool from prolonged exposure to the night air, he soothed the chafed and tender skin. Ferdinand caught Hubert’s eye. Hubert drew back suddenly, as though he’d been scalded.

“Disguised itself as you.” Ferdinand’s voice was hoarse. He coughed a few times. “Tried to strangle me.” It hurt to laugh but he couldn’t stop himself. “I know a situation like this was precisely what you were trying to avoid by excluding me, so I feel like I must apologize now for doubting your assessment of…”

He gestured around them, meaning to include Beaumont and Tom standing over the shapeshifter’s corpse. Hubert frowned at him.

“Don’t be silly. If I thought I would be putting the Prime Minister in any danger, I would not have agreed to Lady Edelgard’s request.” He inclined his head in Tom’s direction. “And if anything happened to Thomas, Viktoria would have my head.”

He rose to his feet, then bent down a little, offering his hand to Ferdinand. When he took it Ferdinand felt the calluses and scars of Hubert’s hand and wondered how he could have believed in the impostor at all. The hand on Ferdinand’s neck had been blemishless, missing all the marks of Hubert’s eventful life.

Once he was standing he could see the corpse of his attacker. Its lupine body, as large as that of a horse, was covered in midnight-black fur. Its blood pooled in a shining lake on the carpet. Human faces gazed out from its pelt, their faces twisted in various states of torment. The only exception was the face on the creature’s stomach—it was Lady Lowenthal’s, and it wore a radiant smile.

Afterwards, when Hubert and the others went to dress and the wolf was wrapped in blankets, Ferdinand stood staring at his palm, wondering whether the contours of Hubert’s hand had marked his skin. They hadn’t, but it felt like they had.

They searched the cottage thoroughly. Every door was unlocked and every room was empty, except for one: the master bedroom. They had to break that one down. Its walls were covered in dust, as was everything else.

There was a skeleton lying on the bed.

It was about Lady Lowenthal’s size, a frame of true ivory. What struck Ferdinand wasn’t what it was, but how the scene presented itself to them. The skeleton was arranged in a most peculiar manner on the bed. The bones of the lower arm rested against the ribcage at an angle, and the hands rested face-down on the chest. Parts of her fleshless fingers had fallen through the gaps between the ribs, making their home on the sheets. It looked like the skeleton had folded its hands on its chest.

After a few seconds of silence, Beaumont said, “Skeleton’s too clean, sir.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

Ferdinand said, “We should send for her children.”

Hubert said, “We should inform Marianne.”

When they left the cottage, Ferdinand got to hold on to the creature’s head, rolled up in carpets, as they walked to Marianne’s. Hubert held the creature up by the torso, and Beaumont by the legs. Along the way Tom tried to explain what was behind Lady Lowenthal’s cottage, the forces that summoned her image so that it could greet them at the hall. He said that if you left a mold for an arrowhead or an axe outside the workshop, and you forgot about it, you could go outside to fetch it and it would be filled with all sorts of things. Water from the rain would fill it, and the corpses of wasps and flies and bees, and the cold winds of winter. Everything, he said, except for whatever metal you’d hoped to get in it, to make it into something useful. You had a hollow and nature would find something to fit.

Ferdinand glanced backwards. He had to strain his neck to do so. There Hubert was, his dark hair heavy with sweat, curling over his forehead like smoke. There he was with his green eyes and his scars. Ferdinand understood something about himself then. 

“At least we had the chance to spend the night somewhere beautiful. I loved the gilded ceilings,” Ferdinand said, looking ahead again.

“It is a terribly gaudy place. Perhaps the Lowenthal children went to Dagda to save themselves from permanent ocular damage.”

Ferdinand surrendered to laughter. Beneath his hand he thought he could still feel the contours of Lady Lowenthal’s face, her smile pressing against his palm through layers of cloth.