Archive of Our Own

“Stop sulking, Sandrone~”

Holding her temper towards Columbina was never her virtue—especially not when The Marionette had an intense craving for honey cake after her deep hours-long research, only to find the cake was eaten half-way by the Third Harbinger.

“How about you stop eating my cake?” Pulonia pulled a chair, settling his lady comfortably on its soft cushion. Sandrone huffed, crossing her arms, stabbing a gaze worth of thousand beam shot towards the woman munching on honey cake. “I thought I made myself clear; no one touched my possession!"

A tiny plate filled with a piece of chocolate cake pushed towards Sandrone’s direction. Tartaglia threw a lazy smile, attempting to offer a replacement. “Here. It’s as sweet as the honey one.”

“That’s not what I—” A harsh sigh escaped as Sandrone facepalmed herself. “Nevermind. I’ll take it.” She dug a tiny fork into the small, frowning mouth of hers, all while Pulonia poured a hot, steaming Marcotte tea into the ceramic cup.

A beautiful, quiet day fell upon the Palace of Zapolyarny, particularly on the right wing of the building, inside the room far in the corner.

While the monthly tea party allowed her to showcase the exquisite taste of her sharp tongue—particularly in regard of finely-selected tea and confectionary—Sandrone always trapped on the same loop; be the proud host of the said party, arrived later than the guests because the experiment she conducted completely took away her sense of time, and be reasonably annoyed because her favourite dessert was already eaten.

Arlecchino set down her tea cup, a soft clink echoed in the room as it landed on the ceramic plate. Just when she opened her mouth, being seconds-away from dropping another casual topic, the door opened—which had every head turned into its direction. All the invited members were already present, and any other than six of them was strictly forbidden to join.

Creak! The sturdy, heavy door opened halfway, revealing nothing but a marble flower case sitting on the corridor, along with the window showcasing snowy landscape behind. Had a jealous, uninvited person pulled a prank and intentionally wanted to disturb the party?

Sandrone put on a scowl, just a breath away from scolding the intruder—until a little movement below halted the incoming words. Down there was a creature that was even shorter than the door’s knob, standing on her unstable feet, waddling slowly into the room.

The red Mary Janes on her feet dragged her clumsily to the table, and round eyes that hosted a pair of eccentric irises observing the room aimlessly. Amidst her wobbly walk, she nearly succeeded in reaching the nearest chair legs—until the tip of her shoes stumbled upon a tiny folded bump on the carpet, dooming her to a loss of balance.

“Gotcha!” Tartaglia caught her by the armpits, just a second away before she completely fell face-first. A wide grin plastered his face as he scooped the toddler—both hands supporting the bottom. He showed the mini-intruder to the other guests, instantly warming up the coldness in their faces.

Arlecchino softened her gaze, drawing a small smile. “Well, hello, little Fifi.”

“Fifi?” The Eleventh arched his eyebrows, looking at the human in his hold. “Is your name Fifi, hm?” He cooed, voice went softer and cherubic. “Is your name Fifi? Such a beautiful name!”

A gleeful, innocent laughter rang up in the room. Fifi giggled as Tartaglia showered her chubby cheeks with loud, exaggerated smooches.

“Is that really her name?” Sandrone sipped her tea, looking somewhat disinterested. “I thought they haven’t decided a name for her yet.”

“She’s fifteen months already. A proper name is expected.” Signora added, smiling tenderly when Fifi’s gaze landed on her. “By this stage, a toddler is supposed to be gradually introduced to their names. Such a shame that her parents are too neglectful and ignorant.” She scoffed, biting into another soft cookie.

“Ffiteen months...?” Columbina tilted her head, counting with her fingers, mumbling something along the motion.

Sandrone clicked her tongue in annoyance. “It’s a year and three months, you moron.”

Nothing but a hum replied to the snarl. Columbina rose from her seat and approached the toddler. Unfortunately, Fifi’s laughter died all too sudden as the Third stopped next to her. Alas, the soft gesture of Columbina’s hands and the warm smile on her face were returned by a fearful, confused expression.

“Oops…” Feeling the tense coiling on the toddler’s body, Tartaglia put some distance and assured her with soft, calming pats. “Shh… it’s okay.” He whispered, throwing an empathetic smile upon looking at the woman. “Sorry. I don’t think she likes being near you.”

“Huh… why?” Now, the smile was completely wept off of Columbina’s face, replaced by a sad and concerned frown. Her extended hands fell limply to her side. “Don’t be scared of me, little Fifi…” The words came out fragile and hopeful.

Under the ginger-haired man’s gentle touch and soothing whispers, the tension in Fifi’s body gradually subdued. All while Sandrone snickered in satisfaction at the sight of Columbina sulking, Signora stood up with a small plate of strawberry shortcake. In a confident sway, she walked to the toddler, whose round eyes sparkling up upon seeing plump red fruits sitting on top of the whipped cream.

“I don’t think a baby’s stomach can handle all the heaviness in a cake.” Tartaglia shot Signora a warningly suspicious look, instinctively tightening his hold on Fifi—a gesture deliberately ignored by the Eight.

“Keep your opinion for yourself, boy. Don’t lecture me about children.” She picked a half-cut strawberry by the fork, earning an excited smile from Fifi.

“I have little siblings at home that I used to nurture during their toddler stages.” The man took sharp steps backward, protecting Fifi as the blonde-haired woman extended the fork towards the little mouth. “It is you who lacks any knowledge and experience on children.”

Signora clicked her tongue, looking menacingly at the Eleventh. Neither of them held any positive perspective on each other. One was a battle-thirsty young man, albeit his naivety has granted him the unreliability of judging a situation clearly. While the other was a hostile, demanding woman that knew nothing but to march forward toward her objective.

Neither of them, all too predictably, were willing to back down on this particular situation—entirely engraved by the illusion given by the vague semblance of parental instinct for a baby that wasn’t even theirs.

“Ahem.” Not until Arlecchino feigned a firm cough, that both Harbingers finally tore their bloodlust gaze apart.

Signora let out a mocking scoff as she felt the Knave’s eyes burn on her. “Just the fruits.” She clarified in a lazy, drawling voice. “Fifi loves strawberries, see?” She pointed her chin to the squealing toddler whose chubby hands stretched out to the fork, wobbling in the air—completely unbothered by the rising tension. “… And perhaps with a very little share of whipped cream to balance the sourness.”

With the Eleventh still being adamant in his standing, Capitano stood up. Looming and large as he was, it casted Fifi nothing but a giggle when the captain’s gloved hand gently patted her black hair.

“Nothing worthy of concern here.” He assured the younger man. “I had seen Pantalone feed her a small portion of candy. Moreover, considering how standardized Dottore is, it’s wise to believe that Fifi is already under a healthy and balanced diet. An occasional sweet is hardly an issue.” Beneath the endless void of the mask, Tartaglia could feel Capitano’s firm gaze on him.

“Otherwise, they wouldn’t even bring her here—right at the day where we hold our leisure gathering. They allow this, Tartaglia.”

“Hmph.” The youngest frowned, starting to reluctantly loosen his hold, letting Capitano overtake Fifi under the big, steady arms. In defeat, Tartaglia huffed and sunk into his seat again.

The toddler smiled as she leaned her face into the First’s broad shoulder. The tiny hands idly reached out to the long hair— fingers playing around the strands, ingraining the sensory stimulation of the sleek texture to her ever-curious brain.

Once again, the merciless glint in Signora’s pale irises subdued as she looked at the girl. She opened her mouth with a gentle ‘Aaa’, prompting Fifi to mimic her facial gesture, as the fork glide smoothly through the air.

As the fruit landed on the tiny mouth, and as the juicy fruitiness burst in her tongue, Fifi’s face scrunched up in response to the sourness—head quivering like a cat hit with water, squealing in a shock of refreshing waves. The genuine joy, the innocence, and the loud, persistent munching that followed—all of them, were spreading quickly like a happy virus inside the room.

It was so sweet, so contagious that the sugar content in the dessert increased by tenfold. That watered down the bitterness of Marcotte tea. That melted the ice on the windowpane as nothing but warm laughers filled the room.

Columbina, of course, stood as an exception. Amongst the sea of smiling and laughing mouths, hers was still forming a disappointed frown, mumbling the same words, over and over again. “… Why are you scared of me…?”

“Perhaps it is due to the strange nature of your power, Miss Columbina.”

There, standing right outside the door’s threshold, a man stood—his presence halted the joyous moment at once. Plastering his face was the ever-lasting smile and relaxed, low-lidded eyes. A small, amused chuckle escaped him as the atmosphere died down—except for Fifi who produced a sequence of incoherent sounds, resembling those of ‘pa… pa… pa… pa…’

Sandrone rolled her eyes lazily. He—alongside his husband, and three other harbingers—were entirely forbidden for joining the tea party. In usual circumstances, the host would snarl at the unwelcomed intruder. Now, however, with Fifi inside the room, and with Pantalone technically not crossing the threshold either, biting her tongue was the only thing she could do.

“Moreover, I do have a clarification about my daughter’s name.” The banker continued. “In unfortunate regard, me and Dottore haven’t established a common ground for her full name. Fifi, as you addressed her now, is loosely derived from her middle name—something that Dottore finally agreed to after months of discussion.” He laughed briefly, recounting the memory no one in the room had the slightest care to know.

“Middle name?” Tartaglia asked. “It’s using yours, right?”

“Correct.” There was something different about his smile, that usually would appear cold and curated. 

“Feofanovna—daughter of Feofan.”

Rhythmic hums filled the area, as if an important, newfound knowledge had been blessed upon the Harbingers. The Seventh, however, furrowed her eyebrows.

“Wow… that’s tacky.” Sandrone deadpanned, crossing her arms. “Also, isn’t Fei more suitable? Why Fifi?” Her gaze was flying around, searching for any person who would agree with her. To her annoyance, no one even looked in her direction. All was too focused on Pantalone and his daughter.

“Truthfully, none are correct, Miss Sandrone.” He saved her from the embarrassment of being ignored. “We do not address people with their middle name, do we? But this is the current solution towards the long, complex problem I and Dottore have upon naming her.” Slowly, his eyelids opened half-way; muted purple irises looked deep into each pair of eyes there.

“Therefore, my dearest Harbingers, I humbly request for you to address her with a single name to avoid confusion. Be it Fifi, Fei, or any name you may collectively agree upon—one thing for sure, let us call her with love.”

“This is ridiculous.” Signora jeered, taking a closer step to the baby; her body partially shielding Fifi from her own father. “Does this ’long and complex problem’ serve as a euphemism of both parents failing to fulfil their role? Of you and him being consumed by those foolish ambitions and greed, that you devoid her of the very thing she needed to exist—a name? Her own identity?”

The entire room went silent at the Eight’s deriding remark. The tension filled the air alarmed Fifi so much that her expression dropped, caught in a complex spider web of adults surrounding her. Her round eyes kept looking between her father and the woman, sensing the negative shift in their aura.

Capitano knew that the Harbingers—as arrogant and hostile as some of them were—would never draw their weapons against each other inside the Palace of Zapolyarny, right under the throne of The Tsaritsa. Still, he moved to the secured corner of the room, with Fifi remaining steady on his hold.

No words spoken as he tilted his head slightly, scrutinizing both adults under the phantom gaze of his—challenging the Ninth and the Eight to wield their power effectively. Daring the Regrator and The Fair Lady to imagine what would happen if something happens to Fifi. Inviting Feofan and Rosalyne to have the finest taste of Thrain’s wrath.

In the end, the tension broke as another voice joined.

“Such a baseless, audacious accusation you have there.”

Dottore joined his husband’s side, summoning yet another happy squeal from Fifi—who had her hands reaching in the air, babbling the same ‘pa… pa… pa… pa…’

“Look at her and you’ll find the exact problem.” He ordered, earning a short laugh from Pantalone. In an instant, every eye landed on their daughter.

True to her middle name, being the daughter of Feofan was beautifully written all over her features.

Black curls brushed softly against her ears, framing a face blessed with the pallor of fresh Snezhnayan snow. The shape of her eyes was soft, slightly downturned, and prone to disappearing into smiling crescents whenever she closed them. She was, in that regard, the banker’s carbon copy.

Unfortunately, that was where the problem lied for Zandik; no distinct features of him were being inherited to her.

In an age as early as fifteen months, the only traces of him were almost non-existent—as if his genetics didn’t put up even the smallest effort against the rigged lottery. Fifi’s black strands ended in a barely-noticeable ombre of blue. And—although Zandik expected his share to grow prominent alongside Fifi’s development in age—Feofan was still the sole reason why their daughter had that exact type of hair, his hair.

The palette of her eyes, however, took a whole different stance. The irises were of striking red centre that encircled by a dull, purplish outer ring. Beautiful, yet menacing at the same time. Truly captured the eccentric soul of both men, fortunately… or unfortunately.

“Well, while I am exceptionally pleased that my daughter inherited the intricate features of the man I am so enamoured with…” The doctor threw a sharp side-eye at his chuckling husband, while Sandrone silently gagged at her seat.

“… I truly do not appreciate the fact that he—and all his otherworldly arrogance—wanted to insert yet another piece of himself into our daughter.”

“Pfftt!” Tartaglia snorted in mockery, plopping a grape into his mouth. Dottore in an irritated state was truly a rare sight to behold.

“So what? You want to use Sumerian name for her? What’s the point anymore? She looks re~ally Snezhnayan. Isn’t it weird if…” He paused briefly to chew, thinking for suitable words. “… If, hypothetically, her first and last name is Sumerian, but suddenly you see Feofanovna in the middle… not the smoothest name to say, really.”

“It’s unique. Not weird. Two cultures blending together is always beautiful.” Arlecchino added her opinion, while the young man just shrugged nonchalantly. “Although, Pantalone, as much as I pour the littlest of care about your domestic issue—Fifi will not be mistaken as any other child except yours. That much is obvious. So, why can’t you give your husband some leisure here?”

“Oh, I can.” The banker replied, not bothering to veil his amusement at Dottore’s growing frustration. “But I don’t want to. Fortunately, Dottore is an inferior negotiator compared to me—always suffering in terrible defeat whenever we discuss the name.”

“You make it harder for yourself. Don’t underestimate a child's intelligence.” Another warning passed from Signora, although her voice lacked an earlier kick. She walked towards Capitano in the corner, feeding yet another small chunk of strawberry to Fifi.

“In the blink of an eye, she would start to grasp the meaning of every word you have said to her. Any confusion and hesitation—especially regarding her own name—would impact poorly on her development.”

Pantalone’s gaze softened on the woman. “We truly appreciate your concern, Miss Signora. We aim to seek the solution of this problem in the fastest convenience. The good news shall be delivered in the near future, I sincerely hope.”

Following the unspoken ceasefire from both conflicting parties, the room once again melted into one warm pot of silky broth—each of the adults putting aside their massive difference in ideologies, their clashing egos, and all the personal conflicts budding between them for the sake of one tiny human.

“So?” The Knave finished her last sip of warm tea, put down the ceramic cup, before addressing the partners standing on the room’s threshold. “Since it’s seldom for you to bring Fifi here—let alone allowing her to wander into our gathering—I presume you have a certain request for us?”

“Correct, Miss Arlecchino.” The Regrator smiled, fixing his glasses. “My residence is currently undergoing some thorough renovations due to a certain issue caused by a certain scientist here. Although I did reserve a hotel for our temporary stay, both of us figured it would be nice to take Fifi to the palace—considering it has been half a year since her last visit.”

“Furthermore,” His husband added. “Feofan is scheduled for surgery today, albeit minor. We are estimated to be occupied until this evening, at the very least.”

“That’s nice! She’s very welcome here!” Tartaglia’s jolly voice rang up; his slumped posture instantly straightened up at the announcement. “By me, at least. I don’t know about these geezers though.” His gaze swept across the room, looking at the fellow Harbingers with a smug smirk planted on his face.

“If they’re too busy or their hands are too stinky to hold a little human, I don’t mind babysitting Fifi for a whole day!”

The reality, though, greatly contradicted Tartaglia’s deriding assumption. On the corner of the room, Signora fed the toddler in the gentlest movement no one had ever seen before. The Captain slightly rocked his hold in rhythmic motion, while occasionally wiping the whipped cream that stuck on Fifi’s cheeks. Right across the room, Columbina was still facing them—each inaudible word that escaped her pouty mouth wrapped in absolute sadness of being rejected.

It was clear for both parents that nothing but warmth would embrace Fifi in the palace.

“I appreciate your kindness.” The banker nodded to Tartaglia, acknowledging the youngest’s fondness of children and his promise of reliable hospitality, before swapping his gaze across the room once more. 

“Well then, allow us to excuse ourselves. In the meanwhile, please treat our daughter with the kindness I always know resides deep inside all of your heart—even when you believe that we, as her parents, don’t deserve even a sliver of that compassion.”

Half a year ago, Pulcinella would have had no trouble supporting Fifi in his lap. Back then, the toddler was only about the size of a regular teddy bear and seemed endlessly fascinated by the mayor’s unusual features. She would stand on his thighs at eye level with his face, her tiny hands carelessly fiddling with his spectacles and leaving fingerprints all over the frame.

Now, however, after months of remarkable growth, the old man found it increasingly difficult to support Fifi on his compact frame, which could only bear so much weight. Standing on the limited surface of Pulcinella’s thighs, Fifi’s eye level already rose above the elder’s hair. She placed one hand on the man’s shoulder to steady her wobbly footing on the soft flesh, while the other wandered across his face.

“Ouch!” The mayor gasped dramatically, feigning a shock, comical expression everytime Fifi pinched the bridge his nose, seemingly interested with the firm yet flexible cartilage. “If you keep pulling my nose, it will grow longer, you know?”

In playful motion, he tugged the tip of his long nose to poke at Fifi’s cheek, drawing a loud laughter, ticklish from the girl. The tiny yet agile fingers of her reached out to his moustache, slightly tugging the thin, grey strands—noting how their coarse texture differs greatly from Capitano’s smooth locks.

“And a naughty kid who keeps pulling on this gramp’s hair will go bald!” If anything, Fifi giggled louder when Pulcinella reached her curly, thick strands—his compact-sized hand squeezed her scalp lightly.

There was nothing quite as heartwarming as the sound of a child’s laughter accompanied by the occasional commentary of her elderly guardian. For a while, those were the only sounds that echoed through the palace study.

As Fifi babbled away, directing her curiosity toward the different textures of the old man’s features and hair, Pulcinella gradually found himself overwhelmed by the physical strain of supporting the constantly moving toddler on his thighs. Several times already, she had nearly slipped into the gap between his legs, her Mary Jane shoes almost sliding off the smooth surface of his cashmere trousers. Each time it happened, his short arms barely managed to steady her before she could tumble further.

“You’re growing fast, young lady.” He commented. “It feels like just yesterday that I am able to hold your small, sleeping body. Months from now, I might not be able to support you on my lap again.” A small, hearty laugh tore out from him. “How fast the time changes, huh?”

Fifi tilted her head, attempting to process the man’s words in her developing brain, before deciding to give up and give him a firm squeeze on the left cheek. Having only been around two practically immortal parents that retain their midlife appearance, Fifi found herself oddly intrigued at how Pulcinella’s aging skin felt compared to them—saggier, drier, a stark contrast to her soft baby skin.

Then, her eccentric pupils flicked upward towards his big, purple hat. Naturally, there was no activity as interesting for Fifi other than… touching something. After all, her daily life consisted of landing her hand on something that sometimes weren’t supposed to be touched—that always resulted in Dottore reprimanded her and him being scolded by Pantalone later on for making Fifi sulk, or even cry.

(For this exact reason, Dottore was thoroughly criticizing his husband’s flaccid way of parenting. There was no proper response to a toddler that somehow managed to land her hand on a tube filled with corrosive substances other than snatching it from her hand, even when she threw herself on the floor afterward.

Still, Pantalone argued that he should’ve been calmer and softer, but how could he? Panicking and nearly losing all of one’s rationality were concepts alien to Dottore, but if his daughter’s skin was in a major risk of being chemically burned, he could no longer pretend like he was an invincible, emotionless creature.)

Curiosity overtook her just enough to make her rise onto her tiptoes. Both hands gripped the brim of his hat, unconsciously pressing it lower until it dipped over Pulcinella's forehead and brushed the edge of his glasses. The old man immediately steadied the hat with one hand to keep his spectacles from being knocked askew.

“You want to see the hat?” He asked. Fifi nodded. “Then, let me take it off first, okay? Don’t press it down—”

Alas, as Fifi’s footing grew unsteady, her right foot slipped off to the side, skidding across the smooth surface of his trousers. This time, however, Pulcinella’s hands were no longer around her waist. Fifi tumbled to her right, gravity pulling her down faster than the old man could even register what had happened.

The cold marble floor nearly collided with her soft little body before a stronger hand seized control. In one swift motion, it caught Fifi mid-fall, fingers wrapping securely around her as she was lifted away from the ground. A moment later, she was gently set back on the floor, as the hand helped to steady her posture.

“Careful.”

The girl looked shocked, trying to decipher what had just happened. How should she react? Should she cry? More importantly—who was her saviour? The voice registered as something unfamiliar to her memory. Then, she looked up towards the person of massive, looming stature, finding an equally unfamiliar face staring back at her.

“Why don’t you play on the floor, Mayor?”

The Jester now faced the man whose complexion went pallor. One millisecond. Fifi’s head was one millisecond away from a harsh, life-endangering contact with the hard surface. One millisecond that, had Pierro didn’t appear, would have Pulcinella strapped into a table and endured the most mind-breaking, inhumane torture ever.

“It would be safer and more comfortable that way.” He continued. “Rather than having you sit on a high chair like that.”

Regaining his control back, Pulcinella feigned a nervous cough. “My knee wouldn’t survive sitting on the floor.” He explained, looking at Fifi whose gaze stabbed into Pierro instead. “I placed her on the table earlier, so we could play without any safety risk. However, she insisted her way into my lap.”

Reaching for the now-cold cup of tea, he gulped the content to hydrate his throat. “Still, I owe you my biggest gratitude, Jester.”

A deep, amused chuckle was the only reply as Pierro settled his gaze into the little girl. The soft smile on his lips wasn’t returned by the same attitude—Fifi was hesitant and looked suspicious towards the man, pressing her body closer to the legs of Pulcinella’s chair, as if they could be the sturdiest shield against the danger.

“Hello, little Fifi.”

The Director crouched—yet, to the girl’s eyes, this stranger’s height still imposed thrice her size, which offered zero sense of comfort. Her fists still clenched tightly to her side. The lips—that laughing so freely earlier—were now zipped shut.

In the gentlest manner he could possibly afford, Pierro extended his big hand. “This is the first time we meet; I believe. Nice to meet you.”

The gesture was deliberately ignored as Fifi still put her guard high. That was, until Pulcinella gently patted her hair, all while comforting her.

“It’s okay, child.” Said the mayor. “Mr. Pierro here is a good man. He’s a dear friend of mine and of your fathers too.”

She spared a single glance at the sitting man, before boring her gaze deep into Pierro. Hearing the mayor’s encouragement and sensing no danger oozing out from the other man, Fifi finally—hesitantly—returned the gesture; taking the director’s hand.

“Such a kind young lady.” He chuckled, shaking her small hand. “I reckon we will meet often from now on. Perhaps I will bring you gifts every once in a while.”

As if the word ‘gift’ summoning something deep inside her, Fifi’s strained expressions softened; her eyes gleaming in excitement and curiosity. Pulcinella, however, scoffed softly.

“Dottore and Pantalone are immensely strict about gifts.” He clarified. “You have to consult them beforehand before giving her something.”

“Figured that much.” Pierro sighed, standing up and went to his seat on the other side of the table.

Every so often, he and the Mayor would have some sessions of chess, all while discussing the political climate in Teyvat and its relevance to the plans of Her Majesty. This particular study room would always have a chess board on its table, with pieces lined neatly—ready for anyone to make the first move. This time, however, Pulcinella had set the board aside, leaving nothing but a cup of tea on the surface.

The Jester put one hand on his chin, looking at the toddler. “… I will never get used to the fact that our two comrades—the most ambitious, egocentric persons of them all, at that—are settling down.”

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Pulcinella replied. “We are the first-hand witness of what love could do to a person. Although…” He fixed his glasses, looking deeply into the director’s eyes. “I would not describe it as settling down. Dottore hardly changed—always the same eccentric, insufferable man as ever.”

“Or, perhaps…” Pierro smiled when Fifi looked at him again—her gaze was softer this time, although there was still a little restraint. “… We simply aren’t the fortunate ones to receive the manifestation of his change. Only two people ever are blessed with those circumstances.”

“Fair enough.” The Mayor laughed heartily.

Then, out of centuries-long habit, the two elderly men slipped into their discussion. What began as innocuous statements toward their comrades shifted naturally to a heavy, political conversation—a topic that a toddler wasn’t equipped yet enough to follow. As the Harbingers drowned deeper at the topic, Fifi was left on its edge.

As boredom began to creep in—and as the men's attention gradually slipped away from her—she wandered toward the open door, curiously taking in the palace's grand architecture. The hallway, however, offered little to capture her interest; only a long, empty stretch of corridor. Nothing but the rigid repetition of furnishings—pillars with their accompanying flower vases, and large paintings hung along the walls at regular intervals.

Still, Fifi preferred to walk rather than listen to words she couldn’t capture.

So, she walked past the threshold, wandering aimlessly as her Mary Janes thumped on the red carpet. Dozens of doors lined the corridor, but they wouldn’t even budge at her strength.

Until, at last, one of them gave way beneath her persistent pushing—or rather, it happened to be opened from the inside at the very same moment. Fifi nearly stumbled forward as the wooden door suddenly swung back, revealing a person standing within the room.

She looked up, and he looked down. Both eyebrows furrowed—one in surprise, one in annoyance.

Then, there was nothing. The man in the room stepped outside, ignoring her by every intention possible. Yet, no more than three steps later, his movement halted.

Strange, indeed. Everyone in the palace always showered her with affection, scooping her up into their arms and planting kisses on her cheeks. This man, however, was different—almost alien. Not quite dangerous, as far as Fifi could tell; at least, nothing like Columbina. Still, he was strange enough to pique her curiosity. Reaching out, she grabbed the hem of the long gossamer veil dangling from his wide-brimmed hat, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

“What are you doing?” At last, he spoke. Pressing on his words, his head snapped back behind, pining Fifi beneath the malevolent indigo glint.

…. Which didn’t work quite as he intended, for Fifi was already subjected to looking into a pair of red, heretical madness almost her whole life. If anything, it was Scaramouche who got slightly creeped out by her irises.

The man let out a rough huff and tried to make her release her grip, snatching the veil upward in the hope that she would give up. She did not. Her grip—like that of any determined toddler—was absurdly strong, like she was clinging to it for her dear little life. The harder he tugged, the tighter she held on.

“Let go.” He hardened his voice, presenting a growl at the edge. At this point, he swallowed an annoying realization that any psychological warfare was futile—for the blood of Second Harbinger ran through her veins.

At last, he removed his hat and tossed it onto the floor beside Fifi, utterly unconcerned with the mess. All he knew was that he had made the mistake of opening the door at the exact same moment she had decided to investigate it.

Even then, he had barely made it halfway down the corridor before the toddler shouted after him, seemingly calling for him through a stream of incoherent babbling.

Perhaps she had inherited her father's stubbornness, for Fifi suddenly broke into a run toward the stunned man. Her little feet carried her faster than her eyes could keep up with her surroundings, and before she knew it, she had crashed into a small pedestal with a marble flower vase resting atop it. The impact sent the vase wobbling precariously before it began to tip toward her.

In a motion as swift as the wind, Scaramouche snatched her up. The vase fell into the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The Sixth jeered, holding her high in the air, trying to put as much distance as possible. Fifi, though, looked unconcerned. Tiny hands dangled in the air, trying to grab something—anything—that belonged to him.

“What is it with you and your peculiar obsession of holding anything of mine?”

Obviously, the question went unanswered. For a while, the two remained that way; he still held her up by the armpits, while the toddler persistently tried to draw herself closer to him.

It gave him a full, uninterrupted view of Fifi’s face. Even though Scaramouche despised both of her parents—so much so that the mere sight of them made him want to retch—Fifi was spared from that reaction, despite bearing so much of Pantalone’s likeness. There was an innocence beneath the madness in her eyes, a purity untouched by the ugliness of the world.

Whatever sins her fathers might have committed, their child was not to blame for the rot of this world.

Sins.

As he became consumed by his own obscure thoughts, he failed to notice that his hands had gradually lowered, unconsciously closing the distance between them. It was only when Fifi's small hand gently touched his cheek that he was pulled back to the present.

When his gaze returned to her, he found her smiling broadly, proudly displaying her incomplete set of teeth.

Somehow, the sight touched a part of his non-existent heart he had never known existed. It was a foreign feeling—one he had once yearned for. A warmth so profound that it left him frozen in place.

“… I never heard of your name.” He murmured, letting Fifi clumsily brush his indigo locks.

Name.

“… I never heard of mine either.” A soft sigh escaped his lips. “They call me… anything. Scaramouche is just one of them.”

He looked at her deeply, full of pity. The innocence she possessed would one day be stripped away by the cruelty of the world. In the blink of an eye, she would come to understand whose blood ran through her veins. And when that day arrived, she would learn that people would not treat her for who she truly was; to them, she would be nothing more than a shadow cast by her parents' sins.

A bitter, ironic scoff nearly escaped his lips. Some people, indeed, didn't deserved to be parents, at all.

He wondered what path Fifi would choose when that time came. Would she carry her legacy with pride? Or would she grow to feel betrayed by it, wandering down a path of her own in an attempt to reject the crimes committed by her blood?

“Sca… Scara…”

Nothing could have prepared him for the sharp pang that struck the nonexistent heart in his chest when Fifi called his name—or rather, the name others had given him. Yet there was nothing in her voice but pure, brimming innocence. It was so different from the way others spoke it, laden with malice, ambition, or disgust.

His gaze softened. His grip shifted, no longer holding her awkwardly by the armpits. Instead, one arm moved beneath her bottom to support her weight as he drew her closer against his hip.

“What do you want now?” He asked. “You’re bothering me not without purpose, right? So, what is it?”

He moved closer to the windowpane, bringing them before a view they had already seen a million times from within the palace. Nothing but an endless expanse of snow stretched across the vast land beyond—a thick white blanket beneath an equally dreary sky.

Yet, for all its monotony, the snow possessed a certain serenity. A tranquility that softened even the harshest edges of the world.

For a while, they fell into silence. Millions of tiny snowflakes drifted past the window, quietly consuming their view.

When Fifi neither spoke nor fidgeted, Scaramouche assumed the toddler had grown tired and sleepy. It was close to her afternoon nap, after all. He should have handed her off to an adult far more responsible than himself—or perhaps simply tucked her into his own bed.

But by the time an unpleasant odor reached his nose, accompanied by a warmth against his arm… it was already far too late.

His gaze snapped downward to Fifi, who looked on the verge of tears. Her face had flushed red with discomfort. She strained visibly, clutching his shirt tighter as she pushed more of the offending contents into her already warm diaper.

“Ew!”

The reaction escaped before he could stop it. With a look of pure disgust, he immediately grabbed her beneath the armpits and held her away from himself, putting as much distance between them as his arms allowed.

Which, of course, was enough to make Fifi burst into tears.

“What the—seriously?”

The cries erupted louder than he could tolerate as soon as he set her down on the floor. A sneer tugged at his lips while he contemplated his next move. Leaving her alone was not an option, yet neither was dealing with a baby's sanitary needs. He was hardly accustomed to such matters, let alone the prospect of handling a soiled diaper himself.

Should he simply march down the corridor and order the first person he encountered to take care of Fifi?

The solution, turned out, was closer than he had expected.

“Oh my~ What’s this smell? Aren’t you too old to poop on your pants, Scara?”

His neck nearly snapped in half as he faced the incoming man. A smug smile plastered on Tartaglia’s face as he stepped closer to the chaotic scene—walking too slow for Scara’s liking.

“You!” He snapped, pointing his index finger to the Eleventh. “Go take care of this smelly gremlin!”

“Hm?” Even Tartaglie couldn’t help but to shoot another jab at the irritated puppet. “Are you talking about yourself? Or her?”

“Ha. Such a pathetic attempt at humour.” Scaramouche deadpanned. However, his shoulders were visibly relaxed now that the certified big brother had arrived. He owed Tartaglia a massive gratitude, much to his dismay.

With ease, Tartaglia scooped Fifi into his arms, careful not to jostle the uncomfortable bottom burdened with a diaper full of warm, mushy contents. The girl continued to sob, and he gently bounced her against his shoulder, not the slightest trace of disgust crossing his face. He had dealt with this exact situation hundreds of times before.

Once Fifi was securely settled in his hold, he lifted one of her hands into the air and gave it a little wave toward the grumpy man.

“C’mon, Fifi. Say goodbye to Mr. Poopy Pants!”

All the response was a harsh scoff from Scaramouche as he turned on his heels and left the corridor.

 “Sshhh, it’s okay.”

He soothed the crying toddler as he set her down on the countertop beside the wash basin. Gently, he lifted her dress and removed the soiled diaper. The dirty bundle was quickly sealed inside a plastic bag, tied tightly, and tossed into the trash to be dealt with later by the palace staff.

Next, he reached for a box of gentle wet wipes and pulled out several sheets. With practiced care, he wiped from front to back, thoroughly cleaning away any residue. A soft, relaxed hum drifted through the enclosed bathroom, gradually helping to calm Fifi. Her lips remained pursed in a pout as her tearful eyes followed his every movement.

Then, he soaked a washcloth in warm water, allowing the fabric to absorb the heat before wringing out the excess moisture. Careful not to startle her, he gently wiped the cloth across her skin.

“Yeay, we’re almost done!” He gave Fifi his palm, intending to do high-five to a sulky, confused girl. When she didn’t return it, he just chuckled and patted her head instead.

“Now, let’s wait for your skin to dry first before we put on diapers and new underwear, okay?” She didn’t quite understand, but nodded anyway.

Fortunately, earlier, one of Pantalone’s men dropped a bag filled with Fifi’s stuff right in Tartaglia's room. They had predicted that the Eleventh would be the core caretaker, and they were correct. It was predictable in any way possible, after all.

Now that Fifi’s skin was clean and dry, he applied a thin layer of diaper cream, gently patting it across the area to help it absorb. Once that was done, he carefully secured a fresh diaper in place and helped her into a clean pair of underwear.

“Alright, we're done here.” After washing his hands, Tartaglia gave her back a gentle pat before carrying her into his bedroom and settling both of them down.

The cranky toddler was gone now. Having finally relieved herself, Fifi seemed noticeably calmer, the tension leaving her little body as fatigue quickly crept in. He gently pulled the thick blanket up to her neck.

Even so, Fifi stubbornly refused to close her eyes, despite the sleepiness weighing on them. Back at home, whenever her parents were around, they would read her a bedtime story from one of her favorite picture books. Their soft baritone voices, accompanied by the gentle stroke of a hand through her hair, would gradually lull her to sleep.

But how was she supposed to ask that of the man currently in charge?

“Look...” He whispered, lifting something into view.

It was a framed photograph of his large family; taken on the day he had been ascended as the Eleventh Harbinger and returned home to share the news. These days, going back to Morepesok was a luxury that not even his money could buy. The only remedy for his loneliness came through the letters he exchanged faithfully with his siblings.

“This…” He pointed to a child with ginger hair. “…is Teucer. He’s really similar to me, isn’t he? He used to be a stinky baby like you too.” His nose nudged lightly against Fifi’s neck, drawing a soft, ticklish laugh from her.

“He grows really fast…” The pair of blue eyes softened, sadness flickering beneath them. “Time slips away when we’re busy, doesn’t it?” He swallowed when his throat was tightening.  “Next time we meet, he’ll ask where I went again… and I will…” He exhaled sharply. “…I will… lie to him again.”

Fifi looked up at him as his voice began to crack under some unseen pressure. His eyes were always dull, but now a veil of gloom seemed to settle over their blue depths. For a moment, it looked as though he had retreated into his own world no one could ever see.

Then he gave a bitter laugh, one hand still idly brushing through Fifi’s hair. “What would happen if little Teucer grew old enough to learn that his brother is a… questionable man with blood on his hands? What would happen if he learned the truth?”

The truth.

The time they had lost. The time he could have spent as Ajax instead of Tartaglia.

A deep breath tore from his chest. Fifi subconsciously mirrored his calm, rhythmic breathing. Slowly, as she felt his hand gently brushing through her hair, her eyelids grew heavier.

“What about you, little Fifi?” he whispered, looking down at the now half-conscious toddler. “What would you do if you learned the truth?”

Fifi drifted into a land of sweet dreams as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. He set the photo frame back on the table and allowed himself a brief, quiet nap.

 I had too many sweets today.

A thought that never once crossed Sandrone’s mind. Why should the universe meddle in her decision to indulge in an extra portion of cake and cookies? After all, she had spent hours buried in a demanding, brain-wrecking project that burned through her energy reserves. It was only fair that she replenished them with sugar during her breaks.

Moreover… She was not concerned with matters of health. She was not human. She could just as easily down a gallon of alcohol, and it would only sharpen her workaholic focus.

“That damn, stupid girl…” She grunted in Pulonia’s hold as his heavy steps echoed through the corridor’s red carpet. “I’ve already had several cakes and I’m still craving that honey cake she ate. Pulonia, next time remind me to arrive earlier at the tea party.”

If there was one redeeming quality of the perpetual rule of snow over the Palace of Zapolyarny, it was the sunset—always breathtaking, always mesmerizing. From the window, warm orange light seeped into the room, casting a striking contrast against the cold, muted white of the snow-covered landscape.

Sandrone was meant to retreat to her room for a quick shower, to wash away the lingering scent of oil and machinery from hours of experimentation. After that, she had planned to enjoy her afternoon tea while gazing out at the view, gracing herself some short rest.

However, just a few doors from her bedroom, she paused.

“Pulonia, stop.”

The sound was nothing particularly alarming—just the messy babbling of Fifi, muffled behind one of the doors. Yet what felt strange was its solitude. There were no adult voices responding, no one engaging her. Was she talking to herself?

Stopping in front of the room, Pulonia opened the door, revealing Fifi with pillow-tousled hair playing with Tartaglia’s hair while the man lay sprawled in deep sleep. A faint snore escaped his slightly open lips, utterly unaware of the energetic toddler beside him.

“Well, look at this.” The Marionette sneered, glancing down at the sleeping man. “What do you even do besides challenge everyone in this palace, hmm? Sleeping like you’re the one conducting some grand experiment for the Fatui.”

Fifi paused her play and looked at the woman, then at Pulonia. Her small mouth opened slightly as she took in the towering meka dominating the space. Without hesitation, she stood—one unsteady foot accidentally bumping Tartaglia’s cheek (and still he did not wake)—before moving to the corner of the bed, silently demanding to be picked up by the machine.

Truthfully, Sandrone was not particularly enthusiastic about the company of children. A high-maintenance woman like herself found their presence rather demanding—of her time, energy, and patience. And with people like Columbina and Tartaglia constantly grating on her nerves, she hardly needed another source of disruption in her already precious life.

In fact, how long had it been since she had last spent time around an actual human child? Years? Decades? Centuries? Most of what surrounded her these days could scarcely be called human.

“I don’t want to play with you. I’m tired.”

She crossed her arms, looking thoroughly uninterested, yet somehow unable to tear her gaze away from the girl’s face. Fifi could not fully understand the words, but the unenthusiastic tone alone was enough to make her quiet down.

Sandrone did not particularly like children, but she would be lying if the sight of Fifi’s crestfallen expression failed to stir a pang of guilt within her. Then again, her time was far too valuable to be spent babysitting the lovechild of two men she disliked.

Her lips parted, intending to wake Tartaglia and force him to resume his duties as an older brother, only to pause when Pulonia suddenly scooped Fifi up with his free arm.

“Huh?!” She stared at the machine in open offense, cheeks flushing red. “Pulonia?! I’m not ordering you to take her!”

The only response was a low mechanical hum as he settled Fifi securely against his torso, mirroring the way he carried Sandrone herself. A delighted squeal escaped the toddler as she immediately began running her hands over the machine's metal plating, fascinated by its intricate construction.

“Wait a minute—” Sandrone was still staring in disbelief when Pulonia stepped away from the bed and turned toward the door. “Hmph—fine!” she snapped. “I’ll tolerate it if you’re the one accompanying her, Pulonia. I refuse to be disturbed.”

Another mechanical hum answered her as he carried both passengers out of the room and toward Sandrone’s quarters, located only four doors away from the Eleventh’s.

As he lowered himself to the floor, Sandrone rose from her exclusive seat; feet touching down with elegance.

Fifi, however, had no intention of climbing down from the attendant’s hold. She remained utterly captivated by the machine, her fingers and eyes constantly wandering across Pulonia’s frame, studying every plate, joint, and mechanism as if her little mind possessed even the faintest understanding of his nature.

Looking at the scene from a distance, Sandrone suddenly found herself pushed to the edge of the picture. For once, she was struck by a startling realization.

Truly a gifted man Alain was. Even after all this time, his masterpiece remained capable of inspiring affection. This time, it was even much simpler and purer. A tiny child who could not possibly comprehend what Pulonia was had nonetheless taken to him immediately, utterly enchanted by his presence.

It was almost as though Fifi could somehow sense the sincerity with which Alain had created them both. She responded with an emotion that, long ago, neither Pulonia nor Sandrone had been capable of understanding.

Emotion.

A single concept so intrinsic to humanity—one she had only come to understand near the end of her creator’s life. And ever since, she had spent countless years loathing herself for all the time she had wasted before realizing it.

Time.

“Do you... like him?” She asked carefully. Fifi nodded with vigorous enthusiasm.

Sandrone cleared her throat, her cheeks reddening even further. “Well, maybe you should grow up faster and learn robotics with me, then.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she cringed internally. What did she just say? It did not help that Fifi stared at her as though she had understood every word—which she very clearly had not.

Damn it. This was exactly why Sandrone always found herself awkward around children. She was far too conscious of their responses, constantly acting as though they possessed enough intelligence to fully comprehend her words and intentions. Sometimes, she was almost jealous of Columbina, who seemed to operate mindlessly under the assumption that children were simple creatures easily entertained by exaggerated gestures and nonsense.

Sandrone was far too self-aware for that—essentially trapping within limitations of her own making.

“I mean...” She continued, almost rambling. “I reckon you have a good brain.” She glanced away. “As much as I hate to admit it, both of your fathers possess intelligence well beyond that of ordinary people. So you'll probably grow up to become either some cunning banker or a deranged scientist.”

Sandrone crossed her arms with a huff. “And frankly, I think it would be much better if you became a brilliant, innovative woman with an interest in robotics. Like me. I mean—” She gritted her teeth, annoyed by her own gesture.

“—I mean, I don't want you turning out like those stinky parents of yours. Everyone hates them.” She pointed a finger accusingly, voice rising in a panic. “—but I'm not doing you any favors, okay? Don't flatter yourself!”

Fifi merely blinked at her with innocent eyes. “I'm doing this to prevent another headache from appearing in my life,” she continued defensively. “In fact, it'd be even better if you didn't end up affiliated with the Fatui at all and just went off to pursue your own life!”

The tiny human responded by happily kicking her feet against Pulonia's arm, having understood absolutely none of it. Then, Fifi began flapping her arms toward Sandrone, chirping insistently, demanding to be held.

“Huh?” The Marionette crossed her arms. “I'm not holding you. You're far too much of a physical burden.”

Alas, Fifi's genetically-gifted little brain had apparently already detected the truth lurking beneath that cold, indifferent exterior. She persisted—babbling nonsense, reaching out with both hands, and shamelessly testing the limits of the short-tempered woman's patience. It certainly did not help that Pulonia intentionally extended Fifi toward his lady, seemingly entertained by the sight of the flustered puppet.

A series of mechanical hums vibrated from his frame, to which only Sandrone seemed capable of responding.

“Don't you start!” She snapped immediately. Another hum followed.

With a sharp huff, she reluctantly accepted the absurd request. Slowly, she took the squealing toddler into her arms. Just as she had expected, Fifi was heavy.

Sandrone nearly panicked the moment the weight settled against her. She was completely unaccustomed to holding babies, awkwardly shifting her grip while desperately trying to keep Fifi from slipping out of her arms.

At last, drawing upon memories of how Tartaglia and Capitano had carried her before, she awkwardly copied their posture. After several tense adjustments, she finally managed to secure Fifi against herself.

“Ew. You’re messy.” She sneered. “Pulonia, comb her hair.”

The meka turned toward the vanity table and retrieved a comb, crafted from the finest wood and fibers. Then, with controlled gentleness, his large iron hand reached for the girl's delicate curls, brushing through them with the same care he showed every day when tending to his lady.

“Fi—” She stopped, frowning. “I don’t like the name, do you?” It went unanswered, naturally. “It lacks meaning and purpose. Just derived from your middle name that, frankly, don’t really represent who you are either, right? It’s just telling us who your father is… ugh, such a narcissistic jerk!”

Meanwhile, Fifi’s busy hands once again occupied themselves with Sandrone's long side curls, happily running her tiny fingers through them. The woman, however, found herself unexpectedly caught up in contemplating the toddler's name—an entirely unnecessary activity considering it was not her responsibility to think about naming this child.

“Then… What should you call me? Aunt—” She cringed. “Auntie? Auntie Sandrone? Or… Auntie Ann? Hmm… that sounds sweet, but Ann isn’t my name, so…” She hummed. “Also, doesn’t ‘auntie’ sound old? Oh, but I am old…”

It was ironic, indeed. Here she was, pondering someone else's name while being a creature who herself possessed so little originality.

“Ugh, whatever.” Finally, she gave up, rolling her eyes lazily. “You can’t even talk yet. Why would I even bother...”

“Pfft!”

Every alarm in her body flared on at the sound—a noise she had been forced to grow familiar with over the years spent in the Palace. The chuckle, the idiotic little giggle that followed, and the immediate, uncanny presence that always lingered in the air whenever that woman entered a room.

Had Fifi not been clinging so dearly to her arm, Sandrone might have done something utterly deranged to ensure Columbina never opened her mouth about witnessing something she absolutely should not have seen in the first place.

As if her mechanical nature had seized control of her movements, her neck turned stiffly toward the source of the sound. That strange woman was standing in the doorway—which had somehow been left open. How long had she been standing there? More importantly, how had she managed to remain unnoticed by both Sandrone and Pulonia?

“Auntie Sandrone sounds nice.” The Third Harbinger offered her entirely unasked-for opinion, her light feet carrying her closer as she swayed through the air.

“Columbina.” One more push and Sandrone was genuinely going to explode. “What are you doing here?”

“Eh? Am I not allowed here?” Damselette smiled innocently. “I heard you talking to yourself, so I got curious~”

“Ever heard of knocking?!”

“I have.” The reply was far too calm for Sandrone’s liking. Then Columbina's nose twitched, catching an unusual scent. “But Sandrone, your room smells like oil. Is Pulonia leaking?”

Not even Sandrone could imagine how red her face must have been at that moment. She had completely forgotten that her skin still carried the heavy scent of machine oil. Fifi’s presence had distracted her so thoroughly that she had neglected to take the warm bath she had originally planned. Columbina had annoyed her not once, not twice, but three times already—and it had not even been six hours since the honey cake incident.

“Ugh! You’re so annoying!” She snapped, shoving Fifi back into Pulonia’s arms. “I hope you choke on your cake, you idiot!”

Without another word, Sandrone stomped into her bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her. A moment later, the sound of water filling the bathtub echoed from within, accompanied by the woman's incoherent, muffled grumbling.

All that remained in the room was Columbina, Pulonia, and... the apprehensive toddler.

Fifi's eyes carefully studied the seemingly innocent Harbinger standing before her. She felt uneasy in a way that left her frozen—not even capable of crying. All she could do was tighten her grip on Pulonia, instinctively trying to shield herself from whatever strange presence always seemed to surround the Damselette.

Columbina noticed it too. For a moment, she found herself torn between approaching the child and keeping her distance. In the end, she let out a defeated sigh and retreated to a corner of the room, curling up into a ball as she watched Fifi from afar with a visible sulk.

“Why are you scared of me...? You even let Scara hold you… but not me?”

She already knew the answer, not the solution. It wasn’t like Columbina could simply switch off the unsettling aura that seemed to seep from her existence, and it wasn't like Fifi could help her reaction either. Even someone as capable as Tartaglia had admitted to feeling uneasy around her at times, let alone a powerless child.

Columbina always felt as though she were floating—both literally and figuratively. Suspended somewhere between the web of her mysterious, restrained power and her current identity as a Harbinger. Some days, she wasn't even sure who she was supposed to be. What frustrated her most was the fact that she, who would never willingly harm a small and vulnerable creature, was so often perceived as a threat by their sensitive, instinctive senses.

As her sadness swelled, the Third tucked her face against her knees, seeking what little comfort she could find while trying not to upset Fifi any further—at least until Sandrone finished cleaning herself.

“Mmm... mmm... mmm....”

Without realizing it, she slipped into a habit of self-soothing, humming a haunting tune she had sung for centuries. A melody that always grounded her whenever she felt lost, isolated, or unwanted. The song drifted through the room. It was light, yet tinged with sorrow. A melody that seemed to yearn for both an ancient past and a distant future all at once.

As she gently rocked herself back and forth, Columbina surrendered to the comforting ritual she had long since made her own.

The song was only halfway through when Damselette felt something touch her head—or rather, the dove-like wings attached to her hair. At first, she assumed it was Sandrone, but that woman was never this gentle, let alone inclined to touch her unprompted.

The tune faltered as Columbina lifted her head and discovered the true culprit; Fifi.

The girl still looked hesitant, a trace of fear lingering beneath her curiosity even as she pushed herself closer to the singer. Whether it was simple stubbornness or curiosity getting the better of her, Fifi had reached out toward the wings adorning Columbina's hair, feeling the soft feathers beneath her tiny fingertips… Or perhaps the singing had soothed her enough to change her opinion of the woman.

Nevertheless, Columbina gave the wings a gentle flap. Fifi gasped in surprise and became even more fascinated. The faster the wings fluttered, the louder the toddler squealed, repeatedly reaching out in an attempt to catch the elusive feathers.

“Ah!” Columbina yelped when Fifi finally succeeded and tugged a little too hard, sending a sharp sting through her scalp. “That hurts...” She pouted.

The reaction made Fifi freeze. She stared at Columbina awkwardly, guilt flickering beneath her hesitant expression. But the Harbinger knew she hadn't meant any harm, and more importantly, this was not a moment to waste. Fifi had finally lowered her guard enough to approach her, despite the goosebumps and instinctive unease that still seemed to cling to her.

Columbina was hardly the type to pass up an opportunity to play with an adorable child. So, rather than dwelling on the pain, she simply flapped her wings again.

“Do you want to fly?” The toddler tilted her head, visibly intrigued. Columbina pointed toward her fluttering wings.

“Fly~ Like this...”

Fifi—despite carrying the bloodline of two madmen whose ambitions was to seek challenge to the gods and create miracles with their own hands—looked utterly bewildered when Columbina suddenly floated into the air, untouched by the pull of gravity that bound ordinary people.

She drifted around the room with effortless grace, bouncing lightly off the mattress, spinning through the air, and twirling in slow circles. Each movement earned another amazed gasp from the child, earning a soft laugh from the Damselette.

“See?” She spun once more before gliding closer. “It's fun.”

At last, she floated down in front of Fifi and extended a hand toward her, a gentle smile spreading across her face.

“Come on... Let's fly together.”

One, two, three, four... At least four people would reprimand her if they knew Columbina had taken Fifi outside, exposing her to the freezing, snow-covered landscape. 

Tartaglia would warn her about the possibility of Fifi catching a cold. Arlecchino would advise her not to be so careless. Signora would scold her outright. Capitano would probably offer a gentler reprimand… and that wasn't even counting her parents. Oh, and maybe Sandrone would scold her too. Then again, Sandrone was always angry at her, so there would hardly be any difference.

“Besides...” Columbina mumbled, glancing down at Fifi, whose cheeks had turned rosy from the cold yet still held a bright smile. “You don't feel too cold, do you?”

Earlier, she had stolen a thick scarf from Sandrone's wardrobe and wrapped it around Fifi's tiny body until she resembled a little cocoon. The girl was already wearing her fur coat, but an extra layer of warmth never hurt—especially considering they were about to be exposed to strong gusts of icy wind while flying.

Now, with Fifi secure in her arms, Columbina stood atop a hill overlooking the palace—a spot high enough to take flight without drawing too much attention from those below. The view stretched far into the distance; a lively city nestled beneath the snow, frozen lakes glimmering beneath the pale light, and bare deciduous trees standing like dark silhouettes against an endless blanket of white.

“Ready?” She asked softly, tucking Fifi more securely inside the Harbinger coat, nestling the toddler against the chest so that only her head peeked out, while the rest of her remained cocooned in warmth.

The response was none other than an excited nod and messy blabber resembling a ‘Yes!’

“One… two… three…!”

They left the ground in a smooth ascent, the hill shrinking beneath them as the wind rushed past. Fifi's eyes widened instantly, her tiny hands clutching Columbina's coat while an excited squeal escaped her lips. The cold air nipped at her flushed cheeks, but the thick scarf kept her snug and warm enough to enjoy the thrill of rising higher and higher.

From above, the world seemed impossibly vast. Fifi twisted her head from side to side, determined not to miss a single detail, her delighted gasps growing louder whenever a new sight revealed itself beneath them.

A strong gust swept around, making Columbina's coat flutter and sending loose strands of hair dancing through the air. Fifi burst into laughter at the sensation, reaching her hand toward the rushing wind like she could catch it. The cold stung her fingertips for only a moment before she pulled them back, giggling all the while as they soared across the winter sky together.

“Look!” Columbina pointed to the Palace of Zapolyarny.

She twirled around the massive star-shaped monument that crowned one of the palace towers, that glimmered beneath the pale winter sun. Fifi squealed at every sharp turn as the enormous structure seemed to spin around them. They weaved between spires and domes, passing close enough for Fifi to admire the intricate carvings buried beneath layers of frost

“Shh...” Columbina giggled conspiratorially, carrying her around another tower. Together, they circled the palace like mischievous doves, slipping through blind spots and hidden corners.

At last, she landed atop one of the palace roofs, throwing herself onto the blanket of snow and lying back against its soft, powdery surface. Cold, certainly—but it barely fazed her inhuman nature.

“Ahh... It’s been so long since I flew around the palace like this. It’s pretty tiring...” She huffed, gazing up at the orange-tinted sky.

Fifi crawled out from inside her coat. Columbina giggled when the toddler planted a kiss on her cheek before settling atop her chest, seeking warmth from the Harbinger’s neck. It seemed that the toddler had finally come to trust the woman completely, having grown accustomed to her strange powers.

“Fifi...” she called softly, one hand idly brushing through the girl's freezing black hair, tiny snowflakes still clinging to the strands.

“Fifi...” She repeated the name. Close, yet distant.

Distant. 

“Such a shame that you don’t know your true name yet...” She whispered, her other hand gently patting Fifi’s back and drawing her closer into the warmth. “...But isn’t that how things work here? Even among the Harbingers, some of us still carry our true names, while others simply don’t.” She took a deep breath. The fading sunlight cast a soft orange glow across her face.

“Columbina...” She murmured, rolling the name across her tongue. Familiar, yet bygone. “They call me Columbina, the Damselette... and people in my homeland call me Kuutar.” A short pause as she hummed the melody as before, soothing her gloomy feeling.

“Fortunate are the people who get to live under their own names.”

Fifi stirred, lifting her head to gaze at the saddened woman. Her tiny, ever-curious hands reached up and cupped Columbina’s cheeks, offering a comfort so small and delicate that it nearly broke her heart.

“...Bi... na...” The sound left her mouth as a trembling, barely coherent babble. Yet to Columbina’s ears, it was clearer than any spoken sentence. So clear, in fact, that her lips quivered as tears threatened to spill.

“...Bina...” This time it came out stronger. More aggressive, even—like she had decided that this name deserved to be spoken properly, pronouncing every syllable with effort.

Columbina swallowed hard and forced the tears back down. A small, trembling smile found its way onto her face.

“Yes, yes.” She laughed softly. “I suppose I’m Auntie Bina now, hm?” Her fingers gently brushed across Fifi’s delicate features. “Such a kind and beautiful girl you are. It’s a pity we don't meet often... It would be nice if I could visit your house more, but your fathers rarely allow me to.” She pouted, recalling the countless times she had asked both Dottore and Pantalone for permission to visit, only to be met with polite refusals and diplomatic excuses.

“Bina!” Fifi squealed, the name now rolling effortlessly off her tongue as she laughed freely. Columbina giggled in return, gently squeezing the toddler’s chubby cheeks, overflowing with affection.

“I hope, Fifi, that you receive your true name soon.” She pressed a kiss to the girl's forehead. “A name that belongs to you, and only you.”

“Columbina!”

A loud call echoed from below, and their playful escape came to an abrupt halt. The Harbinger immediately sat up, placing a finger against her lips in a quiet “shh!” gesture toward Fifi. She carefully peeked over the edge, just enough to see who had called them.

Sandrone? No, worse.

Signora. Standing in the palace forecourt with arms crossed.

“Ooops!” Columbina gasped, quickly retracting her head and looking at Fifi like they were spotted in a crime scene. “We’ve been caught!” She whispered.

Just as she moved to gather Fifi and escape elsewhere, Signora’s voice rang out again.

“Columbina. I know you’re there.” The Fair Lady’s eyes were fixed precisely on their hiding spot behind the palace architecture. “It’s been two hours since you went flying. It’s almost dark now. Fifi will catch a cold if you keep her outside any longer.”

“Two hours? No way!” Columbina shook her head in silent disbelief, unable to comprehend how time had slipped away so quickly. It had felt like only moments ago that Fifi had begun to relax in her arms, growing used to her presence.

Should she fly away again and slip back into the palace unnoticed? But that would only make things worse! Signora would be even more furious, and Columbina could hardly imagine Arlecchino stepping in to defend her (and Sandrone would likely laugh even louder). Worse still, Fifi’s cheeks were already flushed, and thin crystals of snow had begun to cling to her eyelashes.

With a reluctant sigh, she gave up. “Fine...” she muttered, pulling Fifi securely back into her arms before carefully leaping down.  

She landed gracefully in the palace forecourt, where Signora was already waiting with a blank yet disapproving expression.

“Hehe...” An awkward, sheepish smile was all Columbina could manage as Signora strode toward them and promptly whisked Fifi away from her arms. The Fair Lady’s hands immediately rose to cup the toddler’s cheeks, frowning at how cold they felt. Even Fifi’s teeth chattered faintly in response to the creeping chill.

“She liked it...” Columbina murmured, sounding very much like a child being scolded. “I mean... she really enjoyed flying with me, so...” Her fingers nervously intertwined behind her back. “Sorry... I should have been more mindful.”

Signora let out a long, weary sigh. She shook her head but offered no immediate reply. Instead, she adjusted Fifi more securely in her arms and turned toward the palace.

“Oh, you're freezing.”

Even inside the palace's empty dining room, where a grand fireplace in the corner bathed every piece of furniture in warmth, Fifi's body was still trembling. They had settled into a pair of chairs near the hearth, close enough to feel the heat against their skin.

Signora brushed the dusting of snow from the girl's coat and hair before instructing a servant to prepare a small cup of hot chocolate.

Then she placed both palms against Fifi's cheeks, enveloping them in her warmth—a faint trace of the Crimson Witch of Flames still residing deep within her. This time, the heat didn’t burn—carrying none of the vengeance or grief that had once consumed her. Instead, it was gentle and careful, nothing like the harsh, imposing woman the world believed her to be.

Signora looked deeply into the girl's eyes, yet it was not Fifi she truly saw—it was a life stolen from her long ago.

A future she and her better half could never have. Hopes buried beneath thousands of swords.

And perhaps, in that frail moment, that little girl was the only living soul to witness the fragile sorrow hidden within Rosalyne's eyes. A sight that had never—never—been seen by anyone else except herself, and him.

The warmth gradually seeped into Fifi's skin. Her teeth stopped chattering, and the tension left her body as the excitement of the afternoon finally began to fade. When she eventually smiled and resumed her endless stream of babbling, Signora let out an amused laugh. “Quite a chatty little person, aren't you?”

Knock! Knock!

The sound drew both of their attention toward the door. The softness in Signora's gaze faded, replaced by her usual firmness as she looked toward Arlecchino standing at the threshold, carrying a tray.

Signora cleared her throat and withdrew her hands from Fifi's cheeks as Arlecchino approached the table and set the tray down between them. A small cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream for Fifi, and two plain and regular cups for the women.

“Tartaglia is going to throw a fit if he learns you've given her another sugary treat.” She teased, taking a seat across from them and reached for her cup.

Signora smirked, rolling her eyes dismissively. “That boy? Tch. He's always been insufferable. Overly naïve yet always acting like he knows it all.”

The ceramic cup clinked softly as the blonde dipped a small spoon into its creamy contents. She scooped up a spoonful of chocolate topped with whipped cream and held it out for Fifi. The girl immediately accepted it with a pleased hum as the rich sweetness melted on her tongue, her little feet kicking happily in the air.

“Not quite fond of children, are you?”

Arlecchino chuckled, her gaze drifting toward Signora's untouched cup of chocolate. “You're speaking to the head of an orphanage, mind you.” The only response she received was a small, satisfied laugh. “But perhaps you're right, I appreciate their innocent and joyous presence, but personally tending to them isn't exactly my virtue. We have nannies around every corner in the House of the Hearth for that reason.”

“...You love them. That's what matters.”

The sharp red gleam of Arlecchino's eyes softened. “Indeed.”

For a brief, sweet moment, Arlecchino simply watched the pair before her. While Signora remained wholly occupied with feeding Fifi, the Knave found herself pushed to the edge of the scene. Yet she did not mind in the slightest, content to let the child and her caretaker occupy the spotlight.

She was a busy Harbinger now. Although Fontaine remained her primary domain of operation, her schedule rarely allowed for intimate moments with her children—let alone something as simple and precious as feeding them by hand. Then again, who was there left to feed? The children had grown. Every year they became a little older, a little more independent, continuing to mature while she was away attending to her duties. Attempting to spoon-feed them now would only earn her horrified embarrassment in return.

She bit her lips, preventing a laugh to escape. The mental image of Lynette pouting in mortification while being hand-fed was strangely amusing.

Yet, as she watched Signora radiating a happiness she rarely allowed herself to display, Arlecchino realized that it was never really about the act of feeding; it was about the expression on Signora's face—the one she seldom showed. Even as one of her closest comrades, Arlecchino had never truly been able to reach the deepest layers of the woman's burning grief. Nor did her sharp eyes miss the way Signora's cold, pale gaze softened every time it settled on Fifi.

Such a tragic woman she was, for the world had never once been kind to her.

“May I take a photo?”

“You—what?”

The feeding came to an immediate halt as Signora whipped her head toward the other woman, only to find an unfamiliar device in her hands–-a blocky, rectangular object with two round lenses attached to its front. 

“What is that?”

“A Kamera.” Arlecchino replied, smiling faintly. “Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet rarely visit Snezhnaya, and they've always been curious about the scenery here. So they gave me a kamera to capture anything I consider worthy of being frozen in time… and remembered for years to come.”

She placed the device on the table, allowing both of them to observe its peculiar shape thoroughly. “I believe they would be happy to know Fifi. So, until they can come to Snezhnaya and meet her themselves, let the photo serve as an introduction.”

Signora glanced down at Fifi, whose mouth was now smeared with traces of chocolate and cream. She grabbed several tissues and gently dabbed at the girl's cheeks and lips, wiping away the mess. Then she straightened the folds of Fifi's coat and adjusted her scarf.

“There. She's ready.”

“Rosalyne,” Arlecchino couldn't help but laugh softly. “I meant both of you.”

“Hm?” Signora looked genuinely taken aback. “I fail to see any reason why I should be included in the photo.”

“The children miss you. I reckon that's reason enough.” The kamera was now secure in Arlecchino's hands as she adjusted several settings Lyney had patiently taught her to use. “You haven't visited them in quite some time, have you?”

“Tch.” Crossing her arms, Signora tapped her fingers against her gloves and stared sharply at the lens. “Why are they suddenly missing me, hm? Or is it my gift they truly care about?”

A soft mechanical click sounded as Arlecchino adjusted the focus, searching for an angle that captured both the grumpy woman and the toddler happily back to sipping her hot chocolate on her own.

“Both, perhaps.” She replied. “Lynette said she loves the dresses you bought for her and wanted to show you how they look on her, and Freminet is still grateful for the new diving equipment you gave him.”

“Sounds like a group of overly spoiled children to me. You should raise them better.” Every word was injected with venom… at least, that was what she thought she sounded like, ignoring the faint redness creeping onto the tips of her ears.

“Mmhmm.” The only response was a simple, melodic hum. Somehow, though, that irritated Signora even more, for it implied that the discussion had already been settled, as if Arlecchino saw no point in arguing further.

At last, the Kamera was ready. The brightness, focus, and framing had all been adjusted to her satisfaction. Arlecchino's slender finger hovered over the shutter button, ready to preserve a single moment in time. She raised the lens toward them.

While Fifi stared curiously at the strange device, Signora remained seated with her arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the Fourth's sudden request and persistence.

“Could you make Fifi smile at the Kamera?” Even now, Arlecchino pressed her luck. “...Please?”

The Fair Lady clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. Nevertheless, she reached over and lifted Fifi onto her lap. Her expression softened almost immediately as she looked down at the girl. She pointed toward the round lens of the Kamera, encouraging Fifi to look directly at it.

Then she pressed a kiss to the toddler's cheek and gently nuzzled the chubby curve of her neck. A ticklish giggle burst from Fifi as her small lips stretched wide.

At the sound of her laughter—and at the exact moment Arlecchino pressed the shutter—a small, almost imperceptible smile touched Signora's lips.

Click!

“What seems to be occupying your mind today, Doctor? You hardly paid attention during our checkup earlier.” 

By now, the moon had risen above Snezhnaya's skies, casting a distant serenity that bordered on gloom. The palace glowed beneath the warm grandeur of countless chandeliers illuminating every floor. Yet despite the light, the atmosphere remained as it always was—quiet, still, steeped in cold silence.

Two pairs of polished shoes thudded softly against the carpet as the men ascended from the underground laboratory. Dottore spared his husband no response, which only seemed to amuse Pantalone further.

“What amusing creatures we are, hm, Zandik?” He mused. “For all the things we've built from nothing with our own hands—you with your grand experiments, and I with the masterplan behind Snezhnaya's economy—we still managed to fail at something as mundane as giving our lovely daughter a name.”

“Oh, don't drag me down to your level.” The Second Harbinger jeered. “This wouldn't even be a problem if you'd simply let me exercise some creativity with her name. But no—you refuse to let your long-suffering husband enjoy a single victory for once, do you?”

“I'm not sabotaging you, Zandik. You're sabotaging yourself.” Pantalone adjusted his rings with elegance. “Your inability to negotiate with me is hardly my problem.”

An irritated click of the tongue answered him. Followed, of course, by the banker's entertained laughter.

“I am being serious here, Feofan.” They climbed the first staircase leading toward the palace's main floor, where the grand hall awaited above. “We've delayed her name for long enough. Far too long, in fact.” Dottore's voice lowered slightly. “Signora was right earlier. We've become so consumed by our own concerns that we've forgotten there's an entire child carrying our blood who still remains unnamed.”

This time, Pantalone's smile faltered. His eyes widened ever so slightly, revealing a muted violet beneath their usual composure.

“I know,” He whispered. “I just don't want us to throw a meaningless name at her. But at the same time, I don't want her name to become a burden or a bad omen—not like yours or mine.”

“Then what kind of name do you want for her?” Dottore drew in a slow, sharp breath through his gritted teeth. “Isn't being the daughter of Feofan a burden enough?”

“Hardly.” Pantalone slowed his pace, closing what little distance remained between them and forcing both of them to abandon their hurried stride. “It's an acceptance. Whatever happens to me or to her, we remain bound by blood. I remain her father, and she remains my daughter.” His gaze softened. “She's the daughter of Feofan—not Pantalone, not the Regrator.”

“Hmph.” Dottore looked away. “Suit yourself. Just remember that time isn't going to wait for either of us.”

Together, they came to a stop before the grand wooden double doors leading into the main hall. With a single push, the doors swung open, revealing a largely empty space. Then again, the Harbingers rarely stepped foot in the hall unless a meeting was being held.

By now, the clock was nearing eleven in the evening—already an hour past Fifi's bedtime. The most likely assumption was that she had fallen asleep in Tartaglia's quarters. After all, the Eleventh was perhaps the only Harbinger with both the free time and the patience required to deal with a cranky toddler before bed.

That assumption, however, proved wrong almost immediately. Tartaglia himself emerged into the hall, a cup of black coffee in hand. Judging by his direction, he seemed to be on his way outside when he crossed paths with the two men in the centre of the corridor.

“Oh, hey.” He greeted them casually before taking a brief sip. “You guys took longer than I thought.”

“Where's Fifi?” Dottore wasted no time getting to the point. Both men were already exhausted, mentally and physically worn down by the surgery and the endless problem of their daughter's name.

Tartaglia shrugged. “No idea. I offered to let her sleep in my room, but she wanted to stay with Capitano instead. Maybe they're in the library on the second floor? I mean, that's usually where the Captain spends his nights.”

“I see.” A small, grateful smile appeared on Pantalone's face. “Allow us to express our gratitude for—”

Tartaglia immediately raised a finger, cutting him off. A grin spread across his youthful, boyish face. “How about expressing that gratitude by increasing my allowance instead?”

“Haha.” A polite, perfectly filtered laugh escaped the banker. “Such a cunning young man you are, Mr. Tartaglia. Very well, considering how wonderful you've been to our beloved daughter, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to increase it a little.”

“Nice, man.” Tartaglia bumped his fist lightly against Pantalone's arm as he walked past them. “Have a good night, then. Tell Fifi I love her.”

“Likewise.”

With that, they continued toward the grand staircase leading to the palace's second floor, where most of the Harbingers' quarters were located, alongside the library, private studies, and countless other rooms tailored to their needs. Most of the Harbingers resided within the palace itself. Others, like the husbands, preferred the luxury of privacy, and Fifi's arrival had only strengthened that preference.

They chose to live in Pantalone's estate near the palace, close enough to fulfill their duties without sacrificing precious time with their growing daughter, who still required constant care and attention. On quieter days, when their workload was manageable, they often worked from home instead.

Knock. Knock.

Dottore rapped his knuckles against the library door before pushing it open, not bothering to wait for a response.

Beneath the room's dim lighting, Capitano sat upon a sofa. His posture was straight yet relaxed.

Fifi slept soundly across his broad lap, a small pillow tucked beneath her head and a thick blanket draped over her body. She had already been changed into her pajamas earlier that evening. Her breathing was slow and steady, unconsciously matching the calm rhythm of the Captain's own breaths—the same rhythm that had accompanied the lullaby he had hummed to her not long ago.

The two men entered quietly, careful not to disturb the sleeping child. Pantalone offered a small nod of acknowledgment. Capitano did not return it immediately, though neither of them doubted he was awake. That man never seemed to sleep… or perhaps, he simply could not. More likely, he was remaining perfectly still—and speaking as little as possible—to avoid waking Fifi. Earlier, she had struggled to fall asleep, crying and searching for her parents long before bedtime.

Moving with gentleness he never showed to the world, Dottore carefully lifted her from the Captain's lap. Even so, the change startled her. Her eyes fluttered open, and her body jolted as another bout of tears was about to emerge. That was, until she realized who was holding her.

“Shhh...” Dottore's voice softened. He guided her face against his shoulder and gently patted her back, slowly rocking her in his arms. The familiar scent of her fathers, combined with the warmth surrounding her small body, quickly soothed her distress as her eyelids drooped once more.

He quietly left the library first.

Pantalone stayed behind for a moment longer. A warm, genuine smile rested upon his face as he looked toward the unmoving Captain. Though he could not see the man's expression beneath the helmet, he could almost feel the weight of Capitano's gaze resting upon him.

Then Pantalone inclined his head, followed by a small, respectful bow, before turning to follow after his family.

“Thank you for your service, Captain. May you have a peaceful night.”

Only then did he leave, the library door closing softly behind him.

In the center of the king-sized bed, Fifi was sleeping soundly.

On either side of her were her fathers.

The room was dark and warm. The clock had long passed midnight, yet neither of them could sleep. Their thoughts remained restless, circling the same unresolved thing they had discussed and argued for months.

Another day had passed with their daughter still remaining nameless. Another day had passed revealing, once again, how fragile their certainty truly was when it came to something as simple—yet as absolute—as identity.

Silence settled over the room, with only Fifi’s soft breathing filled it instead.

“We’re running out of time.” Zandik said at last, whispering.

“How many times do you have to say that?” Feofan murmured. His hand moved through Fifi’s hair whose texture mimicked his own, smoothing it gently, twirling his fingers on her beautiful curls. “Every name I consider feels like it belongs to someone else… They felt unsuitable.” He continued.

“That’s because you’re trying to make it perfect.” Zandik replied. “There is no perfect name.”

His husband gave a bitter, humorless exhale. “Then what are we even looking for?”

Neither of them answered that immediately. Outside, snow continued to fall against the window in slow, constant sheets, dulling the world beyond the glass.

“Actually…” The doctor exhaled a sharp breath. “…I do have yet another idea for her name.”

“What a coincidence.” Feofan chuckled. “Me too.”

Both men turned toward each other, their gazes locking in the darkness that filled the room. In their eyes burned frustration for their own stubbornness, yet beneath it lay an immense care for their lovechild.

Tomorrow, they would bring their ideas to the table once again. They would discuss them for hours, as they always did. They would argue, as they always did. Then one of them would inevitably step outside to smoke, while the other buried himself in work or an overly erratic experiment, trying to outlast the tension in their own way.

The process would be filled with uncertainty. Yet, there was one thing that would not be repeated.

By tomorrow, they would not call her by that shortened middle name again. By tomorrow, before the day ended, Fifi would no longer be the name used to refer to the daughter of Feofan and Zandik.

Whatever her name would be when it was finally revealed, one thing was certain; it would remain untainted, faithfully hers alone.