Bejewel

[Eurydice]

((Title may or may not be temporary. Also, although it is a story for Lenore, she isn't actually showing up until the fourth or fifth chapter/subsection of this story, which will be, if all goes according to plan, about eight chapters/subsections long.

Also, apologies for the crappy icon, but I don't have a proper Lenore icon yet. The drawing I did for the icon below is okay, but cropped and shrunk down to icon size, it sorta looks less like a mask and more like she has a moustache. Ah well.))

Marielle Swinton eyed the two men standing in front of her. She was short, slender of frame, swift of mind, and not much of a believer in the virtues of physical strength. The two men were tall and broad, one ugly and one fair, and both clearly subscribed to the opposite dogma.

She licked her lips. It was her first visit to the East, and hopelessly turned around, almost since first stepping off the boat, she'd somehow found herself in the lower end of a working class district in town. Now, she had only wished to stop in at an open establishment wherein she might find directions to her final destination; she'd selected the well-lit, moderately populated inn on the cleanest corner she'd passed in the last half hour. It should have been the best she could come up with, on short notice. Instead, she stepped over the threshold to find the entirety of the bar's male population eyeing her with undisguised appraisal.

"I'm not looking for trouble," she said again calmly. "If someone could just help me with directions, I'll be on my way, and you can be back to swilling whatever it is that you imbeciles imbibe here."

The ugly man chuckled. "Lotta fancy words there, m'lady. Naught but simple tradesmen here."

"You talk funny," added the fair man.

"And not just your words, neither." The two didn't advance towards her, but Marielle felt herself pull back slightly, as if they had done so. "You're from the other side of the river, eh? Mightn't want to advertise that so much, m'lady; not everyone finds your talking so pretty." He winked. "Lucky for you, I do, though."

Marielle didn't blush. She didn't believe in blushing. "Can you give me directions or no?"

Someone spoke up from another table. "Where was it you needed to go, miss?"

"The Emerald Eye. It's on the corner of Marksman and Merriweather, I'm told."

The fair man giggled. "You got turned around real bad, lady."

"Alright," she said, her teeth grinding. "Does that mean you can direct me there?"

The ugly man crossed his arms and gave her a very frank, direct look; if she hadn't been tired, sweaty, and cranky after a long day's travel, Marielle might have given him some credit for being relatively up front. She was, though, so she didn't. "That all depends, m'lady; it don't stand to benefit us in any way right now. Would you want to offer something in return?"

Marielle said nothing. She turned on her heel and calmly stepped outside again.

There had been a little inn four and a half blocks back; she'd try there next. She had no intention of heading further into this part of the city after this encounter. Pushing the little fly-away strands of hair back behind her ears, towards the knot of chestnut hair that was rapidly unwinding into entropy, she started to the left.

Fingers thick as sausage links clamped down on her shoulders, thrust her forward a half dozen paces and into a black alley. She did not scream. Breath tickled her face. "That were a bitch thing to do," said a voice that sounded like the fair man.

Ugly was right beside him, or so it sounded. "What my friend here means to say," said Ugly, his tone still earnest, straightforward, and without a trace of intending to relent, "was that you've put us in a bit of a pickle. See, you most definitely slighted us, and in front of all our mates. Makes us look bad to them. We can't go around calling ourselves men if we allow little foreign ladies, pretty as they may be, to put us down. You see why this is a problem, aye?"

Cold, solid wall pressed her from one side as the fair man's grim fingers pressed her from the other. "And when I say this is a problem," whispered the ugly man, his hot, pungent breath close on her face, "I mean this is a problem for you. I got no right problem with what happens next, m'lady." His fingers, more dextrous than his friend's, swam forward, slippery with spilled ale, and tugged at the waist of her skirt.

She couldn't help it; no one could see her, in the pitch of the shadows, but her face burned with unexpected, unaccustomed shame. She whimpered.

Ugly grinned; she could feel it, he was so close. And then, without any more warning than a quick rush of air, there was open space in front of her again, and a third pair of hands, slender fingers and smooth palms, dragged her back out into the street. It was one of the other patrons from the inn. "Forgive my speaking so bluntly, lady, but if you're going to storm into a room full of rowdy drunks, go all ice queen on them, and expect to walk out in one piece, you're the imbecile here."

Marielle's jaw dropped. She'd intended to thank the man, until he'd opened his mouth. "Now, wait half a minute—" she began, but her rescuer let out a yelp of surprise and gave her a swift shove off to one side, towards a convenient pile of crates, sending her tumbling. Bowled over, she heard Ugly and his friend spewing profanities, followed by the third man making a couple empty threats, and then he was cut off; fists hit soft flesh, the noise of the pummeling steady as a drum roll. Finally, she heard one of the assailants spit. The sounds of onslaught ceased.

From behind the crates, which, this close, smelled strongly of fresh fish, Marielle risked a glance out from her cover; her rescuer was propped against the cold, solid wall in something resembling an upright position, coughing half-heartedly. She stood hastily and brushed herself off as best she could. There was a thin but fairly steady stream of pedestrians on both sides of the road, and none of them seemed to find these events in front of the inn at all out of the ordinary; the most they reacted was to move to the other side of the street so as to avoid the scuffle. Even inside, the inn seemed to have settled back down to relative calm.

Kneeling by slouched figure, she took him in more fully, for she had not had much time to look when he had yanked her out of the alley. Despite his folded limbs, he looked to be tall, of average looks and build. Nothing about his appearance stood out, beyond the bright blue eyes that peered out from under a mop of curly black hair, eyes that were currently staring dully at the sidewalk as they re-educated themselves on the process of focusing.

She had noted his hands before, smooth and thin; he was no rough tradesman, yet he got on well with the crowd. It was very curious.

He did not seem to be badly hurt, at least, only painfully. "Can you stand?" she asked, touching his shoulder with a tentative hand.

The man nodded, groaning through gritted teeth, and extended an arm. Too small to be much easy support, Marielle did the best she could, letting him lean on her heavily, doubled over as he was, to make up the difference between them. He stank of dirt and drink. Secretly, Marielle would have liked nothing better than to kick him back into the inn and run for it, but the other two men had rattled her badly; despite his absolute failure in making a stand, the man had stood between her and harm. She had been called ice queen before, but Marielle was as susceptible to the power of guilt as the next person. "Which way?" she asked.

He pointed. "Right at the next corner, and then straight— take it easy, damn you! I've only got one ribcage!"

"Would you rather get there yourself?" she asked coldly.

"Might as well, you're too damned short to be much use to me anyway... sweet Ifane, my kneecaps are going to have something to say tomorrow morning..."

Marielle glared, but she certainly wasn't going to abandon him now. She wouldn't give him the pleasure of being able to bemoan the troubles he got for rescuing an ungrateful bitch who wouldn't even help him back to his home. She held her tongue and let him whine; he'd earned the right, more or less, and he wasn't worth the minscule amount of mental effort that it would take to come up with retorts.

The trip was mercifully short, and it swung them back into the wealthier commercial district, much to Marielle's relief. Her rescuer called a halt in front of a darkened store front. "I'm in the apartment above. If you want to crash here for the night— oh, don't look at me like that, I'll sleep on couch— I can take you to the Eye in the morning."

Glancing at the large store window, Marielle gasped; the display area was decorated with intricate cuts of jewels, almost black in the cloudy dark. Gold lettering on the double door proclaimed the place to be Heaven's Gate, under the management of a Master Erraeon Gabriel.

The man smirked. "You like the pretties, huh?"

She leaned in for a closer look, her nose on the glass. "I'm surprised Master Gabriel leaves the 'pretties' out for all to see, when he's elsewhere. Isn't this dangerous, having the wares out unprotected at night?"

"Not unprotected; a mage friend of mine has some slick enchantments that he puts on the place for me after dark. I wouldn't be turning a profit otherwise."

Marielle raised an eyebrow. "This business is yours?"

"Damn straight. Erraeon Gabriel, at your service; I'd bow or something, but my body doesn't want to." He finished fiddling with a key ring and opened the door to the left of the shop. "Now. You can help me up the stairs. I need to sleep off the headache I'm gonna have tomorrow, especially if I'm stuck on the couch for the night, so let's get moving."

She gritted her teeth.

The apartment was sparse but clean; the bed was a square mattress in a corner of the smaller room. Kicking at the stiff, coarse sheets, Marielle scowled. Her small, neatly-packed bag sat at the foot of the mattress and rocked slightly as she kicked. This trip was off to a pathetic start— first ignored, then molested, and finally rescued by a self-centered, unpleasant, amateur jewelry salesman. It really was too ridiculous to be believed. Eyes closed, she set about dreaming of the coming morning, in which she might be on her merry way and be out of Erraeon Gabriel's life forever.

[Eurydice]

Erraeon tilted back a mugful of ale and watched with amusement as Marielle fiddled with the strange-looking spectacles that she had produced from her pack. Several lenses, stacked in a weird gradation of size and thickness, sat stacked against each other, to be swung down to the eye one by one or in combinations. The object of the woman's attention was a tiny, perfect crystal, resting in a bed of soft black cloth.

Listening to her fuss with the lenses, Erraeon smiled lopsidedly. He'd had every intention of booting her out, the morning after their unfortunate meeting, but a chance comment about the nature of craftsmanship and selection of jewels turned into a lecture on the varying physical properties of his wares, which crystals and precious stones were structured in what way, and how those structures came to pass. Marielle, despite being a frigid bitch, was terrifyingly clever, and the discussion left both of them immensely pleased and terribly confused as to how it could have happened.

She caught him in a sideways glance. "I still don't understand how you can possibly get any work done drunk."

"That," he said, wagging the mug at her admonishingly, "is because you haven't had enough to truly appreciate the perspective."

"I've had two already!" she exclaimed.

"Sure, but over three hours. That doesn't count."

She folded her arms and went back to scrutinizing the crystal. "You, sir, are a madman."

"And you, lady, are chickening out." He grinned. "Or shall I get you another?"

Without looking up, she thrust her mug at him. She didn't really want more, and she certainly didn't expect it to help clear her mind on the matter in front of her, but she had no intention of letting him come away from this conversation victorious. Erraeon chuckled and retreated to the little sideboard, pouring over the mugs while Marielle pored over the tiny gem. It was exquisite, perfection itself, glorious, stark, beautiful symmetry. Its tug on her was almost erotic.

The full mug set down solidly beside her. "Now this," Erreaon said, "you are not going to sip. You're drinking this like a man."

"Am I now?" she asked wryly.

"You are. 'Cause you want to impress me."

Marielle laughed. "Well. What's drinking it 'like a man'?"

Erraeon threw his drink back for a long, stolid chug. When he finally lowered the mug, there was a thin line of foam on his upper lip; he wiped it away with the back of his hand and looked at her expectantly. She raised an eyebrow and, with calm countenance, followed suit. It seared her throat almost unbearably, but she clenched her slender hand and gulped; the vessel empty and lowered, she gave Erraeon a defiant, triumphant look before exploding into little coughs.

He laughed heartily and slapped her on the back. "Alright. You've impressed me. And careful," he added, quickly steering her away from the table. "I don't want you spitting on the pretties."

She took that to heart, turning her coughs away from the tray of gems. "It's so strong," she wheezed, laughing in spite of herself.

"Not all that strong," Erraeon said with a grin.

"Well, I usually have just a glass of wine with dinner, if that!"

He retreated back to the sideboard and selected a different bottle, pouring only an inch or two. "You want strong, this is the good stuff. Goes down smooth right until the punch at the end, so you'll want to make it quick."

"I am not going to—"

"Cheers!"

They drank. Marielle hiccuped and made a face. "That is absolutely foul."

"You'll get used to the taste."

"No!" She stalked over to the sideboard and set her mug down. "No more! I want to finish looking at that tray of Trarchan crystals before you start working with them tomorrow..."

"Oh, for the love of Ifane..." Erraeon watched the little woman wend back to the table by the window. Outside, the bright moon was riding high in its arc across the midnight sky. Erraeon didn't like moving his merchandise out of the store and back workroom, so he and Marielle had spent the last four days in the workroom after hours. He knew he was losing some productivity, with the amount of time he was spending with her, but most of his clients knew him for his somewhat erratic nature and rarely expected to get their orders on time anyway, so to hell with them, he thought. Anyway, this had proven to be an extremely entertaining diversion.

He could as much as see the alcohol starting to hit her more fully as she fumbled with the spectacles. "You're not going to get much more done tonight, lady," he said dryly.

She scowled. She had made it clear, from the get go, that she didn't like his calling her "lady," which of course meant that he called her that whenever he remembered to do so. "Was that another challenge?" she asked dourly.

Another laugh, but this one was just barely more gentle. "No. I don't want you messing up your fancy glasses; I'd never hear the end of it.

Marielle harrumphed and rotated on the little stool until she was facing him again. "Then I still don't see how you can work like this."

"Ah, it's a matter of practice and constitution, not to mention a great deal of dedication." He wrinkled his brow at her with a mock studious gaze. "Not just anyone can get himself into the heights of genius that quality spirits will grant, no sir, not just anyone at all. Drink too little, and there's too little inspiration to yield anything; too much, and it overwhelms your efforts. But at just the right point..." He gestured emphatically with his mug. "...at that wonderful point when the haze around your head crystalizes, magic happens, and you can see through to... well. What you were looking for, whatever that may be."

She hiccuped a giggle. "You're absolutely terrible at being poetic."

"I've no more practice at it than you have at being drunk," he grinned.

Her tired fingers scratched at her muddled head as she spoke. "You should, though. You have these magnificent pieces of natural art, these physical embodiments of utter perfection, to play with every day, make your own. No matter how much work you put into it, there's a hundredfold more done by the gems and crystals simply being their intricate, flawless selves; you don't even have to try to make them things of beauty, they just are... and you get to just bask in that, all day, every day..."

Erraeon smiled faintly. "If you say so. I just think I take pretty things and put them with other pretty things."

"You, sir—" she began, getting up and starting for him playfully, but her knees protested at being put to use again so suddenly.

Erraeon darted forward to steady her as she swayed, chortling. "Easy, easy, lady."

Her eyes wavered lazily on him as she took stock of herself. "Mmm. 'san odd feeling alright."

"Yes, good good... think you can make it up the stairs? I can't have strange foreign ladies just sleeping out in my shop; it'd look a mite strange."

She giggle-hiccuped again. "Lead the way, Master Gabriel; I will follow."

Shaking his head, they started up. Aside fromt he initial instability, she seemed to be keeping herself upright just fine. True, she hadn't partaken in nearly as much as he had this evening, but she was a slender little thing, and with no practice at this at all; he'd expect more out of her, if he had anything to say about it.

Marielle yelped slightly as her foot missed the stair; Erraeon swayed slightly himself as he bounded forward to catch her weight, his long arms supporting her. "Easy!" He drew her back, solidly to her feet. She smelled tangy, if there was such a thing in smells; she smelled sweet and sour, as he rushed to catch her, like a ripe citrus fruit, but mixed with the pungent spirits on her hot breath.

He lifted her up to the step above and, without waiting for the moment to progress or go somewhere else, kissed her, hard and earnest.

She drew back with a little shriek. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Erm." He withdrew slightly. "I think I was kissing you passionately."

"You have no right," she said, tottering the rest of the way up the stairs and rounding on him as soon as he had joined her. "You've given me aid, certainly, and didn't even ask money for it, but that does not mean you get to make inappropriate advances! Honestly!"

Erraeon let his head thud against the wall. "Calm down, for Ifane's sake! It's not an 'inappropriate advance,' it's—"

"Oh, it's not?! You don't get to make that call!"

"We've spent the last four days practically inseperable! We have long, profound discussions late into the night, and I saved your life, thank you very much!"

"And that gives you the right?!"

"Well, no..." Erraeon gritted his teeth. "But we have a... well, a thing going on between us."

"A thing, what thing?"

"A connection! I don't know! Gems and crystals, it means something to us, doesn't it? We share that, don't we? That's not just... that means something!"

"You are a presumptuous pig."

"And you are a frigid bitch."

Erraeon exhaled, sharp and heavy. He had acted without thinking when he kissed her before. He acted without thinking now when he kissed her again; only this time, her face met his, force for force, like twin waves colliding, conmingling, and their lips, still heavy with potent ale, bruised each other, taking their greedy fill and surrendering nothing.

Marielle broke off long enough to stare up into the brilliant eyes set in his simple-featured face. She was always cool, calculating, precise, never the wrong action or word at the wrong time. But the swimming in her head was delicious, and it gave her an excuse to do something stupid, so she leapt up, knowing he would catch her as she locked her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist.

Lips and tongues warring, Erraeon bore her into the bedroom, and they descended on the mattress.

[Eurydice]

The last little patch of customers safely out the door, Erraeon hung the "Closed for the evening" sign in the window, humming quietly as he went to pour himself what would be the first of many drinks for the evening. It was, after all, a work night, and working sober was just silly.

It was nearly a month, now, since Marielle had flitted back out of his life. The two weeks they'd spent together had been glorious, but not so much as to tempt a dedicated young woman away from her all-important work.

He shook his head. She hadn't even said goodbye to him, no properly, anyway, just one last night of sweat and tangling limbs, and the next morning, she was gone on the dawn ferry before he was even awake. Strange creature, she was. He missed her more than he liked to admit. Oh, of course, he could have girls if he wanted, probably for no more than the price of a drink and a wistful smile, but he just wanted her. Unfortunately sentimental of him, it was.

Erreaon spent an hour or two nursing his drinks and fiddling with a commission for the mayor's daughter, a delicate ruby ring. The gem never just yielded up its full, perfect potential on its own— it had to be wheedled, cajoled, seduced into behaving. Erraeon muttered softly over the miniscule movements of his seduction. The mayor's daughter was a pretty girl, but ultimately, she was fairly crass, boorish. She said she wanted the ring to be simple, refined; what she really wanted, he suspected, was to have something gaudy and obvious that she could show off. Erraeon knew his customers, and since they were always right, the commissions they made were rarely art, but simply the answer to their demands.

Art was what he save for his pet projects. Setting aside the ring for the night, he took out a tiny, perfect miniature of a river dragon, done in perfect little scales of emerald and sapphire. She was almost done— he fancied her a she— and then she would grace his little display case until he was up to parting with her, at which time he would sell her to one of his art collector friends, someone who would appreciate her subtlety. He still needed a name for her; never was much good with dragon names. Too much rigid structure! How on earth could one come up with a pleasant sounding name if it had to fit form, to the letter?

A feverish sweat had started to bead on his temple, partially from the warm night air, partially from the ale, but mostly from the memory of that parting night four weeks ago. He had always found his craft, the precise interaction of fingers with tools and rough material, to be slightly erotic, and on top of that, the drink made him maudlin, so his unconscious really didn't have a choice.

His mind wandered, and he let letters drift together experimentally. Lelanaere, maybe? Something with a diphthong in it. He held up the little bejeweled creature in his palm, frowning at it. Maybe something different as the first pallindrome; he liked the last two thirds, though. "We need to get you a name," he muttered to her.

Erraeon rubbed his eyes; he was slurring his words more than he should have been doing. Maybe the last drink had been one too many. It was always a difficult balance to strike, between sobriety and madness. At any rate, tonight's bout of productivity was as good as over. Patting the dragon on the head with a gentle index finger, he tidied up his work bench, polishing the pieces with a soft cloth before setting them safely into little compartments of his "in-progress" drawer.

There was the rough sound at the door out front, followed by a sharp rapping. "We're very, very closed," he called tiredly, ambling towards the front to see what fool customer wanted in. His hand hit the doorframe as his jaw hit the floor. It was Marielle.

He practically yanked the door off its hinges. "Mar, what in the goddess' name...!"

She looked pale and breathless, but her expression was the same rigid study in composure. "You're going to marry me, Erraeon Gabriel."

Bursting with laughter, Erraeon pulled her in for a fierce embrace. "Ohhh, 'course I am, my Mar... God, it's good to see you. Why did you come back?"

Her voice was icy, even as she accepted the embrace. "Because I'm carrying your child, and I will not have it born without a father."

Erraeon blinked hard, but when he pulled away, stroking her cool cheek, her expression was deadly serious. "You... you're going to... a baby?"

She looked hard at him, seemingly oblivious to the torrent of conflicting emotions dancing across Erraeon's features, merely waiting until he was finished gawking. "Yes. A baby. Your baby. So you see, we ought to marry as soon as it can be arranged, and I'll stay here until the baby comes. After..." She let her gaze drift slightly and shrugged. "I'll go home. Your choice, if you want to stay here or come with us."

Erraeon felt himself sobering up with alarming alacrity. Marriage, children, a "settled down" existence: he'd imagined a life with these things, but eventually, at some far-away, unforseeable point in the future. To have it happen now, cut off the days of youth that wouldn't last forever... it was absurd! To be sure, it was something he would have to do, but Erraeon didn't like doing things because he had to. If he were going to make a poor life decision, he wanted that to be his choice. "Marry... yes, of course, if that's what you want, Mar." He ran a hand through his hair, wondering how Marielle was going to put up with living here for another eight months here; she'd complained about the little apartment enough when it had only been a two week stay.

But she should stay, shouldn't have to worry about traveling and the like. Not while she was carrying his kid. It wouldn't be right.

He ran his hands gently up and down her arms, as calmly as he could manage. "If that's what you want, Mar," he repeated softly.

Marielle nodded shakily; Erraeon could see how much mental effort this process was costing her and felt awful. "When did you find out?" he asked.

"Yesterday," she murmured. "I'd been sick enough to keep me out of work for a couple mornings, so I finally went to get checked out, and..." She looked down, annoyed with herself. "Spent the rest of the day setting my business in order at work and getting passage here booked. I want this child to have a proper father, and I don't want people whispering about its legitimacy behind its back, so I wanted to get here and make plans as soon as possible." Biting her lip, she glanced up, uncertainty in her eyes for the first time. "And... I wanted to see you again."

Erraeon felt even worse; he knew how much she didn't want to admit that. Both hands cupping her face, he drew her in for a slow, tentative kiss. "Come on," he said, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "Let's get some sleep. We'll make plans in the morning."

Slowly, they ascended. Erraeon's mind was still reeling. He wasn't terribly good with numbers, but he knew that the way he spent his money would need to change, with a child to care for. Hell, it'd have to change with Marielle to care for; she'd need a healer's care, and someone to help deliver the baby, and goddess only knew what else. There were too many new considerations for him to begin to conceive; he wished he could have one last shot before he slept, just to quiet his mind, but he was fairly certain that Mar needed his attention right now.

They silently dressed for bed and lay down under the soft sheets. "I ordered a couple bags to be delivered here in the morning," Marielle muttered as Erraeon curled up beside her.

"That's fine. Shh."

She nodded gently. "Make sure I wake up and get them."

"I will, Mar, I will."

"I don't want them sitting outside your door all morning, where anyone can get at them—"

He kissed her neck. "Shh. Sleep, now."

[Eurydice]

The dragons at the prow of the ship were restless, straining towards the open water and thrashing up a storm. A few of the crew hurried forward to try and calm them, but it was no use; they would continue their writhing and frolicking until they were finally allowed forward. Some passengers, obviously new to Dragonback Boats, shrieked and pulled away from the rail.

Standing serenely with baby Lenore resting in her arms, Marielle looked westward hungrily. She sympathized with the dragons, and if she could have jumped overboard and pulled the boat faster, she probably would have done so.

It had been agony, these past months of sitting and waiting, peppered with occasional doctor's visits and punctuated in a few hours of excruciating effort, plus a postscript of a few more anticlimactic weeks of waiting. The birthing itself hadn't been especially painful; the baby had just been unusually unwilling to come out. She had heard the midwife fussing over Marielle's slight frame, wondering if it wouldn't perhaps be better to call in a doctor to cut, or a mage to cajole, or any other passage for the babe, but Marielle would have none of this and stuck it out until finally, the small girl was free of her and placed in her arms.

The baby gave an enthusiastic yell and pointed at something in the water; it was a bright, silvery fish, slipping away from the dragons' reach. "That's a moonfish, Lenore," Marielle said as she looked over the side, holding the baby close so that she might look as well. "And that's only a baby one, just like you, see? Only a quarter of a meter long now, but when he's grown up, he'll be almost a full meter. He has to be careful, though, since there are so many river dragons nearby; most moonfish live deeper down, and that bright pattern on their scales helps them hide in the silver fronds—"

"You know she probably doesn't care about any of that, right?" Erraeon asked dryly.

Marielle glared at her husband. Erraeon coddled baby Lenore endlessly while she rested, making all sorts of idiotic nonsense sounds until Marielle snapped at him and he shut up, content to silently rock her to sleep. Marielle herself had already resolved to avoid such silly baby-talk. It wasn't a dumb animal they were raising; she'd speak to her like a rational creature, and eventually, some day, her daughter would respond in kind. Marielle was patient.

Her gaze lingered on Erraeon as he turned away, his expression strained, and then she glanced at her hand on Lenore's back. The glitter of the perfect crystaline forms on he ring caught the reflected sun off the broad river and the dragons' backs. The wedding rings had been a gift from one of Erraeon's friends, but he had insisted on making her an engagement ring as well, though their official engagement had lasted but two days. It was very silly and sentimental, exactly the kind of thing she'd expect from him, really.

She did like it rather a lot, though.

A slightly earthy breeze ruffled her hair and threw dancing ripples across the water. On land, the last few passengers were seeing to the safety of their things, wrangling deals with the luggage handlers. With luck, they'd be underway in a quarter of an hour, if not less. Granted, this was only the fourth Dragonback Boat that Marielle had ever taken, but she paid close attention to these things, and the fourth time around was more than enough for her to have figured out the particulars and signs of what happened how soon and with what ease.

There were a number of simple wooden chairs along the deck, and Marielle took one of them, listening idly as Lenore babbled and kicked in her arms. Marielle had never considered motherhood for herself, but it was growing on her quickly. The prospect of raising and nourishing a young mind that was, in some small way, part of her own, was appealing; Lenore would be smart, to be sure, and then Marielle would be able to teach her, encourage her, celebrate her successes and help correct her failures. What she looked forward to most of all— and Marielle could scarcely think this through— was the possibility for her daughter to become greater than she was, more clever, more cabable, more accomplished. She smiled and absently cradled the girl closer.

Marielle dozed slightly in the warm morning sun. Lenore's tiny fingers, still clumsy, but long and tapered like her father's, slowly felt at the contours of her mother's face and neck, prodding curiously to see where the skin would give and where hard bone sat right beneath the surface. Her liquid-soft, blue-green eyes pondered her fingers' path, considered where to explore next, and chose what new patch of skin to prod, until finally Marielle chuckled, shifted Lenore's weight to a less ticklish spot.

She had not planned on motherhood. But it was integrating itself very nicely into her world. She was heading home with a daughter and a husband and a new surname, soon to resume her work, now with a family of her own to come home to every night. That wasn't bad at all.

Glancing up, Marielle caught Erraeon staring at her, his gaze distorted oddly as before. By the light of day, magnified by the water's reflection, his sapphire eyes looked slightly washed out, the color faded. "What?" she asked, eyeing him.

He smiled wistfully, crookedly. "Nothing, Mar."

She frowned. "You keep looking at me strangely; what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said with another faint smile. "Just looking at my beautiful wife and daughter, that's all."

It was forced— or fake. She could see that, plain as day, and she knew that he knew she knew it. Half of her wanted to ask what he was on about. But the boat was pulling forward now, its propulsion jubilantly straining against the current; the passengers around them were settling, waves rushing past in a frothy white wake behind, and now was not the time to get into an argument about whatever it was. Marielle nodded and looked out westward.

Erraeon looked toward the rapidly retreating shore, the line of the dock, the well-wishers on land. His eyes strained against their limits, until all they could see was the pale blue line of the river between him and home.

[Eurydice]

Pert and serene, the girl sat at the kitchen table, diligently copying the homework exercise onto the blank parchment. She was ten years old and exceedingly clever.

She had to get it just right, every line of arithmetic precise and correct, the lines making up the numbers at just the right angle and thickness; then, when Mother came to check her work, it would be perfect, and she would give Lenore that special smile and nod that she reserved for such occasions. That was how it would happen.

Mother liked that Lenore was good at arithmetic, and Lenore liked that her mother liked it. Math was one of those things simultaneously simple and complex; the inexorability of the numbers lent themselves to infinite possibility, infinite frontiers, and at the same time, once you learned all the rules, all of the numbers played nicely with each other, settled into their proper order. Lenore was quick with numbers; she had yet to discover any real genius for language or writing, although the basics came to her easily enough, and history classes only set a jumble of dates into her head without any recollection of their meanings, but arithmetic was consistently easy, a constant source of pride for Mother.

It was dull, though. It set her teeth on edge how dull it all was.

But it had to be perfect, and that was that. Tomorrow was her birthday, and Lenore was going to have Mother in the perfect mood. Every year, birthday meant a trip to the fancy restaurant on Yandro Street; Lenore got to dress in a very sleek, very grown-up-looking tunic of black and gold, sort of like the one that Mother wore for special dinners, and they would spend the evening dining on meals with complicated names, while Mother discreetly pointed to the patrons dining around them and told her which ones were nice and which ones were stupid. Last year, Mother had even let her try a tiny little half-glass of wine, although Mother didn't drink, of course.

Last year's birthday had been a bit of a mess; Mother had meetings running late, so they missed their reservation and had to wait around for an hour before a table cleared up. As a result, Mother was quietly nasty to the waitstaff, and as a result of that, their food didn't come out until even later. But this year would be different. Lenore was being very careful to get everything done on time, and when that was done, she would keep an eye on Mother to make sure that she didn't get too busy.

Lenore looked up as the clock on the counter chimed the hour. It was an ugly, gaudy little contraption, covered in immitation gemstones of varying reddish hues. Lenore didn't like it, and she suspected that Mother didn't either; she had only bought it, Lenore was certain, because she knew that it was something Father would have hated.

That thought made her frown. She didn't really remember her father; he had left, gone across the river when she was about three, and Mother never spoke of why. The last contact with him that Lenore could remember was a picture he sent her for her fifth birthday, a little painting of the shop he owned, with wishes for many happy returns of the day on the back. She'd asked Mother if she could maybe go and visit, once she was old enough to ride the Dragon Boats on her own. Mother had given her a funny look, and if Father had written again, Lenore had not seen hide nor hair of it.

Even her memories of Father were hazy— they would have to be, of course, given that she was three the last time she'd seen him! She could have run into him head first and not recognized him, although there were little things, a certain sharp, powerful smell or a certain lazy style of handwriting, that would sometimes bring him to mind.

The clock had chimed six. Mother would be home soon.

Sighing heavily, Lenore turned her attention back to the parchment in front of her. She was filled with the kind of extreme nervous energy that only ever comes from being pent up in a classroom all day. The daylight outside had not yet fully gone out, and the autumn trees were shaking their crisp adornments to the ground, where they were swept to the side of the streets. Lenore's long legs kicked the stool restlessly. What she needed, she knew, was a hectic run, just a for-no-reason dash down the road, as far as the river and back. It would leave her pleasantly breathless and much more awake and capable of dealing with the plethora stupid math that sat before her now, half finished. But it was better to do it now, before Mother came home, so she'd have something for her to be proud of. Such a bother.

The reason Mother liked it when Lenore did her math, of course, was because it was something she could use for engineering some day. Lenore didn't really know how engineering worked, or even what engineering was; Mother had explained it to her excitedly, once or thrice, but although Lenore could remember its making sense to her at the time, while she was hearing it, she could not have repeated any of that explanation if her life had depended on it.

Regardless of her aptitude for it now, though, that was what she was going to be, someday: an engineer, just like Mother. Lenore didn't have to understand engineering to know that Mother was very, very good at it. And nothing in the world was ever worth doing unless you could be very, very good at it. So, Lenore supposed, it must be a reasonable path to follow. She just hoped it wasn't as boring as straight arithmetic. Maybe she could be an adventuring engineer. Or something.

She flattened the parchment before her, idly blowing on the ink as she checked her work. She had a tendency to write messily when she wasn't paying attention, but as long as she was consciously trying, the letters and numbers would usually come out neatly.

As if on cue, the front door swung open. Lenore had just enough time to square the papers in front of her, perfectly parallel with the table's edges, fold her hands in front of her, and secure an angelic expression on her face before Mother stepped in. "Hi there, genius," she said, giving Lenore a hug from behind the chair before going to the counter to set her things down on the counter.

"Hello, Mother."

"How was school?"

"Very good, thank you. How was work?"

"Oh, I supposed I can't complain too much." Her eye caught sight of the three pages of math spread on the table. "My goodness, done already?"

"Why, of course," Lenore said with practiced innocence.

Mother nodded, smiled widely— just as she was supposed to— and tousled her hair. "That's my little genius!"

Lenore smiled as well, more pleased at her ability to perfectly predict her mother's reaction than her ability with the numbers. Mother started busying herself with dinner; tonight would be leftovers from yesterday's casserole, which was as boring as the math, but that was alright, for tomorrow's dinner would make up for it. "May I help?" Lenore asked, figuring that a little more good karma couldn't hurt her cause.

"I don't think so," Mother said, "but thank you."

Lenore wandered over to the counter and peered into her mother's satchel; Mother, noticing, smiled. Her little genius was taking an interest in her work. What could be better?

In fact, Lenore was curious about something specific that a boy at school had said; he was four years older than her, and she had overheard him talking to his friends about some big, nasty machines that the government was funding. In discussing this, he'd made a passing mention to the firm where Mother worked. Lenore, fairly realistic with herself, didn't expect to find top secret designs of enormous war machines in her mother's papers, but she wondered if she might find something to support that claim. Nothing jumped out at her, though— the papers might as well have been written in a different language— and so she put them back, disappointed.

"Alright," said Mother, turning to her. "Why don't you set the table, and—"

There was a thud near the front of the house, and then the door went open with a bang. Lenore's eyes went wide, and Mother bounded in front of her, staring at the doorway with a gaze of worry and confusion.

Heavy, clumsy steps dragged across the floor, prelude to the figure who strode into the kitchen on shaky legs, a tall, plain man with blue eyes, bright with restrained tears.

"Hi, Mar," he croaked, his voice thick, broken. "I... I know, we said we'd call quits... but I couldn't... I can't... keep going like this. Every year, I think maybe this time it'll hurt less, and I... I'm... I'm sorry, please, please, I'm sorry. Please don't make me go. Let's talk, at least..."

His gaze fell on Lenore, peeking out from behind her mother. "Oh, Goddess, our little girl, our little angel..." He took a few hesitant steps forward, knelt by her.

Lenore stared; she couldn't have recognized him if she wanted to, but the smell on his breath was the one that always gave her pause. "Father?"

He nodded mutely, tentatively taking her hand in his big, shaky fingers, his palms sweating slightly, before looking up at Mother. Her face was frozen, contorted, pale as if she was seeing a ghost, and although Lenore knew every look her mother ever wore, she didn't remember seeing this one, ever. "Mar, please... I'm sorry. I'll make it work. I'll do whatever you say. Just don't make me go away, please, I need you. I need you more than I've ever needed anything."

Seconds stretched out painfully; Mother's hand, as if it were not under her own control, lifted to stroke Father's curly black hair. He closed his eyes at her touch, trembling, helpless tears rolling down his cheeks. Lenore could never remember having seen a grown man cry.

Finally, Mother spoke. "Lenore. Go to your room, please."

Lenore stared. "But—"

"You heard me the first time. I'm not repeating it."

The girl stomped her foot. "But Mother..."

Mother's eyes lanced sharp green fire at her. Huffing, Lenore ran upstairs, banging the steps as loudly as she could.

She sulked for a good five minutes before cracking the door and lying at the threshold, perfectly still, straining every nerve in her body to hear what her parents said that night. By the time they were done, dinner had burned in the oven, and Mother didn't cook anything new. She and Father retreated to her room, and another sharp look bade Lenore close her door and not open it again until morning.

[Eurydice]

Lenore rolled over onto her stomach. Like a trained dog, she thought.

That was what she was, really, Mother's little trained puppy who traded tricks for treats. She excelled at school— how could she not, when all the answers were so painfully obvious?— and Mother would smile and nod, as if ticking off little items on her check list of things for her daughter to do in life. Be a good, obedient little girl: check. Earn good marks: check. Graduate, become a star engineer, live up to Mother's achievements, surpass them, rule the world, check, and so forth.

She was old enough now, at fifteen, to pause and consider how much of this was her own fault. It was perfectly true, she decided, that she had never voiced a strong objection to her mother's designs, even when she had learned enough about them to decide that they were the farthest from her own desires as she could possibly go. She should have spoken up earlier. Too late to go back, though. She was Mother's little trained puppy, good and obedient, just like always.

Just like Father, as well. Work was harder for him to come by here, than it was across the river, and so most of the family's income came from Mother's work. That didn't make things difficult; Marielle Gabriel— after much arguing with Father, she'd reluctantly taken his family name as her own— was one of the most successful minds in the local academic community. She had her pick of every project she wanted, was the toast of every gathering she attended, and soaked it all up with radiant, poised pleasure. Financial stability had never been an issue for them, and never would be; Mother simply beckoned, and work came to her.

Father spent most of his days working on little projects of his own. Occasionally, he would get a commission, if someone wanted a pretty little gift, but functionality was favored over beauty, here.

Lenore wasn't entirely sure what the point was, to some of the idle toys her father made— bejeweled figurines, landscapes in extreme miniature, and so forth. His most recent project, she had seen sketched out in casually brilliant designs; it was to be a mask, shaped like a river dragon's face. Mamiliana, Father had named his creation. She was going to be beautiful.

It wasn't going to be particularly useful, though, Lenore thought.

But it was all he had to himself, she supposed; whenever Mother was around, he would follow her about, agree with whatever she asked of him. Perhaps twice a year, there'd be a full-out row, when the mutinous grumbles couldn't suppress themselves any longer. He was Mother's pet, the rest of the year.

It was a strange thing, living to please just one person as they did. Whenever there was down time— as there was now, with Mother off at some banquet for some cause that she'd done some great thing for— the mood in the house was one of heavy expectation, waiting for the lady of the house to return and give her next command. The mattress squeaked as Lenore rolled over onto her back again, wondering if it would be any different next year, when Mother sent her away to her alma mater, to begin her training in earnest. Probably not, she decided. Even without Mother's being there to check her work nightly, the amount of expectation that would rest on her shoulders, being "Marielle's girl" (as she was already known to all of Mother's colleagues), was palpable enough that she might as well have been at home.

In the town square, the great clock sounded the hour, and Lenore counted the tolls. Eight. She groaned, reached for a book on her bedside table, and laid it open over her face; impossible, that Mother had left only an hour ago. Lenore just wanted her to come home and take command of the house again. "You're in charge until I get back, darling," Mother had told her before leaving. Lenore hated that phrase. It just meant that Father was probably too drunk to know what was going on.

Lenore begged sleep to while away the hours for her, but no sleep came.

She hadn't bothered to change out of her school uniform, when she'd come home, and the academy's scratchy, stiff-collared grays were beginning to get annoying. Shame that she had to leave the comfortable bed to change though. Yawning, she rolled off the thick mattress and nudged the closet open with her foot, snatching a loose-fitting tunic of deep teal.

Lenore smirked slightly as she pushed her arms into the sleeves. She remembered buying this particular garment and Mother's subtle look of distaste, for it was more the cut of a dancer or street performer than that of the intellectual young lady that the great Marielle was trying to groom. Still, the color looked nice on her, and Mother hadn't cared enough to argue— as was often the case.

Lenore kicked her school clothes into the corner of the room nearest the door, then thought better of it, and went to retrieve and fold them.

As she did, the door burst open, nearly knocking her down, and Father stumbled in, a travel pack on his shoulder and spirits on his breath. His hazy vision lit on her, focused, and he smiled grimly. Lenore opened her mouth to snap at him, tell him to knock first next time, but his hand clamped down on her arm, strong as a vice— she'd never thought of her father as a strong man, nor a violent one, but his grip on her was unbreakable.

He let out a lazy little titter. "You. Are coming. With me."

And in a whirl, they were out of her room, Father dragging her down the stairs so fast that she scarcely kept her footing. "Where are we going?" she managed to get out, before they landed heavily on the first floor.

"Away," he slurred. "And. We are going. Now."

Father nearly yanked her off her feet again as his feet found their way to the front hall closet. His grip on her arm never wavered as, with his free hand, he grabbed his dark cloak and wrestled it over his shoulders. Winter had just started to set in to its fullest and, not entirely sure that Father was coherent enough to think of it, Lenore squirmed forward and obtained a cloak for herself as well, her mind racing.

Her father had finally snapped.

It was always a possibility she'd considered, on the edge of reality: that the same crazed impulse that had made her father decide that he couldn't live without Mother might reverse itself, when he came to fully understand what it was, living with her. She'd always assumed that this was fantasy only, that Father was far too weak-willed to actually go through with it.

Apparently, she was wrong. He was just strong enough. He wanted his freedom just badly enough. And as she realized this, she realized that the same fervent desire burned in her breast.

He was moving again, retrieving something from the kitchen, and Lenore, still in his grasp, stumbled along behind him. "Father, you don't have to—"

"Quiet, angel," he uttered. "No one's telling me what to do. I am going away now, and I am taking you with me, because your mum is a cruel, cold-hearted bitch who doesn't know what it means to love." He took her firmly by both shoulders. "She doesn't really love you, y'see. She just likes dressing you up, parading you in front of teachers, having you perform for them. 'Snot love."

Lenore tried to stop him, tell him that she already knew that, but they were barreling out the door now. Father cursed; a cold, gray rain was starting. His grip migrated down to her wrist and with a spiteful glare at the offending sky, he started for the docks.

"Father!..."

"Shut it."

"But Father, I—"

"I said shut it, little angel! We're going and that's final!"

The few neighbors who were on the street were discreetly looking away. Erraeon Gabriel's drunken outbursts were usually shut away inside, but they remained audible to the closer neighbors, and word traveled fast. Polite indifference and respect for Marielle, over respect for the cheap trash she had married, kept their glances averted. He'd come crawling back by morning, they figured.

Lenore stumbled on the slippery stone road; her father's momentum dragged her forward a meter before she made it back to even-footed readiness. Excitement thrilled through her. She'd always pitied Father. For the first time in her life, she had something for which to admire him, aside from his craftsmanship.

If only she could make him see it, though. "Father, it's alright—"

"Don't placate me; my mind's made up..."

"—I want to go."

Gears clicked slowly in Erraeon's ale-muddled head and he trudged to a halt, looking at her wonderingly. "You do?" he asked slowly, as if afraid that she was trying to play a trick on him.

Lenore nodded. "I want to see the East. I always have." You idiot, she did not add.

Father stared at her a moment longer and, with a surprised, blissful smile, released his death-grip on her wrist, offered her his arm, to take as if she were a princess. He looked so happy; Lenore couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him look that happy. It was almost frightening. "You want to go... oh, little angel... there's so much to show you. There's so, so much music and magic, everywhere you look..." Erraeon Gabriel beamed, heedless of the rain overhead. "Home. Finally, going home."

Home. Such an arbitrary concept.

Lenore shook her head, bemused, as her father led her to the evening dragonboat, quietly spouting happy, drunken inanities.

[Eurydice]

Clink, clink, clink. She heard her father's tools bounding against precious stones all night.

Lenore rolled over with a soft growl, the noise of a restless predator. She could have kicked him, but it would hardly have been worth the effort. He'd be passed out face-down on the floor by the end of the night, and it would be on her to drag him to his bed, or the couch, or a slightly more comfortable corner of the floor. Simpering idiot.

Two years. Two years of this.

He wasn't making anything new. She knew that. Once every few months, he would take on a real commission, but the fruits of this labor were soulless creations, devoid of any personal investment or artistic merit. Hells, she knew nothing of art, and she could see it. Even his customers could see it, she imagined; perhaps it was not something conscious on their part, but there was certainly a reason that Father had still not made enough money to move them back into his old shop. The two of them wasted away in stasis in the little three-room apartment he had found the morning after their slap-dash flight across the river.

Two years in this miserable little place. Lenore groaned and threw the pillow over her head, trying to drown out the sound of her father's tinkering.

And she'd thought that life with Mother was an ordeal.

Father never made her bother with school, and because he hadn't bothered, neither had she. It had been a thing of joy and beauty, at first, the freedom to sleep until noon (on occasion) and leave her things in untidy piles (though she usually picked them up sooner rather than later) and dress as she pleased (not to the point of immodesty, but really, if she had nice long legs, why not wear trousers that showed them off?). Now, though, these trivial details seemed mundane, and the joyous mess that the apartment had been was just a sty. Lenore tidied the space as best they could. It never seemed to change anything in the long run.

Father was deadly dull, moping half his days over Mother. Like he didn't remember what an ice queen she was.

The nights that he was not deadly dull... Lenore felt a flush of anger coloring her cheeks. If she had looked in the mirror, she would have noted that the two scars-- one at her jawline and one at her temple, both from nights that father had flown into a temper or a fit of careless enthusiasm-- stayed ivory pale in contrast against the blush. She was only thankful that both had happened in wintertime and she could affect high scarves and low hoods to hide the cuts while they repaired themselves.

Father was even worse after those nights. He'd bitch and moan and try to buy her favor back by getting her little trinkets, a pretty hat or a feathered mask on a stick. Lenore didn't care. She just wanted him to stop being such an idiot.

Clink, clink, clink. It never ended.

The steady rhythm was broken by a muted curse, the whoosh of shattered glass, a quiet splash and gurgle of liquid. Lenore sat up in bed in a cold fury.

She wanted to leave him to wallow in his own mess, but the last time this had happened, he hadn't cleaned it up-- naturally-- and she'd nearly lacerated the soles of her feet the next morning on fragments of the broken brandy bottle. Bloody fool.

Lenore threw on her shabby robe and strode to the other room. Like a child caught with his hand jammed in a cookie jar, her father looked up from the broken glassware, guilt-ridden and shamed.

She didn't much care. Lenore found that she did most everything these days: the shopping (which was never enough, given Father's woefully inadequate ability to hold down work), the cleaning (which never changed anything, given Father's slovenly ways), the cooking (at which she was substandard at best, but Father rarely wanted to do anything except go out for food, a luxury they usually couldn't afford), and all other aspects of managing a household. He should be paying me to do this, she had thought at some point a year ago, when some of this was still an amusing game.

Now, she simply snagged a towel from beside the sink and started mopping up the mess, careful to mind her fingers around the more treacherous shards of glass.

"I dropped it..." Father said helpfully.

Lenore mopped at the pungent liquor. Since before she could form conscious thought, she had always associated the heavy, heady smell with her father.

"I didn't mean to," he clarified, stumbling slightly as he came forward. "Here-- angel, let me-- it's my fault, so I sh'd be the one to--" He tottered, leaning on her as he blinked in abject puzzlement.

Lenore shrugged him off. Drunken idiot. Clown. She couldn't believe she had, at one time, admired the spark that flared in him when he was too far in his cups. She had thought it a promise of strength, when he had snapped and dragged her out of Mother's house in an inebriated rage. She had thrilled at the rough, drink-driven way he had talked the landlord into lessening the price of the apartment when they should have been utterly at the man's mercy. Goddess, she had been so green two years ago.

"I can do it," he slurred insistently, fumbling for the soiled rag in her hand. She marveled that he hadn’t broken anything more precious to him. The tiny box of emeralds that he had purchased was ajar and he had thoroughly mutilated a few of the little stones into near useless. She knew nothing about his trade, and she could see as much.

Without a bored lack of effort, she held the towel out of his grasp. Father wobbled and fell back, swearing in sedate surprise and, grabbing for support, took Lenore with him. And the table. And the emeralds on it.

Father staggered to his feet and swore again, languidly.

Lenore felt the spilled liquor—deep amber— creeping up the hem of her nightgown—pale green. It would stain awfully, and she wasn’t sure whether or not she cared. She aimed a mutinous glare at the damp floor and resumed mopping at the mess. "Just stay there," she snapped when Father tried to advance unsteadily once more.

He acquiesced, like the insipid, limp-willed thing that he was, looking glum.

Lenore let the rag sit on the floor and soak up the liquid while she painstakingly retrieved as many of the emeralds as she could find. She did this not for Father’s sake, but for her own; they had been damned costly, and losing them was not something they could afford to do. Her long, careful fingers placed them back in the box, calculating how many were still scattered amidst the drink. A couple must have fallen through the floor boards. She wondered if it was worth prying them up. A task for morning, though.

"I'm sorry," said Father.

She ignored him, righting the table. On a countertop nearby was Mamiliana, the dragon mask that had been his pet project for ages now, always in a work in progress, never finished. Evidently, it had been the attention of some of the emerald encrusting – a few of the little stones were set as borders around the eyes.

Lenore reached out and lifted the mask, checking it for any damage in the tumult, or from father’s drink-clumsied hands. It was intact.

"I said I'm sorry," Father said more insistently, petulant.

The mask seemed to sing quietly against her bare skin. It was not the first time Lenore had heard it do so, although never before had she been so certain that she wasn’t simply making it up. It felt warm and alive.

Lenore didn’t know whether she believed in magic. Mother dismissed such practices as superstitious and primitive, of course, but Mother was on the other side of the river. Lenore cradled the mask carefully, feeling its weight as gingerly as if it were a newborn kitten.

She could swear it spoke to her. If she could only make it out...

Father's hand hammered down on her shoulder; his other scooped the mask away and set it down heavily on the shelf. "Hey, are you listening? I'm apologizing, dammit. I... I know it hasn’t been easy here, angel. There’s no one to blame for that but me.”

Lenore agreed and said so.

His face darkened at that. “You can’t do that,” he said. “I’m apologizing.”

Tired and irritated, she replied, “Well, maybe if you weren’t such an utter incompetent, you wouldn’t have to apologize.”

She didn’t see his hand coming toward her face, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have expected it to have any force behind it, with him this far gone. The blow sent her sprawling, facedown into the floor.

Into the glass.

"Sound just like your mother," Father mumbled, not looking and not noticing. "Should have gotten you away from her sooner."

Lenore said nothing. He’d struck her before, hurt her by accident on occasion. She knew enough that she needed to look to herself. Gingerly, she felt at her cheek. Blood dribbled down from a dozen sharp cuts, most of them embedded with the smaller shards and dustings of glass. The alcohol still clinging to them made each cut burn, tiny searing sensations in her face. She didn’t cry. She took deep breaths and removed the pieces that she could by feel.

Father had tottered to another seat and was probably facing the window. The window faced the river, and the river pointed to where Mother was. "Should have done it sooner," he repeated, old deep veins of anger coloring his tone, "so you didn’t turn into such a frosty little bitch."

Sticks and stones. Lenore didn’t care what she wanted to call her. Her fingers were getting sticky, though, clumsy with the blood. None of the cuts were very deep, but they bled freely. Standing, she went carefully to the sink, trying not to make a mess.

She cleaned herself up as Father babbled inanely, pausing only to fall into a drunken slumber.

[Eurydice]

In the tentative predawn hours, Lenore rose from what little sleep the night had afforded her and crept to the mirror again, wincing as she peeled away the makeshift bandage on her face. Most of the cuts were dry and stiff and starting to scab over, although a few of them had cut deep enough that they still bent open easily. Those would be the ones that scarred, she decided; the others would be gone in a few days, so long as she didn't pick at them.

That was what life had become, really. Waiting for one annoyance to scab over while others felt deeper and uglier as every day passed.

Father was passed out in the chair by the window, snoring quietly and shifting restlessly in his sleep.

Nothing ever changed.

Until now.

Lenore had a realistic idea of how little they owned in this place, but she went through it anyway, separating the goods that would last and those that would spoil. She packed one cloth shopping bag with food and a canteen of water, another with clothing, toiletries, a blanket and towel. It was only middling chilly out, but she threw on a coat anyway. She wasn't exactly sure what one took when running away from home, but this seemed to cover most of the basic needs.

She lingered by the mirror, eying herself critically. She looked like she'd gotten into a fight with a wildcat; she would want a scarf or cowl to keep her face out of the light. Lenore sighed in quiet annoyance as she looked herself over. Even those options would be less than ideal, given the wide spread of the cuts. What she really needed were goggles, glasses, even a mask--

A ridiculous thought leapt to the forefront of her mind, and she almost laughed. No; of course not. That would be still more outstanding and noticeable than her mussed appearance.

She reached up to the shelf where Father had set it down with his long and clumsy fingers, the night before. It was warm. She. She was warm. Mamiliana.

The room was dark. No sunlight peeked through the window yet, and no street lights ventured this far inside. The room was nothing but shadows, adjusted to visible detail by the patience of Lenore's pale eyes. Even so, she swore that the bejeweled mask glittered faintly, gleamed with something fierce and noble at its brow.

It made no sense, doing what she did, but Lenore wrapped the mask in a worn, silken square, a cloth that Father used to clean his pretty toys, and stowed it carefully in the broad breast pocket of her jacket.

It also made no sense when, an hour later, after she was out the door, down the street, and perched serenely on the riverbank, she lifted the mask to her face, its eyes over her eyes. Something warm and unfamiliar flooded her skin, blood, and body, and for the first time in a long time, Lenore felt something that approximated joy.