He was a tall, proud man, respected by all who knew him for his integrity and inexhaustible kindness. Nobility, pride, and discipline all marked his features.
Clara also was well respected. She was a delicate woman with a proud bearing. With a steady, well-practiced hand she poured out the tea, placing the cup on a side table by Daenara. The room was richly furnished and exceedingly still and quiet. Clara and Thaemon had two children, a boy and a girl. Cedrik was Deacon’s age, while Brielle was two years younger. Daenara knew they had already been put to bed.
With languid caresses she continued to brush Deacon’s hair back from his face, hoping to lull him to sleep. Clara asked Deacon, “Is there something you would like, perhaps some warmed milk?”
By way of answer he turned inward, and buried his face as though the offer had offended him. He would not let her touch him.
The two women exchanged bleak smiles.
“He’s tired,” Daenara said.
“I’ve got water heating,” Berrel said, coming to the doorway. “You can have yourself a nice hot bath in a moment.” She stood with her hands on her ample hips. Daenara thanked her, then looked up and caught her brother’s troubled gaze set on her.
“Have you been to see Mother yet?” he asked.
“No. I came directly here,” she replied.
“Better to wait, I think, before mentioning this to her.”
The mother they shared lived further out from the Imperial in a small homestead. Thaemon’s father had died years before, while Daenara had never known hers; he had left when she was only a baby. Thaemon’s father had raised her as his own.
Drawing a long, considering breath, her brother seemed about to resume interrogations; when Daenara said in an imploring voice, “Perhaps it is best we retire for the evening?”
“Yes, yes. You are tired,” said Thaemon. “Get to bed. We shall talk more in the morning.”
Warmed by hot baths and comfortable in fresh changes of clothes, the travellers settled into a soft bed. The room was spacious and pleasant in temperature. Two glass doors, covered with light drapes, led out to a balcony that overlooked the paved streets. Daenara had often stayed here with Luseph on their visits. Now the room seemed foreign and empty. Beneath the blankets she bundled Deacon warm to her breast.
Downstairs the next morning the house was alive and buzzing with excitement. Thaemon’s two children were more than welcoming. In the kitchen Clara was preparing breakfast. It was a spacious, meticulously clean, and well organized kitchen; shelves lined the walls with large containers of spices and baskets filled with vegetables. The children had taken their place at the table, exerting all their energies on Deacon, who was entirely incommunicable. Brielle, like a little mother at two, commenced stroking his face and kissing his cheek in an officious, though well-intended manner, while Cedrik offered him a variety of good things to eat, as though he were a baby or some small animal.
While Deacon was engaged in timidly fending off the advances of his cousins, Thaemon took Daenara aside into his study. He frowned when he saw the strange burn mark round his sister’s wrist; it was as though a red-hot bracelet had seared the flesh.
“How did you come by this?” he asked, taking her wrist to examine it.
“His hand,” Daenara said, suppressing a shudder. “I could not tell you what shone in his eyes.”
“Daenara,” Thaemon said. “This is magic.” She nodded gravely, not understanding the full extent and nature of this calamity, but enough to consider Luseph had put himself and his family in serious danger. Uttering a vicious oath, Thaemon let her hand drop, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me everything,” he said, slumping into his chair.
Daenara remained standing. She knew little, but told him what she could: that an odd man had come to the door of their home one morning, and that he brought a letter for Luseph. From the moment Luseph received it, he shut himself up in his room for days at a time, not so much as seeing the sun. He had become strange and secretive, and frightfully cold toward herself and Deacon. Then one evening when she ventured into his study he turned on her in sudden violence. She took Deacon from him the same night.
“It is an unnatural thing to steal a child away from his father,” said Daenara. “I know not if it is a crime I have committed, but there is no other means. We must not