To Idris’s embarrassment, Lila returned to her attendant’s duties that self-same evening, out of the armour he had become accustomed to seeing her in and back in her workers’ blouses and skirts. She did not make any fuss about it, but he was annoyed and upset for her. The first thing she did was clear his parlour, wipe the chalk off the floor and replace the furniture where it was supposed to be, much to Thistle’s distaste, who ran off to hide under the bed.

  “This is overkill,” he said as she dragged the chaise longue across the rugs.

  “I have orders, sir,” she said mildly. “And I will perform them to the best of my ability.”

  “This is beneath you.”

  “Nothing is beneath me, sir.”

  “Stop calling me ‘sir’, you know I loathe it.”

  She bowed and went to prepare his evening meal, then sat and watched him eat it, and once the fae jasmine outside of his window curled open in the moonlight, she said, “Time to retire,” and made it impossible for him to do otherwise.

  “I have been given three days to make you sensible again,” she said, as she bathed his stump like she used to every night. “After that, we are on the road. You must behave yourself if you want your independence. Otherwise, I am to baby you, and you don’t like being babied.”

  Idris said nothing. Nothing he had to say was going to change this.

  For the first time in several weeks, he slept in his bed without getting up multiple times to try one more stance or read one more chapter. Every time he woke, he saw Lila, sewing by lanternlight, and she simply told him to go back to sleep. When dawn came, he felt groggy and slow, but at the very least Lila was smiling.

  He ate breakfast, without a book in his hand while he did so, and he washed and combed his hair and dressed properly. Once those things were done, Lila said he was allowed to do one hour of study. He decided to look closer at Layton’s crystals.

  It was the only artefact they had recovered in all the time Layton had been in hiding, and Idris wanted to know if there was anything new he could learn about Layton’s situation. The crystals certainly felt like him but Idris did not understand why there were two.

  “This one,” he said to Lila, holding the dodecahedron, “is similar to the larger crystal he used for the death curtain at Raven’s Roost, except on a tiny scale. See the pentagonal shape?” She nodded. “I wonder if he had runes carved into the ground beside it, or a stand for it which he took with him.”

  “Runes?” said Lila.

  “I think they are fae but I do not have accurate copies of them to show to Joa. One difference between his brand of necromancy and my own is that somehow, he is able to utilise these runes to perform stranger branches of magic than I know. I need to sketch some from Layton’s hiding places.” He sighed, putting his finger on the diamond shaped crystal. “But this... I feel the aria in it, no question. The melody, though, is strange. Not a death curtain or a protective spell. I do not know these notes, and they are fading quickly. I wonder what kind of death arias can be contained in a shape like this – that might be a topic for textual analysis.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Lila with finality.

  “If you insist.”

  When Cressida came to visit, Idris was drinking tea in his armchair, prosthetic off, gazing out of the window as he petted the cat on his lap.

  “Well, that is a pleasant sight,” she said, with a thankful sigh. “Lila, you are perfection incarnate and we would all be lost without you.”

  “Thank you, Majesty,” Lila said, bowing low.

  “Would you excuse us for five minutes?”

  Lila nodded and went to her own chambers. Idris tried his best not to sigh or pout or seem irritated, even though he was irritated. There was time being wasted that would be best utilised in study or practice and he wanted to scream – but he could not deny that his aching muscles were softening at last, or that the sleep had not been good for him.

  “How are we today, Sir Idris?” said Cressida, settling on the reading bench against the window and presenting her hand to Thistle, who instantly started purring.

  “Behaving myself, Majesty,” Idris said.

  “I must say, this sort of being a brooding little brat suits you better than the mania,” she said lightly.

  “Certainly, Majesty.”

  “Oh, are you upset with me?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  “Never, Majesty.”

  She slapped him on the thigh; he tutted and rubbed the sting. “This is for your own good,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “We do this out of love, Rissy. Poor Willard, you must have upset him so.” She paused, watched his face carefully. “I do have news.” He frowned, so she continued. “There is a delegation at the courtyard, claiming to have come all the way from the Imperial Kingdom. I... well, the crest on the carriage is Eremont.”

  Idris froze.

  “My mother?” he whispered.

  “I think so. I am on my way to meet them now. Would you like to join me? There is no obligation,” she added, seeing him control his breathing. “Stay here if it pleases you. In your circumstances, I am sure I would not like to see her, either.”

  Idris did not know what to do. He had not seen his mother since he was seven, and he had not heard from her since he was eleven. The letters had stopped after he and Uncle Haylan came to Veridia, once Idris had killed his own foot and it was clear that he was not a healer. Haylan had told Astridia Eremont that she either told the truth about Idris’s parentage and the deal she had made with Layton or she was not permitted to contact Idris again; she chose the latter. Meeting with his mother was going to be inevitable, but right now it seemed impossible. He was still hurt, still angry. Neither of them knew each other at all.

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  “Please tell her that I have no desire to speak with her at the present moment,” he said quietly. “I will make contact when I am ready.”

  Cressida nodded, squeezed his hand tight and kissed him on the temple.

  “You are my best friend and I love you dearly,” she said. “I will not allow that wretched woman within ten feet of you. You have my word.”

  “Thank you, Cress. I mean it.”

  “I know. Be well.” She paused. “And I do not call your mother ‘wretched’ lightly, I hope you know that.”

  “I do.”

  Idris sat silently for a long time after Cressida left. His tea went cold. Eventually, Lila touched the pot and frowned at him in concern.

  “I can warm it?” she said.

  “I think I need fresh air,” he said. “Will you walk with me?”

  “Of course, Sir Idris. Let me get your boot.”

  “No boot,” he said. “The peg. We will not go far and nobody is going to see us.”

  Lila looked suspicious – he never chose to walk outside without a full prosthetic – but she did as she was told. Idris put on long, comfortable trousers that touched the floor at the hems, and he and Lila left the room. It was an overcast day; he only wanted to be out of sight of the main walkways, out of his rooms, in case his mother came calling. Lila crooked her arm around his as they went, towards the more secluded rockeries in the back, and Idris sighed and finally told her what Cressida had said.

  “You don’t want to see her?” Lila said quietly.

  “I... I do not know, Lila. ‘Want’ is a desire that eludes me. I know I should. She is, after all, my mother.” He selected a part of the wall and settled; Lila followed. “I... I think she hates me. I think I hate her. I was a child when she left and she has not cared about my welfare since.”

  Lila was quiet for a while. They watched the mute robins dart noiselessly to and fro between the berries, snatching up ripe ones, and eventually she sighed and shrugged.

  “Perhaps... maybe this is bold of me to assume, but...”

  “No, go ahead. I value your opinion.”

  “Perhaps she thought staying away was best. How was she supposed to have that conversation with you? Everything was already so raw and complicated. Maybe she was frightened that you would be angry and that was too much. It is a wide sea to cross for your son to tell you that he does not want to speak to you after all.”

  “It would be easier if she had stayed gone,” he said. “But she has land to protect and I think that is the only thing she cares for.”

  “She would have gone straight to Temple Hill if she did not want to see you, Idris,” said Lila, patting his wrist. “I really do think she wants to make amends.”

  He sucked his cheeks, tried to stop feeling sick.

  “I want to be alone,” he whispered. “I want her to leave me alone. Especially if I have to kill my father.”

  “I understand. I will protect you from her.”

  “I would like that, Lila. Very much.”

  When they made their way back towards the walkways, they caught sight of a train of green-shawled attendants. Lila waited until they had safely cleared the area, then ushered Idris inside.

  *

  Astridia Eremont left Veridia the morning after, for her lands in Marbury. She left behind a crate that Kurellan brought to Idris’s rooms.

  “What is it?” said Idris. Kurellan shrugged.

  “She asked me to bring it. I told her with respect, I’m not a pack mule. She ignored me.”

  “That sounds like her,” Idris muttered, eyeing the box.

  “We have more important matters to discuss.”

  “Of course, Your Honour.”

  Kurellan gave Idris his orders for the next day. He was to leave Veridia, going north, to examine the farmhouse, and then see if he could pick up the trail. Meanwhile, Willard and Joa were going to scout the nearby fae forests to see if there was anything unusual in their territory – if Layton was using fae magic, he might need to trespass into The Herald Wood or another fae kingdom. Cressida and Kurellan were going to Obsidian Lake.

  “We need more men,” Kurellan said, “and more eyes on this. More aria magicians, certainly. Obsidian Lake seems a likely place for Lord Vonner to move towards.”

  “Agreed.” Idris sighed, collected the maps Kurellan had brought. “I thank you, Your Honour.”

  “Good to see you refocused,” said Kurellan, standing.

  Idris ignored the crate. He had too much to do.

  He and Lila packed. Idris made sure he had his grandfather’s stiletto, his knucklebones and his first wooden prosthetic, the ‘house foot’ he grew out of – he had uses for all of those things that he did not know if he could replicate. As well as these more personal things, there were huge bottles of caustic salt, packs of red chalk, all of Idris’s medicines for his leg, changes of clothes, prosthetics, his sword, Lila’s sword and bow, her armour – packing was always a large undertaking.

  “What should I do with this?” Lila asked, indicating the sealed crate. Idris shrugged.

  “Throw it in the river?”

  “I won’t do that. I’ll put it into storage.”

  Once the packing was done, Idris went down to Willard’s hut. It was still empty, the pigs gone. He sighed, slid the note he had written under the door – Willard, please let me apologise. I would like to talk. Idris Dead-Talker – and hoped that somehow, he would read it.

  That night, Idris sat and ate with Lila.

  “I do not want to go to war again, Lila,” he said, pushing potato around his plate.

  “I do not want that for you either, sir,” she said.

  “When we find him... my father... I want to talk.”

  She pursed her lips. “He beat you half to death, Idris.”

  “I know. It is stupid, ignore me,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I will not let him put his hands around your throat a second time,” said Lila, more firmly. “He is dangerous.”

  “He is afraid,” said Idris, putting his plate to one side. “He thinks I mean to take his freedom from him, to subjugate him.”

  “I hope you know,” she said, “that if I see him and he intends you harm, I will fight him.”

  “Lila - no, that is absurd, you cannot fight him,” he said, horrified, but she squared her shoulders and raised her chin.

  “I am your knight, Sir Idris. I will fight what you can’t. And if you won’t fight him, I will.”

  “He’ll kill you.”

  “What is the point of being a necromancer’s knight if he cannot bring you back from the dead?” she said.

  Idris thought of the mess of his own face, the bruises laced around his own neck, the way he could not eat or drink or sleep for days; he thought of the thralls in Raven’s Roost, how quiet they were, how they stank; he thought of the pure malice in Layton’s eyes, the coldness of his face – and all at once he saw the danger that everyone else saw. He could not lose Lila to his father, there was no way.

  Instantly, he grabbed both of her hands. Startled, she dropped her cutlery.

  “Sir Idris -”

  “I would never raise you,” he said. “Never. I hope you know it.”

  “It was... well, mostly a joke. I know,” she said, gripping back.

  “And I do not want you to die for me.”

  “I will try my best not to.”

  “I only want you to do what’s best for you,” he said. “If things look bad, and I seem lost... Lila, you must not waver.”

  Her grip tightened again. “I already promised you that I would not.”

  “Layton is not worth losing you. You, or Willard, or Cress. I... I will do my best to keep you all safe.”

  “This is going to look proper awkward if anyone comes through the door, Sir Idris,” Lila said, laughing now. He laughed, too, more at himself than anything.

  “I am grateful that I have you.”

  “Always, Idris. Whenever you need me, whatever you need. That is what family does.”

  “I am sorry that my family is... in strange pieces that do not fit together. That it is not what a family is supposed to be, brothers and sisters and parents who work -”

  “I thought all family had to be was people who loved each other,” Lila said simply, gently.

  “That...” Idris thought for a moment. “That seems about right to me.”

  She hugged him, and he cherished it.

  “All will be well,” she whispered.

  “All will be well,” he repeated, meaning every syllable.