I’d chosen to sit in the carriage with my wife, this time on the same seat, holding her close the entire way. It was a far cry from that first awkward ride home, with Wyn between us, and Cirri in the corner, cut off from all communication, terrified, and reeking of rowan.

“No. It feels like a month spent in a fever dream.”

And it did, though it was a pleasant dream, feverish or not.

Cirri, as the Scrollkeeper, had completely taken over the library with the aid of her golems. Half of it was in the process of reorganization, pulling books and scrolls from the depths of the stacks beneath the library proper and cataloguing them, searching each and every document for more of the history of our kinds.

But it was a slow project, because she had reached out to our people and acquired another journal, this one to become a hand-embellished copy of the Lore of the Rift, by Cirrien lai Darran.

From north to south, Rift-kin had been coming to Ravenscry, bringing her folktales of their own to be committed to books. Every village had their own tales, some passed down for centuries; some Rift-kin required coaxing and bribery to share their stories, while others were pleased to see their family tales put to paper, a mark of legitimacy to their claims.

But when they came, Rose and Thorn had to hide; the Rift-kin weren’t ready to be in the same room as Fae-made golems. So the library went unorganized during the day as she diligently took down first, second, up to twelfth-hand accounts of the Fae and their spirits.

In this manner she had begun the process of courting the Rift-kin, allowing them to see her not only as their Lady, but as a fellow human being who would speak for them, the human voice representing their kind amidst the rule of vampires.

And then she’d added a correspondence with Auré fel Seren to her plate. Now she wrote to my fellow vampire at least once a fortnight, responding to long letters that discussed the Fae folklore of wherever Auré happened to be traveling; the ambassador had become my wife’s eyes on the ground. I’d peeked at the letters a time or two, wondering if they were still frosty towards each other, but Cirri’s efforts to work on our language and decipher the charm seemed to have thawed the last of Auré’s reservations, and Auré’s willingness to report on the Fae had charmed Cirri.

They were becoming friends on paper, at least. It pleased me to see Cirri carving out her own niche among my people.

With this much to do, she often burned the midnight oil, coming to bed in the wee hours with ink-stained hands and tired eyes, stripping off her dresses to be enthusiastically mated before sleeping for six hours and rising to do it all again.

With this week-long journey, there would be no Rift-kin in the keep; I hoped Rose would manage to organize it all before her return. Cirri’s work ethic made me feel lazy, now that patrols were reduced. I’d taken to overseeing the opening of the mines and quarries, doing everything in my power to dispel the fears of the folk and joining them in the work, toiling in the mines alongside them, scouting the old mines for any sign of Fae. Whatever ensured we were actually producing; wargs or not, I intended to see every village’s defenses shored up and done properly this time.

But it was not necessarily a week of rest, this trip to Argent.

Even with the titles she could now claim—Wargbinder, Scrollkeeper—Cirri had elected to keep her family name for most of her work.

But she had decided, after much thought, that she didn’t want the family estates. Ravenscry was her home now; she had no real memories of her life before the Silver Sisters took her in—only bits and pieces, none of it forming a whole.

Several knights and the steward had gone to the lai Darran lands in her stead. Her family was properly buried, all marks of Miro’s treachery and Hakkon’s agents erased, and they’d brought back the key.

It hung around her neck on an iron chain, a blunt, twisted thing of dark metal. She stroked it, staring out the window at the walls and towers of Argent.

A year since I’ve seen it, she said, her hands moving almost absentmindedly. All by an accident of fate, and I’ve never regretted a moment of it. 

“I would hope not,” I growled, thinking of last night, and how we’d decided that perhaps in five years or so, we’d be ready for children. Not now, not with Cirri’s work and the need to stabilize the Rift, but in the meantime, we were practicing like rabbits.

She turned her head to glance at me sidelong, smiling slightly. I take that  back—my only regret was that the inn didn’t have a larger bed.

It had been small, true. Not too small to push her back onto it and spread her thighs, feasting until she shivered apart, but Cirri liked plenty of room.

“It’ll be a week of small beds.” I sighed sadly. “Oh, no. You’ll just have to sit in my lap.”

Her smile grew a little wider, her scent deepening, but what could have proven a very diverting amusement gave way to a serious expression, her brow creasing as the horse slowed.

The gates of Argent stood open, and as they had a year ago, the guards sent us on at the sight of the crest on the carriage. Cirri’s hand tightened on mine.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked her. I knew she would say yes, but still I felt compelled to be sure. Even if she changed her mind, decided the lai Darran estates would be hers forever, she knew I would never let her go.

I had accepted what I was, to the degree that I refused to wear a hood or hide my face these days, but my selfishness… that had not changed. She was mine for as long as we lived.

Cirri nodded firmly, her chin raised. I don’t want it. I can’t even bring myself to go there. 

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Inside? she asked. Of course. I don’t want to face her alone.

She licked her lips, a hint of her nerves, and that was what worried me far more than her desire to offload her inherited estates.

Cirri was rarely nervous about anything these days. She had carved out for herself a role no one else could do. She was heard more often than not; Brother Glyn had remained to teach her language to the rest of the keep, and taught courses for the Rift-kin. She seemed determined to stand up straight, taking pride in her achievements, as she should.

It was only the thought of what lay ahead that bothered her.

Eryan drove the carriage on a familiar route through the city, and once again I had a strange sense of familiarity as he stopped in front of the Cathedral of Silver. I unbarred the door, unfolding myself to full height outside, ignoring the stares as I held out a hand for Cirri.

She took it, brushing off her skirts and looking up at the towers of the Cathedral.

It seems so much smaller than I remember, she said, brows rising with surprise. I used to think it was a marvel of Veladar. 

I glanced over my shoulder; the towers were smudged with soot, the rowan in the doorways long-faded and desiccated, the silver bells tarnished.

“They’ve been fading in popularity for some time,” I said, keeping my voice low. “And your name has spread across Veladar. You were one of their own, and now everyone knows you’ve married a vampire and work on our language.”

She looked at me, eyes wide with alarm. What if she thinks it’s my fault? I did belong to the Cathedral—she might think it looks like I turned my back on them.

“I’ll be happy to put her in your place. You didn’t defeat the wargs for the sake of irritating the Eldest.” I snorted in contempt at the idea. “Times change. As we must, so must they.”

Cirri swallowed, gazing at the towers once more, and finally nodded. You will translate for me, please?

It had been months since I’d needed to translate for her, with Brother Glyn drilling everyone on the priest’s tongue. “Of course.”