Serinda

Allegra grinned as she watched Martin return to the bed we sat on with a fresh quill in his mouth. I held out my hand and the rat dropped it into my palm. I stroked his head and he leaned against my finger.

"When did you find out he could do that?" asked Allegra.

"Yesterday after I finished washing him," I answered with a small, pleased smile. "I muttered something about needing the washcloth and he went and got it, then held it out for me until I opened my hand."

"And it's all because he was in some mage's library?"

"That is the theory. There has been a lot of research on the subject. Exposure to magic can have various effects. Heightened intelligence is quite common, though not always to this degree." I explained as the rat rolled onto his back for me to rub his belly.

"Can he understand everything we say?" Allegra pressed, watching Martin with fascination.

"I'm not sure" I shrugged. "He seems to know a great deal. However, I am not certain he knows everything we say."

"Wouldn't his memories tell you?"

"What a Memorium gleans from memories is often affected by how the rememberer perceived events. If a man believes he accidentally killed someone at one point in time, his memory will say he did unless he learned otherwise prior to the actual assimilation. It all depends on the subject's understanding of the situation." I described as I pushed my spectacles up the bridge of my nose.

"Wouldn't he know if he could understand?"

"Do you think about comprehending things?" I replied. "You do not think about it, you simply do it."

Allegra's gaze traveled back to Martin, who seemed to be listening raptly. A playful grin crept across her face as an idea appeared to form.

"So Martin, can you understand us?" she asked him curiously.

The rat only stared up at her with beady eyes. His nose twitched once before he went to rummage through my bag for something to eat. Allegra sighed in disappointment.

"I guess he doesn't."

"I think he's more like a highly intelligent dog. They understand some parts of human speech, but certainly not all of it. But perhaps his vocabulary can be expanded." I said as I pulled him out of my pack, an almond protruding halfway out of his mouth. Granted, if I really wanted him to be smarter I would need a mage or some portable concentration of magic. And a substantial one at that.

Suddenly a loud curse sounded from outside. Allegra and I peered out the window to see Leandro and Casimiro sparring below with Donatella so bundled up in layers that I could barely make out her face and sitting on a nearby bench, a quill and what appeared to be a large book in her hands. I'd no idea the woman had scholarly interests, though the thought was a pleasing one. Was it too much to hope that she had studied at the University of Livia? The place was home to some of Ilaria's most famous minds. But my attention was quickly pulled back to the two men. Each had discarded their heavy coats, hats, and gloves onto the snow. Yet they did not appear to need them, for they seemed to move so rapidly and earnestly that they were probably sweating in spite of the cold (though I still found tossing the garments to be a foolish notion).

Both were quite impressive, but their techniques were vastly different. Casimiro leapt, dodged, and parried as if he were taking part in an animated dance that didn't even seem to leave him out of breath. For all his musculature, he fought with deftness and grace instead of force. His broad, dashingly white smile never left his face as he twisted and turned, as if he thought the whole match a game. The thin elegant blade in his hand was nothing more than a glimmer in the air. Leandro, on the other hand, pressed with amazing strength and undaunted resilience. Powerful swings challenged Casimiro's finesse. Gone was the polite gentleman. In his place was a fierce and practiced swordsman with a penetrating gaze that searched for weaknesses to exploit. He fought like a fiend, a lion of ferocity with fire in his predatory eyes. The two men were evenly matched, worthy opponents, neither with any intention to lose to the other.

"They're rather skilled," I observed. "Where does a bard learn to fight like that?"

Allegra gave me a sidelong glance, a knowing twinkle in her bright eyes. Her crooked grin was that of an imp.

"We don't all start out as bards," the girl replied as she idly transitioned onto her belly and began to slowly move her legs back and forth in the air. "Casimiro and Fiore are the only ones who were always bards. At least in our group."

Fiore did not even look up from his spot in the corner of the room, surrounded by documents and miscellaneous items.

So the rest of them had somehow entered the lifestyle through other means. Donatella had likely joined it upon marrying her husband. But what was she before that, I wondered. Perhaps a seamstress or a tailor, given her affinity for clothes. Yet what of the Farfalla siblings?

"And what did you and your brother do before you joined them?" I asked.

"You are a Memorium, aren't you? Why don't you just touch me and find out?" she shot back, inquisitive interest in her voice.

There was no preventing the tired sigh that escaped my lips. This was hardly the first time I or any Memorium had been asked this question. It most often arose in conversations when we started to pose questions of our own. Why bother physically asking questions when we could learn whatever we need with just a touch? We typically were not offended by it, simply tired of giving the same answer time and time again.

"Professional courtesy," I told her. "Taking memories is no small thing. While painless and with no side-affects to the memory giver, it is still invasive. We don't take just one single memory, we receive every little detail hidden in one's mind. We will have every memory they have ever had whether they want us to or not. There is no completely hiding a memory. We do not take memories without permission or necessity. Preferrably, those are the only times we do so. Even then, we give fair warning. Otherwise we feel as if we are invading one's privacy."

Allegra wore a look of defeat, deprived of her chance to experience an assimilation. Fiore looked up from the book in his lap, an old battered, spine-bent, dog-eared thing that must have been read many times and loved dearly, judging by how gingerly he handled it. From what little was left of the words on the cover, I could tell they were in Ilarian. The topmost buttons of his shirt were left undone, revealing the flutist's marred throat. He had been much more open about displaying it since showing it to me. Perhaps he was simply more comfortable presenting it knowing that it would not perturb me. As far as scars went, memories had shown me worse. Corim's influx of memories was already making that abundantly clear.

"I didn't know Memoriums had so many rules," Allegra fumed.

"Actually we have few written rules. We may not own a title or become emotionally involved with nobility or royalty. We are not to use our abilities to intentionally harm or discredit. We are also to remain neutral in any and all situations. The rest is simply unspoken knowledge. It's just what we have practiced for centuries."

In truth, there were many things Memoriums did not do. We did not go near those we knew held traumatic memories unless necessary. We did not wish to ristk accidentally touching them and be haunted by their ghosts. In matters of democracy and government, we held our tongues, keeping true to the rule of neutrality. Most in our order stayed single by choice. There were typically two main reasons; the impossibility of physical intimacy and the inability to truly understand a Memorium. I had long thought Corim of the same mind. Yet whenever I thought back to the woman in red, I grew more certain that he had not. The emotional imprint that Delilah Shaebury left, even in only a passing thought, was too strong to be only that of a colleague. How did I not see it? Surely I should have caught something, some telling sign in his behavior. And why had he kept the affair a secret, from me of all people?

"Like the clothes you wear?" Allegra ventured to guess.

"Yes," I said. "Though styles vary from place to place."

"The Memoriums in Ilaria dress better than the royalty. They walk around in expensive silks and jewels. Sometimes they even have entire scenes stitched into their clothes. And the men and women both wear shoes with stilted heels." the girl chatted on.

And to think only a century ago they were as modest as monks, I silently remarked. Back then they had worn nothing but gray or brown habits. The colors were later changed to red and white. Now they were apparently this.

"I think I am content to remain an Angleter," I said, thankful for my simpler attire. "And you still have not answered my question."

She pouted and rolled onto her back. I noticed she had a tendency to switch positions frequently, rarely staying still. Her gown of canary yellow tangled around her knees, baring her thing legs.

"It's not that exciting really. I was a pickpocket and Leandro worked with some mercenaries. Then Leandro killed a man he shouldn't have and got in trouble with his boss. We left Pallora and ran into Casimiro and Fiore and Donatella. They helped us get my brother's boss of our backs and we joined them. Simple as that."

Glancing from Allegra to her brother outside, I found it hard to believe that either of them had spent a day on the street. Surely Leandro with his naturally chivalrous nature and standards of honor hadn't the grit to be a sword-for-hire. To picture him harming anyone was near impossible. But then I looked back at the sparring match outside, and was then able to see it. Out there with the blade in his hand, he was not the gentleman I was growing accustomed to. He had shifted from prince to warrior.

And Allegra a thief? She spoke of it so casually, as if it were nothing.

"You are rather open about it."

"Why shouldn't I be? It happened."

"Most people do not admit such things so freely."

"Then most people need to be less ashamed and accept what they did. It's not like all thieves and mercenaries are bad people. Our papa was one."

"Thief or mercenary?"

"Thief," Allegra answered proudly. "And he was the best. He used to sneak into the rich people's houses all the time and come back with jewelry. No one could steal like hum until he got caught. That's when I started pickpocketing."

"And Leandro became a mercenary," I assumed.

She nodded.

"Mostly he just shook people down for money. Sometimes he killed people."

Fiore only watched from his seat, observing my reactions as if he expected me to be shocked. Admittedly, I was surprised but not specially outraged. What is your story, Senor Oralba? What brought you and your wife to Casimiro. Yet his face revealed nothing. I turned back to Allegra.

"You and your brother seem to have adjusted well," I remarked. "The two of you do seem to have an ear for music."

The girl hopped off the bed and proceeded to sit with her legs splayed out on the floor so she could try to reach out and touch her toes.

"Leandro's better at it than me. Casimiro said he was a natural at the fiddle. I just do drums and tambourine. I can sing a little, but that's Donatella's job."

"Surely you have something that's yours."

She was silent as she continued to stretch her small, limber body. As she stood and raised her head, I saw that she wore tight orange leggings that extended to just above her knees.

"I do," she finally stated after doing the same with the other leg. "None of them can do this, not even Fiore."

Without another word, Allegra bent over backward. When her hands hit the floor, her feet left it and she went into a series of effortless flips, shifting seamlessly from backwards to sideways. Her little show concluded with a splits and the brightest of smiles. Without any difficulty, Allegra was back on her feet and gave a fluid curtsy.

"You're an acrobat," I said with a nod of approval, clapping softly.

"Uh-huh. I wanted to try being a contortionist too, but the lady I asked to teach me said I was too old to learn and that I was no flexible enough anymore."

Just as well, I supposed. Her acrobatics were impressive enough. Contortion also looked quite disturbing to the easily squeamish. Fiore sat in his place, unaffected. He was likely used to it.

The door opened to reveal Donatella removing her scarf. She set it, her book, and quill on the nearby table, then kissed Fiore on the cheek. Then her eyes fell on me.

"Running out of black to wear, I see," she remarked, taking in the robes of dark grey I wore in the attempt to continue my mourning.

"Yes, I was going to wash them later."

She shook her head.

"The only one who will be washing any clothes around here is me." she declared, her hands on her hips. "The last time I let Casimiro do it, the man nearly destroyed his own costume. And you can bet that did not stop him from complaining for the next four days while I repaired it."

Allegra burst out laughing and Fiore grinned silently. Donatella then turned on them.

"And do not think for a moment that the two of you are any better. I've yet to see a girl scrub her own clothes so hard in my life. And you, my husband, I am surprised you weren't in rags by the time you showed up on my doorstep." she half-heartedly berated them.

Fiore only shrugged while Allegra indignantly retorted that it had been a very big stain. Martin found his way into my lap and laid there, curled up and eyes closed.

They were like a family, really. Through all the ribbings and scoldings and sharp-tongued remarks, there was always the undercurrent of affection to soften the blow. They were happy and close-knit. I felt as if I were watching the life of a traveling household. In the midst of all this, I felt strange. I was an outsider that shouldn't have even been burdening these people with my presence. Those shadow creatures were still after me and they weren't likely to take mercy on those traveling with me. What would happen to them?

I could not stay with these people forever. As I watched them argue with each other, I knew it would be best if I left their company as soon as possible, regardless of how much they assured me they would be fine. I had looked at their maps. The Collegium was at least a two weeks' journey, and that was in ideal conditions. Taking snow and ice into consideration, it would take much longer. The Sanctorium was even further in the northern part of the country. The weather would likely be worse up there. Martin nestled himself deeper into my dress as I gingerly stroked his head. It will just be you and me eventually.

The remaining men of the group joined us then, sweating despite the cold and their coats hanging over their shoulders. Leandro and Casimiro were soon laughing at the comical argument before them and again reminded me of how much of a family they all were.

Corim and I had often been mistaken for father and daughter in our travels. They would always tell him what a pretty girl I was and that I must have taken after my mother (in actuality, my likeness was more that of my father's, the red-gold hair was his, as were most of my facial features). After a few years together, Corim had stopped correcting them and simply laughed with some quip about how I took more after him. A year or two after that, I had stopped giving him annoyed glares.

Donatella finally seemed to recount my presence and left the conversation, which had somehow transferred to Leandro and Casimiro taking innocent jabs at Allegra. The Lady Oralba picked up her book and sat down beside me on the bed with barely a sound. She swiftly flipped through the book and opened up to a page.

"I've been working on these for the past few days. Tell me what you think." she told me, holding it out for me.

On the pages before me were exquisitely detailed sketches of gowns. Notes were written in a miniscule elegant script next to them. There was a slim, white confection of lace with a higher neck and disconnected sleeves below the shoulders. There was a view from the back on the same page, showing that the dress had none. A small shawl of some sheer shimmering material was held together by a brooch that was blue as a summer sky. On the other page was a gown of royal blue with gold accents. It had a square neckline that allowed for just the slightest glimpse of cleavage. They were fine, beautiful creations, but what held my attention was the unexpectedly accurate shade of red-gold of the hair of the figure that wore them. There were tiny notes on how well the colors went along with the hair and the skin tone. I looked up at Donatella to see her watching me hopefully. I had apparently been incorrect in earlier assumptions. Nonetheless, the woman was still quite skilled. She had to have been with all the work that had gone into these sketches.

"Well?" she prodded.

"Are these meant to be for me?" I asked.

"Of course, mia cara," she answered and turned the page to reveal two more designs.

They also had my hair and figure wearing them. These were just as revealing as the other two. As well-drawn as it was, the red was an absolute terror. Far too suggestive and far too dramatic.

"I mean no offense, but these simply are not appropriate for a Memorium. There are far too many possibilities for accidental skin contact and these are just far too...ostentatious for someone like me." I sighed and handed it back to her.

To my astonishment, she laughed and gave a nod.

"Exactly. If you are not dressed like a Memorium, then people will not think you are a Memorium. It is harder to gain information on someone when no one can even recognize who they are. Casimiro's idea." she happily remarked.

"So your plan is to dress me up as a bard to throw people off," I ventured to say, wondering if the idea were at all possible.

Her plump lips curved upward, her warm brown eyes gleamed.

"That, and find out what you're good at," she chuckled. "The better we can pass you off, the harder it will be for those smoke-people to find you. Who knows? Perhaps you will be the first Bard-Memorium."

"The Singing Memorium, The Voice of Memory, just imagine all the things they will call you when you're a legend!" Casimiro suddenly exclaimed, having heard some of our talk.

Casimiro seemed to be obsessed with glory and legends. He was always speaking of legacies and names that would surely be remembered. He loved to speak of adventures and stories, particularly his own. The man strutted about like a peacock. Yet somehow these people followed him. Why was he so important?

Regardless, that was not the issue at hand. I was no hero and never would be. My part in this whole wretched mess was to do what must be done and honor my master's death. A disguise, though probably a most beneficial idea, could not be one of the sketches presented to me. They were utterly impractical. The memory assimilation would never stop. Nor did I believe it necessary to "find a talent" that would suit them. They could simply say I was ill and could not perform. Besides, such a thing would be a waste of my time.

"I do not sing," I told them pointedly. "I am a scholar, not a bard."

Allegra sat on the floor, hugging her knees.

"You can learn," she said.

I shook my head.

"If you really want me to act on this plan, there really is no need for me to do anything. You can simply say I am feeling ill and cannot perform. I will stay out of sight and wear my disguise when I'm out and about." I informed them. "Also, these outfits would need to be modified so as to decrease the chance of skin contact."

"Not if the people you are performing with are wearing gloves," remarked Casimiro with a gleam in his eyes.

"And hiding will only work for so long. But taking the appearance of another person, someone you would never be, grants you both freedom and security. You wear these, act like a bard, blend in with us, no one will assume you are a Memorium. You will just be another pretty girl on a stage." Donatella added, lightly grasping my hand that hovered over the pocket bearing Corim's ring.

"And when I am off the stage?" I inquired.

Donatella smiled knowingly.

"We have plenty of scarves and shawls you can use."

"And one of us will always accompany you to make sure nothing happens," Leandro interjected.

"You just might have to make sure Casimiro is watching the crowd and not your ass," giggled Allegra.

Her brother glared at her and quickly muttered something in Ilarian. She stuck out her tongue. Casimiro only guffawed while Donatella shook her head.

Again, I wondered why they went to such lengths to protect me. This would only cause more work for them. It wasn't as if I could sew, nothing more than a few poor stitches anyway. And who knew how much the materials would cost. There was no denying the benefits of a disguise. I would owe The Dancing Beasts a great deal when this was all over. I exhaled and nodded.

"It is a logical idea. If it can be made to work, then it would be wise to go through with it. I am grateful for all that you are doing for me. You certainly needn't do so." I said humbly, feeling Martin's tiny digits clasp my finger.

Casimiro beamed and swiftly took my hand in his. He planted a delicate kiss upon my knuckles and I thanked the gods I was wearing gloves. His were the last memories I ever wanted to take. The man then looked up at me. Out of the corner of my vision, I could have sworn I saw Leandro roll his eyes.

"We would not dare allow anyone to lay a hand upon a lovely young Memoria such as yourself, my ocean-eyed beauty," he murmured flirtatiously.

I stared at him, nonplussed by his flowery words.

"A beneficial sentiment, I am sure. I highly doubt, however, that the rest of your company is so easily swayed by a half-decent face," I retorted, unable to hold back the small smirk that found its way to my face when I heard a series of chuckles.

"It looks like she is immune to your charms, Cas," Leandro observed.

Casimiro's face went from bewildered to impressed in a trice. Recovering just as quickly, he turned to Leandro.

"Impossibile, my lion-hearted friend. I am irresistible," he countered in mock-disbelief.

"I believe my reaction proves otherwise," I logically pointed out.

"A temporary lapse in your otherwise fine judgement, mia cara. I will have you blushing in no time."

He is confident, I will grant him that. Is that really all it takes to seduce all those women?

"You have set an intriguing and impossible goal for yourself."

At that, he grinned.

"I live to chase the impossible, my stubborn lady. It runs in my very blood."

Donatella placed a hand on the rake's shoulder, her sketchbook held in the crook of her arm and sporting an entertained smile.

"Then you should have no trouble managing the possible. We have a show to prepare for." she reminded him.

"Alas," he lamented, then gave me a theatrical bow. "I am afraid we will have to continue our little banter another time."

And you will likely forget once some girl bats her eyes at you, I thought with some mirth.

Casimiro winked and proceeded to lead the minstrels out of the room. Fiore was the last to rise. Before he departed, he handed me a piece of parchment.

You will fit in just fine, La Volpe

By the time I glanced back up, he was already closing the door behind him.

So I was to be La Volpe, the fox. I supposed the name was fitting given my hair color. Personally speaking, though, I had always considered myself more of an owl, but there did not seem to be any point in arguing the matter. What manner of beasts were the rest of the group? It certainly will be no surprise if Casimiro is a peacock.

It was odd bouncing words back and forth with him as I had. It had felt so natural, the retorts forming on my tongue the moment his left his mouth. I had not minded the flirtatious nature of his responses, I had simply enjoyed the verbal sparring. It reminded me of Corim and all the times we had bantered. The ease and casualty of it had felt safe, secure. Corim had often instigated such exchanges when giving me painful memories-his way of easing the discomfort. I imagine he would be quite entertained by all this.

Martin stretched and yawned as he woke up in my lap. He twisted his body so that he was lying on his belly, then pressed his nose into my hand. I picked him up and set him down on the bedside table.

"I have work to do. Do not leave this room." I said to him. "I'd hate to come to and realize some lucky cat has gobbled you up."

The rat cocked his head to the side. He twitched his nose and almost seemed to nod his head.

"Good boy," I muttered, then lay down on the bed.

I had decided to attempt finding the memory again. The sooner it could be found, the sooner I would have answers. I knew when to search and I had ideas of what I was looking for. My eyes shut and I slowly relaxed my body.

Pre-Alliance. Memoriums. Shadow creatures.

Going back was faster this time. Memories containing the components of my search seemed to fly past. I was no drifting otter. I was a fish speeding through the waters of time.

Umbramancers of the Eastern Lands in their long flowing robes conjuring creatures of shadow. Taking many shapes. Animals. Men. Women. Monsters.

Yet none had the vile smoke-like forms of the shadow wolves that belonged to my unknown enemy. Nor did they possess the same glowing eyes. The eyes of the umbramancers' creations were all grey mist. Was there any possibility, however slight, of my antagonist being an Easterner? An umbramancer?

No. I had to focus on what I knew now. I could pursue other threads later. Don't expand the search too far.

Memoriums. So many Memoriums. Back and back in history. Names upon names. Names laced with fondness and respect. Love and admiration. Clothing and language changing with the times.

If I went far enough, would I find the memories of Revetik, the first Memorium? He of a thousand apprentices?

I was certain I was past the Alliance now. It couldn't be much longer.

Suddenly it is there. The memory. In all its enigmatic fog and whispers. I could make out words this time. Speaking in all different voices.

My fault. Promise. Monster. Good intentions. End justifies the means. All for you. Little sister. Traitor.

Chief among the voices was a man whose voice was smooth, deceptively so, like...silk meant to strangle. The prisoner. Who was he in all this?

I approached the memory cautiously. Like a hunter stalking its prey. It would not slip from me this time.

My consciousness reached out, closed. The nearer I came to it, the more revulsion seemed to wrap around me. The sicker my stomach grew, the higher bile rose in my throat.

The closer I drew, the clearer another voice became. A woman. Tired and grim. What was she saying?

It was as if the memory noticed my presence. Again, just as it was within my grasp, it was gone.

And propelled me into another memory.

I was fourteen. A gangly boy who was dwarfed by his father's bulk. My hands shook as I clumsily pulled on the gloves. Sweat beaded my forehead. It was summer and I was sweltering beneath my clothes.

Meliora watched me from her bed, her doll cradled in her arms and her black curls framing her face. The summer sun seeping through the curtains cast shadows upon her short-sleeved purple dress. She cocked her head innocently, swinging her feet.

"Papa's going to ask why you're dressed like that," she told me.

"Well, Father can shove it," I breathed irritably.

My little sister pouted.

"Well, he will," she reminded me, observing as I wiped perspiration away from my face. "Why won't you tell me what's going on?"

"Because I can't."

That was only part of the answer. I couldn't because she would tell Father. If he found out what I was, what I was turning into, what I could do.

I knew exactly what he would do. He would use me just like he did everyone else. I would be another tool.

But he couldn't use me if he never found out. Not if I never absorbed another memory. No touching anyone. That was all I had to do. What else could I do?

I wheeled around as the door swung open to reveal Daisy. She was only the latest of Father's fucking toys. He thought I never noticed. I did.

"Your lord father has asked for the both of you," she informed us. Her blank dim-witted eyes took in my conservative attire. Unsurprisingly, she shook off whatever little curiosity she must have had for anything and waited for us to accompany her.

Meliora slid off the bed, smiling as she hugged her doll tighter to her chest. Daisy opened her mouth to tell her to leave it.

"Let her keep it," I said. "It's not as if Father cares."

The woman glared at me. I was used to it. I didn't like her and she didn't like me. We made no secret of it.

"Don't you dare order me about, young man," she threatened.

"I can and I will. I am Ulfric Danyr's son. You're nothing but a whore in a series of whores meant to replace my mother. I've been here far longer than you and I will remain long after my father has thrown you out. And that will be if he is merciful when he tires of you." I informed her imperiously.

She fell silent, suddenly pale and shrunken in on herself. I took Meliora's free hand. Daisy followed numbly as I led the way down the halls.

Father smiled as we entered what he considered his "throne room". He always seemed to think of himself as a king. Nevermind that there was not a drop of royal blood in his veins. Unlike me, he was big and burly, broad-shouldered and muscular. But we both had the same black hair I shared with Meliora, the same gray eyes, the same sharp nose. He was dressed in his black leathers and lounging in his chair. My sister giggled and clambered up into Father's lap.

"I did not expect you to have children, Lord Danyr," a voice spoke up.

I shifted my gaze forward. Before my father stood a woman. She could not have been older than thirty. Clad all in soft floral robes of dusky rose buttoned up to her thin neck, she was no beauty. Her looks were decent but her face was too plain, her mouth too wide and thin, and her chin too prominent. She was quite tall though, but the high-heeled boots might have helped with that. My hands would have fit around her waist she was so thin. Father smirked at her.

"Does that surprise you so much, Miss Wynwood?"

This Wynwood raised a gloved hand to tuck a piece of mouse brown hair behind her ear. My heart began to pound in my chest as realization hit me. A Memorium. But why was she here? What use could Father have for her?

"Most assume that cold-blooded murderers and slavers do not have the capacity for love or affection. Your reputation is hardly any help." she remarked, but it was me her eyes fell upon. I fidgeted beneath her penetrating gaze.

"And are you most?" Father asked her, running his fingers through Meliora's curls.

"To an extent. I believe you a monster. I do not believe you lack the ability to care for your children, however twisted that care may be."

Her answer seemed to interest him. Most who would have dared say something like that would have found themselves knocked over the head by one of Father's men. Yet she stood there unharmed.

"Such an opinion leads me to wonder why you would offer your services to me."

She didn't balk in her response.

"The Memoriums are a neutral order, Danyr. We undertake tasks of our choice, however there are times when one of us is assigned to a certain job. If I agree to perform the task you wish, I do expect to be paid."

A job? Was that all this was to her? Were the Memoriums really that mercenary? I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my back. She was still staring at me. Her eyes held me in place. I felt frozen, incapable of looking away. I held my hands behind my back, hoping she hadn't noticed the gloves.

"If you agree," Father repeated.

"Your associate did not specify what you wanted of me. If that was not your wish, then I suggest you make an example of him. I hear you are quite good at that. His name was Arrin. Broken nose and wandering hands." she stated as casually as if she were discussing the weather.

Father gave out a burst of laughter, making me flinch. The Memorium finally turned her gaze to him. I felt like I could breath again.

"You're a woman after my own heart," he chuckled, eyeing the curve of her hips. She did have quite the figure for such an average face.

For the first time, Wynwood's lips curved into a small, accomplished smirk.

"That requires having one," she remarked. "Just as well. I don't think you could handle bedding a Memorium."

I didn't need to turn around to know that Daisy had stiffened, fuming at the idea that some strange woman could outdo her. In all honesty, it wouldn't have been hard. But she would likely spend the night on her knees trying to prove otherwise. Father's eyes shone like polished silver at the challenge.

The Memorium approached and I swallowed nervously. She had to have been confident he wouldn't hurt her for such an action. And she was closer to me.

"And your task?" she prompted.

He leaned back in his seat, Meliora combing through her doll's hair with her fingers. She wasn't even paying attention. Good. I didn't want to have to explain this to her later.

"A rather persistent rival of mine has become a nuisance. He claims he has information he can use against me. Your job will be to bring it to me." Father told her as he moved to take her hand. Effortlessly, she moved it out of his grasp at the last second to her waist.

"Why not just have him killed? Would that not be simpler?"

It surprised even myself when the answer came from my mouth.

"Because we want to make an example of him. We're good at that. You said so yourself. The best way to do that is to make him suffer. We receive the information through your abilities, use it against him, humiliate him, then kill him publicly."

Then I promptly shut my mouth. Both of them looked down at me. Father proudly, she with a crack in that mask of cool flirtation. Was that a hint of fear I saw in her eyes? But just as soon as I noticed it, it was gone, a lofty grin back on her face.

"It seems that you will become your father yet, Corim Danyr."

How did she know my name?

My hands flew to my head as I awoke. I could practically hear the throbbing of my brain pound in my ears. The pain was worse than before. I curled up into a tight ball, tears welling up in my eyes as I tried to stifle the moans that came out of my mouth. My body was wracked with chills. It had slipped away from me again. How could I have failed a second time?

Martin scurried across my body to my face and pressed his nose to my face. The memories were mercifully minimal. Simply wandering about the room. He nuzzled my cheek as he squeaked worriedly. But the pain did not cease. Through it, the Memorium's name lingered in my mind.

Penela Wynwood.

So many emotions were associated with that name. Suspicion. Curiosity. Respect. Affection. Loss. Guilt. Teacher. She had been his master. Corim had never mentioned her name. How much had he kept from me?

I barely heard the door open. Casimiro's voice uttered something, but I could not comprehend it.

It did not matter. Within seconds I passed out.

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