Thicker Than Water

The walk home was chilly and subdued. Inger kept a discreet watch over Cranberry, but she didn’t have that frayed, on-the-verge-of-tears look in her eyes that he’d grown to dread in the last week. Perhaps the funeral had brought her some peace, after all. Or maybe she was just exhausted. Inger looked away, downcast, wishing he could help her somehow. At times like this, it felt like all he knew how to do was hit things, and you couldn’t punch someone's grief into submission.

A voice like his own, yet reptilian and alien, wriggled into his thoughts. Some hero you are.

In childhood flights of fancy, Inger had often imagined that a tiny dragon lived inside him. It was a cold thing, a creature that breathed ice instead of fire. It feasted on fear, on the lonely desperation of an orphaned colt, on the terror of wandering the streets searching for food, whispering with a sibilant hiss of the dangers lurking for him in every shadowed alleyway.

Many imaginary monsters had been set aside as he’d grown up, but not the dragon. It stayed with him as he joined the Firewings, as he fought the griffons, as he married Cranberry and started a family. It nestled in his chest, slumbering so quietly that most days he could forget it was there. The little dragon was his constant companion, speaking the ugly thoughts he dared not say, not even to Rye or Windstreak.

It said the things he couldn’t even tell Cranberry.

He had ways to keep the dragon at bay. When the bards sang about his defeat of Merys the Red, pride could quash it. When Cranberry gave him a warm smile, it melted away. When his loyal Firewings offered firm salutes, Inger could pretend that he was worthy of their respect, pretend that the dragon was vanquished. But in the dead of night it woke, crawling up to whisper in his ear. And these days, it had new fears to feed on.

If you were faster, you could have saved him. She blames you for letting her father die.

The Dragonslayer, they called him. A cruel joke. The tiny dragon couldn’t be killed with golden armor and a magic hammer. It was always there, perched between his ribs, seeing through the hero’s mask he wore.

You’ve got the others fooled, but you can’t fool me. Someday they’ll see you for what you really are, and then you’ll lose them all, one by one. Who will go next? Maybe Windstreak. She must blame you, too. You were supposed to be her best student, her successor, and you let her husband die.

Or will it be your son? Apricot knows he isn’t your favorite. You can see it in his eyes, can’t you? He knows you don’t love him as much as Strawberry. You know what it’s like to grow up without a father. He was the first to leave you.

Inger squeezed his eyes shut tight, exhaling. The intrusive thoughts slithered through his brain, unabated.

But no. Not them. We both know who you’re going to lose next. After all, she only married you because you were the first stallion to kiss her. And vice versa.

His jaw clenched. That wasn’t true. It had never been true. He’d fallen for Cranberry because of who she was; because of her passion for history, her curiosity, her intelligence, even her fiery temper—

Oh, yes. It had nothing to do with being the first mare willing to let you into her bed. You shared a tent all those nights because of her ‘passion for history’. The dragon snorted. Don’t feel bad about it. She settled for you, too. But six years is a long time for young love to last.

Snapping his eyes open, Inger ground his teeth. Neither of us settled for anything. We’ve built a life together because we wanted to.

The dragon’s breath was cold in his chest. You let her father die. You can’t even comfort her. Why should she stay? How much longer before she decides to… how did Wheatie put it? Play the field. See what she’s been missing.

Foolish thoughts. Old insecurities mixing with fresh survivor’s guilt. Not real. Inger stared firmly ahead. I love her. And she loves me.

The dragon sneered. Then why can’t you get her to smile? It hissed laughter as it settled back into a supine slumber.

Inger cringed, looking back at his wife. Cranberry looked so cold and reserved in her black funeral robe, with her golden mane tied up tightly behind her head. She could have been a statue, frozen in stone and suffering in noble silence. For days, Inger had tried to break her free from that stony prison and bring back some warmth to her face, but nothing had worked. Wasn’t that his job as her husband? To make her feel better?

Up ahead, their home had come into view. The glow of the kitchen’s oil lantern radiated from the nearest window. Inger squinted. “Did you leave the light on?”

“No, I…” Cranberry’s face fell. “I must’ve forgotten to put it out before we left. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he amended hastily, hoping the question hadn’t come out as an accusation. “You’ve had a lot on your mind. It’s fine, honey.”

She nodded, still crestfallen. “I’ll put it out… boys, go put your cloaks away upstairs before we have dinner.”

Apricot and Strawberry mumbled assent as the family reached the front step. Inger stuck the key into the lock, but found that someone had left it unlocked. With a glance at Cranberry, he decided against mentioning it. No point in making her feel worse. He pulled the door open and waved the boys past. As Cranberry followed them in, Inger glumly berated himself for his carelessness.

A shriek rang out from the dining area, wiping the recriminations from his thoughts. Inger rushed into the house, wings flared, to find Cranberry standing stock-still with her hoof pressed to her mouth. Seated at the table were two stallions. One, Inger instantly recognized: Tybalt Vallen, wearing another one of those rose-embroidered summer robes, this one a deep purple. His hooves were folded calmly on the table, as though he wasn’t sitting uninvited in their home.

Beside him sat someone new. He was a unicorn, wearing a wine-dark red robe. The hood was pulled down over his head despite the warmth of the house, the hem resting just above his horn. The fur coat on his snout and the strands of his mane that poked out from beneath the hood were pure white—an unusual color. Most ponies with white coats, like Wheatie, were tinged pink or cream underneath, but this unicorn’s skin and hair were as colorless as chalk. Blood-red eyes peered out from under the hood, curious but calm.

“Strawberry,” ordered Inger, stepping between his family and the intruders, “take your brother to your room and lock the door.”

Strawberry was staring wide-eyed at the intruders, but nodded and pulled his sibling with him toward the stairs. Apricot stumbled beside him, head turned over his shoulder to stare at the strange unicorn. “Who’s that?” he whispered, beforehis older brother shushed him.

Tybalt stood, lifting a placating hoof. “Inger, Professor Sugar; my sincerest apologies for the—”

“Get out,” said Inger, graven-faced. “Now.”

The robed unicorn’s eyes flicked sideways toward Tybalt with a resigned frown. “I told you we should have waited outside.”

“And risk being turned away?” Tybalt shook his head curtly. “This is too important. Inger, we need to—”

Inger slammed a hoof into the kitchen floorboards so hard the table rattled. “Out. Now.”

“Wait,” insisted Tybalt.

“Is this about your expedition?” asked Cranberry, looking warily between the noble and his companion. “Count Vallen, I haven’t made a decision yet. And you shouldn’t have come into our home.”

“I know. I regret the need. But time is too short to delay for the sake of politeness.”

Funny. Inger wasn’t feeling very polite, either. “Last warning, Vallen. I will throw you out.”

Behind Tybalt, the hooded unicorn’s eyes narrowed. Frowning cautiously, his horn glowed a soft red. Tybalt noticed and slashed a hoof through the air. “Pollux, relax.”

Pollux blinked, then his hornlight faded out. Shrugging, he sat back on his cushion. “Your funeral, my lord.”

At the word funeral, Cranberry stiffened. Inger took a step toward the intruders, but she barred his path with a hoof. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll hear you out, for Locke’s sake. Make it fast, Tybalt.”

“The expedition team arrived in the city yesterday morning,” said Tybalt, sitting again and gesturing to his companion. “A mercenary group I’ve hired called Katabasis Company. They’re led by a pegasus named Castor, a veteran of the War of Whitetail. This is his brother Pollux, an accomplished mage in his own right. Together, they’re veterans of over a hundred operations. More importantly, Pollux possesses a great deal of knowledge about the magical techniques of the elk.”

“And I can carry a tune,” said the pale unicorn, with a wry smile. His eyes had relaxed again. Without any apparent hostility, he gave the Sugars a nod.

“If whatever befell Locke’s team was some kind of magical catastrophe, Pollux will help us put a stop to it.” Tybalt steepled his hooves in his familiar tic. “Please, sit.”

Inger was still glaring, but Cranberry stiffly took a seat at the end of the table. Against his better judgment, Inger joined her.

Tybalt tapped his hooves. “Katabasis Company also employs an engineer, an alchemist, and a number of ex-Dromedarian soldiers. The quartermaster, Beatriz, has been busy stocking up enough supplies to feed not just our expedition, but Locke’s people as well, once we reestablish contact.”

“Sounds like you’ve covered all your bases,” said Cranberry, distantly.

“All but one. We still need an expert on the Dominion. Someone who can read ancient elkish script, and finish Locke’s work if necessary.” Tybalt tipped his hooves toward Cranberry. “Not to mention your knowledge of Locke himself. It might be useful in any number of ways.”

In lieu of a response, Cranberry rested her mouth behind her hoof. Tybalt continued, “A local guide waits for us in Port Faeloch, to show us the path Locke’s group took into the Elderwood. We plan to leave Canterlot with several supply carts at the end of the week, traveling west to Trottingham, where I’ve chartered a ship that will take us to the Elktic Commonwealth. The full journey should take about two weeks, weather permitting.”

Inger bit his lip, suddenly captured by the idea. Despite Tybalt’s impertinent intrusion, he might have just given Inger the answer to the dragon’s question. If there was one thing that always got Cranberry buzzing with excitement, it was an archaeological dig. She was never more alive than when she was packing for a trip to some Sleipnordic or Elktic ruin.

This could make her smile again.

But Inger knew, better than anyone, how tenuously Cranberry was holding herself together. Could he really suggest she go sailing to the ends of the earth without him there to comfort her?

Cranberry touched his hoof, visibly torn. “I… I’m worried about Locke, but…” she said, hesitantly. “Things are so difficult right now.”

“I, um…” Tybalt sounded strangely reticent. “I thought that you might wish to accompany us as well, Inger.”

Hope sparked in Cranberry’s face. Inger swallowed. “Why me?” he asked, glancing warily at Tybalt. If this was just a ploy to convince Cranberry…

“Your martial prowess is, quite literally, the stuff of legends,” said Tybalt, looking strangely nervous. “But more than that, I, um…” His hoof touched his locket, almost unconsciously.

Inger tilted his head, his brow furrowing. A niggling feeling that had been bothering him since the night they’d met came to the fore. “Count Vallen… do we know each other?”

“No,” said Tybalt, his voice hoarse. “Not as well as we should.” He was staring at Inger with strained intensity.

Inger squinted again. He couldn’t recall ever meeting a golden-eyed, onyx-coated pegasus before. Yet… there was something in the shape of his jaw, the proud set of his shoulders, that dimly rang a bell. Could he be the relative of one of the Firewings? His raised chin had a trace of that haughty air some of the fresher ‘Wings possessed. It reminded Inger uncomfortably of how he’d carried himself in his younger days in the guard. It was Cranberry, thoroughly unimpressed with the act, who’d made him realize how foolish he looked.

“The time has come to confess. This trip was not entirely about recruiting you, Professor,” said Tybalt, never tearing his eyes away from Inger. “In fact, I’ve wanted to meet you for some time, Inger.”

Tybalt rose and began to pace, yanking the locket’s chain. “I want to tell you the truth directly, but I don’t think you’d believe me. So, instead… allow me to explain the facts, first.”

What in the world was he talking about? Inger, feeling more uneasy by the moment, merely nodded. Tybalt licked his lips, forced himself to stop pacing, and sat once more. He took a deep breath. “Very well. Seventeen years ago, shortly after I came of age, my parents arranged my marriage to Lady Eurydice Blueblood. The duke’s niece, in fact—she was second in line to inherit Emmet’s titles and estates, until she was bumped to third with the birth of his son.” Tybalt shook his head. “Poor lad.”

Everyone knew the end of that sad tale. Inger, still wondering where this was going, raised a brow.

“It was a smart match, but the bet didn’t pay off. The stallion in line before Eurydice survived the war, and had a whole brood of children.” Tybalt’s wry smile suggested he found this more amusing than disappointing. “No Norharren lands are passing to the House of the Rose in this generation. But,” he continued, “the wedding felt full of promise at the time. We married in Whitetail, near the start of June.”

His eyes grew distant as he reminisced. “Eurydice found no happiness in my southern homeland. She missed the mountains and her family in Norharren. All the delights Silverglen and the Rose Valley could offer weren’t enough to put a smile on her face. Our marriage was… dutiful, at best, for all that we tried. I thought perhaps our first child would bring us closer together, but I soon learned that our love for him did not far extend to each other.”

Perhaps noting Inger’s raised eyebrow, Tybalt cleared his throat and pressed on more swiftly. “The following summer, duty brought me to the capital. All the lords and ladies of Equestria’s noble houses were summoned to Canterlot for the decennial Royal Diet. It’s always an excruciating affair. We deliver census results and argue about the tax code affecting the next ten years. Which usually means the nobles weaseling out of as much of the crown’s financial burden as they can.” He snorted dismissively. “I expected to be bored out of my mind. But then…”

He touched his locket again. “Then, I met Meg.” He trailed off, hints of a smile playing on his lips. “She was beautiful. Smart, too, and ambitious. She was working at the castle as a scullery maid when I met her, with an eye on working her way through the ranks of the staff to become Celestia’s personal majordomo. It’s a position of great, if subtle influence. Meg told me she’d be there in five years. Her drive was… magnetic.” With a fond sigh, he rested his chin on his hooves. “And she had quite the sense of humor.”

A noble stallion from the south, swooping a young mare off her hooves. He used her, then left her, thought Inger sadly. Just like my father used and left my mother.

Inger’s heart forgot to beat. He suddenly sat up straight, staring at Tybalt with new eyes. Wait.

Tybalt was too deep in memory to notice. “Meg and I spent two months together, here in Canterlot. We had to be discreet. She was a commoner, and I a married noblepony… but every moment was a treasure. I wish we’d had more time together.”

He looked suddenly drawn and reserved. “However, two weeks after the grand diet had concluded, my continued presence in the capital was beginning to attract attention. Silverglen needed its lord, and Eurydice was raising our son alone. I had to return home. If only I’d brought Meg with me…” Tybalt clenched his teeth. “I thought our parting would be brief. I told her I would return before the year was out. I was already manufacturing excuses for Eurydice on the carriage ride back to Whitetail. I didn’t know at the time that… that Meg was with child.”

“Meg,” said Inger, his voice brittle with shock. “As in Pomegranate.”

Cranberry’s eyes widened. “Wait. That’s your…” She connected the dots at last, and gasped. Her hooves flew to her mouth as she stared at Tybalt. “You can’t be—” She dropped her hooves to the table in astonishment, her head twisting back to Inger. “You’re saying he’s your father?”

The world spun. Inger’s tongue didn’t seem to be working. His head swam as Tybalt lifted the locket from around his neck and gently offered it. Inger pulled it over with shaking hooves, and snapped it open. Within was a lovingly-painted portrait, of a dark red mare with brilliant green eyes. Inger recognized them instantly—after all, he saw them every day in the mirror. He took in his mother’s image, hearing his own heartbeat thumping in his ears.

“I’m sorry it took so long to find you,” said Tybalt. “So, so sorry…” His wings fluttered in distress. “So many years, searching… All I had to go on was a brief description from the castle staff: a cherry-red pegasus with an orange mane. None of them recalled your name, or where you and your mother had vanished to.”

“You mean… you came back?” Suddenly Inger wasn’t the Dragonslayer, or the Captain of the Firewings, or even Cranberry’s husband. Little Inger of Canterlot, orphaned and hungry and alone, gazed across the table at the stallion he’d spent his whole life wondering about.

Tybalt’s ears wilted at the challenge. “Of course I came back,” he said gently. “I loved her, Inger.” Tybalt looked down at his hooves, ashamed. “But my return came too late. Three years too late. By then, Meg was no longer at the castle.”

“Of course not,” said Cranberry hotly, her pale face reddening. She banged her forehooves on the table, half-rising. “She was busy coughing up blood in the street—”

“Cranberry,” said Inger, instantly quelling her. She sat down, glaring at Tybalt. Inger gently closed the locket, looking back up into his father’s eyes. Why wasn’t he boiling with that same anger? Maybe he was still too shocked to process it. It felt as if he was operating his tongue and lips remotely, like a puppeteer. “What took you so long? Why… why didn’t you come back for us sooner?”

“Eurydice wouldn’t let me out of her sight once I returned.” Tybalt shook his head weakly. “She was no fool. I know she suspected the truth, or something close to it. If I’d gone back for Meg, we’d have been found out for certain. The political ramifications would be…” He swallowed. “But I swear to you, Inger. If I’d known I had another son, I would have come back for you, and damn the consequences.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“I don’t think she knew yet when we parted,” said Tybalt. His eyes pleaded with Inger. “I’ve been searching for you ever since I found out. Years spent chasing leads down dead ends, spending gold like water… and all that time, you were living in the Firewing barracks, scarcely a kilometer away from where the search began.” He suddenly slammed the table with a hoof. Beside him, Pollux jumped slightly. “Damn! So much wasted time…”

Tybalt stood abruptly, and began pacing again. “I heard about you after the war, of course—the Dragonslayer, Hero of Canterlot. A crimson-feathered legend in golden armor. But I never thought… it didn’t even occur to me that Equestria’s greatest hero could be my son.”

Tybalt’s pace sped to a frenzy. “Then, six weeks ago, when I began preparing the expedition, I reviewed Professor Sugar’s dossier. It had an entire section on her famous husband, of course—I skimmed over your well-known feats, but the simple physical description caught my eye. A red pegasus. Orange mane. Seventeen years old. No known relations. That’s when everything clicked into place.”

He tugged reflexively at his neck for the locket that was still clutched in Inger’s hooves. “I didn’t send a letter. After so many false hopes, I… I was afraid to get my spirits up prematurely. I had to be sure. That’s why I came to meet you myself, last week. And—” Tybalt’s steps paused. “You have Meg’s eyes,” he said simply. “I knew I’d found you at last.”

Inger felt lightheaded. “She died.” He pushed the locket back toward his father. “The scarlet plague…”

Tybalt took it, and gently replaced it around his neck. “I know. Years ago, my search for you led me to her grave, here in Canterlot.”

“Her—” Inger blinked. “You know where she’s buried? I was so young when it happened, I never remembered the place…”

“I do. We… could visit it together,” he offered hopefully. “I can’t even begin to make up for how I’ve failed you, Inger. And I’ll understand if you want nothing to do with me. But you’re my son. If you’re willing, I… I’d like to be part of your life.”

There was a long, thick pause.

“I… I need time to think,” said Inger, dry-mouthed.

“Of course. As I said, the expedition is leaving at the end of the week. When the two of you decide whether you’ll join us, or…” Tybalt winced, “or not, I’ll be staying at this address until then.” He nodded to Pollux, who slid a sheaf of paper with scribbles on it over the table. “I hope you decide to come. We could use you both.” The longing in his eyes went unvoiced.

With Pollux close behind him, he left the dining room and headed for the door. “Ah!” said Tybalt, halting in surprise. “Hello.”

Two yelps of surprise rang out from the stairwell. Inger’s whirling thoughts were momentarily becalmed by stern disapproval. How long were those two eavesdropping?

“You must be Strawberry and Apricot,” said Tybalt, practically beaming at his grandchildren. “I—” a quick look back at Inger and Cranberry muted his delight. “I’m afraid we must be going. But I hope I’ll get the chance to know both of you, next time we meet.” With a sigh, he nodded at his companion. “Come then, Pollux. We’ve a long walk back to the warehouse.” Tybalt opened the door and descended the step.

“Wait,” said Apricot, barging forward and tugging on the dark red hem of Pollux’s robe. “You—you’re a mage, aren’t you?” He was staring up at the unicorn with barely-disguised awe. Pollux nodded with a bemused smile. Apricot’s starry eyes sparkled. “A real mage… could you—”

“Pollux! Let’s be on our way.”

The red-cloaked mage jolted. “Coming, my lord.” He gave Apricot a parting head bow, and stepped through the door. Inger heard him whistle a strange, lilting melody as his hoofsteps rang out on the cobblestones. A red glow surrounded the doorknob, and the door firmly clicked shut.

“Up to your rooms,” said Inger firmly. Strawberry stared bashfully at his hooves, mumbling an apology. Apricot didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, still staring out the window after the mage. Inger’s frown deepened. “Go on, both of you. Your mother and I need to talk in private.”

Apricot finally tore his gaze away and scurried up the steps. Strawberry made to follow, but paused. “Dad… was that really our grandfather?”

Inger looked out the window as Tybalt and Pollux turned a corner and disappeared into the streets. “I think he was,” he said.

* * *

As the silence stretched on for minutes, Cranberry tried to corral her emotions. She’d been thrown off-balance enough today by the funeral, but now this… Looking at Inger, she couldn’t even imagine what was going on in his head.

She tried to recall what he’d said to her over the years about his father. There hadn’t been much, as he’d never known who the stallion was. A noble, he’d long suspected, given the name his mother had chosen—Inger wasn’t a commoner’s name like Cranberry or Rye—but beyond that, pure conjecture. Not that Inger had ever seemed very interested in conjecturing about it… Cranberry had always found it a little strange how incurious her husband was on this one matter, how little anger he seemed to hold.

Now, though… Seeing the wounded bewilderment in his face and the slump of his shoulders, Cranberry realized that his cavalier, resigned attitude about his parentage had been a defense mechanism. If he didn’t care who his father was, then not knowing wouldn’t hurt. It wouldn’t burn him up inside.

She gently took his hoof in her own. “Do you believe him?” she asked at last.

“It all fits.” Inger nodded slowly. “The time frame, the locket, my mother…” He swallowed. “And… he looks like me. I kept trying to place it. The way he sits, the way he moves.”

“I noticed,” said Cranberry, pale. She scratched an ear. “Sisters, Inger. How do you feel?”

“Like… like I’m flying through a stormcloud.” Inger took a shuddering breath. “Being blown this way and that, blinded until some realization flashes like lightning—he was looking for me, Cranberry! I don’t… what am I supposed to do with this?”

“I don’t know if you’re supposed to do anything,” she said, shaking her head with stunned ambivalence. “You believe that he’s your father. But what about the rest of it? Him trying to find you?”

“He did find me,” said Inger, fiddling with his hooves on the table.

“Yes… but seventeen years is a long time. Do you even want what he’s asking for? To… try to be a family?”

Inger gritted his teeth, but it was an expression of distress, more than anger. “Half of me wants to punch him.”

“And the other half…?”

He had a strangely familiar hunger in his eyes. “I used to want to meet my father, more than anything. Growing up in the Firewings, I’d lie awake at night, making up fantasies about him coming back for me. I gave up hope of finding him years ago, before you and I had even met. But now he’s here, and I don’t know what I want, anymore.” His stare was practically burning a hole in the table.

Suddenly, Cranberry knew where she’d seen that expression before. It was the same look Rye got when he talked about magic, the birthright he’d been cheated of. A piece of him that had been missing ever since he’d been born. Inger’s soft green eyes now held the same desperate longing.

Cranberry’s hooves fidgeted uselessly. “So… what are you going to do?”

“I… I need to know.” Inger fiddled with an imaginary locket. “I need to know if he’s telling the truth about… about loving me. About us being a family again.” His brows knit with sudden resolve. “And I can’t wait months for him to return. I have to go with him to Elketh.” He bit his lip, and with visible difficulty, shook his head. “But only if you want to go with me. I won’t leave you on your own right now. Even for this.”

Oh, Inger… He was willing to put her needs first, even in this? She lunged forward and kissed him, drawing a surprised mmf. “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling back. Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “I need to find Locke. Whatever’s happened out there, I have to make sure he’s safe.” Her eyes narrowed in determination. “I’m not losing anyone else.”

Inger gave her a gentle nudge. “It’ll be like old times. You and me, picking through ancient ruins. Maybe we’ll find something big enough for them to write a few new songs about.” Cranberry could tell his good cheer was forced, but not the hope lying behind it. He really did think this might help.

Cranberry laughed softly. “Maybe so.” She tugged her mane loose from its funeral knot. Golden curls streamed down around her head. “Just like old times…” She rubbed her eartips, unnaturally shortened by the frostbite she’d endured on their trip to Sleipnord. “The Elderwood may be dangerous. I doubt Locke stopped reporting in because he ran out of ink.”

“I’ll keep you safe,” Inger promised, grinning. “Guard you like the princess herself.”

“You always do.” Smiling, she nuzzled Inger’s cheek. “Okay. We’ll have to make the preparations fast. Tomorrow morning I can see about putting the boys up with Rye and Tyria while we’re gone. Then I need to get my tools from the university.”

“And I’ll go tell my… father,” Inger stumbled over the word, “that we plan to join the rescue party.”

“All right. This sounds…” Cranberry felt the fresh excitement that always preceded a new excavation filling her breast. “Good.” She wished she could tell Papa that she was finally close to what she and Locke had been searching for. With a sniff, she realized her eyes were watering again, and wiped them.

Inger kissed her. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Maybe Inkpot was right,” Cranberry said, exhaling. “Some distracting work could be exactly what I need. Maybe by the time we get back, things won’t… hurt so much.” The ache in her chest hadn’t gone away, even with Tybalt’s revelation.

He hugged her, and she squeezed back. They stayed together for a time. Eventually, Cranberry smiled slyly. “Old times… do you remember when you first kissed me, out in the snow?”

“Of course, Miss Cranberry,” he murmured.

Her eyebrows rose. “You haven’t called me that in a while…” A giggle escaped her.

Inger grinned, then kissed her again. Cranberry’s lips met his, and for at least a little while, she could forget everything but the stallion who loved her. As they pressed together she felt the cold chill fall from her like her cloak, as all the shock and heartbreak of the long day melted away at the warmth of his touch.