Anna's Tale

[Threnn]

((Don't panic. This isn't happening now. You might have read Threnn's side of it way back when, but even she never got the full story.))

---

Once, there was a bard. She had yellow hair and a pretty smile, and a voice that would make mermaids jealous. She could sing of a queen one moment and a pirate wench the next, and it didn't matter to what station you were born - her voice raised you up or brought you low, and drew you into the song, whether you wore fine rings on immaculate fingers or had the dirt of the fields worked in so deep, no amount of scrubbing would ever get them clean.

She was very careful with her heart, never giving it to anyone, keeping it only for herself. The men who professed their love when she was on the stage didn't love her, and she knew it. She sang songs that reminded them of home - of the girl they'd left behind in the North, of the wife tilling fields somewhere to the south; women they'd loved from afar, or might have loved long ago, or only loved in their dreams.

Still.

Life as a bard could be lonely, even though she spent her nights in the middle of a crowd. When that loneliness grew too great to bear... Maybe this one had pretty eyes, or maybe that one made her laugh on a night when the winter wind howled outside the tavern's doors.

It wasn't so wrong to want a bit of warmth, now and then.

If she let one of those men buy her drinks, and if she let one of them take her to his bed, she told herself it wasn't the bard he was seeing in his arms; it was the woman she'd made him miss. And in the morning, well before sunrise, he'd see her there - asleep beside him, just beginning to stir - and realize the same. Oh, she was pretty enough, but the woman he'd bedded had been a queen, a goddess, a long-lost love. Hadn't her hair been raven-black? Hadn't it been copper-spun? It might have been gold, but hadn't it been a mass of curls rather than these unruly waves?

Surely, her eyes had been green or black, tawny or sapphire, not the blue-grey of an angry sea.

They left, those men who had fallen in love over a song, slipping away shame-faced into the dawn. Perhaps they left her a trinket or a note. A few left coins, which made her cheeks burn with humiliation - she was no whore. Most left nothing at all.

One left her with a child growing in her womb.

[Threnn]

For a week now, she'd spent her mornings retching; Annalea knew what it had to mean, but she didn't want to admit it to herself. Not just yet.

As she straightened up, fumbling through her belt pouch for mint leaves - Calms the stomach and freshens the breath, all in one go. I should buy more - someone came around the corner, joining her behind the Lion's Pride. Anna stuffed a leaf into her mouth and offered a wary smile as she recognized her companion: Scary Mary was the most notorious whore in Goldshire and Stormwind combined.

The woman's wild red hair framed a face hardened by years of working the streets between Old Town and the Dwarven District. She'd tied some of it back in a brightly-colored kerchief, but most of the locks had escaped during her walk from the city. Tendrils snaked around her face, caught in the morning breeze. For a moment, the whore looked like a woman out of one of Anna's songs, the sailor's wife waiting on the cliffs for her love to return. Then she opened her mouth and smiled, showing an overbite that broke the illusion. She eyed Anna critically as she lit her pipe. "Feelin' a bit under the weather, are yeh, duckling?"

"It'll pass," said Anna. "Tomas let one of his apprentices cook breakfast this morning. Seems my eggs didn't agree with me."

Scary Mary snorted. "That's a pretty little lie, innit? An' what'll it be tomorrow? Bad sausage, p'rhaps? Some spoilt cream in yer tea?" She tossed away a match as the tobacco caught, but her eyes never left Anna's.

"I don't know what you mean." The sweet-smelling smoke drifted to her on the breeze, and her stomach roiled. She willed the nausea down.

"Oh, o'course. What would a whore know about these things? It's not as though the tea's never failed one o'us before, is it?"

Annalea stared at her, setting her jaw. "I'm... It... I need to get back inside. There's some elven diplomat coming today, and I'm supposed to sing for his lunch guests." When she tried stepping around the older woman, Scary Mary planted herself firmly in her path. For the first time, she noticed how tall the whore was. The cloying smell of her tobacco surrounded them both.

"Aren't yeh all high an' mighty, then? Singin' fer the rich folk." She spat a wad of black phlegm at Anna's feet. "Tell me, duckling, do yeh think yer better'n me? Yeh might not've been paid for the act, but yeh spread yer legs for someone passin' through town, jus' the same as I do. Only, yer the one what got knocked up, aren't yeh?" She blew out a puff of smoke and gestured with the pipe. "Underneath, bards're either whores or holy men, an' yeh don't strike me as the latter. Only diff'rence between yerself an' me, little nightingale, is I don't hide what I am."

For a moment, Annalea contemplated hitting the other woman. Her fingers curled into her palms as outrage took over. She tried to tell herself it was anger making her cheeks burn, not shame. That it was the pipesmoke making her eyes water, not humiliation.

Mary's gaze flicked down to Anna's fists, but she didn't move away. "Yeh need someone ta hit, duckling, go on ahead. I've taken lumps from those far bigger'n yerself, an' fer far less'n speakin' the truth."

Anna stared at her, stunned. She's right. I'm carrying a lordling's bastard. I've no right to be angry at her just for noticing. Her shoulders sagged and her hands drifted to her belly. "I'm not any better than anyone else, and more a fool than most." She had to crane her neck to look the taller woman in the eye. "I'm... I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to... I wouldn't have..." Her vision blurred, and Anna turned away, wiping furiously at her eyes.

Lovely. I'm already weepy and I can't be much more than a month along.

A month along. Carrying a lordling's bastard.

Her denial couldn't hold any longer. The realization swept over her - time to stop pretending it was a touch of flu, that her courses would begin any day now. It was like she'd been doused with cold water on a midsummer day. I'm pregnant. Oh, gods save me, I really am.

Anna stifled a sob with the back of her hand, but the woman standing behind her knew better, had been there before. Her arms had a reedy strength to them as she put them around Anna's shoulders. The whore smelled of old sweat and stale tobacco, but Anna didn't mind; for the first time in days, her stomach was quiet. Mary followed the younger girl to the ground when her knees gave out, and crooned as Anna cried.

It was a while before Annalea realized the crooning wasn't simply a string of nonsense sounds. The part of her that was always listening for music had picked up on the melody - it was simple enough, a bit like a child's song. But as her tears subsided, she began to make out the words: earthroot, nightshade, fadeleaf, maiden's anguish.

"What are you singing?" she asked as she pulled away, searching her pouch for a handkerchief while she regained composure.

Mary's voice was kind but matter-of-fact. "Ingredients, duckling. In case yeh decide yeh want t'keep yer figger. An' yer reputation." She took a long look at Anna. "Yer one o' Thenia al'Cair's girls, aren't yeh?"

"I... How did you know?"

"Yer sister an' me have a mutual friend. Azka Reynolds?"

Anna nodded at the mage's name.

"She came with Az once, when I was takin' a few days' vacation in the Stocks. Came ta visit. Yeh take after her a bit, 'round the eyes. Az said somethin' about yer ma tryin' ta marry the two of yeh off." Mary retrieved her pipe from where she'd set it on the ground and relit it.

"She's trying to marry Threnny off, not me."

"An yeh think havin' a sister who's fat with someone's bastard'll help those prospects? Kind o'people yer ma's courtin' won't want yeh anywhere near the weddin', I'd bet."

"Most likely not," said Anna. She watched the smoke drift out of the pipe for a moment. Mary was watching her, waiting for her to go on. "Thenia's daughter," she said at last, making the whore blink. "You asked if I was Thenia's daughter, not if I was Threnn's sister. How do you know my mother?"

Mary snorted. "Yer ma turns her nose up at me whenever I pass by the shop. Mayhaps she thinks just because I'm in Old Town, I'm goin' ta hit up yer da fer a tumble."

"She's not... She's not always so horrible." The sigh escaped anyway. "Just set in her ways. It doesn't excuse it, but --" she trailed off as she noticed Mary gesturing with her pipe.

"I'm used ta gettin' sneered at. All I'm sayin' is, I can't imagine yer ma bein' overjoyed at her kid bein' knocked up. An' draggin' a baby around when yeh - what was it, 'sing fer elven diplomats'? - that ain't goin' ta bring yeh many returnin' customers. So, if yeh want it, I'm offerin' a way out."

Aborting. That's what she's suggesting. That's what those herbs will do. She couldn't help but tick their names over in her mind, what little she'd picked up in her idle forays into alchemy. Poisons, all of them, even earthroot and fadeleaf, in the right doses, prepared a certain way.

It wasn't the disappointment on her mother's face she imagined; it was the hope on Threnn's. "I need some time to think on that," she said. "How long until...?"

"Until it's too late fer that remedy? A few weeks yet, I'd say." Scary Mary stood and offered Annalea a hand getting up. She brushed stray bits of grass off the shorter girl's shoulders and smoothed her hair. "There yeh are, duckling. Good as new. Yeh think about what yeh want ta do, an' come see me if yeh want the recipe, yeah?"

Anna nodded. "Thank you. I'm sorry for --"

"Hush, now. Go wash yer face and sing fer the elves. If yeh come lookin' an' can't find me, ask Officer Pomeroy if he's seen me. I'm likely kickin' my feet up in the Stocks." Her pipe had gone out again. She spoke around the stem as Annalea stepped around her to return to the front of the tavern. "Good luck, lass."

[Threnn]

It was hard not to fidget.

House Fairfax could trace its ancestry, or so it claimed, to the founding of Stormwind a thousand years ago. Court gossip suggested they could go even further back - to the blood of the Arathi Kings - but you'd be hard pressed to stroll through Old Town and find someone who didn't claim such noble blood.

The sitting room outside of Danyll Fairfax' study, however, made Annalea believe every word. A pair of swords hung crossed above the fireplace, the plaque beneath them naming them banes of the Witherbark in faded letters. Ancient parchments adorned the walls, yellowed and brittle inside their frames. Ink that had gone pale over the centuries proclaimed titles and conferred land grants to Fairfax forefathers. How many petitioners had sat in this chair over the ages, waiting for an audience with the lords of the manor? Annalea's hands rested on wood worn smooth by countless predecessors.

They'd passed their name down the years; the house had never lacked for sons. Even now, there were heirs aplenty - Danyll was the youngest of three. His elder brothers had families of their own with five children between them. Rumor had it that Danyll would soon be betrothed to Lady Elisabeth Mortimer, whose sisters (said the crueler whispers) were as fertile as rabbits.

Then I should be no threat. Nobles always had their doxies, and Anna wasn't even that. She'd bring no scandal. This gave her no power, no leverage. It was a courtesy call, nothing more. A formality.

I should go. I should just go and leave him ignorant. Nothing good can come of this.

She half-rose from the chair, hoping she could find her way out. She'd already look enough the fool for calling on him and fleeing; she didn't need to be found by a maid, lost in the maze of hallways that formed Fairfax Manor.

The door to the study opened and a somber-looking manservant stepped out. He was too polite to call attention to her sudden indecision - sit down again, or stand all the way? Anna hovered halfway in between, frozen. The servant addressed a spot in neutral territory. "Lord Danyll will see you now."

Too late to run. The choice made for her, Anna stood the rest of the way. Her spine was rigid and her chin held high as she crossed to him. Two steps along, she was gliding like a queen. A bit of the smugness left the servant's face as she arched a brow at him.

"Lord Danyll," he said, stepping into the study and giving her a bow an inch lower than a merchant's daughter deserved, "Miss Annalea al'Cair."

"Thank you, Robert. That will be all for now." His voice was low and melodic. Anna hoped she wasn't blushing.

The manservant bowed again and closed the door behind himself as he retreated.

The study took up nearly a third of the manor's second floor. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes. There was a sitting area before a grand fireplace on the western side of the room. In a nook in the northern wall were two desks pushed together where Fairfax' scribes would sit. Anna smelled strong coffee and cinnamon lingering on the air, the last vestiges of a late breakfast.

She hovered just past the threshhold, uncertain if she should wait to be invited further in. Fairfax stood at the window with his back to her, looking out over Elwynn Forest. The late morning sun made his dark hair shine. "I didn't think to see you again so soon, little songbird," he said, then turned and held out an arm. "Come, now, don't be shy."

Anna crossed to him, even though every instinct screamed at her to turn around. He was a noble, soon to be betrothed to a woman of equal station. She was a merchant's daughter and a singer in a tavern where whores plied their business - her very presence in this place showed audacity, but when had the nobility ever admired that in their inferiors? Yet when she stepped within his reach, his blue eyes were kind.

The baby will have blue eyes. She smiled weakly at the thought. Maybe if he took the news well, she would share it.

Danyll held her at arms' length, the palms of his hands warm where they rested on her shoulders. "I've been meaning to return to the Lion's Pride, but affairs have kept me at home these last weeks."

"I'm sure you have a lot of things demanding your time. It's all right."

"Tell me, then. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" One hand left her shoulder to trace a line down her cheek. He'd done that while they shared drinks in the Lion's Pride, too, and again when they were drifting off to sleep.

Anna pulled away. "There's something I have to say to you," she said, unable to hold his gaze. "But before I do, you need to know I don't want anything. I'm not asking any favors, or making any demands. It's just something you should know." How many times had she recited that preamble in her mirror? Her voice still shook when she said it, like an unpracticed singer at her first performance.

Danyll tilted his head, confused but not wary. "Go on."

Deep breaths. That's a girl. She waited until she was sure her words wouldn't come out in a quaver. "I'm pregnant," she said.

He inhaled sharply, his eyes widening as she nodded. "Is it... I mean to say... Am I...?"

"Is it yours? Are you the father? Is that what you're asking?" She couldn't help the tartness that crept into her tone and winced. You fool girl. Why shouldn't he think it might be someone else's? You bedded him once, two months ago. Who's to say you don't do the same every night with different men?

To his credit, Danyll looked ashamed. "That was rude of me. I apologize. Please, sit down." He ushered Anna into his chair and perched himself on the edge of the desk.

Whoever this chair had been made for must have been a giant. The seat was wide enough to fit at least two people; Anna would have had to stretch her arms to either side to reach both armrests. The tips of her toes only barely brushed the floor. It was comfortable, though, covered in supple leather that smelled of the oil that kept it soft. She wondered how many Lords Fairfax had napped in it when the afternoon sunlight warmed the room and made them drowse.

"I wouldn't have come to you if there was even a shadow of doubt it might be someone else's," said Anna. "But there's only been you."

He nodded, the news still dawning on him. "You're two months along, then? Three?"

"Two. And I meant it. I don't want anything from you. I've heard that you're courting Lady Mortimer -- no, I won't threaten that." His eyes had narrowed for the briefest moment at his soon-to-be-betrothed's name. "You can tell me to walk out of this room and never come back and I will. I just..." She sighed. How to say it without sounding like some foolish, lovestruck girl? "I just thought it would be wrong to keep it a secret from you. To take away the choice whether or not to see him when he's born."

"He?" Danyll's gaze had gone distant as his mind raced. Now it came back. "How do you--"

"I don't." She tried on a careful smile. "There are times I say 'she,' too. Trying them both on, sort of."

He leaned down and plucked her hands from her lap. "How long have you known?"

Anna shrugged. "A couple of weeks now. I almost didn't come, right up until I walked into this room. Your butler opened the door as I was getting up to go."

Danyll's fingers brushed across her knuckles, left to right and back again. The sun crept along the floor as they sat there in joined silence. One of the maids was singing somewhere down below, a harvest-song even though the harvest was half a year away. "You're keeping it, then?" he said at last, almost casually.

"I am."

Her words and the tilt of her chin made it clear that subject was closed. "What if I don't claim it? What will you say when it's old enough to ask after its father?"

"It." There's his decision, right there. "I'll tell him his father was a soldier, gone off to fight and never returned. Or that she was sired by a bard during the Lunar Festival and I never learned his name."

"You'd protect my honor that way?"

Anna barked a laugh. "Your honor? Danyll, you could knock up every whore in Goldshire and the nobility would pat you on the head then look the other way. Lady Elizabeth might walk around with red eyes for a few weeks, but that's as far as it'd go. This wouldn't ruin you."

She might as well have slapped him, for the stricken look on his face. Perhaps it was the truth of what she'd said. Perhaps it was the shock of someone speaking to him that way - especially someone below his station. He was used to deference and downcast eyes, and here she was talking to him the way she'd speak to the cobbler's sons. Bloody hell. I need to be careful here. One tumble two months ago only buys me so much forbearance. Wounding his pride won't do me any good. Anna forced herself back to meekness, or as close to it as she could get. "Something like this is nothing to you, Danyll. It's my parents who stand to be shamed, not your House. Everything they've spent so many years building up and now I might become its ruin, because the Merchants' Guild is full of wolves."

It was the simple truth, and she could tell from his slight nod that he knew it, too. Letting the Guild think her bastard was sired by some unnamed soldier would make them whisper, certainly, but they could never judge the actual social standing of a man who didn't exist. If they knew it was one of the Lords Fairfax and he didn't officially acknowledge the child, word would spread that Anna had tried to ensnare a noble and been rebuffed. The disgrace and humiliation would not only be heaped upon herself - its shadow would cover Thenia and Padraig as well, for raising their daughter poorly. Rumors would abound in no time, suggesting they'd put her up to it, for access to a share of the Fairfax wealth.

Danyll let go of her hand and placed his own over her belly. You couldn't even tell yet; it would be a while before anyone would be able to suss it out with a glance, and even then, there were ways to conceal a pregnancy for quite a long time. "And what if I do claim it? What then?" His gaze moved, from his hand covering the speck of life growing inside her and up to meet her blue-grey eyes.

"Then my name would be saved, I suppose. There'd still be whispers, though none to my face. But for the rest of my life, I'd be Danyll Fairfax' doxy. No man in his right mind would ever dare court me, for fear of you, even with you married to Lady Mortimer and never giving me another thought."

"You assume I'll marry her."

Anna sighed. "Of course you will. You're as good as betrothed already. Who else would you marry?"

He stared at her.

Oh, no. It suddenly hit her that Danyll Fairfax, one of three Lords of the manor, who could manage a household and would someday lead men on a battlefield, was still only twenty-four summers old, the same as she. He'd grown up with courtly notions and ideas of duty and honor, and he'd completely misunderstood her meaning.

"Danyll," she said, as gently as she could. "I don't love you."

One moment she was looking into the steel blue eyes of the young man who had laughed with her over wine in Goldshire as the last days of winter waned. A heartbeat later, they narrowed and hardened, and took on a glint that told Anna she was dealing with nobility once more. He took his hand away from her belly. "No, of course not. And the Fairfax blood has run true for a thousand years; I wouldn't bring a commoner into the line."

It shouldn't have stung. It's the pregnancy, is all. Emotions running willy-nilly. Her cheeks reddened and her throat felt thick.

"Whores and holy men..." whispered Scary Mary in her head.

Courtesy said she should let the insult go. Every courtly manner she'd ever learned said the nobility could speak their minds with no repercussions. She knew that - had, in fact, had far worse said to her after a set at the Lion's Pride - but...

"No," she said, her wounded pride driving diplomacy away. "'Delightful for bedding, never for wedding.' Surely your tutors drilled that into you well before you even knew what that lump of flesh 'twixt your legs was even for, didn't they?" The shade of crimson that crossed his face was small recompense for her own humiliation. "I'll see myself out."

He might have called after her as she strode across the study, but she didn't hear him over the blood pounding in her ears. Portraits of former Lords and Ladies Fairfax glared down at her from where they hung, making her feel smaller, dirtier, with every step. I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have -

Robert, the manservant, grunted when she collided with him in the sitting room and kept going. Maids pointed and whispered as she fled through the halls. By some miracle, she didn't get turned around or lost on her way to the entrance hall.

Outside, Annalea put her hands on her knees and sucked in great mouthfuls of air. She refused to top off this disastrous morning by sicking up on the Fairfax' expansive lawn. Composure came back swiftly - as soon as the sound of horseshoes on the cobblestone drive reached her, she straightened up and smoothed her hair, then found a dignified gait as a rider bearing the Mortimer crest galloped into sight. He didn't see her, too intent on his duty to nod at a parting visitor. It was just as well.

She let her steps carry her back towards Stormwind. By the time she reached the road, it was as though she was just a young woman taking a leisurely stroll on a fine spring morning.

She didn't notice the man watching from the shadows of the Fairfax stables. Nor did she see him slip out of them to follow her.

[Threnn]

((This. Um. Wasn't supposed to get written. But when there's an al'Cair clamoring about in your head, sometimes you just don't argue. And, y'know, I figure it's only fair that she gets a bit of something good in the story, too. Plus, as I wrote it, I think maybe it stood a stronger contrast to the scene preceding it than I'd realized it would.

So. Blame Anna for this one.))


A week later, she stood outside of The Finest Thread, sucking on a a stick of peppermint from Pestle's as she eyed one of the dresses in Oreweave's window. Going to need a whole new set of... well, everything... She'd already had to loosen the bodice strings on some of her blouses; now she could feel a snugness at her waist as well. Anna didn't know very much about the tailor, whether he was even accepting new commissions, or how quiet he could keep it if she went in to have her measurements taken. It would be easy enough to go in on the pretense of representing her parents' shop. Tailors needed fabric; the al'Cairs sold it. Easy enough to back out if...

There was a man's chin on her shoulder, and a pair of arms around her waist. "There's my best girl," he said, catching her eye in the glass and planting a kiss on her cheek. He had to stoop down to do it. His short dark curls made him look boyish, even though he was between herself and Threnn in age. Even reflected and dimmed by the shop's window, good cheer shone from his hazel eyes.

"Robert Bell!" She grinned and leaned back into him. "You haven't come to hear me sing in ages."

"Robert? How dare you confuse me with that... that absolute bloody scoundrel? Don't you know it's me, Will, who's always loved you best?"

"Bullshit," she said. "Will's voice is grittier. And he would've picked me up and swung me around. And," she tapped at his wrist, "Will doesn't have ink peeking out from his shirtsleeves."

Robert heaved a defeated sigh. "All right, you win. Give us a proper hello, yeah?"

"I suppose." Anna turned around and gave him a hug, careful not to poke him with her peppermint stick. When he released her, he held her at arm's length and looked her slowly up and down.

"Annie? Might I say you're lookin' quite... bountiful today?"

She forced a grin. He's just flirting. That's all. "At least you admit you're staring at my chest, rather than hiding it."

"No, Annie. I mean..." His arm slid from her shoulder to her waist. "Aye," he said softly, confirming to himself as he took her hand. "Who's the lucky man?"

The candy fell from her mouth and shattered on the cobblestones. "I don't... I..." She backed away a step, but didn't pull her hand away from his. Her mind raced for an excuse to go. But it was Robert. She and Threnn had known the coffin maker's twin sons since their families had returned to Stormwind for the rebuilding. Robert and Will were as near to brothers as she'd ever have.

"Come on," he said, his voice soft. "My da an' Will are in Westfall today. The house'll be quiet. We can talk."

She let him lead her over the bridge and into the the small building that housed the Bell's woodshop. The three men lived in the apartment above, a small cozy space where they'd resided for as long as she could remember. Anna didn't remember Robert and William's mother aside from a few hazy recollections of a red-haired woman in a ridiculously floppy sunhat, laughing. She'd died when Anna was no more than three or four, during a particularly harsh winter. Thenia had sent meals to John and his sons for a while, until the coffin-maker's pride won out over her stubbornness and she'd had to stop cooking for seven. For a while they'd compromised - the Bells were regular guests at the al'Cairs' Sunday table and in return, John crafted the counters for the fabric shop. But even those weekly dinners fell away as the four children grew older and Stormwind began to thrive once more.

Robert helped Anna up the stairs, even though she insisted she could walk just fine. The furnishings in the apartment were spare and functional, all made by the Bells themselves. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, filtered into patterns by Mrs. Bell's lace curtains, still kept pristine after all these years. Robert ushered Annalea into a chair and began clearing plates from the table. "I'm sorry for the mess," he said. "I was goin' to do the dishes before they got back." He tossed a towel over the pile in the sink and sat down beside her. "Now, tell me. I'm amazed we didn't hear your ma screamin' all the way over here when you told her."

"That's because I haven't told her yet."

He smiled. Who could blame her for wanting to stall Thenia's wrath? "Surely you've told Threnn?"

"Not yet."

"Then... I'm the first to know?"

"The first that matters," she said.

His grin started slowly, growing wider and wider until he began to laugh. The sound was contagious; soon enough, Anna was laughing with him. "Bloody wonderful!" he said. "Will'll be kickin' himself for not bein' here." Sliding from the seat, he knelt in front of her. "May I...?"

"There's hardly anything to feel," she said, but guided his fingers to her stomach anyway.

"Hello," he said, putting on a serious face and addressing her midriff. "I'm your uncle Robert. If your ma's got any kind of sense, she'll name you after me, not mean uncle Will. Remember, you like me best, yeah? I'll buy you your first pony."

Anna giggled and cuffed him on the shoulder. "Threnny might fight you on that one," she said.

Robert looked up at her, eyes shining with mirth. "Or his da."

She looked away. The light-hearted moment held a beat longer, then snapped as Robert interpreted her silence.

"Annie? Where's his da? Do I need to go break some cowardly fuck's arm to make him take respons--"

"No!" She seized his shoulders; her fingers bit into them, making him wince. "No, Robert, there's no one. It's... There isn't anyone."

Her outburst shocked him into momentary silence. When he spoke again, he tried forcing a smile. "Surely you didn't do it all by yourself?"

"Maybe I did. Stranger things've happened."

"What are you going to do? Who's goin' to provide for you?"

She shrugged. "I'll be fine. My parents might not throw me out over it. And if they do, Threnny'll help me. And if she can't, I'll still be all right."

"Come, now, Annie. You don't sing at court, yet; you sing in a tavern. That'll barely keep you both clothed and fed." He reached up to take her right hand from his shoulder. "You know that, don't you?"

"Threnny will help. I know she will. And I'll find other work. I can sew, and cook, and keep books. We'll be all right. We will."

"Annie." He was still kneeling on the floor in front of her. He brought her hand down and cradled it in both his own. For a long moment, he looked at it - her pale smooth skin against his own, tanned, calloused from his work. "Annie, tell 'em it's mine."

"What? Robert, no. You don't mean that." But when he raised his eyes to hers, they were sincere.

"Of course I do. An' when your ma comes stormin' over here, demandin' I make you an honest woman, I'll agree. Easy as you please."

"You're a good man, Robert Bell," said Anna. Her eyes threatened to fill with tears; she blinked them back. "But you're talking about raising another man's child. Feeding him, clothing him. And tying yourself to me. Forever."

"Aye."

Now she took her hand away. "You don't love me. Not like that. There's a different girl on your arm every week."

"Maybe that's because none of them are you." He winked at her, but she wasn't having it.

"That's a load of bollocks and you know it. You've never even been sweet on me. Get up."

"I was so!" He stood and began pacing the kitchen. "For a whole week!"

"When?" Anna folded her arms over her chest.

"Remember a few years back? You an' Threnn, Will an' me, we went swimmin' in Crystal Lake?"

She snickered. "Of course I do. You got yourself bitten by a murloc. We would've sworn you'd lost a finger." The image of Robert, soaking wet, howling and cradling his injured hand while the nest of murlocs scattered made her smile.

"I nearly did! They're vicious, those little bastards."

"It was a baby murloc, you git. I don't even think it had teeth."

"Still," he said, and stopped his pacing. "You took my hand and examined it, remember? Bendin' my fingers to make sure none were broken?"

"Yeah. Not that I had any idea what I was doing..."

"Well. That's when I fell for you."

"For a week."

"For a week." He glanced at her, making sure he had her smiling again. "An' then I got my first glimpse of the Lady Genise Crownsilver, and my heart was lost forever." His sigh was far too melodramatic; Anna dissolved into giggles.

When she caught her breath again, she shook her head. "But you're not sweet on me now."

Robert dragged his chair closer to her and sat so their knees were touching. "No, but I'm fond of you."

"I'm fond of you, too. But that's not good enough. Not for the rest of our lives."

"Fondness can blossom into love, can't it? If you give it time?"

"Not for us. It would have by now." She leaned forward and cupped his cheek in her hand. He inhaled sharply when she kissed him, surprised at her boldness despite how well he knew her. His arms came up to encircle her.

It wasn't a bad kiss. In fact, it was a rather nice one, although his lips were a bit chapped and she was still on the verge of tears. But a kiss was all it was - there was no spark of desire, no sudden passion, not even an old, slow burn. When they parted, their smiles were shy and a little sad.

"Peppermint," he said.

"Yeah. Calms my stomach."

They sat in silence for a while, hands joined, listening to the sounds of foot traffic on the bridge outside. Anna wondered if she'd made the wrong choice yet again, if the kiss had put a sudden, awkward, irrevocable distance between herself and one of her oldest friends.

Then Robert caught her eye and offered her a mischievous grin.

"Can I still be his favorite uncle?"

[Threnn]

Melika Isenstrider didn't like him. Maybe she should be used to it by now - drunks and violent men, women who grew more vulgar as the candles burned low. The Pride's patrons were getting less genteel every month.

As bad as the crowd could get, though, none of them ever truly made her nervous. Sure, there were thieves and murderers among the regulars - whispers had it that the notches on Redridge Jack's belt weren't for women he'd bedded, but were instead marks for the lives he'd taken.

But this one...

He'd first come around two weeks ago, as the tail end of the late lunch crowd departed and made way for the first dinner rush. Tall, he was, with ropy muscles and a glance that never stopped moving around the room. Never stopped, that was, until Annalea al'Cair took the stage. You could have picked his pocket then, maybe, but Melika didn't think anyone would be fool enough to try it. This man looked too mean.

Some nights, he had a friend with him, a stocky man in his forties, hair thinning, eyes watery. The friend, too, seemed to take an interest in the bard, but his was much easier to define. Melika had heard the running, vulgar commentary the stocky man was offering to his brooding friend one night and nearly dumped a pitcher of ale on him.

She would have, too - and given him a piece of her mind! - if the creepy man hadn't turned his dark eyes on her and leered.

She didn't return to their table after that.

---

William Pestle didn't like him. He'd known Aumery Fane since Fane was a feral boy playing in Stormwind's streets. Quicker and faster than the other children, when Aumery captured an opponent in a game of Guards and Prisoners, he always snuck in an extra hit or dragged them a little too enthusiastically to the jail tree.

He'd watched while Aumery spent a year trying to attract the notice of Mathias Shaw and breathed a sigh of relief when Fane took a job with one of the Lords Fairfax instead. He shuddered to imagine Fane with the knowledge of poisons he'd have otherwise acquired.

Since Fane had claimed the same table in the inn every night for three weeks, William Pestle had seriously considered picking up stakes and moving back to Stormwind full-time. Surely his brother Morgan must want some time off from running the shop they owned.

At least, though, Fane wasn't causing trouble. Some nights he dined alone, others in the company of fat Marrock Hartwell (though Hartwell quite often disappeared upstairs with one of the whores for an hour or so before rejoining Fane.) No, Fane seemed content to drink and watch the bards sing, and leave everyone else alone.

Still, Pestle was glad he wasn't up on the raised bit of floor everyone called the stage. After the first few nights, most of the bards had stopped looking towards Fane's table, as though pretending he wasn't there made it so. Annalea al'Cair seemed to notice him more than the rest, but she could afford to be bolder than the others: at the edge of the stage stood her sister, fully armored and leaning on a two-handed sword whose blade gleamed in the light of the lanterns. No harm could come to a girl with someone like that watching over her, surely.

---

Barkeep Dobbins didn't like him. The man occupied the corner table in the far back all night and never ordered more than a drink or two. After that, all the orders for his table were for water, or maybe a hunk of bread.

And his friend was even worse. Hartwell drank only from his own flask, some foul-smelling moonshine that he brewed himself and swore kept him virile. Dobbins regretted ever inquiring as to why Hartwell didn't order from the bar - the full response was much longer, and more detailed. With gestures to illustrate! And descriptive sounds! He wouldn't make the mistake of being friendly to the man ever again.

At least Fane's poor ordering habits meant he didn't realize the tavern girls avoided his table as best they could. If any other customer had been so pointedly ignored, Dobbins or Farley would spend half an hour apologizing profusely to the vexed party. Except... Yes, Fane was indeed signalling to one of the girls.

The tavern girls had a silent method of communication worked out amongst themselves that Dobbins had never been able to crack. It seemed to involve lifts of the chin, certain glares, shakes of the head and flarings of the nostrils, but that was all he could discern. In the space of an eyeblink, the five women on the floor had decided which of them would have to go see what Fane wanted. The newest girl, a slip of a thing named Grace, approached his table. To her credit, she didn't shake.

Dobbins watched Fane hand her an envelope. The man who'd been frightening the entertainment and the help for nearly a month looked almost charming. Grace beamed as he pressed a sack of coins into her empty hand and closed her fingers around it. She tucked it into her bodice and scampered off, the business concluded.

It was ten minutes before she came to the bar to fetch another round of drinks for a table. "Well?" prompted Dobbins.

"Well what?"

"What did he give you?" Dobbins sighed at her blank look. "Fane."

"Oh!" The girl smiled and patted at her chest. "I've a letter he asked me to give to Miss Anna when she's finished singing. I think he fancies her." She giggled, a lilting sound that turned several heads. Grace would never want for tips if she could keep laughing like that.

Dobbins grunted and began filling the pitcher for her. "Good luck to him with that," he said. When she didn't respond, he tried again. "Though, at least her sister's not here tonight to screen the letter first. That might give him a speck of a chance." He glanced up as he slid the full pitcher across the bar - hoping she'd share more of her conversation with Fane - but Grace merely winked and spun off into the crowd.

She'd get decent tips for flashing her dimpled grin, certainly, but Dobbins reminded himself he'd have to have a word with her, to teach her that tavern gossip often brought better coin than pretty smiles.

[Threnn]

Songbird -

Our last discussion did not end as amicably as we both might have wished, and the blame for that is all mine. I've had much time to think, and would be honored and humbled if you would grace me with your presence once more -- I should greatly like to offer my apology to you in person, and hope we might renew our conversation on better terms.

If it is within your gentle heart to forgive me - and I understand, too, if it is not - but if it is, the bearer of this message has been instructed to wait for you this evening, and will have a carriage ready to bring you to my estate in Elwynn so that we may enjoy a late dinner together and, I dare to hope, one another's company.

Yours,
Danyll

Anna had the letter memorized by the time she finished singing for the night. Grace had handed it to her between songs, and it had taken recalling every last bit of her training to complete her set. The man in the back of the room made her nervous. She'd known he was Danyll's man -- he had accompanied the youngest Lord Fairfax here last time, though he'd disappeared when it became apparent that Danyll wasn't leaving the Lion's Pride that night.

Still, she supposed, when you hired a bodyguard, it helped if they could look mean. Grace had been rather taken with Fairfax' man, so much so that she used some of the coin he'd given her as a tip to bring him a turkey leg hot out of the oven and told him it was on the house. If he had Grace charmed, he couldn't be that frightening.

Besides, Anna had been battling nausea earlier and skipped dinner. Now her stomach was rallying for a completely different reason - she was ravenous. It gave a yowl as she stood alone in the cloakroom off the Pride's kitchen; she looked around sheepishly, wondering if Tomas or any of his apprentices had heard. "All right, all right," she murmured, and gave the lump at her middle a pat. "I suppose it's not so terrible if he provides one meal for you."

Fairfax' man was outside of the tavern when she emerged into the night. Before now, Anna had only seen Aumery Fane seated; now that he stood before her, holding open the door to the carriage, she realized how very tall he was. He loomed over her, his thin-lipped mouth set in a grim line. "Miss al'Cair," he said, giving her a hand up to the seat.

She murmured her thanks and settled in. The carriage was comfortable and, she noted, unmarked - no Fairfax crest on the doors, no house insignia on the horses. Nobles and their discretion.

They rode east through Elwynn Forest, following the main road nearly to the Redridge border before turning south. A few minutes later, Fane reined in the horses outside of a modest-sized two story house. Lanterns lit a short drive and a warm glow came from the front room on the first floor. The dark lumber and carvings on the trim echoed the ancestral Fairfax manor house that sat closer to Stormwind - although all three brothers conducted their business affairs from it, that house truly belonged to the head of the family. This one was Danyll's own private estate.

Fane helped her down, one hand on the small of her back to steady her. Annalea resisted throwing him a glare; she had a long way to go yet before the baby's weight would make her waddle. The door opened, spilling firelight out into the late evening around Merrock Hartwell's bulk. As she drew closer, she saw the apron tied at his waist and the dish towel draped over his shoulder.

"Miss al'Cair," he said, bowing low and kissing her hand. The pressure of Fane's touch left her back, but the relief was momentary - Hartwell's replaced it as he guided her into the great room.

Danyll stopped moving when she entered. He'd been pacing before a table laid out for two. Everything in the room - including Danyll himself - was arranged as though he were receiving someone of noble blood, not a merchant's daughter far below his class. He wore fine leather breeches below a crisp white shirt. The golden buttons on his dinner jacket bore the crest of House Fairfax. On the table, silver candlesticks and place settings gleamed in the light from the fireplace.

He moved to her with swift, assured steps and smiled down at her as Hartwell stepped away. "You look well. I'm glad you accepted."

She smiled tentatively. "I believe in second chances. I've noticed your men at the Pride, but I didn't know if I should ask after you."

Danyll inclined his head a bit, sheepish. "Yes. I... wanted to be sure you were all right, but I was perhaps too ashamed to come and see for myself. So I sent them in my stead." He led her to the table and pulled out a chair. "Please," he said. "You must be hungry; we can talk over dinner. Merrock's been cooking all evening."

In truth, she was famished. Hartwell and Fane began bringing dishes from a kitchen off of the great room - herbed bread, some kind of barley soup, chicken marinated with lemons and herbs, and roasted potatoes that were, also, sprinkled with flecks of green. She couldn't quite place the dominant one - lavender, maybe? - but rather than being too much, the seasoning tied all the various dishes together.

Danyll ate slowly, pushing his food around on his plate and sipping at his spiced wine between bites. Anna could smell cinammon and goldthorn coming from his glass and lamented that she couldn't drink wine for another half a year, at least. She might have teased him about tempting the pregnant girl if he didn't seem so nervous.

Instead, she selected at another slice of bread and sopped up the last of her soup with it while she waited for him to spit out whatever had him so timid.

At last he sighed and pushed his plate away, the meal largely untouched. "I think you should leave Stormwind," he said.

Annalea raised an eyebrow. Of course. I should have known there was more to this than an apology. Still, she could be civil. "My family's here. Why would I leave?"

"Because... Because it's better for us both. I can set you up wherever you'd like - Southshore, perhaps, or maybe somewhere to the south. A house of your own, a staff." He was warming up to the idea, even as her eyes and posture grew cool. "You could say you were widowed, perhaps - I'll have a gold band made for you - and..."

She held up a hand and his patter slowed. She felt so very, very tired. "I don't want to leave Stormwind. I have no reason to."

He sighed. "But you do. You've mentioned that the merchants will talk. Others are talking already. We weren't exactly discreet at the Pride that night, Anna. There are rumors starting even now."

"I'll deny them, and so will you, and that will be the end of it. Isn't that what all your gold is for?"

"He'd have a good life," Danyll said quietly. "The best education, the finest clothes, tutors from anywhere in the world. You'd only have to ask."

Anna tried to keep her building fury in check. She was calmer than she should have been, which surprised her, but perhaps that was simply the result of a full belly. "Last month, you seemed angry when you thought I'd even dare ask for something like that. Now you're offering. What's changed?"

For a long time, he didn't answer. She started to drowse, warmed by the fire and the food. Her eyes drifted closed for just a second before she snapped them open again. Bloody hell, I'm exhausted.

Merrock tapped her on the shoulder, finding the balance between interrupting his master's conversation and being an attentive servant for the guest. "Tea, miss?" he asked, and filled her cup at her nod. She barely noticed him leave her side when he was done pouring, but she offered a silent thanks as she lifted the cup to her lips. Maybe the hot liquid would wake her up.

She drank deeply. The tea was slightly bitter; whatever spices Marrock had experimented with here were far less impressive than the dinner he'd made. But she roused herself a bit, fighting another wave of drowsiness, and took another sip.

"Elisabeth knows," said Danyll. She focused on his lips as he formed the words. "My engagement is in jeopardy, and an alliance between Fairfax and Mortimer is essential."

Anna finished off her tea before she spoke. "So you want to hide me away, and I don't want to be hidden. What happens if I say no?"

He sighed. "I don't know. Perhaps -- Anna? What is it? What's wrong?"

She staggered to her feet, stark realization sweeping over her, but still not dissipating the fog. That wasn't lavender. It was dreamfoil. They taste alike. Dreamfoil looked like lavender, too, but its flowers were smaller and it tasted slightly grassier.

And it was used in sleeping draughts.

Her eyes took in the plates that had yet to be cleared away. Dreamfoil on everything. - bread, soup, meat, potatoes. Enough to knock her out. Maybe enough to kill.

And the tea...

She snatched the cup from the table, her movements thick and sluggish. Lifting it to her nose, she inhaled.

Earthroot.

Nightshade.

Fadeleaf.

The gritty red flecks in the bottom had to be Maiden's Anguish. Just like Scary Mary's song.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Danyll had stood when she did. His voice sounded like he was speaking through cotton, asking her what was the matter.

The tea cup shattered on the floor. She didn't even realize she'd let it go. Her mind had dismissed it, fixing instead on his wine.

Goldthorn. To counteract the dreamfoil.

And then I run.

And then I retch, when I'm safe.

Strong arms pulled her hands behind her back and held her there before she could even command her feet to carry her closer to the wine glass.

Danyll frowned at Fane over her shoulder. "She's sick. Fetch a medic."

"Poisoned," Anna spat. Speaking sapped her strength.

"No medic," said Fane. "You heard her. She wasn't going to take your offer. So we'll do it this way."

Anna's head lolled. Her legs gave out beneath her, but Fane caught her before she hit the floor. "Whole meal," she said, her eyes pleading with Danyll's. "All the food." A rising sensation, as Fane lifted her.

He caught her meaning and looked at the plate he'd left untouched, then raised a brow at his employee.

"You had goldthorn in your wine, sir," said Fane. "Might've gone straight to bed and slept like a stone, but no ill effects."

His personal safety assured, Danyll gestured at Annalea. "You were going to do this anyway, then? I could have convinced her to go."

Fane shrugged. To Anna, it felt like cresting a wave. "Your marriage is too important to take the chance, my lord. Wouldn't you agree?"

Danyll stared at her for a moment, contemplating. She couldn't even force her mouth to open, let alone push out the breath to say "please," to beg for her child's life or her own.

She saw him make his decision in her last moment of clarity, before consciousness slipped away.

"Get her out of here," he said, taking his glass of wine from the table and turning his back.

[Threnn]

Motion. Velvet against her cheek. Rocking, like a cradle. The sound of hooves on dirt, then cobblestone.

Men's voices, pitched low.

The rocking stills. Soft snuffle of horses and their feedbags.

Hands beneath her arms, dragging, lowering. Dizzying jolt of being tossed over a shoulder, carried like a sack of grain.

Indignity. Indignation. Fear.

Smell of sweat and whiskey and, yes, lavender.

No. Dreamfoil.

Fight, godsdamnit.

Chime of an hour. Familiar. Count them - one, two. Cathedral chimes. Stormwind.

Moonlight, shadow.

Panting, not hers. Slipping. Rough would of a crate beneath her as she's set down.

"Long way to carry a package." Puffing and blowing, beside her. Merrock.

"Two minutes." Further away, at the end of the alley. Fane.

Finger tracing down her cheek. "Bit of a shame."

Snort of derision. "You want to fuck her, make it fast. Boss won't care. She'll start bleeding soon, though."

Shift of weight on the wood. Breath on her cheek, rustle of cloth. Oh gods he's going to-- Revulsion. Whimper.

"No." Soft, beside her ear. Fingers on her lips, forcing her teeth apart. Taste of dried summer on her tongue. "Don't spit this out, girl. Lay quiet, now."

Goldthorn.

Rising again, over the shoulder once more. Slower steps, staying in shadows. Lapping of canal water. Old Town's Bridge. One last corner. Scent of hyacinths. Mama grows hyacinths. Down again. Old, rough wood. Third board creaks. Home.

"Leave her." Fane. "They'll find her in the morning. Tragedy, really."

Breath in her ear again. Strain to hear. "Keep your secrets, girl, and we won't come back for you, understand?"

Nod. Barest shift of her head. Again. Tears flowing warm down her face -- her own.

Steps shuffling away. Softer, softer, gone. Summer stale on her tongue. Chewing has never been such a labor. Chew, chew, swallow. Wait.

Strength creeping back. Chimes again. Quarter hour, half hour, quarter 'til. Roll over. Raising her head. Pushing up on an arm. Not yet. Falling back.

Pain, lacing through her middle. Get up. Get up. Get up.

Get up.

Slowly. Sitting, kneeling, reaching for the posts. Up on two feet.

Rest.

Chimes, count them - one, two, three.

Steps, count them - one, two, three... How many steps to Threnny's? Losing count of how many times she's lost count. So tired. Count them - one. One. One. One. The pain keeps time with her steps.

Through the arch, past the stench of piss from Cutthroat Alley. Long way around.

Listen for the chimes. Quarter hour, half hour, quarter 'tll.

Smell of candlewax. Smooth metal of the doorknob beneath her fingers. Staggering as it opens.

Stairs. Fifteen. Count them -- one, t-- Pain again. The copper smell of blood -- her own.

Her child's.

Stop counting. Up is all that matters. Go. Go. Go.

Done. Lift an arm, knock. Did she make any sound? Again. Chimes. Count them -- one, two, three, four.

Slide down to the floor. Nothing left. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Click of a latch, wall falling away behind her. No, that's the door. Threnn's voice, frightened, sleepy, soothing. Footsteps below them - not Fane, not Merrock. An old woman's voice.

Lifting, rising, cresting a wave and landing, gently, on a bed. Threnn's smell - soap and the tang of steel.

Women's voices.

"What's the matter with ya, dearie?" The chandler.

"Threnny. Threnny, it hurts." Curl up, hide.

"I'm right here." Threnn. Calloused fingers smoothing her hair. "Tell me what's happening and I'll fix it."

"You can't." Truth. Tickle of Threnn's hair as she bends closer to hear. Whisper a secret into the air. But not the whole secret. Never the whole one.

("Keep your secrets, girl, and we won't come back for you, understand?")

A small one, then, whispered in her sister's ear. "I think I'm losing the baby."

Black.

[Fingold]

((Hot fucking damn))

[Threnn]

Four days she stayed in Threnn's room.

The first day - Threnny's birthday - her sister didn't stray from her side for more than a few minutes. She hummed old lullabies while Anna slept; when they were girls, they'd shared a voice tutor for a couple of years before Threnn's interests turned to other things. It wasn't often that she could get Threnn to sing with her. The seldom-heard songs were a comfort now.

She carried lunch and dinner up on trays, and read aloud from the Stormwind Daily News as Anna pushed her fork listlessly around her plate. It had to be unnerving - Threnn's dramatic reading of the gossip column didn't even elicit a smile.

In the late afternoon, she and the chandler's apprentice lugged the copper tub upstairs and filled it with hot water. Once the girl, Ella, had closed the door softly behind her, Threnn helped Anna into the bath. She soaked for a good long while, and let Threnn wash her hair. Her limbs felt heavy as she climbed out and wrapped herself in one of Threnn's robes. She didn't know if it was an aftereffect of the dreamfoil plain old exhaustion, but she wasn't about to bring it to her sister's attention.

Anna drowsed in front of the fire while her hair dried. Threnny sat beside her, sipping bourbon straight from the bottle, her blue eyes clouded as she worked over a problem in her head. Whether or not to tell Papa, she thought, but she knew she'd decide against it in the end. Anna closed her eyes and woke up again some time later, when Threnn carried her back to the bed.

By mid-morning of the second day, Anna threw Threnn out of the room. She did it kindly, of course - "Threnny, I'm all right; I'm just going to sleep most of the day. You should go to the forge for a while." - but she did it because she was afraid Threnn would get her talking.

There were secrets she had to keep. Secrets needed walls to protect them, though, and building walls was bloody hard to do when the person you wanted to tell most in the world, the person who would want to make it all okay, was in the room with you, fretting over your silence.

It took repeated reassurances to convince her to go. Threnn came back three times before she even got to the bottom of the stairs, making sure Anna had water, enough blankets, and books within reach should she grow bored. She didn't truly leave until Anna reached down, fished a shoe out from under the bed, and threatened to throw it at Threnn if she came through the door again before dinner.

"That's my girl," Threnn said, maddeningly, and left for real.

Then Anna folded her hands on her lap, settled back into the mound of pillows her sister had procured, and began to build up her walls.

The third day, Threnn left soon after breakfast. She'd spent the first part of the morning trying to draw out conversation, her healer's instincts insisting that Anna must have something to say about what she'd been through.

Anna started with a gentle, "Not yet, Threnny," but it didn't deter the paladin, not completely. Each time her sister tried asking anew, or posing the questions from other angles, Anna lifted her chin a little higher, let her silences grow more stubborn, closing herself off to the inquiries.

She had to. The mortar on her walls hadn't dried yet.

She was drifting in the afternoon, when a fierce whisper-argument in the hall outside woke her up again.

"Miss Anna's sick, and she doesn't want visitors!"

"Bollocks. She'll see me."

"She's sleeping!" The chandler's apprentice sounded distressed but determined. She was a good girl. "I'll go down and get Officer Pomeroy if you don't leave right now."

"Just let me look in on her. I won't wake her at all, I promise. Oi, no need to push."

Anna'd placed the voice at "bollocks." "It's all right," she called. "Come in, Robert."

The door opened and Robert backed into the room, getting in the last shot of what had to be a battle of stuck-out tongues with Ella.

All mirth left his eyes as he crossed to the bed. "Annie," he said, settling down beside her and taking her hand. "Threnn said you were ill, but that was all I could get out of her. I was afraid..." He trailed off, not wanting to say it.

"Gone, Robert. A few nights ago." First test. Hold it together.

"What happened?"

She shrugged. It hurt her heart to lie to him, but when she spoke it rolled easily off her tongue. "It's not so uncommon. It was late, I started bleeding. I came here. Threnny tried, but there wasn't anything she could do." Nothing in that was untrue, technically, but she still couldn't hold his gaze.

He took it for sadness and bowed his head. The prayer he whispered was as old as one of Threnn's lullabies, a blessing for the dead begged of gods older than the Light. Anna placed her free hand on his curls and let the rhythm of his words carry her along. She didn't realize she was crying until she felt Roberts thumb on her cheek, wiping away the tears.

So much for holding it together. It passed soon enough, though. The walls she'd built were sturdy.

Or so she thought.

"You'll be a good ma, someday, Annie," he said, nearly knocking them down in one blow. "I still have dibs on bein' the favorite uncle when it happens."

She smiled. "I know. And you will be. Thank you." She slumped back into the pillows and let her eyes droop, only half-acting. "I think I'm going to go back to sleep a little longer. And you ought to go before Ella brings Mrs. Stone up here to chase you out, anyway."

Robert stood up, leaning in to drop a kiss on her forehead. "Anything you need, Annie, don't hesitate, yeah?"

She gave his hand a squeeze and watched him show himself out.

That night, she and Threnn had dinner in the yard behind the chandler's shop. Threnny regaled her with news from the latest meeting of the Merchants' Guild. It meant she'd been by the shop today - Threnn found the meetings endlessly boring, but their mother made sure her girls knew every last thing that happened at them.

Anna was much better at deflecting Threnn's concerns tonight. So much better, in fact, that Threnn finally sighed and said, "When you're ready, I'm here. You know that, right?"

"I do," she said, and "When I'm ready, I promise."

And that was that.

The fourth day, she sat by the window, mending some of Threnn's shirts. Her sister was useless with a needle and thread, and Anna was growing restless. This would be her last day hiding from the world.

She tried not to think about what might have been.

She tried not to think about what Fane and Hartwell and, yes, Danyll Fairfax, too, had taken from her.

She tried not to, but a cold fury rose within her. Her child's life, and nearly her own.

The mortar was nearly dry.

On the street below, people conducted their day-to-day business. Townspeople came and went from the shops. Thomas Miller hawked his bread in a voice that cut through the din of the crowd. People came and went from the barracks down the street, too, not all of them soldiers.

She'd been there once or twice, though singing for the soldiers could get rowdy. But she'd never gone too far within, to where SI:7 kept their offices. A man dressed in dark leathers strode down the barracks' steps. Within three paces, she lost sight of him in the crowd, but not before noticing what he'd carried out of the archway: packets of something, wrapped much like the herbs Morgan Pestle sold. As far as she knew, there was no apothecary in Old Town, certainly not in the barracks.

But there were herbs and concoctions the Pestles refused to sell. Dangerous things. Deadly things. Components that no upstanding citizen of Stormwind would ever need to purchase.

Earthroot. Nightshade. Fadeleaf. Maiden's Anguish.

Anna put down her sewing. She wondered what else they might sell in those halls. She thought she might have to find out.

Maiden's Anguish.

On the fourth day, Annalea decided to seek revenge.

[Threnn]

Jasper Fel watched the blonde girl circle the shop for a third time. She'd been in here nearly an hour now, tracing her fingers over dusty display cases, taking notes in a small leather journal. Once in a while she asked him a question about the contents of this jar or that bottle, and when other customers came in, she watched to see what they bought and tilted her head to listen for anything she might learn.

She didn't have the deadly grace of most of his other patrons; she couldn't be working for Shaw. Neither did she have the furtive, paranoid twitches he'd come to associate a lover scorned and bent on payback.

Over the long years he'd served many such women and men, directing them away from the deadlier poisons to something that would do far less harm. Most of the time, seeing the wrongdoers turn pale and clutch their stomachs as the Essence of Pain made them violently ill (rather than actually killing them) was enough to dampen the would-be killers' fury.

And if it didn't, more often than not they learned to hire someone who could get the job done for them.

But this girl seemed clinical, curious. She lingered as long over the flash powder as she did with the dust of decay. Idly, he wondered if she might be new competition, here to learn his prices and his inventory before opening a shop of her own. The bell above the door rang, then, and Fel left her to her wandering. Fingers McCoy looked like he was in a hurry.

When Fel next lifted his head, the girl stood directly in front of him. She had assembled a small horde of materials on the counter and was fishing for her coin purse. "How much?" she asked, and at last he placed her voice.

"You sing in Goldshire, don't you, lass?" Her eyes flashed at the question and he held up his hands. "Ah, now. All purchases here are confidential. I'd be out of business in a week if I gossiped about my clients."

Her stance relaxed; after a moment, she no longer seemed about to flee. "I do sing there, yes."

"You sang 'The Last Rose of Summer' last time I was there. I've never heard it prettier."

She smiled and thanked him, then pulled a slim volume from a pocket of her cloak. Pushing it shyly across the counter, she asked, "Do you know if this is still accurate?"

Fel recognized it right away. "Aye," he said, running a finger fondly down its spine. "Written by Pathonia Shaw herself. You'll find it very helpful." He wrapped her packages and took her coin. While he counted out her change, she tucked Shaw's book back into her cloak beside her own ledger. She thanked him again and arranged her purchases in her arms, then bade him farewell.

"Lass," he said, as her hand touched the doorknob.

"Hmm?"

"Next time you come, I suggest wearing a hood. If it's anonymity you want, that is."

She paused a moment, considering, then she gave him a sunny smile. "I'll keep it in mind. Thank you again." The bell tinkled as the door closed behind her.

---

When the third customer walked out of the shop, her nose covered with a handkerchief, Thenia al'Cair locked the door and stalked to the storeroom in the back where her husband had swatches spread out all around himself.

"If you don't go up there and talk to her, I will," she said, folding her arms over her chest. "Three people gone without purchasing a single bolt, all because we're indulging this new hobby of hers! At least Threnody never tried banging away at her knives with a hammer before she moved out. This is ridiculous."

Padraig waited until his wife paused in her tirade, then gave her a grin that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. "That racket might have been preferable to the stink, wouldn't you say?"

Thenia huffed at him. "She has to stop. If I go up there, she'll argue with me. I'd send Threnody, but she's Light knows where, probably off with ap Danwyrith's crew, tarnishing our good name." Padraig raised a brow at her, so she let it go. One daughter at a time. "We're losing business."

"I'll go up." He put his swatches in a neat pile and stood up. On his way past, he gave Thenia a kiss on the forehead, just above her scowl lines. "Get the windows open, at least, if you're closing for the afternoon. And if Threnn comes back, send her to ask her landlady for some sweet-smelling candles we can burn, aye?"

Thenia's vexed muttering followed him up the stairs.

The door to the second-floor storeroom was closed. When Annalea had first expressed an interest in alchemy, Padraig hadn't seen any harm in encouraging it. He'd offered the seldom- used room above the shop to her for her work area. Thenia had agreed, begrudgingly, when father and daughter suggested that having Anna's lab on the second floor meant she was within shouting distance if the shop got busy.

Now there was smoke pouring out from beneath the door, thick and yellowish, with a smell like sulfur and rotten eggs. "Anna?" He knocked on the door.

No answer.

"Anna? Are you all right in there?"

Still no answer. Padraig covered his mouth and nose with his shirtsleeve and tried the knob. It was unlocked. He coughed as the door swung open and revealed even more of the foul-smelling smoke. "Annie? Come on, answer me. Are you all right?"

Her reply was a harsh fit of coughing, over by one of the windows. "Over here," she said between gasps. "This one's stuck." More coughing. "Come help."

He hurried over to his daughter. Together, they got the window open. Both of them leaned out, gulping in breaths of clean air. The smoke billowed out around them, dissipating into the spring afternoon. When they finally pulled their heads back inside, the room had mostly cleared out. Padraig took her face in his hands and looked her over, seeking out any ill-effects.

She squirmed. "Dad, I'm fine. I'm not six. Let me go." He shook his head, but released her after a moment. Freed, Anna bustled over to the table covered with her materials and stared down at a scrap of paper, completely ignoring her father.

Padraig cleared his throat.

She ignored him.

He tapped his foot.

"Just a minute."

"Anna--"

"Shhh. I'm thinking."

Padraig knew better than to argue when his wife or his daughters got this way. They'd nod their heads and yes him to death, and not hear a word he said until they were good and ready. He folded his arms and leaned his long frame against the wall.

After a few minutes of intent study, Anna's eyes lit up. "Found it! Too much stranglekelp, so it reacted to the..." She trailed off, flipping her ledger open and scribbling furiously. Finally, she looked up, sheepish. "I guess you could smell it downstairs, huh?"

"It was so strong, some customers left."

"Mama must be on a tear." She looked contrite, but her eyes kept flicking to the book.

"A bit. I think you're going to have to save your experimenting for after-hours, poppet." He reached across the table and picked up a small blue bottle. It was cold to the touch. "I know you're still learning, but--"

"Don't touch that!" Anna snatched the bottle from him and set it back down. She came around the table and grabbed his hand. This time she was the one examining him for injuries. "That's frost oil. And that batch came out too strong. Can't have you getting frostbite; Mama'd never forgive me."

He sighed.

Anna sighed back. "One more chance? I'll be more careful, I promise. And no more lost customers. Anyone else walks out, you can come right up here and shoo me out. Deal?"

Thenia wouldn't like it at first, but he'd handle her. It was easier to say no to his wife than to either of his daughters, especially when they gave him the look Anna was aiming at him now. "All right," he said. "One more chance." He stood up and hugged her before letting himself out. He paused at the door. "Dinner's at six," he said, but she'd already bent her head back to her notes.

[Threnn]

Her return to the Lion's Pride was met with moderate fanfare. The waitstaff welcomed her back warmly - they got better tips the nights she sang. Tomas had heard (from Threnn, she presumed) that she'd been sick with a flu and insisted that she try some of his broth to chase away any last vestiges of illness. The regulars threw enough extra coins her way the first two nights that she could have afforded the finest dress from Oreweave's shop and had money left over for a pair of matching gloves.

If anyone noticed in the light of the oil lamps that she was a little paler, a little thinner than before, they didn't mention it. Nor did they remark that some of the smolder had left her voice, or that she was less inclined to grace her admirers with a wink during the raciest parts of the bawdy songs.

She'd been sick, but now she was back on her feet and it was therefore time to make merry once more. That was all anyone saw, and Annalea was thankful for it.

After a few nights, her brief absence had been largely forgotten, yet it seemed word of her recovery had spread.

The first hints of summer were on the air as she walked along the road from Stormwind to Goldshire. The leaves on the trees were a deeper green. She'd shed her spring cloak before she'd even left the city gates; the sun felt good on her upturned face. Men and women were out in force, enjoying the day and crowding the road, earning the ire of riders on horseback and carriage drivers alike.

Anna was in the habit of fading to the side of the thoroughfare when she heard hoofbeats approaching. There were wagon drivers who were notorious for making paths with their whips, and couriers who were more likely to run you down than shout a warning. When she heard a single horse riding up from behind her, she moved aside, even though its rider seemed to be keeping a leisurely pace. It drew even with her, passed her...

She stopped in her tracks as her path was blocked by a wall of horseflesh. It was a beautiful animal, at least 17 hands high, its coat so dark brown it was nearly black. Her gaze traveled to the rider's polished black boots. The tips of his toes were covered in ornate steel, and Anna was thankful that his feet were in his stirrups - they were level with her nose. Should he decide to kick, she'd have a split second to dance backwards.

Dimly, she noted that he was wearing the red and gold of House Fairfax and debated whether or not she should run. He still hadn't spoken. Annalea looked up the rest of the way, knowing whose face she'd see. If I scream, will anyone come to help? Or will they go about their business and let the noble's man conduct his?

She knew the answer to that.

Run, she thought, but something else said no. She stood her ground, one hand slipping into the pocket of her dress. Her fingers closed around a tiny ball of glass - one filled with her own mixture of murloc venom and dust of decay.

Aumery Fane sneered when their eyes met. "My lord received word that you were recently ill," he said. Long gloved fingers stroked the hilt of his sword.

The crowd, sensing danger, had mostly taken to the opposite side of the road. They avoided looking at Anna and Fane. Bloody cowards. "I've recovered nicely, thank you."

His sword hand moved and she tensed to spring back. Her hand was halfway out of her pocket, ready to fling the glass ball at the horse's feet, when she realized he hadn't drawn.

Fane was enjoying her reaction. He smirked and tossed a small sack at her feet. It hit the ground with a flat smack; coins spilled out of the loosely tied top and rolled away, clinking merrily along the cobblestones. "My lord sends his sympathies. He trusts that you'll accept this gift to cover your... loss. In pay, that is, while you were recovering."

It was a small victory, keeping her face neutral at his jab. "I don't want his money."

"Then give it away. Perhaps to the orphange." Fane wasn't going to let it go quite so easily. "There are so many unwanted children these days."

Don't rise to it. Don't... But her mouth had a tendency to run ten steps ahead of her mind. "Maybe I'll give some to the church, too," she found herself saying, "so someone can pray for your master's soul. I'll throw in a few coins for yours as well." She was walking the line between impertinence and insult.

Fane's fingers twitched toward his sword. She could see him weighing his options in the space of two breaths - he couldn't run her through, but if he cuffed her with the hilt, the guard would turn a blind eye, were she to go running for them. Merchants were a step up from peasants, but that didn't grant them the luxury of running their mouths about the nobles. He moved his hand away to gather up his reins. "You'd best learn to watch your tongue, girl." Fane's gaze dropped to her breasts for the barest flicker. When he met her eyes once more, Anna's skin crawled. "If you don't learn it on your own, someone might just come to teach you. You should hope it isn't me."

For once, self-preservation won out over pride. Swallowing her shame, Annalea dropped a curtsey. She bent her head so low the ends of her braid touched the dusty ground. Above her, Fane laughed and gave his horse a kick. Its hooves dug into the road and churned dirt into her face.

Anna waited until the sound of hoofbeats faded away. She counted another ten seconds before straightening. The people passing on the road avoided the furious glare she swept over them. It was probably wise.

Five paces down the road, she sighed and turned back. The sack of coins lay there, still untouched. Cheeks burning with humiliation, Anna picked it up. Most to the orphanage. Some to the Cathedral. That I meant. And with what's leftover, I'll buy your death.

[Threnn]

No one cared if you wore a hooded cloak to hide your eyes in the Slaughtered Lamb. In fact, it seemed almost expected that the patrons disguise themselves in some way.

Every bar had its own unique atmosphere - the Blue Recluse was where you went if you wanted good music and quiet conversation; the Pig 'n' Whistle was famous for its more notorious patrons and the best ale in Stormwind; the Lion's Pride was a haven for travelers - though, these days it was becoming more and more a haven for whores as well.

And then there was the Lamb.

When she and Threnny were growing up, Thenia had warned them away from that place. When she sent them on errands to the Mage Quarter, they were given strict instructions not to go anywhere near its doors and to avoid engaging any of its patrons in conversation. Looking around the dimly lit room, Annalea finally understood why.

There were shadows everywhere. Most were natural - the lighting in here was poor at best, the few windows shuttered or too dirty for the sunlight to filter through. If candles graced any tables, they were burnt down near to stubs. Some were covered in layers of dust that suggested they had been neither replaced nor even lit for a very long time.

Other shadows, though, seemed unnatural. Gloom surrounded a table in the far corner, obscuring the patrons who occupied it. Their conversation was muffled, more so than should be normal. One of them raised her head and stared directly at Anna, a cold grin forming on her blood-red lips. Anna dropped her eyes. The gloom around them lifted long enough to carry their wild laughter before the curtain of shadow fell over them once more.

They weren't who she was there for, anyway.

Merrock Hartwell and Aumery Fane had entered perhaps five minutes ago, claiming a table in the opposite corner from the other bunch. Fane kept his back to the wall, scanning the room while Hartwell ordered drinks. Anna was thankful for her cloak; she kept her face low over the pages of the book she'd brought as a prop and pretended to study. There were others here doing the same, though she didn't want to know what demonic rituals were between those covers.

Hartwell returned with two mugs of ale. He set one down before Fane and the other on the opposite side of the table. There was a third party who would arrive soon, Anna knew, though she didn't know who the man was. The three met here every few days for an hour or so, speaking in hushed tones. Money occasionally changed hands, but the third man bore no insignia anywhere on his person. Whether he worked for House Fairfax, or the Guild, or the king himself, Anna couldn't tell.

Not that she cared, either. He hadn't been there the night the other two tried to kill her.

A woman came down the stairs that led to what the regulars affectionately called the "guest rooms." Her silk robe left little to the imagination, clinging to her curves. Her hips swayed as she crossed the room, earning appreciative glances from some of the patrons. She went directly to Fane and Hartwell's table and placed one elegant hand on the fat man's shoulder. Her fingernails glittered black in the dim light.

This, too, was part of the pattern. Hartwell gave Fane a crooked smile and followed the woman upstairs.

Anna waited, keeping track of the time by reciting "The Ballad of the Yellow Rose" in her head. When she came around to the second chorus, she stood and slipped upstairs. Fane didn't even look her way; he was glowering at the door, waiting for their companion to arrive.

The smell in the hallway was unpleasant. Anna wrinkled her nose as the scent of stale sweat, unwashed bodies and cheap perfume washed over her. Below those, she thought she detected the bright, coppery tang of blood as well. All the doors up here were closed, which was just as well - if one opened suddenly, she'd have time to flee.

But judging from the noises coming from behind them, she didn't have to worry about that happening any time soon.

Hartwell's cloak hung on a peg outside the room closest to the stairs. Anna shuffled towards it, straining her ears for sounds from within. Low murmurs came to her, then a groan. Get this over with. She swallowed her disgust and tamped down the image of Hartwell and the whore that had come to her unbidden.

Her fingers were steady as she retrieved a slim silver box from her pouch. Inside, wrapped it in several layers of gauze and cotton, was a glass vial. Anna cradled it in her palm, careful not to jostle it too much. There was a pocket sewn into the breast of Hartwell's cloak on the left-hand side. His flask lay nestled inside, and beside it, a vial much like the one Anna held only far sturdier.

He'd boasted about the contents of the vial before. It was something new, guaranteed (or so claimed the barker who'd sold it to him from his cart in front of the bank last month) to improve a man's prowess in the bedroom while reversing baldness and protecting the imbiber against plague. Hartwell always added some to the rotgut in his flask at the start of these meetings.

Usually he made a show of putting a drop or two in Fane's drink as well, complete with lewd comments and gestures describing Fane's manhood. It elicited a glare from the wiry man, but never a protest. She got the sense that Fane and Hartwell needed to present a united front before their companion.

When she removed the stopper and sniffed, she had to fight back a gag. Fish oil, definitely. Bruiseweed, I think, and anise seed. Not good for anything other than lightening your pockets.

Still, it was the same murky red as the liquid in Anna's own vial. Switching the two out was as easy as --

The wall before her shook violently. Anna nearly dropped both vials as she leapt backwards, her heart slamming in her chest. The whore on the other side moaned, and Anna desperately wished she could block out the sounds of flesh on flesh that followed.

Hurry.

She put Hartwell's concoction into her pouch. For a moment, she considered simply placing her own vial in his pocket and leaving, but... what if he didn't pour in a few drops, this one time? What if he'd finally decided that the barker's cure-all elixir wasn't working and threw it away?

She unscrewed the cap of his flask, unstoppered her vial, and counted out five drops. More than enough for what she intended. Carefully, she put the stopper back and tucked flask and vial into their pocket. As she smoothed out the cloak, making sure it hung the way she'd found it, her fingers brushed over the flower Hartwell had pinned to the outside.

A sprig of goldthorn.

He saved my life that night. Her hand twitched toward it. Shouldn't she show him mercy now, to pay him back for the mercy he'd shown her? She could take the vial of death and his tainted flask, flee the Slaughtered Lamb and put it all behind her. She could spare not only Merrock Hartwell, but Aumery Fane as well. Isn't that what the priests of the Light would teach, to repay one kindness with another? To be the stronger person, the better, and if she couldn't forgive, then at least forget?

But what mercy did he show my child?

She pulled her hand back, set her palm flat against her belly. None. He could have stopped it. He could have said no. He could have warned me, or knocked over the tea, or brought me to a medic, or any of a thousand other things. He made his choice, and now I'm doing the same.

Anna took a moment to get her composure in check before she crept back down the stairs. No one turned to look as she wound her way back to her table. She hadn't been gone more than a few minutes; most of the patrons were still in the same places. Fane hadn't moved.

The door opened and Fane half-rose. The tall blonde man saw him and strode over to the table, offering his hand in hello. He had a soft face, not quite round enough to be pudgy, but in contrast to Fane's sharp angles, he was nearly cherubic. The men shook hands and sat, making small talk for a few minutes. When they heard Hartwell's heavy step on the stair, both turned to greet him.

"Much better," said Hartwell. "No other way to start a summer's evening than a good tumble, wouldn't you say, gents?" They gave him indulgent smiles as he eased his bulk into the chair. He reached into his pocket and produced the flask and the vial. "Let's drink to that, shall we?" he said.

Several tables away, Anna's breath caught. Off came the stopper.

Three drops of her brew went into the flask with practiced ease. He held it over Fane's ale. "I'm telling you, boy. You should go up and say hello when we're done here. This'll have you standing at attention for the rest of the night. Not that I'm saying you need the help..." Fane glared as always, but Hartwell laughed at his own cleverness as he watched the drops plink into the mug. "What about you?" He shook the vial at the third man, who declined as he had every other time.

"Well, then," boomed Merrock Hartwell, setting the vial down on the table and lifting his silver flask, "here's to bedding women with soft skin and firm arses." He drank deeply. Fane and the other man watched him a moment before lifting their own.

Fane's mug was inches from his lips when Hartwell began to choke.

The older man turned a red so dark he was nearly purple. His breath came in great, ragged gasps as he clawed at his throat. A few people turned around to watch, but true to the clientele that frequented the Lamb, most ignored his agony and continued minding their own business.

"Water," croaked Hartwell. The stench of burning meat permeated the air, radiating out from him as he thrashed. He snatched Fane's mug and drank its contents in one long gulp. Rivulets of ale trickled out of the corners of his mouth as he quaffed.

The skin where it splashed turned red, then black. It cracked and smoked, and now, as the smell of burning flesh reached the other tables, people began to take notice.

Hartwell tore at himself, bellowing and stumbling about, crashing into tables, careening off the backs of chairs as he begged for water from anyone who might be listening.

Fane watched him in horror, then looked at the remnants of his own mug. Some of the ale had spilled onto the table; the wood had started to smolder. He knocked their companion's mug to the floor, snapping, "Don't drink that, it might be--"

His gaze took in the vial. It sat in the center of the table, where Hartwell had placed it, its contents glittering darkly. Fane snatched it up.

The brittle glass shattered in his hand.

Hartwell's screams had dissolved into plaintive mewling, now. The barkeep and a few customers had at last come to his side, but not a single one wanted to touch the man who was burning from the inside out. He'd scratched long bloody trenches down his neck and chest. Someone - one of the inhabitants of the muted table in the other corner - had picked up the swill bucket on his way to see what all the fuss was about. He tipped the foul liquid over Hartwell and tittered wildly when it steamed on impact.

"Oh, that's lovely," the man said. "Well done."

Anna tore her eyes away from Fane at the words. Pity moved her, though it was not tinged with remorse. She took a pitcher of clean water from the table beside her whose occupant had gone to get a better look at the commotion. Swiftly, she navigated the crowd and pushed through to stand over the dying man.

"It's no use, lassie," said the man who'd emptied the swill. "Whoever it was made that poison, he made it strong. This one won't be feeling any relief, even if we could throw him into the snows of Winterspring."

Still, it's a small mercy. Before she could pour, though, Fane's screams replaced his cohort's. Anna spun to look, one hand coming up to make sure her hood was in place.

The flesh of Fane's right hand...melted as he held it up to the meager light filtering in from the afternoon sun. His skin, like that on Hartwell's lower jaw, turned first red, then black.

Fane looked right at her.

No, not at me. At the pitcher. He rushed towards her, shoving people and furniture aside like a skinny charging bull. She cringed away as he snatched it from her grasp and emptied it over his burning hand. The water sloshed out, some falling into Hartwell's open mouth as Fane sank to his knees, keening in agony.

Anna thought she heard Hartwell sigh.

"Dead," said the bartender a moment later.

Good, thought Anna, though whether she meant it out of satisfaction at his death or relief that his suffering was over, she wasn't sure. She didn't feel anything, really, except cold.

"Aye, and this one's about to wish he was," said the swill-thrower with glee, nudging Fane with the toe of his boot. "The poison's oil-based, you fool. You've only spread it."

Fane's screaming stopped only so he could drag in a breath. The stink of charred flesh got stronger as the oil did exactly as the other man said it would. Fane's hand was a twisted, smoking claw, now, his thumb fused alongside his fingers, the skin blistered, cracked and peeling, bubbling in some places. His voice climbed, climbed, then cracked and broke. When next he opened his mouth, only a hoarse, rough sound came from his throat as he cradled his ruined hand against his chest.

"Right," said the bartender, pointing at the swill-thrower and another man. "You and you, let's get them both below before the Guard shows up. You know how to make it stop?"

The swill-thrower tapped at his lip a moment. "I believe I do."

"Good. Get on it. You two--" he grabbed the men to either side of him -- "help me get that table down there, too. And by the nether, don't get any of it on yourselves. Rest of you, drinks are on the house for the next twenty minutes."

They jumped to their assignments when the bartender clapped his hands. Sometime in the last few minutes, Hartwell's whore had come downstairs. She leaned over his prone form and coolly cut the coin purse from his belt before the men carried him away. "Lousy tipper," she said, and they all laughed.

Some people were heading for the door, Hartwell's and Fane's other companion among them. Anna followed. Part of her wanted to stay, to see what would become of Aumery Fane, but she knew better than to hang around and risk being recognized. So far, luck had been on her side, but how long until it ran out? She shuddered when she thought of how close Fane had come to her. If he'd looked up even a fraction of an inch when he took that pitcher...

He didn't, though. It's over. Hartwell's dead. If Fane survives, he'll be maimed. It's enough.

When she was far enough away from the Slaughtered Lamb, she pushed the hood back and let the breeze cool her face. The air carried the smell of flowers, all the fresher for what she'd been breathing in these last few moments. The elven herbalists were outside, pulling their pots of flowers under the awning before they closed for the day. A spray of blue caught Anna's eye.

"Pardon," she said to the women, "what are those, please?"

One of them straightened and pushed a long green braid over her shoulder, smiling gently. "In your tongue, they're called forget-me-nots."

Anna pressed a hand against her stomach. The gesture was hidden in the folds of her cloak. I had nothing to bury. No grave marker. I didn't even pick a name. "How much?"

"A gift," said the Night Elf. "They're the last of the season." She pressed the pot into Anna's hands before she could protest.

"Thank you," she said, "I think I know where to plant them."

---

The sun had set by the time Threnn got home and joined Anna in the little courtyard behind the chandler's shop. She leaned against the door, silhouetted by the light from inside, watching. "What are you doing there, little sister?"

Anna sat up from where she'd been working in the dirt for the past two hours and wiped her forehead with her arm.. "Mrs. Stone said I could plant these here, until I have somewhere of my own to put them. I didn't want to just stick them in a windowbox. And then I realized there was a bench here, under all this. Did you know that?"

Threnn shook her head. "I might have noticed something bench-shaped, but that's about it."

"Well, it's here. A little neglected, but some new paint and it'll be good as new." She stood and rubbed her hands together. There was dirt under her fingernails. Better dirt that blood. "Come out here and sit with me, Threnny."

"I thought you'd leave me hovering all night." Threnn stepped outside, but not before she reached in and retrieved a lantern and a bottle. "Thought maybe I ought to bring something to the party," she said. As she drew closer, she stopped. "Sweet Light, Anna, you're filthy."

She looked down. The dress she'd worn to the Lamb was ruined, covered in grass stains and deep-seated dirt. It would never come out. "Oh."

"You could've gone up and borrowed something of mine, you know. You have a key."

"It's fine, Threnny. Really. Come sit." She tugged on Threnn's arm and sat her down on the bench.

Her sister watched her for a long moment, trying to figure out what to ask. Finally she sighed and surveyed Anna's handiwork. The little blue flowers stood alone in their patch of cleared ground. They swayed as a breeze ruffled through them. For the first time since that awful night, Threnn found the right question: "What are they?"

"Forget-me-nots."

Her breath caught. "Oh." She held out an arm to Anna. There was nothing else to say.

Anna slid closer on the bench. The comforting weight of Threnny's arm around her was all the conversation she wanted right now. She laid her head on her sister's shoulder, and they watched the flowers together until the last of the light faded from the sky.

[Threnn]

((I should probably point out: that's the end of this part of the story, as far as the past is concerned. What's happening now, in the present and as a direct result of something Anna did, can be found here.

Thanks for bearing with me; it's taken a hell of a long time to uncover her story. I hope it was worth the wait. <3 ))