“She’s right in here, mom,” Corporal Samson Bleedingheart said as he lightly pushed open the door to a small bedroom in the Back City Mission. Jane Estin, as well as every other civilian exposed to the concrete breath of the catoblepas who lived, was being quarantined in the mission. Keeping them in the Back City prevented gawkers from questioning them, and also prevented the spread of the uncomfortable disease called “dust lung.”

  “Oh, thank Dreamer you’re okay!” Marie Estin shrieked as she pressed past Sam and into the room. She wore a modest, but brightly colored day dress, clutching a wide brimmed hat in one hand and a bag in the other. Jane was sitting up in her bed and was moving rapidly between happy at the sight of her mother, and distraught at her mother’s doting. “What were you thinking, running out there? Your brother told me everything. You were so reckless.”

  “Mother, it all worked out. Sam and his friend helped me out.”

  “And had they not been there?” Mrs. Estin reprimanded. She turned to look at her son. “Sam, would you be so kind as to give us a moment?”

  “Mom, don’t stress her out. She is still recovering. Coughing up rocks,” Sam urged from the doorway.

  “Samson, a moment please.” The stern words of a frustrated mother was all that was needed. Sam backed down, stepping into the hall and closing the door behind him.

  “Mom, not now,” Jane pleaded as her mother lifted her handbag and set it on the end of the bed.

  “Oh, how I wish I could have said that when you ran out of that restaurant into an active crime scene with dead bodies littering the floor,” she mused as she pulled a small planner notebook from the bag.

  “You are being dramatic,” Jane rolled her eyes.

  Marie did not respond. Instead, she opened the notebook’s front cover. A flowery handwritten note took up the entire first blank page. Do not call attention to what you wish to remain secret. People will ignore what is not their problem.

  Jane grumbled as her mother silently read the note over and over. The air in the room became heavy and sounds from the hallway and from outside the window over Jane’s head quieted until they were practically silent. Eventually, all Jane could hear was her own breathing, still slightly graveling, and the frustrating tapping of her mother’s toes.

  “Do you not remember how long it took to teach you the weave?”

  “What kind of question is that?” Jane retorted.

  “Years, Jane, of not just your free time, but mine as well. Daughter of mine, I have devoted more to you than my other children. I don’t mean that harshly, but just honestly! You are my investment in the weave.”

  “I know, mom.”

  Marie straightened her dress and sat on the edge of the bed, turning her chin to the ceiling. “Then why did you endanger our work the way you did?”

  “Because people needed help, mother.” Jane was starting to get heated. “I was sitting in that restaurant, listening to people scream and die outside. And you wanted me to just sit there, eating my snacks and drinking my wine?”

  “Yes!”

  “I thought the whole weave thing was to help people?”

  “And how in Chael’s name are you supposed to help people when your lungs have been turned to stone, Jane? What if, Dreamer forbid, I had been one of those dying down there? And you run out into the street, and the worst happens? That is our entire thread within the weave gone in one afternoon.”

  The hypothetical situation silenced Jane. After a moment of poignant quiet, the matron of the Estin family continued.

  “You must understand, there is a difference between material help and facilitation, Jane. Your brother felt the call to help just as you and I did. But he is the one with the armor and the hammer. He is the one that can fight the monsters and save the civilians.” As she monologued, Mrs. Estin actually seemed to calm herself down.

  “You and I, though? We do what we can to put people where they can be of most help. For example, our friend in Dawnbreak was worried about a stranger, so I managed to help get an ally of ours to Dawnbreak to gather intelligence. Luckily, we now know that a former Court Magus to the Emperor of Gavundar is in the March. Who knows what damage he could have done before we learned the hard way.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Mom, I understand. I’m sorry.”

  “You know we are only permitted to train one apprentice without special permission, Jane. Do you understand how hard it would hurt me to request that permission because my oldest daughter had died?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jane urged, hoping to cut her mother off before the drama spun up again. “I’m really sorry.”

  Marie stayed quiet, turning her head down to the floor.

  “Why didn’t we know they were coming?”

  “What?”

  “Why weren’t we ready?” Jane asked, unwilling at first to turn the conversation grim, but she had been thinking quite a bit about why this disaster was allowed to happen. So many in the The Throne are in the weave. Surely someone would have known.

  “I don’t know, Jane. I am worried about it, though. I had received a handful of missives over the past few months, all referring to situations like ours. Broken hearts and minds smashing into vaults to steal magical items. It seems the man with the Halcyon Band was not the only one. Just the one who got the furthest to his end.” She sighed deeply. “But we’re trying our best to get to the bottom of things. Can I count on you to help us? Or will you be running out into danger, risking your neck again?”

  “Mom,” Jane responded, rolling her eyes. “I told you I was sorry. What I did was stupid. I won’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  “Good,” Mrs. Estin said with a tight smile. “Because it seems our trade is going to become more necessary in the coming days.” As she rose from the bed, the sounds from outside of the room began to return slowly and gradually. Jane almost did not notice them until they were back at their natural volume.

  “So,” Jane began now that their serious conversation was over. “Can I go home? I still have that wedding to plan.”

  After Sam left his sister’s room, wincing as he imagined what his mother was saying behind the door, he walked past Brother Nathan’s open door. The priest normally worked in his office with the door shut and locked. Sam and Shiner would sit and argue over who would or would not knock to stir the angry man when they were on duty.

  In a profound lapse of judgement, Sam saw the open door as an opportunity.

  “Excuse me, Brother Nathan?” Sam called into the room as he lightly rapped his gauntleted knuckle on the doorframe.

  “Corporal Bleedingheart,” the priest answered without looking up. “We still have not decided if you will be submitted for any commendation for your deeds during the attack.”

  Slightly off balance from the sharp response, Sam stuttered. “Uh, sorry, Brother. That is actually not why I am here. May I ask about the Halcyon Band.”

  “No.” The response was immediate and sharp. Sam waited for additional words, but they were not coming. Finally, Brother Nathan looked up. “No, you may not.”

  “I,” Sam, confused by the hostility, found himself under too much inertia to back down. “I was wondering, though, if someone needed to go back to Happfield.”

  “Your duty is here, working for me in the Back City Mission, Corporal Bleedingheart. I can not just spend Church funds so you can shirk your duty.”

  “But, has Father Pryce heard what has happened?”

  “I’m sure the Church will inform him how and when they see fit.”

  “I mean,” Sam looked down at his feet, beginning to feel foolish for expecting this to go any other way. “I was there when it was stolen. I feel some sort of responsibility to Father Pryce.”

  “You can face your shame here, Corporal. You need not travel across the country to do that. We can have you reprimanded if you truly feel responsible for the deaths.”

  Flustered, and embarrassed, Sam felt paralyzed. For some reason, this was not what he had expected. After he and Shiner killed the catoblepas during Mathew Carpenter’s attack on the main hall, the two had enjoyed some sort of celebrity amongst the city’s paladins. Knowing waves and salutes were coming from even senior paladins in both Back City, and The Throne proper. But here, in this office, he was made to feel small and stupid, just as the Father Abbot had left him feeling after he nearly died during his paladin examination.

  “Was there something else, Corporal?” Brother Nathan asked, with more annoyance than kindness.

  “I just,” Sam said, shaking his head, unable to prevent himself from talking. “I feel guilty and want to check on Father Pryce.”

  “Well if it is that important to you, Corporal, then you should spend your leave and your own money to go to Happfield. I’m sure some of the Estin fortune can get you more than a two-way carriage.”

  Sam felt foolish all over again. The suggestion that he spend his own time and money to do what should have been a courtesy of the Church was offensive. But checking on Father Pryce did mean a lot to him. “I think I will do that, Brother.”

  “Well, I wish you luck finding brothers and sisters able to cover your duty. After your last trip to Happfield, they may not be willing to fill your gaps in the work schedule again. If that is all, Corporal Bleedingheart, I have work to tend to.” Without another word, Brother Nathan looked back down to the paperwork on his desk.

  “Thank you, Brother. I will begin working on my paperwork for leave.”

  “Corporal,” Brother Nathan said, looking up. “Close the door when you leave.”