Merry found the letter first, and heaved a sigh.
Once a mortician, always a mortician. I thought I could teach Lucian a few things and continue living a quiet life…fortunately, it isn't addressed to me, but still.
Folded in bark paper, sealed in red wax shaped like a spool of thread. It hadn't arrived by messenger, nor appeared on the garden's delivery circle. And as it wasn't addressed to her—by name or by scent—she let it go.
Intercepting this is just rude.
It was there, nestled between a bushel of dried tallowfruit, lavender, and rosemary—exactly where Alice would see it.
Lucian stood over her shoulder as she unfolded it.
There was no greeting. Just three lines, written in rose-colored ink.
"You have not been forgotten.
You may still return home.
If he truly loves you, he will let you."
Alice stared at it, eyes unmoving.
"Did the Queen send this?" Lucian asked, already knowing the answer.
Merry touched the paper and felt the corners sting her skin. She hissed softly. "No. Much worse."
Lucian's hand hovered over the table. "That Marionette the Spymaster keeps talking about?"
"No." Merry's brow furrowed. "The Court of Threadbinders. Her original network. Which means..."
She glanced out the window. "They found a wormhole big enough to pass through the Hollow."
Lucian's stomach clenched.
"They shouldn't be able to."
Merry nodded grimly. "No. But they've opened a gate somewhere close. The Hollow isn't as sealed as it once was. You've drawn too many threads with rites that feel instead of follow."
Her tone of voice made it clear that she didn't blame him. "I should have drawn my defenses tighter before I let you in." She said as she placed a hand on his shoulder.
But instead of feeling better, Lucian just felt the weight of disappointment sink in.
"I'm sorry for disturbing your silence," he offered.
The druid mortician smiled. "Thank you. I just wanted to help you—and I forgot the first rule of helping someone else."
"What's that?"
"Making sure I'm safe. But no matter—you're taking the steps to fulfill your duty, and so will I."
+
Later that night, a second letter arrived. This time, it bore Lucian's name, but the language wasn't one he recognized. He tried tapping it with his cane, but nothing happened. If anything, the cane vibrated sharply, like it was irritated with the letter.
That made Lucian even more determined to find out what was inside it. At a loss, he pulled his Grimoire out of its satchel, and held the letter out to it.
"Could you translate this for me, please?"
The Grimoire rejected it at first, refusing to scan it, until Lucian spoke the name aloud:
"Lucian Bowcott. Mortician Emeritus. Apostate."
The Grimoire slowly opened and accepted the message. Line by line, the translation appeared underneath:
"You are not blameless, and not beyond salvation.
You grieve as if it earns you freedom. It does not.
Alice was not made to carry your feelings. Let her return to the shape she was given.
The Queen is waiting."
Lucian folded the letter once, twice, then burned it in the fireplace without a word.
"Thank you."
+
Alice didn't ask about her letter. She didn't have to.
Lucian found her outside the Hollow's root-garden, running her fingers through the growing bark of a baby tree.
"I used to dream of being whole," she said, "when I didn't know what that meant."
Lucian knelt beside her.
"And now?"
"I still don't," she whispered, "but at least now it feels like my question."
He nodded slowly. "They want you back."
"I know."
"They'll say you were made for more."
"They always do."
Lucian turned his palm upward. "And what do you want?"
She placed her hand in his.
"I want to stay me. Even if it hurts. And even if...it means I'm 'wasting my potential.' Whatever that means."
Lucian frowned. "Who's been saying that, Alice?"
She had a sad smile on her face. "The same woman who wants me to come home."
+
Elsewhere in the Hollow, Merry traced a new faultline in the stone beneath her garden's roots.
Wormholes.
Four of them. Subtle bends in reality, too thin for a full-bodied presence, but perfect for Threadbinders, Shifters, and Messages with a purpose.
"If the Court is moving again," she murmured to the soil, "then the old rules are about to break."
+
Far from the Hollow, Queen Marguerite stood before a bowl of silverwater, staring into a reflection that refused to take shape.
"I offered him sanctuary," she said quietly. "All he had to do was return."
The Spymaster leaned against a marble pillar, gloves immaculate.
"He's not refusing you," he said. "He's refusing the way you want to be needed."
She ignored him.
"He was supposed to replace Alaric."
The Spymaster finally chuckled.
"No one replaces Alaric. Especially not someone who's still writing their own script."
She turned sharply. "You think I can't summon someone better?"
"Oh, I think you can. But I also think your kingdom's already forgotten what better means. They lived one hundred years without a mortician, after all."
The Spymaster grinned despite himself. "For a hundred years, you relied on my power to keep your broken kingdom from snapping by a thread."
Queen Marguerite wanted to stomp her foot. "And when I felt safe enough to try summoning another, he breaks the civil agreement between my kingdom and Staesis."
She raised a hand in front of the silverwater, and slowly, it began to take shape.
"I can already see it. If he doesn't want to return of his own volition--I'll just have to be more convincing."
Her shadow began to take on a monstrous form, and the Spymaster's heart filled with glee.
+
Just then, the palace trembled once — not from a quake, but a ripple.
A breath in the foundations.
The Spymaster's eyes narrowed.
"Ah. And I thought we'd have more time."
Marguerite frowned. "What now?"
He tapped his gloved fingers once on the stone banister.
"The Marionette," he said. "She's moving. This one wanted her own child, remember?"
"Alice."
He nodded.
"And that child is currently traveling with your very stubborn apostate."
The Queen's gaze flickered to the cracked mirror.
"Perhaps we can catch a fly with honey," she said. "Maybe even two."
The Spymaster tilted his head, amused.
"And what will you offer them? Mercy?"
Marguerite smiled faintly.
"No. Choice."
+
Lucian sat on the outer porch as stars blinked into view overhead.
Alice brought him tea but said nothing. Her thread-gloved hand rested on the arm of his chair, warm even through layers.
The Grimoire fluttered open beside them.
[UPDATE: EMOTIONAL TETHER SUSTAINED.]
Wormhole activity present in the garden's perimeter.
Recommendation: Strengthen the anchor glyphs.
Secondary notice: Alice's Sovereign Thread is under review by her original owner.
Threat Level: Moderate, but quickly escalating.
Lucian whispered, "I won't let them take her."
The Grimoire flickered once, then added:
Then you must learn to defend what you have not created.
He nodded, and instead of sleeping that night, he started feverishly writing.
If she wants to take Alice, I'll give her one hell of a fight.