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When she did, his chest eased up. “Good. Glad we agree. Now, do we need to do another ceremony?”

“Ah . . . ah, when you said the words t-to Cormia, you bound yourself to all of us.” She put her hand on her medallion again but this time he had a feeling it wasn’t with joy. More like she needed a little reassurance. “When will you . . . be coming here to stay?”

He thought of Bella’s pregnancy. He couldn’t miss the birth, and with the way things stood between him and Z, he might not even be told. “Not for a while. Could be up to a year.”

“Then I shall send the first of them to you on the far side, shall I?”

“Yeah.” He turned away from the nursery, feeling like he still needed more air. “Listen, I’m going to walk around a bit.”

“I’ll tell the others to leave you to your privacy.”

“Thanks, and I’m sorry for being such a hard-ass.” He paused. “One last thing . . . I want to talk to Cormia. I’m going to tell her.”

“As you wish.” The Directrix bowed low. “I shall need a couple of days to ritually prepare—”

“Just let me know when you’re sending one of them over.”

“Yes, your grace.”

When she left, he stared out over the white landscape, and after a moment, the expanse changed before his eyes, shifting into another view entirely. Gone were the well-ordered, colorless trees and the grass that looked as if it were covered in fine snow. Instead, he saw the choked gardens of his family’s home back in the Old Country.

Out behind the vast stone house he’d grown up in, there had been a walled-off garden about two acres in size. Split into quadrants by pebbled walkways, it had been intended to showcase specimen plantings and offer a place of natural beauty to calm the mind. The masonry wall that corralled the landscape had been marked by four statues at its corners, the figures reflecting the stages of life, from an infant in his father’s arms, to a strapping young male standing on his own, to that male holding a young in his own arms, to him seated in his aged wisdom with his grown son standing behind him.

When the garden had first been constructed, it must have been truly elegant, a real showplace, and Phury could imagine the joy of his parents as they had looked over its splendor as newly mateds.

He had known none of the perfections promised in the fine bones of the layout. What he had seen of the garden had been only the chaos of neglect. By the time he was old enough to be aware of his surroundings, the beds were overgrown with weeds, the reflection benches were wading in algae water, and grass had overtaken the walkways. Saddest to him were the statues. Ivy tangled around them, consuming them more thickly each year, the leaves obscuring more and more of what the sculptor’s hand had wanted to show.

The garden was the visual representation of his family’s ruination.

And he had wanted to fix it. All of it.

After his transition, which had nearly killed him, he had walked away from the shambles of the family home, and he could remember the leaving as clearly as he saw in his mind that wretched garden. The night of his departure had been marked by an October full moon, and he had packed some of his father’s old, fine clothes by its brilliant light.

Phury had had only a loose plan: to pick up on the trail his father had let grow cold. On the night of Zsadist’s abduction, it had been clear which nursery maid had taken the young, and Ahgony, as any father would, had gone after her with a vengeance. She had been smart, however, and he had found nothing concrete until about two years thereafter. Following tips and leads and the ramblings of gossips, the Brother had scoured the Old Country and eventually located Zsadist’s baby blanket in the things of the female— who had died only a week prior.

The near miss was just another page in the tragedy.

It was at that point that Ahgony had been informed that his young had been picked up by a neighbor and sold into the slavery market. The neighbor had taken the money and run, and though Ahgony had gone to the nearest slave