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"I don't know how," Han retorted. "But we will."

He had to.

I was supposed to protect her, Luke had said, blaming himself.

But you weren't, kid, Han thought, watching Luke take a few practice swipes with his lightsaber, as if the weapon were good for anything but party tricks. That was my job.

The Alderaanians were running out of patience. As the minutes passed, they gathered around Ferus, clamoring for answers.

"You said she'd be here!"

"What kind of game is this?"

"Is this all a big joke to you?"

But Ferus had nothing to give them beyond empty reassurances. He'd been expecting Han and Luke more than twenty minutes ago. Something had obviously gone wrong. But until he received details, there was nothing he could do.

His comlink signaled an incoming transmission.

"It's me," Halle Dray's voice said. "Where are you?"

Ferus stepped away from the crowd. "In my room," Ferus lied. "Getting ready for tonight." He knew Halle and her group still thought the meeting was going on as planned.

Apparently their leak was less reliable than they'd thought. "What do you need?"

"I just wanted you to hear it from me."

"Hear what?"

There was a pause, a jumble of voices in the background, and then:

"What am I supposed to say?" Leia's voice.

"That'll do quite nicely," Halle said.

A poisonous brew of rage and fear began churning in Ferus's gut. "You have the princess," he said, keeping his emotions under tight control. "Congratulations. I thought we weren't moving until tonight."

"And Nahj thought 'we' included you," Halle said coldly. "I suspected differently. I see that I was right."

"You set me up," Ferus said, the pieces beginning to into place. "You told me about your plans—"

"To see if you'd go running straight to the princess. Which you did." Halle laughed harshly. "Job well done." She broke the connection.

"Was that the princess?" someone asked. "Is she on her way?"

Ferus couldn't answer.

He'd done it yet again—failed the person he most wanted to protect. And it could have been avoided, had he only paid attention. He'd devoted all his energy to the big picture, getting swept up in questions of Luke and Leia's parentage, their future, the fate of the Empire. He'd lost track of the present, and missed crucial details. If he'd been listening to the Force, he would have heard what was approaching.

But he'd listened to nothing but the drumbeat of his fears for Leia, and he'd let that thunder drown out everything else.

Not again, Ferus vowed to himself—to Leia. He'd lost too much.

He wouldn't lose her too.

Ferus has never felt such a moment of perfect fear. He sees the princess at the top of the crane, seeming so much smaller from so far away. She swings herself onto the catwalk with an easy grace, and he admires the way she fearlessly tiptoes across. Her instincts and reflexes are beyond human. She is strong with the Force, even stronger than he had expected.

But she is untrained, and as she scrambles down the scaffolding, he sees her hand slip. Her foot misses its grip. She lets out an alarmed squeal and begins to slide—

Ferus moves with lightning speed, nearly flying up the side of the scaffolding. He catches her.

She is angry; she resents his help. But he will not leave her behind, not again. And by the time they are halfway home, she is asleep in his arms.

He walks slowly, carefully cradling the snoring bundle in his arms. He has not held her like this since she was a toddler. On the day he first came to Bail Organa to explain his mission, Organa had placed Leia in his arms.

Ferus had put her down immediately. How could he remain objective if he let emotions cloud his judgment? The Jedi way repudiated attachments, even to a small child—perhaps especially to a small child. He had turned from that way once, and the consequences had been catastrophic. Never again, he thought.

Now he knows he has been a fool.

He has denied the truth—and this, too, is not the Jedi way.

Leia is not a job. She is a child. And he loves her like she is his own.

He has been arguing