She was touching the soft leather of her arm guard one day in a sunny corner of the main courtyard, and thinking, when she fell asleep in her chair. She woke abruptly to Hanna slapping her and yelling, which confused her entirely and alarmed her, until she understood that Hanna had found a trio of monster bugs flitting across Fire's neck and arms, eating her to pieces, and was trying to rescue her.

"Your blood must taste awfully good," the child said doubtfully, running her fingertips over the angry welts that rose on Fire's skin, and counting.

"Only to monsters," Fire said dismally. "Here, give them to me. Are they utterly smashed? I have a student who'd probably like to dissect them."

"They've bitten you one hundred and sixty-two times," Hanna announced. "Does it itch?"

It did itch, agonisingly, and when she came upon Brigan in his bedroom – only recently returned from his long trip north – she was more combative than usual.

"I'll always be attracting bugs," she said to him belligerently.

He looked up, pleased to see her, if a bit surprised at her tone. "So you will," he said, coming to touch the bites on her throat. "Poor thing. Is it uncomfortable?"

"Brigan," she said, annoyed that he had not understood. "I'll always be beautiful. Look at me. I have one hundred and sixty-two bug bites, and has it made me any less beautiful? I'm missing two fingers and I have scars all over, but does anyone care? No! It just makes me more interesting! I'll always be like this, stuck in this beautiful form, and you'll have to deal with it."

He seemed to sense that she expected a grave response, but for the moment, he was incapable. "I suppose it's a burden I must bear," he said, grinning.

"Brigan."

"Fire, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I'm not how I look," she said, bursting suddenly into tears. "I look beautiful and placid and delightful, but it's not how I feel."

"I know that," he said quietly.

"I will be sad," she said defiantly. "I will be sad, and confused, and irritable, very often."

He held up a finger and went into the hallway, where he tripped over Blotchy, and then over the two monster cats madly pursuing Blotchy. Swearing, he leaned over the landing and called to the guard that unless the kingdom fell to war or his daughter was dying, he had better not be interrupted until further notice. He came back in, shut the door, and said, "Fire. I know that."

"I don't know why terrible things happen," she said, crying harder now. "I don't know why people are cruel. I miss Archer, and my father too, no matter what he was. I hate that Murgda will be killed once she's had her baby. I won't allow it, Brigan, I'll sneak her out, I don't care if I end up in prison in her place. And I'm so unbearably itchy!"

Brigan was hugging her now. He was no longer smiling, and his voice was sober. "Fire. Do you imagine I want you to be thoughtless and chipper, and without all those feelings?"

"Well, I can't imagine that this is what you want!"

He said, "The moment I began to love you was the moment when you saw your fiddle smashed on the ground, and you turned away from me and cried against your horse. Your sadness is one of the things that makes you beautiful to me. Don't you see that? I understand it. It makes my own sadness less frightening."

"Oh," she said, not following every word, but comprehending the feeling, and knowing all at once the difference between Brigan and the people who built her a bridge. She rested her face against his shirt. "I understand your sadness, too."

"I know you do," he said. "I thank you for it."

"Sometimes," she whispered, "there's too much sadness. It crushes me."

"Is it crushing you now?"

She paused, unable to speak, feeling the press of Archer against her heart. Yes.

"Then come here," he said, a bit redundantly, as he had already pulled her with him into an armchair and curled her up in his arms. "Tell me what I can do to help you feel better."

Fire looked into his quiet eyes, touched his dear, familiar face, and considered the question. Well. I always like it when you kiss me.

"Do you?"

You're good at it.

"Well," he said. "That's lucky, because I'll always be kissing you."

Flame was the way in the Dells to send the bodies of the dead where their souls had gone, and to remember that all things came to nothingness, except the world.

They travelled north to Brocker's estate for the ceremony, because it was appropriate that it take place there and because to hold it anywhere else would be an inconvenience to Brocker, who must, of course, be present. They scheduled it for the end of summer, before the fall rains, so that Mila could attend with her newborn daughter, Liv, and Clara with her son, Aran.

Not everyone could make the journey, though practically everyone did, even Hanna, and Garan and Sayre, and quite a colossal royal guard. Nash stayed behind in the city, for someone needed to run things. Brigan promised to make every reasonable effort to attend and came tearing onto Fire's land the night before with a contingent of the army. It was all of fifteen minutes before he and Garan were quarreling over the plausibility of devoting some of the kingdom's resources to westward exploration. If through the mountains existed a land with people called Gracelings who were like that boy, Brigan said, then it would only be sensible to take a peaceful, unobtrusive interest in them – namely, to spy – before the Gracelings decided to take an unpeaceful interest in the Dells. Garan didn't want to spend the money.

Brocker, who took Brigan's side of the argument, was utterly pleased with the growing family that had descended upon him, and he talked, and so did Roen, of moving back to King's City, and leaving his estate – of which Brigan was now heir – to be handled by Donal, who had always handled Fire's capably. The siblings had been told, quietly, of Brigan's true parentage. Hanna spent time shyly with the grandfather she had only just heard of. She liked the big wheels of his chair.

Clara teased Brigan that on the one hand, he was no technical relation to her at all, but on the other, he was doubly the uncle of her son, for, in the loosest sense, Clara was Brigan's sister and the baby's father had been Brigan's brother. "That's how I prefer to think of it, anyway," Clara said.

Fire smiled at all of this, and held the babies whenever anyone would let her, which turned out to be fairly often. She had a monster knack with babies. When they cried, she usually knew what was ailing them.

Fire was sitting in the bedroom of her stone house, thinking of all the things that had happened in that room.

From the doorway, Mila broke into her reverie. "Lady? May I come in?"

"Of course, Mila, please."

In her arms Mila carried Liv, who was asleep, smelling like lavender, and making soft breathing noises. "Lady," Mila said. "You once told me I may ask you for anything."

"Yes," Fire said, looking at the girl, surprised.

"I'd like to ask your advice."

"Well, you shall have it, for whatever it's worth."

Mila dropped her face to Liv's pale, fuzzy hair for a moment. She almost seemed afraid to speak. "Lady," she said. "Do you think that in his treatment of women, the king is a man like Lord Archer?"

"Goodness," Fire said, "no. I can't see the king being careless with a woman's feelings. It seems fairer to compare him to his brothers."

"Do you think," Mila began, and then sat suddenly on the bed, trembling. "Do you think a soldier girl from the southern Great Greys, sixteen years old with a baby, would be mad to consider – "

Mila stopped, her face buried against her child. And Fire felt the rise of her own clamouring happiness, like warm music ringing in the spaces inside her. "The two of you seem very fond of each other's company," she said carefully, trying not to give her feelings away.