'I dreamt last night of Velmund Drum.

Maybe I had stared too long at the mountains... Faces I hoped to forget came flooding back to me. Her face ...his face. It has been too long to still dwell in that kingdom of regret. If only Farbecke would see my value, I could focus my thoughts to the future.

The years pass too quickly; I cannot keep up.

Farbecke says I lack the experience, that I lack connections. Had he given me his daughter as I'd asked there would be no need for either. Have I not dedicated myself to the Printworks? He thinks me nothing. Had I my magic, he would have been forced to see me for the man I truly am! 

The inks... how I could have made them dance..!

There is nothing to it but to try another approach. I called the young miss to help me bring in the papers from the drying racks. A hand about her waist, the trail of my finger along-'

The Warlock set down the journal. The tears he wept for his beloved grew cold. A tender face in the darkness of the carriage; resigned to his fate and yet moved by the clumsy young soldier's advances. Had it all been for show..? 

He skimmed the crude exploits of the Printmaker's assistant, determined to learn what kind of man he had given his heart to.

'Farbecke sent his daughter away. The old man thought it for the best, not expecting an accident would occur on the winding mountain paths. The cart was found at the bottom of a small ravine two days from here. No one survived the fall.

I should feel sorrow, I suppose. But had Farbecke given me her hand, fate may have favored them both. Now the old man leans on me for comfort; I have become all that is left to him. The pitiful creature he brought into his home has risen in rank. Farbecke talks of making me his heir. Already I see him age before my eyes. 

When the monotonous day meets its end, I sit by the lake and read. My mind often wanders... I think about the changes I'll make when the Printworks is mine, and I think about the one I left behind. Should he find me, will he commend me for all I have achieved..? Or will he resent that I came this far without him?'

The Warlock closed the book and tucked it inside his coat. He needed space to breathe, and yet the gardens of The Velvet Palace would not suffice. Freedom... air; only the wilds beyond Relmund came to mind. Since shifting the velvet water to the lengths of Grunterbad, he had not the strength to tear another seam at such a distance.

With every intention of marching to the stables and saddling his horse, the great and powerful Warlock was stopped three feet from his door.

"Forgive me Master," a dark-haired servant curtsied before him, "But with the Counsel gone there was none other but myself who was willing to entreat you."

As with every member of the palace staff, the Warlock had no recollection of her face. Whether scullery maid or Chamber Head, he would not have known the difference.

"The Counsel is gone?" he asked.

The servant nodded. 

Gone.

The Warlock expected they'd be together at the end as they were at the beginning. But life it seemed, would continue and end in solitude.

"What is required of me that no other person in the palace could be called upon in my stead?"

"Your wedding, Master," said the servant. 

"My wedding?"

Preparations for the Warlock's nuptials were consistently underway. It was only a matter of time until the witch was found and the Madning Isle would rejoice in their union; but the date of the ceremony remained elusive. Without a point in which to mark their calendars, the Warlock's subjects had no choice but to be always at the ready.

A room in the palace housed the witch's trousseau, bridal flowers were grown in the wintergarden, musicians practised daily, and the kitchens were alight with the fires of the wedding banquet.

When the paper lanterns fell and the food began to spoil; all was thrown out and the work began anew. Relmund was waiting; trapped in stasis, and primed to welcome a guest that refused to come and greet them. The worst of it was the offering day. No others were deemed so worthy as to claim what must belong only to the witch, and as such, the remnants of the wedding were offered to the water.

Carried to the sea on the currents of the river Vel, villagers would crowd the banks and watch as the fish and birds feasted; their own empty stomachs growling the frustration that they dared not speak aloud. They knew the power of the Warlock, and how dangerous an insult to his love for the witch might be.

Magic had returned, the exorbitant taxes of the Protectorate, abolished. The Warlock's belated wedding day was the final obstacle to the people's happiness. As their leader's love endured, so too did their patience. Soon. It had to be soon.

"The Divine's wedding band has disappeared from its strongbox. And despite our efforts to find it, it has not been recovered."

Impossible. No one would steal from the witch; not those intending to live long enough to enjoy their spoils.

"It's no doubt out to be cleaned," reasoned the Warlock, "Think no more of it."

"But master!" The servant blocked his path. "Forgive me," she cried, "But there were strangers in the palace and we can but fear the worst! A princeward from abroad was discovered lurking the halls... and his companion appears to have been a path forger."

"You suspect a theft in the Velvet Palace..?" asked the Warlock, "There is no magic here beyond my own. Anyone found lurking would not have left here freely."

"He has gone safely with the Counsel, Master. Before we knew of the missing ring."

The Warlock was conflicted. The petty theft meant little in light of the world's end; the witch no longer lived to wear it, and all the undeserving souls would soon be spent. And yet, that someone would be so bold as to take it, and to make the Counsel complicit in their escape; they were crimes that could not be so readily ignored.

Ripping the thief apart may even serve to lessen his displeasure in learning of the witch's life without him.

"Where?"

Their master dispatched with purpose, the servant returned to the waiting room; her blank smile affixed now that Lyre was done controlling her.

"You thought a missing book would cause a large enough distraction?" she asked Hen, "He'd merely tear the palace apart until he found it. This way, he has a target; and a reason to leave the city."

"But... Fiepet Strahl is his target."

"And when he finds him and discovers there's no ring I'm sure he will be merciful. He is with the Counsel after all. What matters now is action," said Lyre, "We need to find the other brother first."

Hen's brow furrowed with questions. Gently clasping her fingers about the pretty Mistress's hand, Lyre intended to answer as many as she could.

"My doll will stay to answer to your absence. It is better we put some distance between ourselves and the palace without alerting anyone that you have left. You have fallen ill and are confined to your bed. My contact in the city will act as our protection; but there is nothing you might fear that I cannot handle myself. Mistress Hen, your bravery astounds me... it is in thanks to you that we shall save the world from its destruction."

"But in Master Brecke's letter, he said I should-"

"The situation has changed, Mistress Hen. There was nothing we could have done yesterday, but today is another matter. You need trust no one's word but my own... I speak on behalf of the Innate. It is true that the order is averse to the use of magic; but there are those that understand its necessity when our very lives are on the line. Fear not what others have said."

Her reassuring smile, the comforting warmth of her hand; Hen was no longer facing the impossible alone. She nodded, exerting the force of her fingers in return as Lyre forged a path through the marble walls of the Velvet Palace.

"I didn't know such magic could be done here," Hen confessed, "There are charms and protections that prevent even the smallest of spells..."

"Oh but my spells are not small," Lyre proudly declared, "And I've yet to find a place I cannot use them."

Barring in range of the Counsel's power of voice...

"Have I impressed you yet, Mistress Hen? There's much more besides I plan to dazzle you with." 

They had reached beyond the confines of the palace walls before Hen let go of Lyre's hand.

"Whatever work lies ahead of us," she said, "We must keep our wits and retain our focus. Rather than use your magic to impress, it is better that we find a way to catch up with the others."

Lyre could barely contain the curl of her fingers as she marveled at Hen's adorably resolute face. The youngest Strahl was pretty, but Mistress Hen was endearing. Resisting the urge to pinch her cheeks, she satisfied herself that she would spirit her out of the capital.

"Your chariot, Mistress Hen."

A four-wheeled open carriage was positioned across the street, and driven by a large-framed man with a cloak pulled tight to his bearded chin. The two imposing chesnuts in front wore their blinkers, behind which came a flash of yellow light.

"Ramun!" Lyre cried to the driver, "Flight foot to Pie's, but mind the bumps in the road; we've a lady traveling with us."

Hen hitched her skirts and climbed nimbly into the carriage.

"Before I am a lady, I am a soul that means to survive. Hurry, Mistress Lyre, there is not a second to waste."

Ramun's deep and throaty laugh shook the carriage.

"What's wrong with my being addressed as 'Mistress'?" Lyre asked him, clambering up to join them, "It lends an air of respectability, wouldn't you say?"

"That's what made it so amusing," Ramun replied.

No whip was cracked, only an incantation on the man's breath. The horses set off down the street at breakneck speed, the barely seated Lyre losing her balance and forced to land on Hen.

"Ramun!" she shouted.

"Thank me later," he cried, "I still need to navigate!"

Lyre took her time disentangling herself from the pretty maid, reveling in the scent of clean linens that played upon her skin. There was room enough for the two of them, and yet Hen could not escape the touch of her travel companion's leg against her own.

"The journey will be cramped if you do not move over," she told Lyre.

"Better cramped than cold," she retorted, "We're moving quickly now but Ramun will only get faster when we hit the open road. The wind chill matters little to him, he's like a furnace."

"I am rarely cold," said Hen.

"Oh but I am!" protested Lyre, snuggling closer to Hen's warmth, "If my magic is to help us save the world, surely you wouldn't have me freeze before I had the chance to use it..?"

Accepting the limpet adhered to her side, Hen stared out at the passing houses. The citizens of Relmund were selling wares, trading tricks, and going about their business in blissful ignorance. She had to trust that they could help them. That the power of the Innate could rival the Warlock.

At the Black Charnel in the south of the city, a servant returned to his master.

"Give me her response," Master Brecke demanded.

The servant dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

"Forgive me, Master, there is none. The letter dispatched has been delivered, but Mistress Hen at the palace has taken ill. The Innate is yet to receive further intelligence."

"She is ill? Then what of the journal she secured? I ordered it be sent to me at once!"

The servant shook his head.

"You see these bodies, Must? Lying in wait only to be burnt to ashes? I sometimes imagine them screaming when I toss them on the fire. I wonder to myself, what sounds would they issue should they yet be living..? How long would I hear their cries before they perished..? Would you like me to find out..?"

Must squeezed shut his eyes, the frantic shaking of his head compelled by fear.

"Then bring me the book," ordered Master Brecke, "Before the world must burn."