"Aunty!"

At that shout, her polite smiled broadened. "Oh my, has little Otto finished his lessons?" she asked sweetly.

Her words left him flustered, no longer the young boy he had been. Yet, only thirteen, he still appeared a boy to others, regardless of his own feelings. He walked over and joined the guest and his mother, pointedly ignoring his sisters who giggled at this time.

A family of five, this private room naturally had ample space for all of them with two couches and three armchairs. The guest, then, sat at the piano, her fingers at rest atop the keys.

Belatedly, he answered her in a mumbling voice. "I have, Aunty."

"One of such station should speak clearly," his mother said, soft tone still with a stern core.

Not only did he repeat his answer loudly, he held himself better.

Meanwhile, the guest returned to the music, her fingertips idly playing a tune without a name, a melody without a past. An unpolished skill that had been too ingrained to be lost.

As if singing along, her voice had a lightness as she said, "We were speaking of how Charlotte shall accompany me next year while she attends the academy. For Otto, I have trusted vassals with boys of their own who shall be attending. Of course, that is merely an offer, confident Albert has arrangements."

The mother tittered, hand half-covering her mouth. "Daddy dearest certainly has. One of Otto's friends shall also be attending," she said, rolling her hand as she spoke. "We intend to move a little closer too. While impractical for the week, it would be convenient enough for Charlotte and Otto to return at the weekend."

Music continued to play, gentle, calm, every note neither hurried nor lazy, sometimes brief and sometimes lingering. "Poor little Julia. Perhaps I should take her too," the guest said, and the music became mischievous as she spoke, quicker and sharper notes, then returned to how she played before.

"Poor Julia? Then what of I who would have no children to spoil," the mother said, bringing the back of her hand to her forehead, voice full of woe. "Am I to spoil my husband? Bah, he is spoilt enough, how the children adore him and scorn me."

Her little drama attracted her children's giggles and chuckles, even her son's flat mouth curving.

"Tell us, children, do you scorn your mother?" the guest asked, the music momentarily becoming like a beating drum, deep and steady.

Given permission to speak, the dam broke and the littler daughter practically jumped to hug her aggrieved mother. The older daughter, with her hands neatly folded on her lap and a gentle smile, simply said, "How can we not cherish the little time we have with father? He has such important work, we dare not interrupt."

"So is this poor mother's work unimportant? Woe is me, woe is me," the mother said, her sigh afterwards so very long.

With some embarrassment to her smile, the older daughter turned to the guest. "Truly, she is not like this except when Aunty visits," she said, followed by a sigh of her own, albeit a shorter one.

"They even prefer Aunty to me," the mother said, hand on her heart.

"We shall have to see if they feel the same way after their education."

As lightly as that sentence was said, it brought a weight down upon the two in question, both keenly aware of how seriously the guest took this matter. After all, the family had now seen the library in construction.

At the same time, another weight befell the room, a creak as the door opened. There stood the father.

With a flourish, the music came to an end. "Lord Bavaria, my thanks for accommodating this rather sudden meeting," she said, rising to her feet. "Although I cannot yet give the precise details of the peace, from my husband's letter, it should prove interesting. I hope we may come to an understanding on certain points."

"Please, let us not burden the children with these matters."

"The thing about burdens is we rarely choose which ones we would carry," she said, her long strides carrying her across the room. "That aside, it is important for them to glimpse our burdens that they do not to rush to grow up. These years of innocence are… most precious, after all."

Her words carried a humour at the end, hollow in their irony. Words those present knew she understood very well.

After a sigh, he said, "Do understand, I still wish to protect them a little longer."

"I am sure my father felt the same way to his last breath." A whisper, one which reached his ears and no one else's. Before him now, she punctuated those words with an empty smile, then gestured for him to lead the way.

So he did.

In the doorway, though, she lingered as she turned around. "It is likely this meeting should run long and I would hate not to be home when my husband returns, so pray accept my goodbye now," she said, her gaze meeting each child in turn before settling on the mother.

Their scattered words of parting brought warmth to her smile, then the door closed behind her. So her following resumed.

She kept pace with him as he climbed the staircase; however, she lagged on the landing. Her gaze swept across the silent hall. Rather than his usual office, he walked towards the other end of the manor where a further staircase spiralled upwards.

Again, she kept pace with him, maintaining that gap that had grown on the landing. Up the stairs she followed, their footsteps loud on the narrow steps.

At the top, he opened the heavy door; the hinges gave a purposeful groan that echoed down to her. With those last steps, he entered the room and gestured for her to join him. Her footsteps fell heavily on the wooden floor, each movement filling the silence.

The door shut with another groan behind her.

Her first time here, she observed as much as she could with a glance. A study, the table small with a comfortable chair behind it, and a few stools elsewhere—small stools, as if for an older child. Bookcases sagged under heavy books, some decoration on the walls in the form of a tapestry with a coat of arms and then a painting of the manor itself, old enough that it lacked this recent addition of a tower-like room. The two windows at either side faced, by her estimation, east and west, a room comfortable even in the early morning and late evening; one window looked out over landscape while the other looked back at the manor's roof. On the floor, a thin rug covered the space between the desk and the door, but little else.

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Room silent once more, her footsteps echoed as she walked to the one window. Her gaze fell upon the rolling farmland that bordered the city, then fell further to the manor's walls, lingering there.

"Pray tell, what are your intentions?" she said.

There was no fear in her voice, no tremor in her hands. She stood as tall as she always did and the face reflected in the window held no expression but for a polite smile.

Meanwhile, his head hung down, an unusual reluctance in his steps as she shuffled to his desk. "Princess Julia, I—"

"Do not treat me as a fool. State your intentions clearly," she said.

He took in a deep breath and even that little was enough to break the room's silence. "The Prince has asked me to take you into custody," he whispered loudly.

In a step, she turned to face him. Voice still calm, she said, "And you agreed."

At his nod, she nodded too in her place by the window. After a second, she walked away, her strides bringing her to the other window.

"So this is how I am repaid for everything I have done for you and your family."

Her words lingered in the air until he brushed them away, his hand then coming to his chin. "He has promised—"

"He will kill me. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but eventually, after suffering in whatever hole he thinks suitable." With a gesture, she then asked, "Did he even offer you any reward or are you willingly giving yourself to tyranny?"

"What tyranny is there in upholding justice?"

She laughed, short and sharp. A laugh he had never heard before. "He has us fight while he seizes more power—if not tyranny, what is this? Justice, delude yourself all you wish, I know that man's heart and he knows not the meaning of the word. Both justice and you are mere weapons for him to turn upon others while his hands stay clean."

His slow footsteps carried him to the window she had looked out, low gaze on the distant fields. "Say what you wish, I would accept every criticism without complaint, yet know my mind is made up."

"Look at me, coward."

His hands half-clenched before relaxing and, in small steps, he turned on the spot, then raised his head until he met her gaze.

Even now, she looked no different, unafraid, calm, except there was a heat in her eyes that burned him where he stood. "Kill me now with your own hands or it will be your end, as true as God may help me," she whispered.

There was no hesitation in her voice.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, then shook his head. "There are things I won't do," he said, at last a hint of strength to his voice.

Her lips curled, eyes narrowed. After her gaze flickered to the side ever so slightly, she asked, "What will Dottie think of you?"

Those words wounded him more than any insult or slur and, unable to face her, he turned around, his hands on the windowsill and head hanging low.

She did not hesitate.

In silent steps, breath held, she strode forward, one hand reaching into the other arm's sleeve. A step away, she pulled out a dagger.

She did not hesitate.

With a lunge, she thrust it into his lower back and wrenched it around with all her strength. A breathless gasp left him. He reacted after half a beat, flung his arm around and sent her stumbling into a bookshelf. The dagger clattered to the floor.

For a moment, he tried to reach back; in a half-daze, she grabbed a book and threw it at him, aiming high. The heavy thud on his back staggered him, but he recovered his position and turned, catching the next book on his forearms.

She threw another and he blocked it again, took a step towards her. With a book in each hand, she stepped away and threw them, one after the other.

He protected himself, yet couldn't suppress the winces of pain, natural to flinch away with something coming at his face. And every second, every movement, blood trickled down his back, mouth clenched.

A small room, he closed the distance quickly. She picked up a stool and swung it wildly. He leant back, then grabbed it. She staggered, her balance upset, only to shove the stool at him in the next moment. With a step back, he stayed on his feet and yanked the stool from her.

But she already had the next stool in her hands and threw it at him. He raised his stool to block hers, the weight still sending a shock through his arms.

In the next moment, she flung the last stool at his legs. He could only watch. The wood hit his shins hard, a pained gasp forced from his mouth—and as he cramped from the pain, naturally leaning forwards, it stretched the wound on his back, forcing another silent gasp from him.

Crack, pah—muffled sounds.

With a second to spare, she darted to his desk. A paperweight, a candle holder, then the few books were thrown at him while she circled behind it. The first hit him hard on his jaw before he brought his arms up, stool clattering to the floor.

Floor littered with debris, he couldn't move easily—and his movements grew sluggish, dragging blood across the rug.

Her breaths heavy, she stepped away from the desk, back to the wall. He hesitated, every time he moved one way clear she would simply go the other. So he simply began to push the desk towards her—

A gasp slipped out, pain slicing through his back, face twisted.

She did not hesitate.

In a stride, she stepped to the desk and lifted the front. His weight still on it, it naturally tumbled, bringing him with it. Without the mind to brace himself, he landed awkwardly and his wound forced out breath he already lacked.

She rushed back to the bookcase on the other side of the room. Panting hard, she did not hold them up, instead threw them with a swung of her arm. On his feet, he fended off the erratic throws, some not even hitting him, yet his steps were sluggish, stained in blood.

Halfway across the room, his leg gave and he fell to the floor.

She hesitated, book in hand, watching. However, he did not try to rise. With the last of his strength, he rolled onto his side, gaze unfocused.

After a few breaths, she shuffled around the edge of the room while watching him. Once at the window that looked over the manor's roof, she used the edge of the book to break the glass and then carefully pushed most of it inside.

Finally, she turned her full focus back to him, and she asked, "Do you still believe… the Prince will keep your family safe?"

He tried to breathe in deep, only to wince. A whisper more than a word, he said, "No."

"Then you know what to do," she said, striding to the door. With a couple of heaves, she pulled it open and then screamed, "Help!"

By the time that help arrived, she was drenched in his blood, her small hands pressing his torn sleeve against the wound. A smear on her face, complexion deathly pale.

Those first servants to arrive could only yell for everyone but the children. Amidst the chaos, though, his final word was heard, heard well.

"Assassin."

The guest, clearly in shock, could only be taken to change, her heavy bruises proof that she had not been spared from the ordeal. However, once the dust had settled, there came those seeking answers.

"Julia, what happened?" The mother spoke in a broken voice, hoarse and thin, yet spoke she did.

For a long moment, it was as if those words weren't heard. The guest remained deathly still in her seat, gaze on the empty fireplace, no rise nor fall of her chest. Eventually, she, too, spoke, her voice calm even as her lips quivered.

"We heard the gunshot, and took a look. Then the other window smashed. He, he wanted to kill me. It was… Albert fought him well, but when I tried to leave, he went for me. Albert stopped him… then there was blood. And I knew I had to help, so I threw books at him, but he was so strong, and Albert was hurt…."

Her head fell, hands came up.

"I am so sorry. This is all my fault," she said, voice pained.

The mother let out a sigh. "How could such a matter be your fault?" she said, a gentleness to her still-broken voice.

Rather than settle the guest, those words had her curl up on her chair, knees to her chest, as if once more a child. "It is all my fault. He—Albert wished to warn me someone had plotted against me. But I see now, that person didn't know Albert wouldn't agree. I, I cursed him so much for hating me, yet he…."

A sudden gasp left her lips and her head jerked up, gaze meeting the mother's.

"He, he is…."

After a long second, the mother's mouth quivered and she lowered her head, giving a gentle shake. "He is with the Lord now."

The guest let out another gasp, then turned away, burying her face into the chair. Although muffled, the words, "It should have been me," still broke the silence.

The mother said nothing to that, her head still lowered. Eventually, though, a sudden stillness came over her, then she slowly raised her head. "Did… did he say who conspires against you?"

At that, the guest slowly turned, came to face the mother, and hesitated.

"Please, you have to say! I need to know, my children deserve to know who deprived them of their father!" the mother said, a mania coming to her as she lurched across the room, her hands finding the guest's hands and squeezing tight, painfully tight.

But the guest neither flinched nor looked away, instead an ironic smile staining her lips as her eyes watered. "That is, he would not say," she whispered.

In an instant, the mother lost all strength, falling to her knees on the hard floor, yet that pain didn't show at all.

"Dorothy, you misunderstand me. For him to refuse to say—there are only two people in the Empire I would consider," she whispered.

Nothing more needed to be said.

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