And there was Imonie. She appeared in the kitchen of the house, and she was younger, but that scowl still marked her face. She cursed and set down a steaming pan of galettes, following the sound of distress to the back door.

“Boys? Boys, inside, now!”

Two auburn-haired boys spilled into the house. They were identical save for the objects they held. One wielded a wooden sword. The other one, the boy who was loudly wailing, held up a book with ripped pages.

“He tore the pages out of it, Mam!”

Imonie’s nostrils flared as she looked at the twin with the sword. Her wild one. Emrys.

“Is this true?” she asked him.

“Yes,” Emrys replied, solemn.

“Apologize to your brother, then.”

Emrys huffed, but he looked at Ambrose and said, “I’m sorry for tearing pages from your book.”

The apology did nothing to ease the sting in Ambrose’s heart. He retreated to the divan by the hearth and lay facedown on it, weeping into the cushion until he fell asleep.

“You must be gentler, son,” Imonie said to Emrys. “What do I tell you every night before bed?”

“To think before I act,” Emrys grumbled.

“Give me the sword, then. You will not get to play with it for a week, as punishment,” Imonie said, and held out her hand.

Emrys surrendered his wooden sword to her with a sigh.

The scene melted away, instantly replaced with another. The twins were older. They were young men, now—the age my father and Emrys were frozen at—and I struggled to identify who was who as they walked a corridor of the fortress.

“The time is now,” one of them whispered. The shadows danced across his face but his eyes were luminous, as if he burned from within.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Raven deems the new moon will be appropriate.”

“But what does Lora think? What of your wife?”

“She supports me. She supports this plan.”

Silence fell between the brothers. With a pang, I realized that I couldn’t identify whose dream this was. If it belonged to my father or to Emrys.

“I will not move forward with these plans, not without you, brother.”

A long sigh. “Fine. I will join you, then. I seem destined to keep you out of trouble.”

The dream shifted again, pulling us along its currents.

We were in the Duke of Seren’s bedchamber. Isidore stood near the foot of his bed, reading a letter by firelight. The night was dark, bitterly cold. Emrys was present, dressed in the blue robes of an advisor. He withdrew a dagger silently, but its blade flashed a warning.

My uncle sliced Isidore’s neck.