“No,” he said flatly. “You made that child, and now you get to lie in his shit.”

“Woe!” Varia put a hand to her forehead and feigned fainting before instantly bolting upright. “Very well. I’ll tell Fione you heartlessly declined our request for a day off. She’ll be disappointed, but I’m sure Zeran will be overjoyed to get the chance to vomit on us some more.” She paused. “He hugs now, you know.”

“Marvelous. I’ll make an appointment.”

She’d noticed his flinch at the word “heartless.” Of course she had. But even with all her mellowing after the War of Trees, she still had that edge of pride that never allowed her to take back what she said. Though she did tend to apologize more now.

“Sorry, Luc,” she started. “I didn’t mean—” She stopped herself and smiled on his behalf. “Honestly, though, if you keep sneaking out to the city, I’m going to start to think you hate the palace.”

“Never.” He chuckled softly. “It’s just…the memories.”

Varia blinked her dark eyes. His same eyes. Their mother’s eyes. “Right. I get it. That’s why I go out to the Bone Road, you know.”

“I know,” he agreed.

Every month after the end of the War of Trees, Varia would trek out to the Bone Road. At first it was by foot, a hard task with one leg and a cane. But then they found the surviving horses, and it became easier. And then he learned to spell her leg, and it became even easier after that. He wasn’t sure what she did out there, but she insisted she had to do it alone.

He’d asked Fione, and she’d only shaken her head, saying something about offerings. He never went out to the Bone Road when Varia did, but he did once go a week after her visit, and found the hundreds of graves spread out over the marsh—every single one, the new ones from the War of Trees and the old ones from the Sunless War—newly and neatly cleaned of moss with a brush and salt, and each adorned with a little bouquet of fresh wildflowers.

Penance, he supposed. Or her way of doing it. To watch over the dead—the ones she killed, and the ones who killed in the service of their family all those years ago.

The d’Malvane siblings watched the gardeners go about their business for a moment, the air laden with heavy honey scent, before Varia put a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll come for dinner tonight. Fione’s making some sort of heartfelt stew abomination, and I’m terrible at suffering alone.”

“She’s gotten better,” he argued in her defense.