Her fingers squeezed his hands past the point of comfort, but the pain in Pocket’s fingers was nothing compared to that in her eyes. His whole life he had known her face, careworn and tired always, but also strong, full of determination and a stubborn challenge at anything that might attempt to lay her spirits low. But he had never seen her despair, never watched her bend to the sorrow that forever lay scraping under the surface. He would not be the cause of her pain. He owed her that. That and so much more.

So he nodded. “I will go.” He watched her pain worsen and loved her for it.

He felt a brushing at his leg and looked down into Napper’s open face, the natural curiosity reflecting Pocket’s own questions. He scooped the cat up into his arms and hugged him close, breathing deep of the familiar fur. His eyes were growing hot and he had to fight back against the quivers in his chin. He needed to do this quickly or he would never do it at all.

“Would you hold him?” he asked Moragh. “He will follow me if you do not.”

She held out her arms and Pocket passed the cat over. Napper gave out a cry of complaint, but Moragh held him firm. Pocket took a step back and looked into both of their beloved faces, committing them to memory. Moragh knelt in the lantern light, her own face battling against unwelcome emotions. Napper stared wide-eyed and agitated, protesting with his little voice. Why? He seemed to say. Why?

Pocket lurched forward and Moragh caught him up with her free arm, pulling him tightly against her. Pocket’s forehead pressed into her broad cheek, his eyes closed tight and felt her tears fall. He buried his nose in Napper’s head and he kissed him again and again, hating and cherishing the moment. Moragh held the three of them together and Pocket said good-bye to his family. He tore away and fled down the tunnel, heedless of the dark. Napper continued to call after him. Why?

Pocket pushed open the heavy door to find a morning grey and damp, the wind thick with spitting rain. He hesitated in the archway, his heel wedged between the oak door and the stone jamb. Biting his lower lip, he stepped forward and winced as he heard the latch fall with a heartless click. He did not want to look back at the castle for fear of what he might see; a home lost forever or a bastion of wet unwelcoming stones? So he trudged down the narrow path of weeds and broken rocks that wound down the slope and away from the castle without a backward glance. Pocket knew the path led to the base of the mountain where a small copse of scrubby trees dwelt.

His feet slowed.