In the end, we were on that ship for three days. It took three doctors, a healer, and two members of the Wizard Council each checking us and declaring us all free from any sort of contagion before the harbormaster finally let us dock and go ashore.

Derry and Cianna were escorted home by both Bergin and A'lei'iana. Cianna even got to ride on Sarin, A'lei'iana's griffin. She was thrilled. Eddin and I walked with them, of course, but he made sure to hold back; Cianna still couldn't even look at him.

If I thought the people of the slums hated Eddin for riding Tarva around, I can't even imagine what they thought about not only Tarva crowding the street, but also the horse they'd let me ride from House Buccareth to the port, Bergin's horse, the griffin, and, worst of all, the grumbling, enormous black and silver bear, Ducard.

Once Derry and Cianna were safely returned home, the Buccareths and Bergin saw me to my doorway.

After being away for so long, it was nice to finally be home. The relief didn't last, though. It was only a few hours until I started to feel cramped and shut in. My house has never felt so small.

I'm sure, after repeatedly assuring Licia that everything was all right, Derry went right to work. It was the eleventh of Maka when we came off the boat—only four days until the Glory Day Festival. Derry always bakes extra for all the festival-goers who'll stop by for crimson tarts. And I'm sure he'll still bring his family to see the festivities—the military parade and drills, memorials for the fallen, acrobats, plays, musicians—despite just having to rescue his daughter from a murderer. After all, Cianna should be safe now. The wizard's dead. Isn't he?

My plans for Glory Day will be almost the same as always, too—unless I'm working. (It's been seventeen days, so unless I'm being terminated, Captain Murrick has to summon me back soon.) I won't go see Derry and the others at the bakery this year. Not with Nanda's threat still hanging over my head. I will still make the journey out of the city, to my parents' graves.

Though it was still morning, the sun was already hot and glaring overhead as Vania stared at the churned dirt, the disturbed soil a stark, dark indent in the ground surrounded by paler dirt and bleached grass. The open field stretched all around her and off on the horizon the forest bristled darkly, but she ignored all of that and just stared at the ground.

They should be here, she thought numbly, sweat trickling in itchy trails down her back, between her tightly-furled wings. Even after all these years, I know I have the right place... She glanced around the graveyard. A few fresh mounds of dirt at the edge of the field spoke of new unknown souls cast down into the depths of the earth, unsung and unmourned. Straggly grass grew, baking to a dry tan in the sun, edges rasping together in the wind, the grass constantly shushing all sounds in the graveyard of the lost.

Her eyes dropped to the dirt before her again and she fell to her knees, long fingers digging and combing through the dark clods. Finally, her hands found something thin and hard, and she pulled it free. The weathered stick looked dull and grey in the blazing sunlight. She ran her fingers over it, fingertips easily finding the indents and symbols carved into the surface. She slammed the stick back into the ground, forcing it to stand in the disturbed soil.

I don't know who disturbed you, Mom and Dad, or why. But, if I can, I aim to find out. Vania knelt a moment longer before finally pushing herself to her feet. "Wouldn't've been graverobbers," she muttered as she walked, "not in this field. No one who's buried here ever has anything. Been too long for it to have been scavenging animals—there wouldn't be anything left for them to gnaw on besides bones by now. A necromancer maybe? Or a warlock?" She sighed. "I need to talk to the undertaker."

She left the unknown and forgotten behind, striding quickly from the open field.