"Padréc," said Leán, "bring me an axe. And a shovel."

Padréc did not hesitate, not even long enough to ask questions. He turned and ran, and after several paces, he leapt into the air, his arms already spread. In seconds, he was a hawk, beating his wings as he lifted into the air, his clothes falling to the grass.

Meanwhile, Lady Moigré in the guise of the bride had knelt before Samoch. The boy's head hung low; he was struggling against tears.

"You did what's right," Moigré murmured. "Not what was easy. You became a man today, my darling."

Diarmán watched as his mother folded his youngest brother into her arms.

"Do not speak to me of hard decisions between what is right and what is easy!"

Gaerte joined Moigré in comforting Samoch, and Ruaraín was only a step behind him. With a sigh, Diarmán turned to the others. Aerte had torn off her crown of flowers; it lay now on the grass behind her. Leán and Declaen were making a circuit of the tree, frowning at it.

"Do you think it's necessary to bring the whole thing down?" Diarmán asked, striding toward them.

"I know I have no interest in taking chances." Leán lowered his head, hooking his tunic behind his neck and peeling it off. He dropped it into the grass and stretched his arms, making far too much of a show of his broad shoulders and muscled chest.

"Chances at what, straining the seams of your shirt?" Diarmán scoffed, glancing at Aerte. "Avert your eyes, fair maiden."

But Aerte had not averted her eyes. She was, in fact, staring, and there was something soft in her expression.

"Aerte."

She blinked and looked at him, the dream in her features giving way to a scowl. "What."

Just what House Eldran needed: another pair of lovers. Perhaps this one would find happiness. The unlucky streak had to stop at some point.

"Nothing," Diarmán replied "Leán, do you need our help?"

"Had you wanted to help, you might have asked Padréc to bring another axe."

"I shall take that as a no. I'm going to take Mother and Little...Samoch back to the castle. I think a cup of mead will do him well. And don't worry—I will not touch a drop. The very thought turns my stomach."

Aerte remained behind with Leán and Declaen as Diarmán piled his family onto the two horses. He and Ruaraín took one, and Moigré took the other with Little Samoch before her on the saddle. He looked a bit too old for such an arrangement, no longer a child in his mother's arms but a young man awkwardly stuck before her.

On the way back to the castle, the quiet band of riders passed Padréc, thundering toward the forest on another horse without a stitch of clothing on. He had a shovel and an axe tucked under one arm.

Had he been wholly himself, Diarmán would have flung a clever barb or two after his naked brother—but he did not feel himself at all. Perhaps he was too tired, or perhaps this whole experience had wrung dry his sense of humor.

Back at the castle, Diarmán settled his mother and brothers in the front parlor. It was not their usual gathering place, but the thought of the dining room, tables laden with a wedding feast, turned Diarmán's stomach.

"Start a fire, would you, Ru?" he asked. "I'm just going to go get us something to drink."

"Tea," said Gaerte. "If you don't mind."

Diarmán nodded, heading off to the kitchens on his errand. Not long after, he and Brente returned with a tray of tea, a jug of mead, and cups, along with some of the biscuits that had been made for the wedding. After they had set everything down, Diarmán took Brente aside.

"Help yourselves to the feast, please. We've some family matters to attend to, and I do not think we will be very hungry. I'm sorry to have put you to all the trouble."

Brente searched his face. "Shall I set some aside for Lady Moigré?"

"Actually, if you could ask her to join us, I would be grateful."

She nodded, offered a curtsy, and left. Diarmán returned to his family, where his mother was pressing a cup of mead into Samoch's hands. He chose a seat at the end of the couch, resting his head on his hand, and watched them.

Moigré was tending to Samoch, showing more concern for him than she usually showed any of her children. Ruaraín and Gaerte sat near one another, trading quiet words. Both of them were solemn; the scene recalled another from not so very long ago, when the Eldran brothers had gathered to absorb the news of their grandfather's death.

The men looked toward the door. Diarmán turned, following their gazes, and saw Lady Naefe there in his mother's form. She looked anxious. He rose. "Lady Naefe, come in."

The sound of her name alarmed her. She shrank back, grasping the door frame. Diarmán approached her, spreading his hands. "It's okay. He's gone."

She looked uncertain. "Truly?"

"Truly. Come in and sit with us." Diarmán extended a hand to her. She hesitated, but she took it, and he led her to the seat he had vacated. There, she sat, twisting her hands in her lap.

"Are you ready for this to be undone?" Moigré asked, smiling over Samoch's head at Lady Naefe.

"You say he's truly gone? It's safe?"

She nodded, smoothing the boy's hair back from his brow. "It was a great effort, but it's safe. Our Samoch closed the door again."

Lady Naefe looked down at Samoch. His eyes were shadowed and red with tears. She slid closer to him along the couch, reaching out to fold both of her hands around his. "I am sorry, my lord," she murmured. "I cannot know what is in your heart today, but I know that it is heavy."

Samoch looked up at her, silent and solemn. Then he dropped his eyes, curling his fingers around hers. "It is not so heavy," he said. "He has done some wicked things—and now he can do no more."

Moigré kissed his head. She looked at Naefe, and then, together, they turned their gazes to Diarmán.

"Are you ready, my ladies?" he asked. He leaned down, slipping his fingers into his boot and fishing for his flute.

Naefe nodded. Moigré said, "We are ready."

Diarmán put his flute to his lips and drew a breath. He closed his eyes, holding the moment in his mind, in his heart: this place, these people, this peace.

This sorrow.

When the melody flowed from his instrument, from his spirit, he allowed it to carry him away. He imagined his mother's new, gentle smile, and he imagined Lady Naefe with light dawning in her eyes. He saw Little Samoch in Naefe's arms, holding his mother's hand.

And then he saw the boy in Moigré's arms instead, holding the lady's hand.

When Diarmán opened his eyes again, his vision was brought to life: Samoch was still leaning against his mother's shoulder, drowsy, and on the couch between him and Lady Naefe lay their linked hands.

"My lord?"

Four red-headed men turned to look at Lady Naefe, including Samoch. She smiled, and it was the first smile Diarmán recalled seeing on her face. "I mean, my lord Diarmán?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"When...when do you think it would be possible to..."

"Aha!" Diarmán snapped his fingers. "I knew I had forgotten something."

"You forgot a flock of noble pheasants?" Ruaraín asked with a mild, teasing grin.

"Well, so did you. So did all of you, in fact. None of you was dashing up the aviary stairs, were you? Were they, Mother?"

Moigré shook her head, rolling her eyes heavenward. "Boys. Please."

"We will return our feathered friends to their proper forms posthaste, my dear Lady Naefe," said Diarmán. "Would you permit me to wait until my brother Padréc returns? I should like his assistance with bird-wrangling."

Naefe's cheeks were flushed, her eyes glimmering. "Then you'll do it tonight?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"This very night."