Diarmán sat on the balcony, his chair drawn right up next to the ledge. He had his chin resting on his folded arms, and he was gazing off across the landscape toward the distant, hazy green of Eldran's Wood.

A little yellow songbird landed on the wall not too far away from him, a certain sign that he'd been still for too long. He squinted at the bird, lifting his head. "Padréc?"

It flew away.

"You don't have to be so rude!" Diarmán called, lowering his head back onto his arms.

"What did I do? I've only just got here."

Glancing over his shoulder, Diarmán saw his youngest brother in the doorway. He had not thought he would ever grow used to calling the boy Samoch, but it had only been a couple of days since the wedding—or what could have been a wedding—and the name was natural already.

Part of him had wondered why Little Emón would wish to keep a name given to him by Han Taín.

Part of him knew.

"What are you up to this fine morning?" he asked, putting his head down yet again.

"I don't know. Walking."

"You would do better to walk outside of the castle than within it."

"Maybe." There was a moment of silence. Then came the sound of chair legs scraping over flagstones, and Samoch sat down next to Diarmán. He folded his arms on the balcony wall and rested his chin on his wrist.

"Mimic-bird."

"Am not."

"You are."

Samoch gave him a sour look. He balled his hands into fists, stacked them one on top of the other, and put his chin on top. "There."

Diarmán smiled at him. "Have you seen what our dear Ruaraín has done with the place?"

Glancing out toward the forest, Samoch nodded his head, a rather bumpy movement with his chin on his fists. "I wonder why he never did it before. He's done so much so fast."

"I've often wondered that myself."

"Maybe it's because it was Father's forest before, and now it's ours."

"Maybe you're right."

Birdsong floated toward them, and the breeze swept over their shoulders, a soft caress.

"I think I shall miss Lady Naefe. She was kind to me."

Diarmán nodded. "The people who are kind...who are good, when things are difficult...those are the people this world needs more of," he murmured. "I hope she will live a life of contentment."

"She's going to get married. She told me so."

"Jealous, Little Brother?"

Samoch snorted. "Disgusting."

Ah, Diarmán would have given much in that moment to be transported back to a time when he'd thought love was disgusting. He'd been younger than Samoch by a year or two, though, when something had flickered into life in his heart and a great yearning had started inside him. A yearning not just for physical connection, but for companionship. He had often wondered if he would go his whole life without finding somebody to satisfy that need in him, that strange loneliness—the sense that he was in a world apart, never wholly known by anyone.

Now he knew it was possible to find that kind of love. There was that, at least, to cling to.

"Do you wish to know something else disgusting?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"I think Leán is going to get married, too."

"What?" Samoch asked with obvious horror.

Diarmán nodded solemnly. "I have it on good authority that he has held hands with a girl not once, but twice."

Samoch grimaced. "I'm never going to get married. Not to a girl, and not to a boy."

"I wish you the very best of luck in that endeavor, so long as it brings you joy." Diarmán leaned slightly to the left, bumping his arm against his brother's. Again, they sat slumped in silence for a while, enjoying the view from their vantage point.

When next Samoch spoke, he sounded every bit a child. "I miss him."

A beat of silence. "I know."

"I wish he didn't hurt people. I wish he didn't have to go."

"I know," Diarmán murmured. "Me, too."

"Do you ever wonder if we'll be like that when we grow up?"

"Like what?"

"Like Father."

Diarmán turned his head to look at Samoch, resting his cheek on his hand. "Charming and handsome? I already am. There's hope for you yet, Little Brother."

Samoch scowled. "Diarmán."

He sighed. "I don't know. I've...I've never thought about it."

"It's just, if he's our father, then he's...part of us. So if he is careless, and if he is cruel, and if he wants to marry somebody who can't say no to him...we could do those things."

"I suppose so. But, by that logic, Mother is also a part of us, along with all the things she is."

The boy turned this over in his mind. He made a soft, thoughtful sound. "Then so is Grandfather."

Raising his eyebrows, Diarmán added, "And so is Grandmother."

Samoch scowled again. "We never even met Grandmother."

"I know—and a tragedy it is—but by all accounts, she was an intelligent, talented, artistic, generous, thoughtful—"

Samoch's scowl gave way to bemusement.

"—compassionate, articulate, athletic—"

Bemusement gave way to a grin. "Diarmán."

"—beautiful, hilarious, intelligent—did I already say intelligent?"

Samoch snorted with laughter, clapping both of his hands over Diarmán's mouth. "Shut up!"

Grinning against his brother's hands, Diarmán pulled back, sitting up straight. "Have you washed those recently?"

"I'm being serious!"

"And so am I, after a fashion. Think. All we know of Grandmother Craidne is what Mother has told us, and she has told us everything good. Certainly our grandmother had at least one fault, but I know none of them. We can never know what greatness or what stains she passed down to us, can we?"

Samoch looked at him seriously, his brow shadowed.

"Maybe some of what we are is blood. I'll not deny that. You have your gift to prove blood carries at least some weight, and I have mine. But I think much and more of what we are has to do with our world. We were raised by an ailing mother and a bitter grandfather, and that has certainly shaped us. How it shapes us...well. I suppose that's for us to determine."

"I know I won't ever call my children names like Grandfather called us. Even if they make me angry. And I'll never shake them. I'll not strike them."

Raising an eyebrow, Diarmán leaned his head on his hand. "You won't?"

"No. I'll talk to them when they've done something wrong. And maybe I'll send them to bed with no supper. But I shan't hit them. Never once."

"That's admirable, Samoch. I think you'll make a good father someday. Just one question."

"What?"

"Will you steal the children? Or will you adopt them, somehow?"

"What?" Samoch looked startled.

"Your children. It's just that you were very clear that girls are disgusting, so I wondered—"

With a groan of frustration, Samoch swatted Diarmán on the arm. He yelped, teetering back on his chair, though he managed to save himself before spilling onto the floor. "Help! Help me!"

"Why are you such a pain in my side?"

"He's saving his children from swats and smacks by giving them all to me!" Diarmán sprang to his feet and fled into the house, his youngest brother quick on his heels.

He had lost much...

...but he had seen, now, that he had gained more.