Lady Charlotte Christianson was sprawled out on the floor of her loft. Clara, the maid, was anxiously trying to understand what had happened.

“Lady Christianson?” she called out again, the knot in her stomach tightening.

Clara knew it was futile – Charlotte had not stirred in the twenty minutes Clara had been trying to wake her – but she did not know what else to do so she kept trying.

After another ten minutes, which seemed like forever, Clara realized that she needed to tell someone. She looked down at the yellow jar in her hands and, with a twinge of guilt, hid it before she left.

Twelve-year-old Charlotte Christianson looked sullen as her parents kissed her goodbye before rushing out. They did not seem to notice her sour disposition. That was not surprising since Edwin and Gwyneth were going to spend the evening at a soup kitchen. Charity always came first. Charlotte clenched her jaw, trying to remember the last time her parents had dinner with her. Aurora waited until they left to speak.

“I wonder why they bothered…” The Grand Duchess mused aloud.

“Why they bothered?” Charlotte asked, turning to face her grandmother.

Aurora sighed impatiently. “…to have a child. Clearly, you are unwanted.”

The two stared at each other for a long time before Charlotte finally got up the nerve to respond.

“Someone wants me.” she said defiantly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“It is so cute you believe that.” The Grand Duchess replied, patronizingly.
Charlotte glared up at her.

“If he is so fond of you…then why is he leaving?” Aurora asked.

Aurora was pleased as she watched her granddaughter run off to find Michael.

Fourteen-year-old Michael shielded his eyes from the sun as he held his breath, watching Charlotte. He loved her so much. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to her.

Twelve-year-old Charlotte Christianson grinned as she nimbly made her way up the tree. A few months ago, Michael had helped her climb one for the first time. Her parents had been too busy to ever teach Charlotte how to climb trees. Her parents were usually too busy to do anything with Charlotte. This made Michael even more protective of her.

After Charlotte settled on a branch, she carefully began to pick the fruit with her gloved hands and drop them down to Michael, who placed them in a bushel. Later, he would take them to the farmer’s market and sell them. For the last two years, Michael had been making money here and there by doing odd jobs. Though he never made much gold at a time, with Charlotte’s help, he had managed to save up enough to buy a modest plot of land. He hoped to surprise her with a home of their own in the near future.

Charlotte absentmindedly began singing, which made Michael smile. Her spirits were lifted by the melodies that lived inside her when she brought them forth, but the desire to do so was fleeting and rare.

Since Charlotte was no longer paying attention to him, Michael allowed his gaze to drift down to her gloved hands. Waves of anger, sadness, and helplessness washed over him. Michael silently vowed that, once he got her away from this place, he would keep her safe for the rest of their lives.

(A big “Thank you!” to EM Drosselmeyer for his help with this piece.)

Lady Charlotte Christianson shivered underneath her covers. Her long dark hair was now plastered to her forehead and cheeks, which were damp with sweat. Her fever had spiked.

She looked bleary-eyed at the figure that shimmered next to her bed.

“Fern.” she murmured.

No.

“Michael?” she croaked, with a twinge of hope.

The figure drew near.

Pitiful, pathetic little girl.
Lonely and bitter at the age of twenty.

Charlotte reached her hand out toward the figure.

Unwed and unwanted.

“Grandmother?” she asked, recoiling.

How are those hands?

Terrified, Charlotte backed away from the figure until she tumbled off the bed, striking her head against the wall.

Aldritch, seed of Jenkins, was insane. He hoped to force a war between us. It is the House of Jenkins – not the Citizens of Britannia – that must bear the shame of her son. This matter will be investigated. And justice will be ours.

You will answer for this massacre. Don’t make us wait too long.

Sol Invictus. The Unconquered Sun. To the ancient Pagans, Winter Solstice marked the night when their Horned God rose again. When the Sun, the divine masculine, was born anew and reunited with his eternal companion, the Great Goddess. It is for them, a time of celebration and mirth. Revelry, not so different from our own.

The Gypsies, lowlanders wandering the paths and ancient breezeways of fallen Ilshenar, celebrate this holiday each year in the shadow of the Compassion shrine. It was there we gathered.

Cezanne Abella, who arranged the celebration, began the evening by consecrating the ground beneath them. Around the bonfire, she lit four candles, calling on the Powers of the four cardinal directions to protect those ensnared within. And then, with a prayer, she called upon the spirit of her God and Goddess.

She, and others, then socialized, danced and exchanged stories around the fire. Cezanne chanted “Nocturne Sol Invictus,” while Paytience, Fortunada, and an unnamed stranger offered tales of their own.

When a pause came, the Gypsy Rom Baro, Agostino, awed the ladies present with a fire dance and a song of his own.