Two years ago, in the aftermath of a violent conflict between the Trueblood group called the Bloods and the demonic lawyers at the firm of DCH, culminating in the destruction of the SPI offices, Alain DeMuer bought a house in WestEnd. It was one of about a dozen property acquisitions to his name that eventful summer, but this one was different. No spies or knights or noblemen moved in, only children in sore need of a good home.

The responsibilities for the project were laid in Lirssa Sarengrave's capable hands, and the building became High Spires House, a bright beacon of hope in a neighborhood known for crime and chaos. For two years it harbored RhyDin's forgotten, until the day a band of mercenaries set it ablaze.

Months have passed; the charred but resilient bones of High Spires have been completely quiet, but something deeper misses the noise, yearns for the joy and laughter...

High Spires has a heart.

"This is it?" The cart's massive wooden wheels squeaked and rattled to a stop, and the driver looked over his shoulder. Through years of practice he had the remarkable ability to look two places at once - he'd turned his head for the men piling out of the back, but he was giving the side-eye to High Spires.

"No other like it." Most of them, including the driver, were in simple brown robes. Friars. One was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, toolbox and toolbelt in tow, and he drew a knife from behind his boot. "Trust me....this is the kind of place you never forget." And with a few quick slashes he took down the ropes that criss-crossed the gate, sending the warning signs clattering onto the cobblestones.

The local Watch's handiwork, for the hazard the damaged building posed and the crime scene that had long since been cleaned up. About six people had died here in the middle of a pitched battle, complete with fire and explosions, but already the grass was growing back, even a few defiant flowers in bloom.

The friars were already making plans. Most of their kind were quiet by nature, unassertive in the very best of circumstances, but this particular Order seemed to do little more than carpentry and masonry. They were hashing out where to begin, which parts of the house posed a danger and which parts (thankfully most) remained sound, and unloading wheelbarrows, lumber and other supplies from the back of their cart.

Alain DeMuer stood in the entryway and looked up at the building. He'd seen the devastation before, but this time, watching High Spires, he began to smile. "Back to square one....Well, we've already seen where we can go from there, haven't we." Then he grabbed a wheelbarrow and went to work shoveling rubble.

The sun had just risen over WestEnd, and the neighbors began to peek out their windows and doors to see just what all the racket was about...

Lirssa folded her arms and leaned on the end of the table. Her mouth twisted up in a similar fashion to the reconstruction foreman, a one Brother Gerald. He was a tall, portly man, dark-haired and balding, with a big red moustache. The moustache would twitch when he was ruminating about details of the day. Lirssa automatically rubbed at her upper lip as if his moustache tickled her in its twitching.

Alain had selected his foreman well. In the prior refurbishment, Lirssa had done a great deal of the managing of supplies and workers. Not in any complex and grand scheme such as Brother Gerald had in front of him. He was organizer extraordinaire, who was not ashamed to say he knows exactly where each barrel of ale is and how much is left in it — by first hand knowledge. But for all he had a hearty voice and a good cheer with the tankards were going 'round, he was also a man with a nose for numbers and a keen mind to get things done at their most efficient.

This, of course, did not stop Lirssa from sharing. "Last time we had to make sure that the gas pipes were turned off during the plumbing. Did you make sure of that?" Lirssa peered at the timetables and coordination of volunteers. Given enough time she thought she could puzzle it out, but she was feeling fidgety.

Her feet were tingling, too. The walk over had been troubling and slow. Not slow just because her steps were still uncertain from one to the next and took a great deal of forethought, but also because she worried about returning to High Spires.

Some of her worries were well founded. The few children there helping barely acknowledged her presence. There was blame in their eyes. Blame and fear. It was blame she carried at the base of her spine and felt heavier with each wayward glance her way.

She avoided them as best she could. Next time, she told herself, she would pretend like nothing had happened. She would talk to them and help them. Not today. Not because she was scared of them, but because she knew what they felt. It was too early to have their trust back, and they were putting that trust in the right people anyway.

So, she spent her first visit hanging around Brother Gerald and tracing his footsteps, listening to his conversations with the other workers, and adding her two — or twenty — pence worth of thoughts. "It is also good to have three shifts, I found, because —" she looked to where he pointed on a page, scanning up and down, "—oh, yeah, so you have that. Okay, that's killer good."

The other worry was seeing the house would bring fading nightmares into stomach jelling daymares. She could still see Shade's face, the hollow eyes where sunglasses were. But when she stood in the yard, she noticed the sapling planted for Rue still stood, leaves shimmy-shake in the breeze.

With a deep breath in and out, she stood up and swung her arms back and forth. Brother Gerald turned a shrewd eye to her and in that rich bass, murmured, "Come along, assistant, we will check on the preparations for the midday meal and start rounding up the workers." There was a laugh in that man's eye. Lirssa wasn't sure if he was teasing her or not, but she grinned at him and gave a thumbs up.