Cian ran to his mother?s side with a bright smile. ?Letters for you, Mum! And one for me!? He brandished the thick packet high in the air.

Sylvia straightened from the packing of chest to be sent back toYearling Brook and smiled. ?A letter for you, is it?? When she saw the hint of the stag?s head seal on the letters, she frowned. ?Cian, that is not for you.? She held out her hand for him to give it over.

?I want to open it.? Cian pouted, sliding the packet behind his back to hide it there. ?Can?t I open it??

Sylvia set her hands to her hips. Reason was the best way to start, though she doubted strongly it would remain the best course of action. ?Cian, would you want someone to open something meant for you??

The little boy?s eyes looked up and to the left. It was clear he was considering lying, but when he looked back to his mother, he admitted, ?No.?

?If you are interested in receiving letters, you could assist me or Lord Keefe in the letters and missives of the demesne.?

?The what?? his face contorted into the most humorous quizzical expression, nose crinkled up and mouth askew.

?The demesne,? she repeated. ?The land of the manor.?

A huff and shoulder slump, ?That?s boring.?

Sylvia laughed and approached to collect the letter from her son. ?Yes, I suppose it can be, and particularly for one of your age.?

Cian, however, was not so easily giving up his claim on the letter. He recognized the seal. He had seen that brooch, knew who wore it, and that it was a man who taught him how to wear a great kilt, walk softly, and gave him a boat, among other great treasures. The letter was thick, and if another treasure was inside, he wanted to see it revealed.

Continuing the fumbling, careful steps backwards out of his mother?s room to the family room joining and Sylvia followed him with a knowing smile. With Aidan sleeping and Avery visiting his grandmother, Cian was seeking a new playmate. ?Cian, please give me the letter. We can open it together if you like.?

The little boy narrowed hazel eyes on his mother, looking in that one brief moment, much like her though with the coloring of his father. Considering the offer, he gave a nod. ?Okay.? And he went to climb up on a chair and patted it. ?Come sit.?

Sylvia chuckled and curtsied, ?Yes, m?lord,? to which Cian giggled. She sat on the chair, but it not being conducive to comfort, moved him to sit on her lap. She broke the seal of the letter and opened it. Cian rested back against her. His legs dangled down over hers, the length of his limbs ever increasing. It griped Sylvia?s soul with the reminder that he would not be a little boy forever. She kissed the top of his head. ?It is a letter to me,? she laughed and stressed the word, ?from Master Fraiser.?

Returning to his home even later than usual ? delayed by one petty issue after another ? and frustrated by the injury of his knee that hampered his walking, Hudson gave a resigned sigh when he realized that the single lamp he had left burning to keep the house from utter darkness had burnt out. A near-full moon through the small windows over the doorway helped him find the lantern he kept near the door in the darkness, and then the striker next to it. After a moment, the warm golden glow of the lantern flared to life.

With the lifting of darkness came a memory of a night ? not so very long ago ? when he had greeted Sylvia at the door and she had scolded him for the bleak state of the house. ?Nae sae different now, leannan.? There was a chuckle in his quiet voice as he held the lantern in his right hand and used his cane to make slow progress to the lamps in the hallway and then the kitchen. Finally the last of the gloom was banished from the areas he would be spending time in for the remainder of the evening.

The base of the lantern rocked just a little on the wood of the kitchen table, until he reached out a scarred hand to stop it. Step, swing, thump echoed around the first floor of the house as he sought out parchment, pen and ink and brought them back to the kitchen as well. He had put off writing for too long, with no idea of how to explain his injury or the circumstances surrounding it. Sylvia received the official reports, but that was not at all the same thing. Finally, seeing Kiema forced Hudson to realize that he could not escape this by avoiding it.

Sitting was no longer an entirely comfortable thing, not with his leg held stiff and unable to bend at the knee. But again the practice of a few days made it bearable. Drawing close the parchment, Hudson was aware that he was dwelling on physical pain and discomfort to delay writing the letter. Finally he decided to start with the things which were easy for him to write.

Leannan,

Mo bran allaidh. How you would have laughed had you been here this evening ? this time I was nearly the one scared away from my own dwelling by the lack of lights! The lamp I usually keep lit at the window had burnt itself out, and of a sudden I could well understand the apprehension you must have suffered when approaching this faceless row of brick in the dark. I felt an intruder in my own house until the lamps were lit. Now, however, they burn with the bright gold of good oil, and it is only the silence that hovers close.

I think the scratchings of my pen do not count against that silence. Perhaps the loan of your bairns for a time would drive it out? Nothing can banish the bogles like the laughter of children, after all. And speaking of bogles, a fine tale of them I had the chance to tell in the Inn the other night, to Piper and to a friend of hers named Eva. Just luck that I was able to finish it, as chaos erupted nigh as soon as the tale was done. Remind me on our next meeting if you wish to hear it, and I will tell you the story as well.

But now to speak of the story which is not so easily told, nor woven of fantasy and legend. I could wish it was. You may have had report of this from Kiema already, in base though not detail; I am sure that Master Corinsson has made his own report, although I do wonder how much he told you of it. It is a thing to shame us both, though perhaps myself more than your Master at Arms. But I have promised you honesty, and that does not only mean in things which show well.

We had a disagreement, mo croidhe, which turned to blows, and injury each to the other (though your Master at Arms is indeed most capable and quite honestly demonstrated his fitness for the role he bears). I pressed him on a question which he did not think safe for you if he answered; the conversation deteriorated rapidly. I landed bruises upon him, and took a dislocated knee out of the bargain. He is very good at what he does, caraid, and I shall not question your security if he is present at your side; I think him eminently capable of killing anyone who might present a threat to you.

In the end, however, I think we have come to an understanding. If there is only one thing we agree upon, it is the wish for your safety and well-being. He aided me to Willow Den and they poulticed and bound my injury grandly ? they offered magical healing as well, but that is beyond the bounds of my comfort. So three weeks I must keep my leg held straight, with little weight resting upon it, and then it will be weeks more of exercise to bring back its strength. I make my way around with a cane and a slow pace, and I fear my temper has not suffered well because of it.

And so I must do what I find myself doing of you too often ? asking your forgiveness. Both for the assault upon your sworn man, and for the long delay in telling you of the matter. Give thanks to Mistress Buie; she spurred my shame in neglecting this letter for so long by her very presence. In some ways, perhaps, I am a coward ? it is hard for me to admit my failings to you. Still, I would suffer the scolding I am sure is to come gladly if it were delivered in person. Is ionndrainn thu, leannan.

But the hour grows late now, and I must close this before it draws on to another two pages (and supplies you with some fine fire-starts, I am sure). Tha d?chas r?s a dearc thu, leannan.

Di?ilidh,

Hudson

Sealing the letter, he pressed his stag?s-head brooch into the wax. His reports on the state of affairs at the warehouse came always under the Yransea seal; it had been too long since he had used his personal mark. Net-scarred hands brushed over the shape imprinted on smooth wax. Too long ? he risked losing everything for the sake of pride. ?And here I thought well I was beyond such foolish things as all that. I dinnae think I?ll let that happen again.? Speaking to himself, he let the words hang in the air before he once again reached for his cane.

Step, swing, thump, and he glared balefully at the stairs which had become his bane of late. Behind him the letter rested on the kitchen table, ready to be included with the morning run of messages.