"Morgana?" Kraar thought, his concern brushing against the edges of her mind.

She looked up into Mace's eyes letting his words wash over her. She heard them, but she wasn't sure she believed them. He didn't know Mordred like she did; and half of all she knew was guesswork, suspicion and superstition. He was like smoke, nebulous, and untouchable.

"And him," she half-whispered, "and him, Mace. You have no idea."

Morgana couldn't resist another glance over her shoulder, past the tea towels and nightdresses hanging from the lines. She looked back when he said her name, drawn to the warmth and comfort he offered just by being there. The love in his eyes was almost too much. She wanted it, to lose herself in it, but she couldn't. If she lost her grip on herself, then it was gone forever, and they were all as good as dead. Stand strong, stay firm and do what needs to be done. Such had been the mantra of adult life, committed to duty, fairness and right.

She had often envied the warm laughing girls who adorned her brothers' courts, little suns drawing people in and bathing them in light. They were infinitely knowable, welcoming, comforting. Morgana knew she had never been any of those things. She had always thought herself remote, restrained, forbidding almost, a thing to be admired from behind glass.

And then she'd met Mace, and she'd wanted to be one of those suns. But she had no idea how. The glass had been carefully constructed so long ago.

"I do," she told him, closing her fingers around his wrist, gentler this time, "but you need to trust me too." Why wouldn't he just let her keep him safe?

"Kraar" she thought, reaching for his familiar mind, "show me, let me see?

The raven yielded without hesitation. Morgana let Mace steer her down the alleyway, as she tugged a part of her consciousness loose. She surged upwards, past the rooftops and chimney pots and into the clouds. Kraar drew her in, until they fused and her perception of the world shifted. She saw as he saw, in a flurry of colour and shapes. This had been how the world had looked to her for so long. It felt like coming home. She could see herself running through the streets below, and followed their progress down the alleyways and cuts. With a flap of her wings she circled higher, checking the wider perimeter. Most of the town were at the market, but a few had broken away, making their ways in dribs and drabs back towards their homes. There were no obvious causes for alarm.

But when had her brother ever been obvious?

A lone man in a red coat turned down the alley she was walking with Mace, appearing from nowhere. Morgana dropped back into her body like a falling stone, just in time to find herself pinned between Mace and a doorway. Her left hand pressed against his chest, her right knotting itself in the fabric of his cloak as they waited for the man to pass them by. Where had he come from? Why had he chosen that particular alley?

This time when they set off, Morgana took Mace's hand willingly. There was no turning back now.

Their pace slowed as they approached a little house half-concealed by trees. Morgana watched curiously as Mace drew a key from his pocket and released her hand. He climbed the wooden steps to the door and slipped the key into the lock. It opened with an obedient clunk and she followed him inside.
"Your first...what sorry?" she asked, almost managing to smile as he checked the curtains and her ravens converged on their hideaway. She shook her head.

"People saw me leave the market and they know I was following someone. They'll miss me if I'm not back soon and they'll be asking questions. He'll want to know what happened. He knows full well I don't lose thieves, and..."

He stopped her worries, pulling her in close. At first she stiffened, resisting all he offered almost instinctively; but he was warm and he was solid, and he was hers. Morgana's eyes burned anew as she leaned into him, feeling safer than she had in months. Part of her was loathe to admit how much comfort there was to be drawn from the feeling of safety inspired by a pair of strong arms, shielding her from the world. A single tear escaped her and ran down the side of her nose. She was so close to breaking, to pouring out her heart. How she was sure now that Gaiane knew nothing of her brother's true nature, that she feared for her little nephew who she loved despite everything. That she felt guilty sometimes for doting on the boy, and that she then felt guilty about the guilt. That she'd tried and tried and tried to reach Arthur and her mother in the world of the dead. She'd waded through thousands of ghosts, each with their own stories and pains, but had been left completely bereft. It was as if they'd simply been erased, as if neither of them had ever existed. The only two ghosts she had ever wanted to find, and she had failed.

"I miss you," she said, freeing herself enough to bat the tear away, "so much."

She had never felt so isolated, so alone. There was no one in the castle she could talk to. She was convinced they all reported back to Mordred whether they meant to or not. He entered the minds of others so gently, like a butterfly landing on a flower. Most people never seemed to notice he was there. But she'd felt enough of the brush of his wings to know that the gentleness was as misleading as the rest of him. Soft grace concealed power.

"You mustn't tell me too much," she told Mace, looking up at him. "I can't promise I can keep it secret. But I need to know something." She took his hands and managed the smallest of smiles. "Talk to me."