Dragos paused, taking in the boy’s desperate entreaty.

He said, “I’ll give you one year.”

Passion leaped into that pale young face, along with an expression of such naked gratitude, Graydon had to drop his gaze.

Liam said fiercely, “Thank you.”

Dragos cleared his throat. The crisp command in his voice turned husky and gentle. “You’re welcome, son.”

Graydon told the dragon, I get that he’s not really a child, not in the way that we normally think of children. But still, I don’t see how a year can be enough.

It’s his chance, and that’s all he asked for, said Dragos. And we don’t really know what he can do. I’ll be interested to find out.

The Tower recovered from the aftermath of the masque. Clean-up crews worked overtime to put everything to rights. Dragos, Pia and Liam traveled back home again, to upstate New York.

None of them would be nearly so fast in recovering from losing Constantine, but Bel was a wise woman, and she was right.

It would take them a while to heal, but eventually they would.

For Graydon, he had to fight nightmares of the battle, reliving again and again those last terrible moments when Constantine had leaped at him and spun him around, away from the deadly threat.

Each time, in the dreams, he shouted and struggled, but something always prevented him from dragging them both away, and he had to watch that long, wicked spike burst out of Constantine’s chest, followed by the gush of so much blood.

Sometimes, he woke himself up shouting. Other times, Bel shook him awake, and he discovered he had been thrashing around in his sleep.

Once, he woke to the sensation of his fist connecting with soft flesh. Comprehension flashed into his mind immediately.

Sickened by the realization that he had struck her, he lunged to turn on the bedside lamp and whipped around to inspect every inch of her body. Despite her protestations that she was okay, he had to see for himself.

He had caught her arm in a glancing blow, and he was beside himself as he watched the welt appear on the delicate skin of her arm.

At first, she was calm, gentle and supportive, but when he began to drown in self-castigation, she quickly turned stern.

“Snap out of it, my love,” she told him, gripping his arm as he sat on the edge of the bed with his head buried in his hands. “It was an accident, nothing more. You couldn’t hurt me if you tried. Trust me. The demon of regret that haunts you now will fade.”

He did trust her, with his life, but it was still a struggle to accept what she was saying. His breath shuddered in his throat. He whispered, “I don’t know how it can. If I had only done something, anything different —”

She came up behind him and leaned against his back, putting her arms around him. Like him, she chose to sleep naked, and the soft press of her breasts against his back was at once soothing and erotic.

“Believe me when I say this,” she whispered in his hair. “You can second-guess yourself for the rest of your very long life, and none of it will bring him back. It was battle. Things happen in battle. People we love die in battle. While it’s terrible, that’s all it is. I may not have been there, but I know this one thing is true – you fought with everything you had. And there was nothing you could have done.”

“How can you know for sure?” He turned his head to one side toward the sound of her voice, and she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I know it, because I know you,” she said. “Because you couldn’t have done any differently.”

With that, he was able to let go of that particular nightmare. He turned toward her and made love to her with the all-consuming ferocity that gripped him every time they were together.

Dr. Shaw cleared him for active duty and flight. He went back to work, and for some nights afterward, Bel joined the gryphon as he took long, luxurious flights. That place at his shoulders, the place that had been empty for so long, would never feel empty again.

After a few days, Bel turned inexplicably tense and preoccupied. She became such a nervous wreck, and it was so unlike her, she frankly terrified the shit out of him.

Simple tasks eluded her. She dropped things. Once, she burned a batch of Elven wayfarer bread he had asked her to bake as a special treat. Pulling the pan out of the oven, she burst into tears.

Beside himself, he leaped from the supper table and grabbed her by the arms. “You’re a basket case,” he told her. “Please, tell me what I can do to help!”

Later he had to admit to himself, it was not his finest, most diplomatic moment.

She cried out, “I know I’m a basket case! I’m a complete wreck, and I can’t help myself. Oh gods, Graydon, I think I might be pregnant.”

What?

Realizing he had frozen and nothing had actually come out of his mouth, he made a concerted effort to speak.

So he said aloud, stupidly, “What?”

She took him by the ears and enunciated, “I. Think. I’m. Preg. Nant.”

“That’s impossible,” he whispered. His heart hammered in his newly healed chest.

“Well, clearly it’s not impossible,” she replied. “Just highly – highly – improbable.”

“Oh, dear gods,” he stammered. “Why are you even on your feet? Here, sit down.”

Her pretty mouth fell open. She stared at him as he shoved her into a dining chair, and she sat with a plop.

He told her, “We’ve got to get you to a healer. No, wait.” Even though she hadn’t moved from the chair, he threw out both hands. “You stay put right there. We’ll get a healer to come to you. Have you eaten enough today? Don’t you need vitamins?”

Halfway through his disconnected babble, she started to smile. Remarkably, she seemed to calm down. “You’re moving a little too fast there, darling.”