(004)

━━━ The servants bustled to and fro, bearing trunks, hampers of linen, and travelling-coats swaddled in stout canvas pouches. Though the clock had but lately struck noon, the sun already beat mercilessly upon their brows, and this first true heat of June drew great beads of sweat into every furrowed face.

Claudine Lavant watched the scene in listless silence, half-ashamed that she did not lend a hand. Some invisible prohibition seemed to bind her wrists, and she marked, with secret alarm, the tremor that fluttered along her slender fingers. Heaven knew how fervently she prayed this journey might-if only by a small degree-restore cheer to her mornings and banish the weary conviction that life marched toward a hollow end. Yet after so many years sheltered within the sombre walls of that melancholy mansion, the outer world had grown strange to her, and its very strangeness filled her with dread.

A small hand slipped inside her own, and a pang of guilt shot through her heart. She turned to her son-the little gentleman already brushed and polished for his maiden voyage at sea. His fair hair lay neatly beneath a short cap that matched her own. Alas, the day's heat made every comfort irksome; the ribbon that held her hair was already pricking her scalp.

"Non, je désire que nous partions sur-le-champ ! Le voyage sera long.-No, sir, I would have us away at once; the passage shall consume days!"

Vincent's impatient cry carried to her from the bustle near the carriage, where a ship's attendant urged the porters to stow the luggage with greater haste. Amid the shifting throng she espied the two men, and Vincent's countenance was flushed with anger.

"Monsieur Lavant, there may-alas-be a slight delay..."

"No delay!" Vincent thundered, his finger leveled like an accusation. "Our hosts await us across the ocean-!"

"-Yet the captain, sir-"

"I care nothing for the captain's excuses. He will be here within ten minutes, or, by Heaven, we shall settle the matter in court!"

The servants bent closer to their labours, striving to appear deaf to their master's outburst, though Claudine noted the furtive glances that flitted between them. To her surprise she felt no shame on her own account; she pitied every soul caught beneath Vincent's ire, yet sensed that none thought the worse of her for his failings.

"Maman," little Louis whispered, tugging at her glove, "pourquoi Père est-il en colère?-why is Father so wroth?"

In the scant hours he spent with his sire, never had the boy witnessed such indignation.

Without lifting her gaze from the scene, Claudine answered softly, "I daresay your father is very eager to see America, my dear."

Vincent and the attendant had now fallen to arguing in rapid French. Claudine-who, upon first setting foot in France, had spoken that tongue with perfect ease-found herself perilously close to forgetting it altogether, so determined had she been to avoid discourse with the natives. Thus Vincent's English remained unspoiled, and their son grew up blithely bilingual.

Gabrielle, the most becoming of her household staff, approached her mistress with visible hesitation. "Madame?" she ventured softly.

"Speak, Gabrielle," Claudine replied, her voice distant but not unkind.

"You had left this upstairs-upon your desk," the English-speaking girl murmured, her voice low and uncertain as she extended a modest hand bearing the manuscript.

Claudine beheld the familiar bundle with a sudden start, as though it were some ghost risen from her forgetfulness. Her dread of departure had dulled every other sense-even that which kept her tethered to her writing, her one sanctuary. Without it, she might not have withstood the voyage at all.

She received it with a reverence almost sacred. "Thank you," she said, sincerely. "This means a great deal to me."

The maid offered a faint smile. Perhaps she had hoped to be answered with one in kind, but-alas-as so often before, it did not come. She could not help but wonder whether Madame Lavant remembered how to smile at all; it must feel like a foreign shape to those severe, unsmiling lips.

"Would you be so good as to place it with the rest of my luggage?" Claudine added, her voice lighter now.

"At once, madame," Gabrielle replied, and with quick steps she ran to join the others, who were even then heaving the final trunks into the coach.

The horses gave a restless whinny, stamping in protest, until the driver brought forth a pail of water to soothe them. Claudine, without realizing, had begun to fan herself once more-her gloved hand clutched her son's so tightly that he gave a startled groan.

"You're squeezing me, Maman," the boy protested, wincing.

She looked down at him, blinking as if waking from a trance, and felt the corners of her lips quiver as though on the edge of betraying her. His small hand ought to have been enough to steady her-but she could not forget the role she was now expected to play. They were no longer alone, as they had been on quiet nights when she read to him from fairy tales, or shared a modest supper discussing his schoolwork. Now she must appear composed-must masquerade as a woman who did not feel near paralyzed by the thought of being among so many eyes, so many voices.

Louis furrowed his brow, his wide eyes fixed upon her. "Est-ce que ça va?-are you alright?"

"Oui. Yes, my darling. Do not trouble yourself," she answered gently.

Claudine realized, in that instant, how speaking in French offered her a curious refuge. It allowed her to step out of herself-into some other self that belonged more comfortably to this life of fine houses, formal servants, a husband of consequence, and of course, the French tongue. But none of it-none-had truly been hers. Only the small boy whose hand she held now belonged irrevocably to her.

Louis noted the change in language but asked nothing of it. He had barely time to consider it before Vincent approached with a self-satisfied air, wearing that thin, performative smile he reserved for appearances of order.

"The captain's daughter has taken ill," he announced, with a strange blend of composure and pride. "He shall be with us in five minutes. Come-we ought to get into the carriage."

Louis immediately sprang to his father, who hoisted him into his arms with effort-the boy was growing fast, too fast. Claudine gathered her skirts and followed.

"She is ill? That was the cause of the delay?" she asked as they walked.

Vincent waved a dismissive hand. "The child has her mother to tend her. The captain is paid to sail, and so he shall."

Claudine slowed at the edge of the coach step, disquiet rising within her. "But if the child is ill-"

He turned sharply and fixed her with a cold, warning look. With Louis still perched on his lap, he spoke no more than a sigh: "Not now, Claudine."

For a moment, they simply stared at one another. The silence between them was fierce and ringing. Then Vincent turned, passed the child to a waiting servant, and stepped inside the carriage without another word.

Claudine lingered. She looked at the horses-their hooves agitating the earth as though they too objected to this departure. She lifted her eyes to the merciless sun, now half-shielded by her hat's wide brim, and tucked away her fan with solemn care. Some terrible certainty settled over her.

She ought never to have agreed to this journey. She should have known that nothing would be changed by it.

Even America may become Paris again-when the traveller is a prisoner.

Lady Lavant felt rather like a parcel, neatly wrapped and labeled, as she boarded the ship. No matter how grand or well-appointed the vessel, no matter the stretch of decks or the long-forgotten sweetness of sea air, the stench of brine now turned her stomach. What a shame it was-to see only the sorrow in all things. Would this pall remain upon her for the entirety of their stay?

The heat along the harbour had grown tolerable by then. Vincent excused himself once more, striding off to confer with the captain-whose daughter, it seemed, now burned with fever. The carriage driver, having fulfilled his duty, pressed Claudine's hand in parting and carefully lifted down little Louis, whose gaze was fixed with shining wonder upon the ship that loomed like a beast of legend before them.

"Maman, look!" he exclaimed, pointing toward the line of sailors hauling trunks up the gangplank. "That board! They're going to fall into the water!"

"No one shall fall, my sweet," Claudine said with a smile. It felt unfamiliar-awkward even-but genuine. Only he, her little man, could summon such a shape to her lips.

Just then, a hand shot out from the throng and seized Louis's arm. He gave a cry of surprise and tried to twist away.

Heads turned.

But once he caught sight of the woman-Vincent's newly appointed nanny-he calmed at once. Still, he pulled his hand back with visible resistance.

Claudine's eyes narrowed at the gesture. She saw the mild force in the woman's grip and the boy's immediate recoil. Her gaze fell like a shadow over the nursemaid's face-cold, clear, and full of quiet rebuke.

"Leave him be, if you please."

But as though the sound of her voice did not carry, the woman gave no sign of having heard. Louis began to gasp, his small eyes beseeching his mother with growing alarm.

"I said-unhand him at once!" Claudine cried, striking the governess's grasp away with a trembling but instinctive sweep of her hand.

Only then did the woman retreat. Claudine did not even realize she had raised her voice until Vincent appeared at her side.

"What has happened?" he whispered sharply, glancing about to see who had noticed. The governess stepped back then, all at once deferential, her head slightly bowed.

That quiet, sudden respect was precisely what inflamed Claudine further.

"Was it you who sent her?" she demanded of her husband, throwing her arms about Louis's shoulders and drawing him tightly to her side.

"Claudine, what on earth are you doing?" Vincent hissed, attempting-too late-to preserve the appearance of a composed and affectionate family.

"Tell that woman to keep her hands off my child!" Claudine growled, low and fierce. Were she able, she might have seized him by the collar and shaken sense into him-made him see how deeply, how perpetually, she feared for the boy's safety.

Vincent did not answer her demand. He stepped in close and spoke through clenched teeth: "Our child. And he must learn how to be tended by servants. That is how it is done."

"Why is it, then, that she heeds only your voice and not mine?" Claudine shot back. "I told her to let him be!"

At that moment, a uniformed crewman, reluctant and uncomfortable, approached and stood opposite Vincent. "Monsieur, all is prepared. We are ready to sail. We cannot be detained further."

Vincent glanced around, anxiety pinching the corners of his mouth. "D'accord, d'accord. Conduisez Madame à sa cabine. Je vous rejoindrai dans un instant - All right, all right. Escort the lady to her cabin. I shall join you shortly."

Without so much as a backward glance, he turned and strode away, leaving Claudine rooted where she stood, staring after him as though she could scarcely believe what she had seen.

The sailor gestured toward the ship, and Claudine, her grip firm upon Louis's arm, followed the indicated path without looking left or right. Her gaze was set forward, but her thoughts ran in circles.

She was invisible.

To all those who served Vincent Lavant, she was nothing more than mist about the edges of his life-an outline of a woman.

And invisibility had become the final thing she still possessed. Even her motherhood-especially her motherhood-was slipping away into shadow.

"Maman, may I go up to the deck?" Louis asked softly, his voice lit with hope.

"No, Louis. We are going to the cabin now," she said at once, gently but firmly. He made no reply. And that silence-the absence of protest-struck her chest like a storm of arrows.

The cabin, though large and richly furnished, felt to Claudine like a trap sprung shut. She flung the windows wide, unable to contain the cloying sense of suffocation. No air seemed to reach her, despite the open sky. It was worse than a cage. It was a snare, dressed in velvet.

After a time, Louis asked to explore the ship, and Claudine nodded without thinking. He slipped away, vanishing into the corridors with the ease of childhood.

She remained behind, alone.

Footsteps sounded beyond the walls, above and below. The bell rang out, low and solemn. And then she felt it-that terrible shift beneath her feet. The ship had departed. There was no land beneath her now. She was utterly at the mercy of the sea.

The door slammed open.

Vincent entered, his expression granite. He stood before her as though surveying something unclean and uninvited. He sighed, long and hard.

"Must you always carry on so? Can you not, for once in your life, behave?" he said with scorn.

Claudine did not answer. She did not trust her voice not to break.

"I am speaking to you!" he shouted, and the room rang with his fury.

Only then did she lift her eyes to him.

"It was a mistake," she said, her voice tremulous with despair. "Tell the crew to turn us back."

"Absolutely not!" Vincent snapped. "You have a son on deck, dreaming of his first journey across the Atlantic, and I'll be damned if you're to poison it for him as well."

The silence that followed held something close to menace-but it seemed to soothe him. He smoothed his waistcoat and tried again, with feigned calm.

"What has gotten into you? What is the matter with you?"

"The matter?" she echoed bitterly, rising from her chair with sudden energy. "You are the matter. You told me this would help. That it would make me forget. You said you would help me!"

"Is that not precisely what I am endeavoring to do?" he replied.

"No..." Claudine faltered, her voice thinning beneath the strain of emotion. "How could you be of any help to me-when you've made certain everyone around us believes I am some raving phantom of a woman, a thing to be handled, not heard? I am astonished you've not yet summoned a doctor of the mind to examine my 'condition'-to lock me in some high-windowed room like in the novels!"

At that, Vincent crossed the chamber in three swift strides and seized her by the shoulders, gripping her as though to anchor her in place. His eyes bore into hers, dark with frustration.

"Do you hear yourself? Do you know what you sound like?" he hissed. "You'll have them all convinced you're touched in the head! And what then, Claudine? You think I wish to be pitied as the husband of a madwoman? Come out of your pit, for God's sake, and learn to see what is good for you!"

But she broke away from his grasp with such violence that he stumbled back half a step, stunned.

"They heed no command but yours!" she cried. "As though I were nothing but the pale shadow of a wife! That woman will not lay hands upon my son again-never again!"

"That woman," Vincent said sharply, "is paid to tend to the boy, and she shall continue to do so."

"Then find another foolish venture to waste your precious income upon!" Claudine's voice cracked on the final syllable, and tears sprang to her eyes-but would not fall. "Money is all you've ever cared for."

Vincent stood still, his gaze narrowed, his expression unreadable. It was as though he were measuring the shape of her soul against a memory of something long gone. They stared at one another like strangers, and perhaps they were-two foreign creatures occupying the same name, the same life, for a quarter of a century.

"You are being unjust, and you shall know it in time," he said at last, softly-but the steel beneath his words was unmistakable. "If there is anyone on this vessel confined to the company of someone they can no longer abide, I assure you, it is not you."

He turned then and was gone-his footsteps sharp against the polished floor, his exit punctuated by the angry slam of the cabin door.

Claudine stood frozen, her breath shallow, her heart pounding. She knew those words had sprung from anger, but that did not lessen their weight. The wound was fresh, and it throbbed with every beat of her heart. How were they to inhabit the same rooms, breathe the same air, for weeks on end? The very thought set her nerves trembling.

Perhaps I have overreacted, she thought miserably. Perhaps I've behaved childishly, and failed to see what good this voyage might offer me. Once-long ago-she had been someone who did see opportunities, and chased them. That very instinct had led her here, aboard this fine ship with its gilded brass railings and gleaming floors, bound for a land that promised liberty. And yet-it felt more like a sentence than a salvation.

She approached the window, pressing her forehead against the pane, her breath fogging the glass.

The coastline was dwindling now, slowly retreating into the horizon's haze. The water stretched out beneath her, vast and deep, and she could not shake the unease that gripped her chest. Back home, even at her lowest, she could slip out unseen, could walk until her thoughts quieted. There had always been somewhere to go.

But here-there was only water. And nowhere to run.

"Maman, are you quite well?" came the soft, sincere voice of Louis behind her.

She turned in surprise. She had not heard him enter, nor sensed his presence. There he stood, wide-eyed and anxious, his small brow creased in that particular way that always made her heart ache. He was watching her-truly watching her-and she realized with a kind of quiet shame how little she had allowed him to see of her true self of late.

She had kept so much within, as though by locking her distress in silence, she could protect him from it. Her long days confined to the house had passed unnoticed by this lively, bright-eyed child who had always found ways to entertain himself. But now-he saw her. And she did not know what to say.

Bending to his height, Claudine placed her trembling hands upon either side of his face. His skin felt cool, fresh from the sea air; hers was damp and hot with anxiety. How strange that they should dwell in the same world, and yet feel such different weather.

"Are you strong, Louis?" she whispered. "Will you promise me you are my brave boy?"

He nodded, puzzled but willing. He had never once denied her love, even when he did not fully comprehend it.

She tried to smile-for his sake more than her own-and let her thumbs sweep gently across his cheeks. There was only him. Only because of him did this trap feel less like punishment and more like purpose.

"Will you be strong for me, Louis?" she asked again, more softly.

Again he nodded, this time with a resolute little jerk of his chin, and the sight of it filled her eyes with tears she would not let fall. She drew him to her, pressing his head to her shoulder, her chin resting lightly in his soft hair.

What could be said? Children often understand what their elders fail to name. She kissed his cheek, and as he pulled away, he whispered in reply:

"I shall be strong for you, my love. Always."

And indeed, he did understand-as children always do, when it comes to mothers.

Just as Robert Bhaer, a few weeks hence, would come to understand the sour temper of his own mother-who had been made irritable by his youngest aunt's decision to throw open the doors of Plumfield to the distinguished Lavants.

Amy, with her characteristic decisiveness, had arranged the whole affair the moment the letter arrived-well aware Jo would disapprove, and just as sure she would eventually give in.

With the aid of Marmee, Meg, and Jo, two of the house's largest rooms had been scrubbed and furnished into respectable guest quarters. The Lavants, it seemed, would require nothing less than dignity in every detail. Friedrich, ever obliging, had offered no objection to the upset this imposed upon their daily life. Laurie, too, had taken pains to fulfill every whim of his wife-much to Jo's dismay.

Even Father March had lent a hand in his quiet, methodical way, though it was clear Jo's heart was not in the undertaking. In fact, she'd attempted to enlist her young charges-Franz and Emil Hoffmann, her and Friedrich's nephews-to help prepare, but both boys were away at summer school in New York and quite unavailable.

Now, on the very eve of the Lavants' arrival, the house bustled with an energy that bordered on chaos. Jo's nerves were frayed. The schoolhouse she had built with such earnest devotion now resembled a grand hotel, and her beloved routines were in tatters.

Amy darted about like a harried steward, inspecting every corner and barking instructions with the severity of a seasoned matron. She was, in truth, upset that Meg had allowed Daisy and Demi to go on a walk instead of helping. Poor Meg, ever the peacemaker, had promptly apologized as if it were her own failing that a single cushion remained out of place.

But Jo-who had endured more than she wished to admit-could bear no more.

"Oh, for mercy's sake, Amy, stop shouting like a dockhand!" she snapped, her arms folded. "They shan't appreciate any of this, no matter what you do."

A stillness fell in the room. Marmee's eyes found Jo's, full of sympathy but edged with disappointment. Jo, however, stood firm. She was tired of seeing Amy cosseted and catered to at every turn. Surely a grown woman could bear a little contradiction.

Laurie, of course, had pampered Amy since girlhood, and she was accustomed to being obeyed. But Jo, older and wearier, had little patience for vanity these days.

"Why would you say such a thing?" Amy cried, abandoning her attempt to straighten a crooked picture frame. Her eyes met Jo's with a look that forecast a storm.

"Because you yourself said their house is like a palace," Jo replied. "You said they've staff for everything. No matter what you do, this house will always seem... humble by comparison."

The look that crossed Amy's face-hurt, humiliated, disbelieving-cut Jo to the quick. She regretted the words at once, but it was too late to take them back.

Behind Amy stood the family-Marmee, Meg, Hannah, and finally Friedrich, who leaned quietly in the doorway. He said nothing, but his furrowed brow spoke his worry. Only he, perhaps, still believed Jo capable of better.

Little Rob Bhaer stood between his mother and aunt, glancing between them with a puzzled expression.

But Amy did not shout. She no longer gave into childish tears. She folded her arms across her bodice and said with chilling calm:

"What would you know of such people, Jo? You are angry because you know-deep down-you could never make their acquaintance."

"Amy!" gasped Meg from the corner.

But Jo was already reeling, the sting of the words working its way into her pride. She had given her home to this plan, had allowed the dream she built to be rearranged. And now she was being told she was jealous?

"It's because I do not need such acquaintance to feel important," Jo replied coldly. "Unlike some others."

"Enough," said Marmee, stepping forward with authority. Her voice bore the weight of twenty years of mediation. "I won't hear another word. Jo, leave the room - cool your head."

"Leave? From my own house?" Jo muttered, uncertain. She looked at her mother, who never gave commands lightly, and understood at once that she had crossed a line.

"Mamma..." piped up little Robert. He tugged at her hand, the smallest weight in the room, and yet the one that brought Jo to her senses entirely. The sight of him-watching, waiting-filled her with guilt.

Without another word, she gathered him up in her arms and left the room, her skirts swishing behind her like retreating thunderclouds.

She descended the stairs quickly, passed through the parlor, and exited into the warm stillness of the yard. There stood the tall old tree-once their favorite spot, the place where she and Amy had read the letter aloud together, full of breathless anticipation.

"Why are you angry?" asked Robert, peering up at her with eyes so like his father's.

Jo looked down at him and sighed. "I don't rightly know, darling."

And she didn't. Not truly. Was it Amy's orders that troubled her, or the loss of quiet simplicity? Was it the memory of what she once dreamed this place would be?

No-surely she wasn't jealous of Amy's way in society. She had no taste for titles or wealth. Then what?

"I suppose I just need to rest a while," she murmured, and pulled him closer. She would not lie to her son, not ever. He was wise enough to sense that adults were far more uncertain than children.

"Aunt Amy is sad," he said.

Jo closed her eyes and kissed the top of his head.

"I know, Rob. I know."

As she looked out over the wide green meadows that had been her sanctuary, disappointment gnawed at her heart. She had not been the woman she wished to be.

Just then, from the distant lane came the sound of wheels. The Laurence carriage had arrived. Robert, perking up at the noise of horses' hooves, turned his head eagerly.

"Your cousins and brother are here," Jo told him quietly, and stepped toward the fence as the carriage rolled into the yard. A moment later, the children came tumbling out as though the door had burst open upon a toy shop. The twins, followed by little Bess, raced straight for Jo's arms with the delightful cries only young hearts can produce.

Behind them, Laurie descended from the carriage last, cradling his youngest nephew, Theodore, in his arms. The poor man looked positively wrung out, and Jo-despite herself-couldn't help but smile at the sight.

She set Robert gently down, and in a moment found herself surrounded by the entire lively brood, each child vying to tell her about the stable of horses Uncle Laurie had taken them to see in town.

"Gently now-one at a time!" she laughed, affectionately ruffling every head within reach. "And I hope you haven't worn your dear Uncle Laurie to the bone!"

She cast a meaningful glance at her childhood friend as he joined her, Theodore shifting sleepily in his arms.

"No!" declared Demi with great dignity, before dashing off toward the house like a herald. The rest followed in swift procession-Bess pulling on Jo's skirt before scampering after the others, and even little Theo, toddling along with Daisy's guiding hand.

Jo turned toward Laurie, whose thoughtful eyes had not left her.

"What?" she asked at last, somewhat warily.

"There's something amiss with you," he said with gentle directness.

Jo bit her lip. Laurie was fiercely protective of Amy and rarely suffered anyone to wound her feelings-not even Jo. Yet somehow, he had always known when to hold his tongue and when to offer his counsel.

"I'm a horrid person, Teddy," she murmured. For a brief moment, it felt as though time had peeled away the years and left them back in their youth-when each had been the other's best solace.

"You could only be horrid," he said kindly, "if you no longer cared that you were."

She blinked at him. "What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean," he replied, resting a hand lightly upon her shoulder and guiding her to walk beside him along the fence, "you're spirited and unguarded-you always have been. You speak before thinking, and sometimes forget that others don't see the world through your lens. I once thought it charming-and I daresay many still do. But you mustn't wound those you love simply because you forget where your words may land."

Jo sighed and rubbed her temple, irritated with herself. "Why is it I can't seem to outgrow this plain-spokenness? It's not Amy who's shouting like a longshoreman-it's me."

"So it is Amy you're fighting with again," said Laurie, lifting an eyebrow with a grin. She gave him a half-hearted swat on the head, which made him chuckle. "Am I wrong?" he teased. "You two can't go a month without locking horns."

"You're not cross with me?" she asked, a bit wistfully. A scolding might have soothed her guilt.

"I suspect you're both at fault," he replied diplomatically. "Let me guess-you're vexed that she's taken over your house and turned it into a drawing room to please those frightfully elegant Lavants?"

Jo stared at him. "Since when do you read minds?"

"I don't," Laurie said, chuckling. "I simply know you both very well. You'll never agree about anything entirely, Jo-but you mustn't forget that Amy gets excited about things. Different things than you, perhaps, but they matter to her."

Jo shook her head, still frowning. "I can't comprehend why she finds these people so... enthralling. They're so hollow. So-judgmental."

"Now who's being judgmental?" Laurie interjected, linking arms with her. "You've scarcely laid eyes on them. You're condemning them from a distance, and I thought you prided yourself on fairness."

"I'm not condemning them -"

"Ah, but you've already decided they're insufferable. Look here, Jo, wealth doesn't make a person heartless. We both know that. Some of the kindest people we've known have had far more than they needed."

Jo opened her mouth, but closed it again. She could not deny that Laurie, who had been raised in luxury, had the gentlest soul of anyone she knew. Even their late Aunt March-blunt and imperious though she had been-had softened with time.

"I don't know what it is about Amy that irks me so," she confessed. Her words fell quietly between them.

"You're sisters," Laurie said simply. "That's reason enough."

Jo gave a small, rueful smile, nudging him lightly with her elbow. He always knew how to say just enough. "I dislike you when you are so correct," she muttered.

"I don't blame you," he laughed, though his tone grew more serious. "But Jo-this may be your chance to look again. To see these people not as Amy's guests, not as some vague threat to your home, but as individuals. You might find you were right all along. But if you're wrong... well, wouldn't you like to know that too?"

She nodded slowly, chewing the inside of her cheek.

She didn't yet realize-and how could she?-that this sunny, ordinary afternoon, with children laughing and the wind warm on her face, was the last she would know before everything changed. The Lavants were coming, yes-but with them would arrive a storm no one was prepared to weather.