He leaned down, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, pressing his warm cheek against mine:
“Chancellor?” Garrett whispered into the morning breeze:
“The bluffs are quiet.”
“The Iron Ridge Combat Academy reckoning was answered forever.”
“The estate is ours.”
“And our little one is running in the clover.”
Walking up from the cedar orchard along the ridge path, dressed in clean denim overalls and sturdy miniature leather boots, her chestnut curls bouncing in the morning sun, her cheeks rosy with vibrant, blossoming health, holding a basket of fresh wild strawberries in her small, healed hands...
Came fourteen-month-old Eleanor Stone.
My daughter.
Evan's little sister.
The Master Warden of Conduit Ten.
Alive.
Growing strong upon her great-grandfather's stone.
Beside her walked young trade apprentices from our academy, their hands warm, steady, their families laughing as they gathered around the long chestnut table to share fresh coffee and warm scones.
And across the hairline above little Eleanor’s left ear, and curving across Evan's temple in identical, unmistakable crescents, was the dark wine-red vascular mark of their heritage: a port-wine stain shaped like half an antique surveying transit plumb.
