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Chapter Text

Impossible.

Charles hoped he was making all the right sounds of approval and interest at the children’s play in the library. He had joined them an hour ago, and still could not focus. Beneath the chatter of their staging and the crackle of the fire, his mind gnawed at the memory of Jean’s knife.

You’re not watching, Mr. Xavier!

“Yes, I am. See?” He gilded the words with his ability and sent them gliding over the children’s minds along with an image: his eyes, as big as dinner plates.

Kurt giggled and Scott smiled, tugging the brim of his overlarge hat. All well and good, except Jean was still scowling. And she had to stop, because – looking at how her forehead knit into a frown, Charles saw how she would grow and grow, and with the rest of the baby fat melted into the contours of an adult face, those grey eyes glinting out from beneath her lowered brow would look just like –

– he would not think about it.

“That’s a very pretty coat, Jean.”

It wasn’t, actually. It was what might once have been white fabric, grimy, far too large for her, and patched on one elbow. But Jean brightened and flung her arms out to make the sleeves flare.

“Me too!” Kurt jumped and twirled. “I’m pretty too!” His feather boa tangled with his tail, and his baseball cap fell off.

Scott bent down, carefully patted along the edge of the carpet, and found the cap. He held it up above his head. “Careful, Kurt.”

“You as well,” said Charles. “Don’t let your own hat slip.”

“Did I tell you about the glasses, Mr. Xavier?”

“Goggles, I thought it was.”

“Same thing,” Scott said, excitedly, straightening. “I won’t have to wear a blindfold ever again, I won’t have to worry about any hat –”

“That’s right. So for now, why don’t you take something more?” From his seat on the low couch, Charles snagged the costume basket and pushed it along the carpet to Scott. “Kurt has cap and boa; Jean has coat and crown,” for she had found the tinsel in a kitchen cupboard, though Charles thought he had hid it very well. “There has to be another piece in here for the character of …”

The children had insisted that he watch their play, but after the better part of an hour, Charles had little impression of the characters and even less of the plot.

I’m the wizard, Jean sent as Scott found his way to the basket and began rummaging. Scott’s the monster, and Kurt’s …

“Kurt is … what?”

Um.

“Kurt?” Charles grabbed the boa, half-heartedly, and tugged. It needed straightening. “Who are you?”

“Rargh!”

No, that’s for the monster. You can be the tree, Kurt. Trees are quiet.

“Rrrrargh!!”

“Unless they’re particularly monstrous trees.” Charles finished re-arranging the boa, tucking in the end. Its pink feathers stood out bright against Kurt’s blue skin and black hair.

Kurt wriggled. “Let go!”

Kurt, remember in Tree Time, how the oak gets to close his eyes and think of acorns?

“Acorns are delicious, acorns are a treat! Acorns are so tasty, and good for me to eat –”

That’s the squirrel, dummy!

“Jean!” Charles said, stern. “Don’t call names. Say that you’re sorry.”

Though, really – Kurt hadn’t seemed to notice. He had taken Charles’ idea and wrapped the boa closer; now it had him so tightly looped that all he could do was sway back and forth as he sang, “Acorns make me happy, acorns make me smile –”

“I think I’ve found a good one, Mr. Xavier!”

“Fine, Scott.” A headache was beginning to needle at the base of Charles’ skull. “Kurt, hush now. Jean, what do you say?”

Sorry.

Even the appearance of the word in their minds seemed sulky. Charles had no idea how she managed it. “Thank you. Scott, what have you found?”

“This! I wear the scratchy blanket for the monster, but this feels really fancy, so I can use it for when the wizard comes to the castle –”

“Don’t ruin the surprises,” said Charles, tiredly. “In any case, straighten up and show it off.”

He turned from unraveling Kurt, to look.

And choked on his own breath.

… What is it?

“Mr. Xavier? Are you O.K.?”

No. Because he could not stop staring.

Because Scott’s cowboy hat, pulled down so low, looked all the more ridiculous when paired with an Oxford undress gown.

His undress gown.

Charles stared, numb, at the black fabric; at the lace and pleats. Except he couldn’t tell the difference between pleat and wrinkle, now, and the lace on one sleeve was torn.

“Scott,” he managed.

“Do I look weird? You sound like you want to laugh but you can’t.”

“Scott,” said Charles, “you need to wear something else.”

Why?

“Yeah, why? This one feels nice.”

“I know.” Charles half-laughed, half-coughed. “I know it does, my dear … because it’s mine. Or. It was mine.”

“We said the rules, Mr. Xavier. No take-backs.”

Scott, that’s mean!

“Sorry!” Scott tried to untangle himself. Now free of the feather boa, Kurt leaped to help. Together, they managed it. “Here, Mr. Xavier,” Scott said. “You can wear it.”

“I couldn’t possibly –”

“But what will he be?” Kurt said, worried.

He can’t be our mother.

“Why not?”

Not in this story, silly – the mother’s dead. But Mr. Xavier is still Wendy. Jean turned to him. Aren’t you, Mr. Xavier? Maybe we could have a Wendy in this story too. She can be the unicorn.

“But Wendy’s in the Peter Pan story.” Kurt’s words were muffled; he had started sucking on the tip of his tail.

I know. I said so!

“You’re not in charge of this story, Jean,” Scott grumped. “I’m in charge.”

I told it to you first, and then I said you could be in charge.

Charles let their back-and-forth wash over him like white noise. He said nothing, fixed as he was on the sight of his undress gown.

How had it gotten there? He had awakened, in September, with no idea of – of anything, and had talked to Frost, and then had seen that his gown was gone, and his shoes were off his feet and in the cabinet –

He had thought that Raven had taken the gown, somehow. Or that someone from Oxford had returned it to her.

And instead – Charles bit down hard on his lower lip. Instead, Frost had taken the gown and tossed it away: into the storage room he was not allowed to see, full of flotsam and jetsam. She had taken it from him, though. She had –

– and Erik, face wreathed by smoke in the dark, whispering in his memory: After that, though, they dressed you again.

Charles felt sick to his stomach.

They left your shoes – the memory went on, in Erik’s graveled voice – I took them there later. Even if they would not let me go in.

Oh God, Frost had taken his gown, and then the rest of his clothes – off – and then tossed him into that telepath-proof cell like trash, when whatever she had tried had gone wrong …

“Are you O.K.?”

Mr. Xavier?

A blue hand grabbed hold of his and squeezed.

Blue … He looked for five fingers and scales; saw only three and fur.

Charles shook himself back to the present, blinking at the gown. Scott was still holding it out in his direction. And Jean and Kurt, Charles realized, were looking at him as though he had grown a second head.

“I’m sorry, children.” He took the gown. His hands were not trembling. “I just thought of something strange.”

Like this morning? Jean sent, and that did it.

“Get Mr. Muñoz.” Charles bent his head down between his knees and tried to drag in air.

But –

“Now. Quickly, Jean. Kurt, you run with her – please.”

His blood sloshed in his ears; he saw strange patterns on the insides of his eyelids. Then he saw – and felt – a bolt of heat crack across his mind. “Ow.”

I’m calling him, Mr. Xavier! And we can get you some water.

Jean ran away. He could hear her shoes clattering across the floor and then clanging on the metal spiral staircase. “Wait for me!” Kurt cried.

Erik’s shoes had clanged, when he –

“Jean,” he rasped. Bile surged into his mouth. He tried to swallow; his head was pounding. “Jean, come down from there. You can’t go up there.” Charles tried to stand – and heard a tinny ringing in his ears. It got louder. And louder. “Jean –” Jean!

It was bizarre to feel someone taking him by the shoulders, to see a face close to his own, to watch a mouth moving in words – and to hear nothing but that same loud ringing.

Charles blinked at Armando. Then blinked again as the hands on his shoulders went to his back, and pushed. Then he was staring at the dust beneath the low couch, from the fine vantage point of the space between his knees.

Odd. Charles had only ever fainted once that he could remember, wearing far too heavy a sweater beneath cassock and surplice on Christmas Eve. This seemed the same – jolly good – with sound returning in fits and starts, his cough included, swishing in time with his pulse.

He had lost consciousness more than once, with Erik’s help. But he was not going to think of that.

A hand landed on the back of his skull, pushing down. “Ah,” Charles tried. “Is that really necessary?”

“Looks like it,” came Armando’s voice from above. “Kurt, go get a cup and the rest of the tea water. Jean, put that back and then go help Kurt. Don’t spill anything.”

Shoes clattered away. “One of these days we could let Kurt teleport,” Charles mumbled.

“Azazel would kill me.”

“But Mr. Muñoz –”

“I’m joking, Scott. Hey, you know what you could do for me?”

“What?”

“Come here and keep hold of Mr. Xavier.”

“How?”

Charles realized, with a start, that Scott sounded tearful.

“Just put your hand on his head. Maybe pat a bit. Go on, try.”

Charles felt a small hand pat the back of his skull, as Armando’s larger hands left his shoulders.

“Is that right, Mr. Muñoz?”

“Exactly right.”

“Really, I don’t need anyone to –”

“Charles?”

“Yes?”

“Keep quiet for a second, and keep your head between your knees.”

“Really,” Charles grumbled, “it’s nothing. I was just temporarily dizzy.”

“All right.” Armando dragged one of the fireside chairs closer. One carved leg, Charles saw, caught on the carpet’s fringe. “If you didn’t want to phone Frost, you could’ve just told me so.”

As fast as light, Charles sent Raven to check on Kurt. He was still busy in the kitchen – Jean had joined him. “Scott, why don’t you go wait for the others? They’ll be here with my water soon. Go to the door so you can help them.”

“O.K.,” Scott said, sounding uncertain.

“You’ve counted the distance, haven’t you? You can find the door. Go on.” Charles reached up and tapped Scott’s hand. “Soldier forth.”

Carefully – his head did hurt – he brought his legs up onto the couch, toed off his slippers, and watched Scott walk. It was far easier to focus on that cautious progress, to pretend absorbed interest, than to think about Armando’s frown. And then he hoped he was making all the right sounds of thanks to Jean for the water she brought – accepting the chipped mug and not looking at her smiling face as she took Kurt and Scott by the hand and went to find the toy horses. He was not looking, because he couldn’t think about it any more, he couldn’t –

“It’s been boiled twice now. You can drink it.”

“Right. Cheers.”

“We have to talk.”

A lesser person would have spluttered, holding a mouthful of water and hearing those words. Charles finished his drink calmly and set the mug down onto his lap. “We’re talking already.”

“Not about kids or faints or any of that.” Armando’s words were clipped. “We have to talk about Frost.”

“I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“I tell you the night before last that we have to call her, and fast, and that we need to work together – and you go and pull this? I make the call, I take the punch for it?”

“You honestly think I’m faking?” Charles’ headache spiked. “That’s ridiculous. If I wanted to get out of talking to Frost, you wouldn’t know it until you were on the bloody phone with her.”

“Maybe you could stop playing mental chess for just a second?”

“You didn’t know how to play in January. Have you learned since?” Charles tipped his head at the chess set across from Armando, next to the other chair. Erik’s – except Erik didn’t know pawn from king. “We’ve a board I’ve been dying to use. Anything except this conversation.”

Armando sat back in the chair. “What’s your problem, Charles?”

“I have no problem.”

“You can’t hear me out? You can’t even talk to me?”

“As I said –”

“We’re talking, I know. I mean talking like we did then. I was honest with you, and I thought you were with me. We can’t be honest again?”

Charles stared at him, his headache pulsing in his temples. “Why now?”

“Why not?”

“I’m this close to vomiting what little I’ve drunk today, let alone eaten – you see yourself what I’m going through and you want to have an honest conversation about bloody Frost? Right now?!”

“But –”

“I don’t feel well,” said Charles, throat closing. “I don’t like damned surprises. I don’t like not knowing what’s going to happen any random morning of the week.” He gave up, and closed his eyes. Drew his undress gown closer. “I don’t like it here. I just ... I just want to go home.”

Armando was silent. Charles didn’t blame him. Really, what could be said?

… but Raven would have said something, Charles knew. He could picture it as he sat, hunched over – her brow creased with concern, but then smoothing out as her smile shone through her eyes. It’ll be all right, Charles. I love you.

Come home, come home. Raven, Raven fly away home ….

Except, of course, he was only Charles. And here, outside his mind, he could not fly.

A splashing sound brought him back to the library. Armando was pouring the rest of the water from saucepan to mug. Charles let him place it on the couch, next to his knee. He stared at the mug, exhausted.

“Sorry,” Armando said. “For pushing you.”

“I don’t need coddling.”

“It looks like you don’t need pushing either. That’s what this is about?”

Charles saw how Armando had tilted his brow at the undress gown. He grimaced. “None of your business.”

“It came with you?”

Charles said nothing.

Nothing must have been enough. Either that, or Armando had previously witnessed unfortunates reunited with long-lost possessions – for he sighed. “It’s seen better days?”

“I didn’t do anything to it. I didn’t know it was here. Scott found it in the costume basket, and – presto – it bloody well sent me into a tailspin. Does that sound as ridiculous to you as it does to me?”

Armando was quiet. When Charles looked back at him, there was no mockery or irritation on his face. The expression was difficult to read.

It had better not be pity, was all.

“If you can get hold of a needle and thread, I could mend it for you.”

“Am I to take it that you had time enough to learn bloody cross-stitch in Dallas?”

“I’d use a straight stitch for this. Here.” From his seat, Armando reached out and tugged at the fabric in Charles’ arms. “Let me see.”

Charles let the gown go.

“It’s not that bad, really. Say … two hours? And that’s only if I want to take my time.”

Charles set his jaw; clamped down tight on the impulse to offer his sewing kit.

“… You rest a bit, all right?”

“Where are you going?”

“Someone has to watch the kids. I won’t touch this, if you don’t want me to.” Armando had not quite finished folding the gown by the time he rose; one fall of fabric waved at Charles.

“Oh, you’re welcome to it.” Charles made a show of drinking his water. “All my sniveling aside, it was a nuisance, having to wear it in Oxford. I don’t need it now.”

“I’ll be careful with it, Charles. You be careful with yourself.”

“I’m not –”

“Fragile or a weakling – I know. I’ll send one of the kids with a blanket,” Armando picked up the saucepan.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” But when he reached the east door, Armando said, “Get better, and fast. Because I’ll handle calling Frost, but then you’ll owe me one.”

“I will, will I?”

“Big time.”

“We may not have world enough, but we have time.” Charles forced a smile. “Consider one owed.”

Armando gave him a look, and shut the door.

Charles considered finishing the water, but then set the mug down instead. Once its weight was gone, he was glad to see that his hands were not trembling.

Had Armando been offended?

Don’t lose an ally if you don’t have to. Geoffrey’s words, with a dart of his tongue out where an incisive had been as he grinned at Charles, tapping the chalkboard in the Oxford war room …

And what had set off this morning’s melodrama? Not just some shoddy undress gown, that was certain.

“It’s impossible,” Charles said to the empty library. He grabbed the mug; drained it, set it down with a clatter. His throat was parched. “It ought to be impossible.”

Except … horribly, he could see how it would be possible.

Erik had been an inept lover to begin with; he still had his awkward moments. But all the clumsiness in the world did not preclude the possibility of him having had sex at some point in the past. Having fallen into bed with some woman, somewhere, seven years ago, and got a child on her. Fallen – or fooled – or he could have been hit on the head, or been slipped a drug, or something else could have happened to him –

“Or he could have just fucked some random bint and conveniently forgotten to tell you, lest he spoil the honeymoon.”

– but – Only you – Erik had said, the bloody romantic, so many times Charles had lost count –

“I’m not going to think about this.” Romantic, God help him. Given however long it seemed to have taken the idea to infect his mind, had he really come to think it romantic to be the first true love of a bloodthirsty thug?

– and just last night, had he really –

“Why do I care? God damn it.” Wiping sweat from his forehead, Charles swallowed against the pain in his throat. A murderer more than half insane; a monster that had imprisoned him, tortured him, come near to raping him – why did he care?

Except that Erik had seemed cognizant, just last night, until he –

“I don’t care. I don’t.”

Jean’s appearance, her expression …

… It could very well be coincidence, happenstance: a long proximity leading him to imagine things that did not exist. There would be plenty of time to think about everything later. For now, he would consider what had made him sick. He would not think of Erik, of Jean … of home…

He had not thought of home in so long …

The windows looked exceptionally clear as Charles blinked at them, hard.

He straightened his back and stretched – and a pulse of pain lanced straight up into the base of his skull – shite –

“Mr. Xavier?” came a small voice.

“Kurt?” Charles looked round at the door. “What is it?”

“I brought you blankets.”

“Why, Kurt …” He had to smile the smallest bit at the sight: a heap of wool and weave, edging into the room and making its way towards him, with a pair of legs in patched trousers wobbling back and forth beneath the weight. “Thank you.”

“Yep!”

“Say ‘you’re welcome.’ And where did you learn that word?”

“Scott. You’re welcome. Oof.” Kurt dropped the armful onto Charles’ shins. “There.”

“There, indeed. Let me pull them up.”

“I can tuck you in.” Blue-furred hands grabbed at the quilts and blankets. “Please?”

“Certainly.”

Despite his headache and clogged throat, it was restful to watch Kurt and to listen to the snap and pop of the fire. There was an off-pitch sound as well: Kurt humming as he concentrated on pulling the blankets into place, using his arms and his tail.

“What’s that, dear?”

“It’s Papa’s song for when I’m sick.”

“He used to sing it to you? What are the words?”

There was a pause. The tip of Kurt’s blue tail wended towards his mouth. Charles leaned forward, gently took hold of it and steered it away. “You’ve stopped with that, haven’t you?”

“… Yes.”

“You’re getting bigger and older now, Kurt. Papa doesn’t do that with his tail, does he?”

Kurt shook his head. He had taken something out of a pocket. Charles saw three marbles: two opaque and one crystal. “Those are nice,” he said.

“I was playing with Jean and Scott.”

“And those are your three?”

“My three left.” Kurt’s small body heaved a great sigh.

Despite everything, Charles felt his mouth twitch. Jean and Scott played for keeps; poor Kurt. “Come here and sit by me. Tell me the words to your song.”

“I don’t know all of them.”

“Whatever you do know,” said Charles, patting the sofa, “you can sing to me right here.”

Obediently, Kurt sat, tucking his legs up cross-wise as Charles straightened out his own and made his neck as comfortable as it could be on one arm of the couch. “Start when you like. I’ll just try to sleep a little.”

But Kurt took his time: passing the marbles from palm to blue-fuzzed palm, humming a little under his breath, looking out of the corner of his eye at Charles.

There’s no need to be shy, Charles meant to say – but his eyelids were drooping instead. It made sense. He had not slept well the previous night. He had been too busy fucking Erik …

But he didn’t want to think about that. Something else. Anything else.

“Kurt,” Charles said quietly.

He felt no need to open his eyes. With Raven looking out, he could see Kurt perched on the sofa – stretching part of the blanket taut over his knees, watching one of the marbles loop round and round it as he moved the fabric. “Kurt.”

The humming stopped. “Yes, Mr. Xavier?”

“I do think I could sleep, now. But would you sing? It would help me.”

“O.K.,” Kurt whispered.

And in the warm light of his reading room, his birds thrumming all around him, Charles listened.

The words, slightly out of tune, featured Kurt’s lisp. He had a tooth loose, Charles remembered.

Raven had never had a tooth loose, though she had seemed like such a child – limited vocabulary and all – for their first five years as brother and sister. And it had seemed a split second between that and her being a perfectly mutinous eighteen years old. Just eighteen, and the Takers on their way …

Memory shimmered into an image in his mind’s eye: a freezing September day, and Raven looking over at him from the entrance to his study, leaning against the doorjamb and frowning.

It had been one of the days, Charles remembered, that she had stayed completely blue – the bathrobe draping dingy white over indigo scales and under coppery hair.

For God’s sake, he had said, setting down his teacup, what are you doing? Someone could see.

And then there would be trouble. That’s what you keep telling me, isn’t it, Charles?

It wasn’t what he had told her; not precisely, not always.

Except – Charles knew that it was, and shame washed up his throat, tasting of bile, even as he remembered: Change back before someone sees you.

Why are we hiding?

You know why.

Her eyes had flashed. You’re my brother, and I love you, but some days you drive me crazy. You and this town.

You’ve made your point. Change back.

Charles –

Change back.

Then she had changed into a mirror image of himself.

Charles remembered the surprise – fear – awe – that had shaken him, at the glare of his own eyes from five steps away.

Of course it had only lasted twenty seconds, because that was how long she could go before dropping the form and morphing into a rose-and-gold Mallory, wearing the old bathrobe and a new sulk.

This can’t happen again, he had said – and now, he cringed at the memory of the quaver in his voice. Raven. What would I do if I lost you?

Find another sister, she had replied in ’60 – a dip of her head, acquiescing, in ’63 – and her narrow stare, one eye blue, the other yellow, in ’66. It had made sense, her frustration: eighteen and hemmed in on every side – when at the same age, he had already been on two Oxford missions … had rescued her on the first …

And Erik had been on his journey to Lake Baikal, to win a war and build a country.

Charles breathed in, raggedly; exhaled. Raven was not Erik. She loved the cozy warmth of home, the youngest children that she taught, the cats that kept her company … and she loved him, sister to brother, after he had saved her from starvation and radiation and God knew what else. He’d only ever wanted to keep her safe.

He tamped her memory back down in his mind; reinforced all the layers of shielding as he moved silently away, up to the surface again. The shields and veils, snarled into an impenetrable web, still growing … and had been, as long as he had been here in this manor, in Ithaca, in the East …

He knew, in the real world, that his face was wet. With any luck, Kurt would not notice.

Charles must have dozed in his reading room for a good long while. Kurt had started the song at least once again by the time he blinked awake there, hearing typical lullaby nonsense about fairy tales and the moon.

He gazed at what had been his Cyrillic shelf.

Overgrown as it was, now, the half-shelf half-wall – all tree – flickered with fire, its sharp leaves half singing, half whispering, The cloth for your horse I will sew for you from silk. Sleep now, my dear little child, bayushki bayu …

He felt no translation for that last; lully lullay probably came closest to it.

Charles sighed, tilting his head back to see his birds. “What do you think of his voice? Not bad, is it?”

His nightingale squawked. Charles gave it a half smile.

He tracked the different paths of his birds, swirling about him in eddies of song, each one unique. Missing were sparrow and hummingbird, of course, but Charles could say truthfully that he felt nothing lacking. And there were those missing that he could hardly remember: the magpie, gone almost before he knew it existed; the diamond brooch, flown over to Frost …

“Rest in peace,” he said.

A cry from his raven caught his attention. Charles looked and saw it flying up and down; over and around his bookshelves, and then in and out of the wall, circling especially through the secret door. Jean’s shelf still sent up flames. He ignored it, and Kurt’s song, focusing on the flight.

“Is that what I should be doing? Trying to remember?”

Another cry.

“But what, exactly? There are so many things to think about. Armando, Azazel. Emma,” he grimaced at the memory of her running her hands over his bookshelves, “and Emma’s … Sebastian. That one,” said Charles, nodding. “Let’s puzzle over him.”

The raven flew faster.

“Not good enough? Well, put him on a list. Let’s have you fly out a bit more; get some exercise. And let’s have me find the back way out of this manor, hm? Since I can’t run out the front. Or run at all, truly.” He sighed. “It’s rather more of an academic exercise, isn’t it?”

And he had not thought of it in some time .… Charles shook his head. The whirl around him of feathers and flight was not stopping.

“One last.” He frowned. “Erik and Jean. Whatever they are to each other – let’s think about that. A little down the road, though; I don’t want a repeat of this morning.”

His birds chirped and twittered. Startled, Charles looked round his chair – at the piles of books that had materialized, teetering on all sides, surrounding him. “A good think or two, and then some. Perhaps after I sleep some more?”

Except Raven screeched, and he opened his eyes in a start –

- to see Kurt flinch.

“What’s wrong?”

“You went like this.” Yellow eyes squeezed shut – Kurt imitated a snore – and then flashed open wide, staring at him. “It was scary.”

“I don’t snore. And don’t be scared.” He patted Kurt’s hand. “I had to wake up, is all.” He shook off the last threads of sleep and memory. “Where’s Mr. Muñoz?”

“He went to the West Wing.”

“Did he say why?”

“To call on the ’phone.”

“Ah.”

That had to be the conversation with Frost. It took only one pass of Raven through the West Wing, brushing over Armando’s mind, to confirm it. Charles set a kaleidoscope of faces spinning out of his memory and sent it over – and noted how Frost’s face somehow caught on Armando’s mind and expanded, distorting, as though she were reflected in rippling water. Proof positive.

Charles kept his smile to himself, merely shaping his thanks and relief into one vivid impression and whirling it over in turn. Armando started pushing back against him, sending – whatever – with a tinge of – out –

Fine, he sent, with a sensation of lingering warmth. And perhaps some of that well-being washed back, for instead of fretting, or strategizing – thinking – Charles merely leaned back against the armrest of the low couch. “You sang so well, my dear.”

“Thanks, Mr. Xavier.”

“And your father taught you?”

Kurt nodded, staring at his bare feet. “I miss him.”

“I have people I miss, too.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Who?”

Charles shrugged. “Just people.”

“From where you’re from, where they talk like you,” Kurt said, decisively.

“Exactly. But you’re the one who speaks Russian, Kurt – it’s quite wonderful.”

“Zamečatel'no.” Kurt flexed his furry toes. “That’s wonderful.”

Charles wished he could tell Kurt that he had understood him perfectly. “Thank you for that.”

“Do you want to play marbles?”

“It’d be difficult, here.” Charles shifted his knees beneath the blankets. “See? It’s a bit bumpy.”

“Like this.” Stretching part of the blanket taut again, Kurt sent a marble rolling down. “You can see where it can round and go through.”

“… I don’t quite follow?”

“I’d win if I could take the marble through. Jean says ‘no’.”

“Well, Kurt, I think I would win, no matter what the topography.”

“Jean says there are bad men coming. Are they, Mr. Xavier?”

Charles opened his mouth. Closed it. “When did she say that?”

“When we woke up.”

“Well, she may have heard someone wondering if that were the case, Kurt, but I’m here, Mr. Muñoz is here …. You have nothing to worry about. Would you like to read a book together?”

“Yes, please!”

“Good boy. Which one?”

“The mountain book.”

“Go fetch it.”

Charles put the Free West out of his mind and watched as Kurt scurried away. The book in question was a survey of the Himalayas. The details of geology in it were dull as ditchwater; Kurt favored the pictures. “Where did we leave off?”

The book thumped onto his lap. “K2!”

“That’s right. No one’s ever climbed it.”

“Papa has.”

“Your Papa doesn’t climb, he teleports. Come here; sit close.”

Kurt scrambled up the couch to wedge himself beneath Charles’ outstretched arm.

“Find the right page for me, and – oh.” Charles looked up as a thought-fire flared once, twice. Not ten seconds later, Jean and Scott peered round the library door, Jean cradling Princess Alexandra in her arms.

“Are you feeling better, Mr. Xavier?” said Scott.

“Somewhat. We’re just going to read.”

Can we read, too?

“Well,” Charles started, “I’m –”

“Yes!” Kurt bounced where he sat. “We’re at K2!”

What’s that?

“It's the name of a mountain. Perhaps you can set the next scene of your play there. And come to think of it …” Inspiration struck. “Jean, go fetch your colored pencils and paper. I know we said we’d begin on your birthday, but reading and writing wait for no date.”

Beaming from ear to ear, Jean gave the kitten to Scott and scampered away. Scott kept careful hold, staying poised on the library threshold. “I already know how to read, Mr. Xavier. I’m just out of practice.”

“With that blindfold; yes, I know. The thing is, Scott, you’ll be getting your glasses, or goggles, or whatever they are, quite soon. Hm? And then you’ll be able to help teach Jean and Kurt.”

Scott smiled, and made his way over to the couch. Not thirty seconds later, Jean thundered in with her colored pencils and paper. Her dragging a chair over ensured room enough for all, and the wonders of the alphabet helped Charles forget everything upsetting. At least, for a little while.

Armando kept their lunch sparse, throwing together enough leftovers to make a decent soup. “I’m only giving you things I can boil from now on.”

“Really, I don’t think it was food poisoning.”

“I’m not taking chances. Here.” Armando gave him a spoon. “Try some.”

“From the pot outright? That will spread any sickness of mine.”

“Boiling will take care of it. Frost,” and Armando lowered his voice, “gave specific instructions.”

“I don’t think they’re listening.” Charles tipped his chin at the children, who were playing with crusts of bread in their soup bowls. “You’d think she could give us a generator instead. That would make these instructions moot.” He tried a sip of soup. “It’s good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Come off it. Anything else I should know about? From your conversation.”

“She seemed ...” Armando shook his head. “I don’t know. She wants all of us, but especially you, to stay healthy. More importantly, she wants us to keep an eye on the forest. And for that, she’s letting the Wolverine come here.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Come here to stay. You’d think she’d keep him out West.”

“Well.” Charles could not keep the smile from his face. “I know you don’t like him that much, but I promise he can pull his weight. When does he arrive?”

“Later today.”

Which would give him a bit of time to clean up after Erik. Necessary, Charles realized, keeping his smile fixed, since otherwise Logan would smell the evidence in seconds. What else? He watched the children play, letting the catalogue sort and consider and evaluate, lightning-fast, everything that might need doing in order to keep Logan from discovering anything –

Or …

Charles blinked at the notion, brought about by fatigue. Perhaps he would clean up, and have done. Everyone can be deceived – but it was so bloody tiring.

“You all right?”

“Could I have some more, please?”

“Sure.” Armando took a clean bowl and ladled soup into it.

Taking it from him, Charles inhaled the steam and let his eyes close. He would clean, rest, and let the pieces fall where they would. Just this once.

They all heard the thunder of knocking at the main door well after it had grown dark. Charles let the children tow him there, their excited chatter ringing in his ears and his mind. Armando followed at his elbow – as, from the other side, a familiar voice boomed:

“Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!”

Kurt drew himself up, indignant. “I’m not a little pig.”

“He’s the wolf?” Scott sounded worried.

Shrugging, Jean held one hand up; spread her fingers at the door. It opened.

“Ho, ho, ho!” There stood Logan, large as life and twice as loud – he dropped his baggage to the ground with a series of thumps and thuds. “Hello, boys and girl! Have you been good this year?”

Armando sighed. “You know it’s February, right?”

“You’re either the wolf or Father Christmas, but you can’t be both,” said Charles.

“Says who?” Logan stripped off his gloves and flexed his fingers. “I had to plow some serious snow to get here. I can be who I want.” With jerky motions, he tugged a cigar from a pocket and practically bit into it.

“We have a snowplow, now?”

“My ass, Charles,” he enunciated around the cigar. “The snowplow is my miniature, hairy, French-Canadian ass.”

"Mr. Xavier, Mr. Logan said -"

"We heard, Scott," said Armando.

“Besides, surely it would be ‘arse québecois’,” Charles added. “And … miniature?”

Irritably, Logan tucked the cigar behind his ear. “We’re just getting out of Albuquerque. Had to regrow a chunk of my back yesterday. Think I’m shorter.”

“All that after being poisoned in Las Vegas. You had better get some sort of hazard pay.”

Armando frowned. “So today you just walked here?”

“Had to slide down those da - big hills. Got dropped off by the thruway,” Logan forestalled Armando’s interruption, “hiked the rest.”

“Did they forget to drop off all your conjunctions?” murmured Charles.

“Frost couldn’t give you Azazel?” said Armando.

“What’s with the Spanish Inquisition? I like to hike.”

“Remind me to tell you about this Oxford comedy troupe that –”

“In the dark,” Armando noted. “In sub-zero temperatures.”

“And get this: I didn’t catch anyone,” Logan said in an undertone. Then he shook himself, hard. “Look out below!” Pellets of snow and ice pinged off the door frame and the stone floor, and the boys laughed. Kurt scampered to pick up the cigar where it had flown to the side, and just as quickly scampered to give it back.

Jean’s brow puckered. Are you O.K., Logan?

“My stylist, not happy to see me?” Logan crouched down. “C’mon, kid, I’m just tired. Little help?”

It took a moment, but finally Jean smiled, reached out, and scrubbed both hands through his hair. Logan blustered and growled as the last of the ice fell away; then gave her a thumbs-up. “That’s better. Thanks. And now,” he lurched to his feet, “I got some bags, and I bet that some people here got some bedtimes just ready and waiting to happen.”

“Aw,” Scott started; Kurt and Jean joined in – a cacophony of audible and mental whinging.

“Quit it,” Logan said. “Listen up, you three. Enjoy your last night of freedom, because tomorrow, my rules start. Remind me of the first one, Jean?”

Don’t set the place on fire!

“Exactly! Precisely! Learn that one, both of you,” he waved the cigar in Scott and Kurt’s general direction, “love it, live it. There will be more rules, soon as I see what’s what. Let’s go. Muñoz, Xavier, you grab my stuff, all right? And did you make any dinner?”

Armando shrugged irritably as Logan herded the children away – “Mush, mush!” – Charles merely went to take the bags. He passed a hiking pack in its frame to Armando. Then he retrieved two other, smaller bags, a leather case, and what felt in the dark like a pair of snowshoes.

“Make sure the rifle’s not loaded,” Armando told him.

“What rifle?”

Armando held up one of the gloves; sniffed inside it. “I can smell powder here; he must have reloaded it at some point.”

“Bare hands, in this cold?” Charles shoved at the door. Behind it – there. He took the rifle, pulled the bolt, and cleared the chamber. “But of course: he wouldn’t freeze like the rest of us.”

“Check the barrel.”

Charles did. “Cold as any stone.”

“Good. Wherever the Free West are,” and Armando started pulling the door shut, “they’re not close yet.”

“You’re not being serious –”

“ – are you? Logan?”

“Mmf.”

“Logan, please take your head from your nosebag and answer me.”

Tufted hair came up first, then Logan’s glower, wreathed in steam from the soup. He was using the ladle and a hunk of bread, alternately – though really, he would look more intimidating if he were not eating straight from the pot, and thus creating the same picture as Kurt did with a bowl.

“I said, X,” Logan tore off another mouthful of bread and gulped it down, “I’m dead serious. ’Cept I’m alive, and so are all of you, and that’s the way I plan to keep it.”

“I’m surprised you were chosen, Logan. I mean, I wanted you here, but -”

“I’m touched, Chuck. And I was due for leave. Guess Frost wants me East-side this time around.”

“So, Miss Georgia’s out West?”

“Watch your tone, Muñoz. Call her that to her face and she’ll melt yours straight off.”

“Not my face.”

“Try it sometime.”

“Leave?” asked Charles, trying to diffuse the mood. “This soon after – what was your stint in the autumn?”

“That was training. Different.”

“So what do you call what Armando and I have been doing?”

“Babysitting.”

Charles bristled, but Logan held up the ladle. “By which I mean: sitting on some of the most important babies this side of the world. If the Westies knew there was a mini-Azazel kicking around, they’d throw a shit fit. That or ten helicopters over here, all at once. Right, Muñoz?”

“I was telling Charles that I’m surprised they haven’t tried something like that before.”

“And they’re gearing up to try it now?” Charles said. “Really? Or is this just some ploy of Frost’s?”

Logan and Armando exchanged long looks.

“It’s the real deal,” said Logan. “I mean she always has something going on, but this is different. I’ve heard the chatter; I’ve seen the dispatches. A helicopter's been spotted 'round Syracuse. Add all that to Lehnsherr smashing any cover they could use on the thruway, and bear traps going off like bottle rockets, now – yeah. Bad news.”

“If it’s cover he’s worried about, has Lehnsherr taken to chopping down trees as well?”

“On the thruway, bub. It’s the way you go. You might have to add an hour of travel time for every five miles of straight-up snow, ice, trees – anything that’s not a road.”

Charles looked askance at Armando.

Who nodded. “Without enough people left to use the cleared trails, they get overgrown in a year. It was the same in the Everglades.”

“– trade Lehnsherr for some alligators,” Logan mumbled into the pot.

Charles kicked him under the table.

“Back to what you said before.” Armando frowned. “You’re telling me the Free West doesn’t know that Kurt exists? How’d their intelligence miss him?”

“Azazel’s been good at keeping him hidden. He wouldn’t let him out of his sight; not ’til just this past fall. Poor kid. Snug as a bug in dad’s pocket for the first five years, and now he hardly sees him.”

“We’ve done a decent job of managing his moods, Logan,” Charles said.

Logan scraped at the pot with the heel of the bread; crunched, chewed, and sighed out a spray of crumbs. “I guess.”

“And I know I’ve said it before, but your table manners are still atrocious.”

“What do you think, Muñoz?”

The look Armando gave the ladle was eloquent.

“Two against one. That’s not good.”

“That does bring up something I want to clarify: will you two be able to get along, here? Otherwise …. Well. I have to umpire the children’s next marble match. I don’t want to do the same with you.”

“Mr. Diplomacy strikes again,” Logan drawled. “We gotta parachute you into Denver sometime.”

“That’s not an answer to my question. Why the dislike, anyway?”

Logan and Armando were silent. Then Armando’s mouth twitched. “Not so much dislike, as …”

“Oh, no, it’s all dislike, bub.”

“Nobody likes to lose a fight,” Armando soothed. “I get that. I won’t even tell Charles the details. All the details of you, trying every single thing you could try, to get by me to the Dallas labs – and me, leaving you lying there like jello.”

“What’s jello?” Charles asked, fascinated.

“Free West glop; they stick random shit in it and call it a salad, Marie told me. And it did not go down that way.”

“I was supposed to let some random screaming guy with claws into the children’s wing?”

“If he’s there to break you out? Hell yes.”

“You didn’t say anything before you started swinging.”

“My blood was up –”

“And then out.” Armando gave him a thin smile. “All over the floor. When – again – you didn’t get past me.”

Logan sat stewing for another moment, before hauling the pot over to the sink. He mumbled something.

“What?” said Armando. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Yeah, maybe. That’s what I said. But then we got Joanna in and she took you out.”

“What’s she doing these days?”

“You got a mash note for her?”

“It’s too late for Valentine’s Day,” Charles said, amused. “Excellent. What I thought was quite serious turns out to be fit for the schoolyard. Except: you’re adults, aren’t you? Logan, you can take a loss.”

“I didn’t lose –”

“You sure did.”

“ – I never lose!”

It felt good to laugh. Charles let it happen; Armando joined in. “You should have seen the look on his face.”

“I told you –”

“All right, enough, both of you. Please be civil in future.”

“And if we aren’t?” Logan growled.

“If you feel like fighting, you’ll have to try something different. Run a race. Play marbles –”

“Kid stuff.”

“Fine. When you next feel the need,” Charles said, grinning, “instead of fighting each other, you could both just remove your trousers and see whose is larger.”

Logan guffawed, but Armando coughed. “Sorry?”

“That, I would be happy to umpire.”

“Oh, Charlie,” and Logan fanned himself, “this is so sudden. You get the memo yet, Muñoz? Charles here knows his way around a –”

“Oi.”

“ – baseball diamond, which is where you umpire, right?”

“I prefer cricket.”

“I thought you played both.”

“Really, Logan."

“Hey, you started it.”

Armando pushed back from the table. “I’m so glad we could have this discussion.”

“Running away, grandma?” Logan snickered.

“No. I just – I’m going to go check on the kids, and then I’m going to bed.”

“You do that. And Charles, you of all people ought to know that it is not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean.”

“That, and the weather at the port of call.”

“All right, I’m done.”

“All right, Muñoz, all right. Tomorrow, bright and early, we’ll sort out a plan for the week and then go get the kids. I’ll cook.”

“We hardly have anything,” Charles started -

“I brought some more supply. Pancakes sound O.K.?”

“Oh, yes. Your pancakes are a wonder to behold.”

“Well, you don’t behold them, you be … eat them. So go on, get lost; I want you both awake enough tomorrow to tell me how great a cook I am.”

“And if we don’t?” Armando said.

“Those snowdrifts are awful deep. I’m just sayin’. Muñoz, you’d be fine, but I don’t want Xavier here losing any fingers, toes – anything important, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. Right, X man?”

Charles smiled. “Good night, Logan.”

“Night, Charles. Night, Muñoz.”

“… Call me Armando.”

“Sure thing. Sleep well, both of you. I’ll take night watch.”

Which was a new development, Charles thought, as he walked to his room. But he supposed that interrogating Logan could wait until morning.

He did his best to follow Logan’s command. In the physical world, Charles knew that his body slept the deep sleep of exhaustion. The hubbub of Las Vegas, followed by the whirl of the children’s festivities, followed by the effort of fucking Erik …. It had all added up.

While sleeping in the physical world, Charles walked slowly through his reading room. All was dark and quiet. The only sound was his dove, warbling almost too softly to be heard.

Charles found his golden chair easily enough. Sat, and stared up through the great round window – at the designs glimmering in the glass.

He turned as he heard a clink.

Raven had dropped Jean’s tea light on the pile of books nearest him. Charles blinked at it. “Thank you, darling.”

A crahk.

“Shh. Let them rest.”

The raven made no further sound, but beat its wings impatiently.

They had assembled the stacks of books just that morning; memory exercises apparently could not wait for the next. “Very well,” Charles sighed. “Here, then?”

He placed the tea light on the armrest of his chair, careful not to let his memories of Ororo’s maps catch. A stack of paper, loosely bound …

“I see you’re concerned about security, darlings. I’ll be reviewing during the day with Logan, all right?”

He selected the book closest to him, and opened it. Judging from Raven’s silence, it was as fine a place as any to start.

As fine a place, indeed. All the more so when Charles double-checked his bookshelf the next morning.

For once he had taken up the binder again, and paged to the photograph in question – a good dozen men in suits, and Emma – it took only a glance to see that his memory had been correct.

That there, with them all, stood Sebastian Shaw, smiling.

Charles was grateful for the mystery over the next week. It gave him something to occupy his mind during dull hours. Who’ll take the children today? – Don’t look at me, Charlie. – You’re the best at it, Charles.

It helped him adjust smoothly to Logan’s changes to their routine. I walk the perimeter every day; you two alternate with me. – Logan, I don’t know how to – Right. Armando, you’re walking with me til X man here learns how to snowshoe.

And it kept him from thinking about other things. Erik.

The memory of Erik, kissing his hand. Gazing at him with firelight gilding his cheekbone and shoulder, smiling. Erik, holding Jean on his lap.

… Erik and Jean …

– but whenever that thought crept into his mind, Charles smothered it and focused back on Shaw.

One bright, cold day soon after Jean’s real birthday, Charles was on library duty with the children. He should have been reading to them, perhaps, but they could manage – Jean’s enthusiasm knew no bounds. And while they managed, he could take additional steps to gather information.

Emma’s Sebastian Shaw and Erik’s – Shuvalov, Schmidt, Shaw – were, first and foremost, the same person. Especially given the memory of the opera and the statue in Erik’s mind. “Occam’s Razor,” Charles told a volume in his hand. An Essay on the Principle of Population: the seventy-fifth he had found containing Shaw’s bookplate. Some sort of bear beneath a sword, and a tangled glyph which flummoxed him briefly before he separated the three-quarter circle and three bars. "C for Sebastian, Ш for Shaw. Bloody missionaries."

It was taking some time to set the books all together. Soon enough, though, he could investigate the most personal portion of Shaw’s library as a whole.

“So, as the same person, where do you go, and when? I know that you have a manor in Kiev, Dvorets Shuvalovyk, where you keep Erik for a time. I know you visit the Morozov Palace, in Moscow, in June 1945. And I know you find Erik in Auschwitz-Birkenau … when? Tovarisch – Gospodin, Monsieur, whichever – Shuvalov … Herr Schmidt in Auschwitz, I assume, since it was under German control, until …”

“Mr. Xavier, what are you doing?”

“Just sorting some books,” he called to Scott.

“Shh! Quiet in the library!”

Kurt had taken that rule to heart. Charles glanced over at the round table – Jean sending images of pages to Scott, Scott reading aloud to Jean and Kurt both – then beyond, at the sun in the window. A good two hours remained until Logan and Armando returned from the daily hike.

None of the library's books about the second war had the bookplate in them. Which Charles supposed made sense. “No need to read up on what you helped create,” he muttered at the last volume shut. “Auschwitz, liberated on the 27^th of January, 1945, by the Red Army. So, Mr. Shaw, how were you friendly with both sides?”

For Shaw had to have thrown himself on the mercy of the Soviets and taken Erik east. Or, given that he already possessed a family manor there, if the name was any evidence, perhaps he had been a double agent all along.

Charles gnawed over the puzzle as the children called to him again, as he walked to the table and answering their reading questions by rote. It would take Kurt much more time to progress to the point that he, Charles, would be a tutor in truth –

– tutor.

He wheeled on one foot and paced back between the bookcases. Emma had tutored Erik from the outset of their acquaintance. He remembered that very well, whispering out of his memories just the previous night in Erik’s voice: He invited her back to Dvorets Shuvalovyk – she played the piano –

“You were thirteen when you met her, in the winter of 1945.” Charles peered at the shelves containing Shaw’s personal collection. “And not in January of that year, for you told me you ate cake for the first time at your birthday the next spring. April, 1946, and you were fourteen. Which means …”

Erik had been twelve when he left Auschwitz. He had turned thirteen, and lived several months under the supervision of Shaw, and Shaw alone. Shaw had been hale and hearty at the Morozov palace that June, so he had to have had a way of dealing with Erik that did not involve telepathy.

If, for that matter, Erik had been any threat to him at all – for surely his powers had not been as developed in 1945 as they came to be later. And Charles realized: he had no idea what Shaw’s ability, or abilities, had been.

He wandered back to the table, listening to Scott read aloud what Jean was sending him.

“The woman exclaimed: ‘What a donkey you are! That isn't your kitten, that's the morning sun shining on the chimney.’”

“Donkey!” Kurt hooted.

“Kurt, that’s unkind; you don’t call people that.”

“But Hansel had not looked back at his kitten, but had always dropped one of the white pebbles out of his pocket on to the path.”

“‘Hansel and Gretel,’ is it, Scott? I can’t offer you a gingerbread house, so don’t get any ideas. Wouldn’t you like to read another?”

It was next in the book! said Jean, squeezing Princess Alexandra, who let out a burbling squeak.

“Be careful with her, Jean. How many times do I have to tell you?”

Sorry!

“We’ll hurry, Mr. Xavier.” Scott cleared his throat, self-important. “When they had reached the middle of the forest the father said: ‘Now, children, go and fetch a lot of wood, and I'll light a fire that you mayn't …’ What’s mayn’t?”

“‘May not’. It’s like saying ‘will not’.”

“ – will not feel cold.’”

Jean’s index finger was inching along the text; Kurt was craning his head to follow. Then Charles smiled as Kurt reached out with his tail and poked the back of Jean’s hand.

Hey! Jean sent in a spark.

She had reached to turn the left page to the right, instead of the right page to the left.

“Kurt, use your words before your tail. He just means you’re going backwards, Jean.” Really, she had seen him do it the proper way, but some things seemed all too easy to forget.

Charles knit his brow. If Erik had forgotten how to read before Emma met him later on – November, December of 1945 … if he had forgotten how to read in the course of one year …

Or more than that. Who knew how long he had been in Auschwitz, anyway?

Charles walked away from the table, rather more slowly. The sun had not progressed much in the sky. Scott’s voice provided a background lilt. He considered the books again, brooding. Feeling a strange, tickling discomfort – as though someone were breathing on the back of his neck.

Going through even a few books in his mind had been disconcertingly effective. He had a catalogue, and now it seemed he had its distaff: a timeline, clicking away like clockwork and sorting all the details, gathered up by his birds like crumbs off the forest path, pace Hansel.

And yet … the largest questions?

Charles sighed. He had no idea of their answers.

Except his discomfort had doubled – it was itching at his mind. Charles gritted his teeth at the memory of Erik, holding Jean on his lap and staring at nothing. It would be far better to focus on someone other than Erik for a while. The week of puzzling over Shaw, for example, had been an excellent start. It had offered him a glimpse at the library’s original owner. It was a foundation: built off Erik’s information, offered piecemeal over that entire ghastly honeymoon –

But that brought him back to the most important part, didn’t it? He could disentangle himself. He had self-control, intellect … civilization. He was thinking about the blighted history of their present world for intellectual reasons. Not for personal ones.

“More of Shaw,” he muttered to the aviary. “Less of Erik.”

As if specifically to disoblige him, the first memory he opened that night in his reading room was of Frost.

“I said Shaw,” Charles snapped at his raven.

It screeched back.

He glared down at the image: the black and white photograph of Emma, eleven or twelve years old, from the binder. There was her close-cropped hair, very pale; there was her shoe, brandished at the camera. There was that curling, impish smile.

“This has nothing to do with anything.” Charles slammed the book shut. Even in his own mind, he felt ... sick. He did not know why. It was a perfectly fetching picture.

“I’ve done all the work so far. Now you go over the titles I found in the real world,” he commanded. “Give me a theme; any theme. Why would he start World War Three? What sort of person was he? Know the books, and I say you know the man.”

The theme, it emerged, was political theory and philosophy. Charles supposed he could have predicted Shaw being enamored of the Übermensch. “The same trite reading of it, however,” he said the next morning, to his own modest bookshelf in the real world. He straightened his Shakespeare from where it had tipped. “And I thought Mr. Sebastian Shaw mildly intelligent.”

Though he supposed there were all types of intelligence, as he spent the good part of the morning on his arse in the snow, having Logan laugh at him. It was difficult to walk with snowshoes. But he cared about walking the perimeter more than mockery, and Logan could go hang.

“Gonna shoot me for it, X man?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“You’re getting better. Come on. Once more.”

That had been the high point of the day. The low point occurred when Logan, looking grim, brought back a cache of weapons that evening. They made a loud clatter, dumped to the floor of the front hallway. “From the bear cave. I don’t suppose you put ’em there, Charles?”

Charles shook his head.

“Armando, you have anything to do with it?”

“No.”

Truth echoed from the answer; Charles was relieved. Not that he had been worried. “Weren’t the bears hibernating there, Logan?”

“No sign of them, and no fresh scat. Now I’ve booby-trapped the whole place, but keep outside and it’ll be all right – just the new stop on the daily tour.”

“That’s another two miles,” Armando noted.

“You complaining?”

“No.”

“Those bears, Logan.” Of all things, Charles remembered Tree Time – and the children, enchanted, watching forest animals sing. “Isn’t it too early for them to leave hibernation?”

“Ouais.” Logan kicked through the bows and arrows scattered on the floor. “Mom and cubs, though, they’re gone.” He snapped what looked like a dart gun in half over his knee. “Bad time to be a kid.”

Charles stayed away from his reading room for the next several nights, electing instead to go over his map of the manor, mentally. He made note of vulnerabilities, thought of solutions … set a list in order of importance and, every day, ran them past variations on: “Thanks, bub. Thanks a lot.”

Charles knew Logan appreciated the help. Armando contributed as well; it helped them both keep busy ...

But it did not prevent flashes of memory from intruding. They were mostly of Erik, staring at nothing with Jean on his lap, his face worn and thin. Each time, Charles shook the image away and focused on other things. The mystery of Shaw, when he was in the library; safety for the children, whenever he was somewhere else.

Near the end of February, they all stood in the hallway, practicing.

“All right,” said Logan. “Ready? Set? Three-two-one go!”

Jean was the first to disappear, running round the corner to the dormitory; Kurt pelted after her. Scott, fingertips brushing the wall, was in third – but he was shouting, at least, and by that measure, enjoying himself.

There was silence. Then Charles heard distant thumps – and a crash. Armando had set up obstacles, but, “What on earth was that?”

Logan hummed. “Hope it’s nothing permanent.”

“Armando would have stopped them if it were,” Charles said. “And if this were a horse race –”

“We’d know who’d win. Ladies and gentlemen, at two to one odds, here she comes.”

For Jean careened round the corner again and sprinted down the hallway.

“Careful,” said Charles, as she ran into him with a thump, beaming. Something jabbed him. “What do you have there?”

She held up a bag. My horses!

“Jean,” Logan said, kneeling to take it, “these are the go-bags. And what’s in them?”

Things for a ’mergency.

“For an emergency, Jean.” Charles smiled at her. “Important things.”

My horses are important.

“Like your toothbrush, kid. Like another sweater. Let’s see … Charles, you check Kurt’s.”

For Kurt had run up just behind Jean, gasping for breath. He held out his own bag. Charles took it and peered inside. “Socks, a change of underwear, and two sweaters. Good boy.”

“See, Jean? You’d have to borrow from Kurt.”

I wouldn’t borrow. I’d take, from Scott. Jean looked smug. He has mine.

Charles looked down the hall. Indeed, there was Scott, carrying a bag – and dragging a pillowcase. “You made Scott carry your things?”

“Jean, what’s the rule?” Logan’s voice was gruff.

“One bag,” Scott called. “I told her so. I told her it was against the rules!”

But I want my horses.

“Your horses will be fine here,” said Charles. “The whole point of this exercise –”

“ – is to get out, fast, with what you need for an emergency,” Logan finished. “The bad guys just caught Scott and all your sweaters. Now they’re all nice and warm, and you gotta wave bye-bye, because they’re taking him away in a helicopter –”

Jean glared. Then I’ll burn it down!

Logan shot a look up at him. Charles tightened his lips and returned the look with interest. Anything but look at Jean’s expression.

“Jean, if you burn it down, I’ll die.” Dragging the pillowcase to them, Scott heaved a sigh. “Sometimes you’re a silly goose.”

Am not!

“Are so.”

“Scott, don’t call names. Even if they are a little … archaic. Silly goose?” Charles’ mouth twitched. “Where did you learn that?”

“From Grandma. What’s ‘archaic’?”

“It means ‘old.’ Like some of the words in the fairy tale book.”

“Oh. Is my own bag O.K., Mr. Logan?”

“Let’s see.”

For a while, there were only the clinks and rustles of Logan comparing the bags. Then he stood up, with a sigh. “All right. Scott wins.”

Jean pouted; Kurt started to whinge. “Why?”

“Scott has sweaters, socks, pants, and …” Logan held up: “an apple. Good job.”

I didn’t know we could –

“ – bring food?” Charles shrugged. “Mr. Logan wasn’t that specific, but I suppose Scott planned ahead a little at lunch. Scott?”

Scott puffed himself up. “Yep.”

“Congratulations. Your prize is – a wonderful thing I’ll think of later.” Logan put everything back in the bag. “Now, Scott, the trick is to get you going faster.”

“I’ll be really fast when I get my goggles.”

“Until then, we’ll practice. So, kids, why aren’t you gonna run out the front door?”

“Because they’d go there first,” Scott and Kurt chorused. Jean was still pouting.

“That’s right. Who do you look for when you run? Jean?”

One of you, she sent.

“And who can use her power?”

Scott and Kurt pointed to Jean. “As long as you don’t hurt anyone, Jean,” Logan said. “Deal?”

She nodded.

“But why not me?” said Kurt, softly.

“Cause I don’t want you to get lost, kid. If your dad comes here, you two can do your thing all you want, all right?”

“All right.”

“Good. Now you go tell Mr. Muñoz to reset the obstacles. And Jean? You made Scott carry your stuff here? You take everyone’s stuff back.”

Jean tipped her chin. A chill rushed down Charles’ back as each bag, and the pillowcase, floated into the air.

“Be careful, darling,” he said. “Don’t let them fall.”

Her brow had knit in concentration; the crankiness was forgotten. I won’t.

Silently, Logan and Charles watched the children march away: Jean in front with her arms outstretched, Kurt and Scott following, and the bags and pillowcase flanking them all.

“Then I’ll burn it down,” said Logan, grim, later that afternoon.

Charles sighed. “It worries me, too.”

Snow crunched with every step they took. Charles had learned to manage the snowshoes, but so intent had Logan been on two patrols each day at high speed, that this was Charles’ first. His being unfit meant that Logan paused every ten minutes or so, waiting for him to catch his breath.

Logan didn’t seem to mind. At least, he had not said much. It was a relief to have a change now.

“Her telepathic powers express themselves as fire,” Charles said, “when she’s not masquerading as a mouse in a conch shell.”

“Seriously?”

“You haven’t ever seen the fire? She gave you a token, through me, remember?”

“That just felt a bit like a spark. It must be different for telepaths, X.”

“Then take my word for it: mentally, I see certain aspects of her power as fire. How does she jump from that to arson in reality?”

“I have no idea.”

It sounded like Logan truly didn’t. “It’s something to consider, perhaps,” Charles murmured.

“You bet your British ass it is.”

Logan stowed his rifle and took out his field glasses. They had reached the high ridge, and now stood at the forest’s edge. Where Erik had – Charles dismissed the memory. “Anything?”

“Nope.”

“And you haven’t seen anything besides that cache, these two weeks.” Charles adjusted his own rifle.

“Not quite two. Shit. Was that a fake?” Logan’s jaw worked; it looked like he wanted another cigar. “Just to fuck with us?”

“Those weapons didn’t look fake to me.”

“I know, right? And who has time to set it up? Or maybe they just thought we’d be too snowbound to get there, or that you two wouldn’t have the chance. As for attacking, the full moon was almost a week ago, so they’d be exposed if they tried anything now.”

“So the next new moon …”

“A week from tomorrow. That’s when we should be out, full force.”

“Wouldn’t they know you’re thinking that?”

“Floodlights – we should have floodlights.” Irritably, Logan adjusted the field glasses. “And an M2, right by the front door.”

“Attackers would be able to turn any machine gun round and use it against us.”

“Not if Lehnsherr’s here.”

Charles choked. “He’s coming here?”

“Dunno.” Slowly, Logan put the glasses down. Then he squinted over at Charles, the bright midday light casting his face into sharp relief. “Not yet, at least. She’s keeping everyone busy in Wyoming, Nebraska …”

“Labwork?”

“Don’t tell it to McCoy that way, but pretty much. The thing is, if they do attack, she could have him dropped in – cause you know that if it’s an even fight, Lehnsherr tips things our way when he arrives, and then some. I need you to be ready for him being here, Charles. You think you can be?”

“I …”

Logan waited him out, still squinting.

“… I think so. As long as he’s occupied with fighting.” He met Logan’s gaze, evenly. “I won’t have him frightening the children.”

“I’ll run interference. Sorry in advance if you don’t like it. Him being here, I mean.”

Less about Erik. “If the Free West attacks, there will more not to like here than him. Take, for example, something else about the manor.”

“What the fuck is it now?”

“Look.” Charles took off his mitten to point. The cold numbed his fingers, even though they were still gloved. “An M2, at the front door? All well and good for the drive – but the rest? What’s on the third floor?”

“We don’t use that, or the fourth.”

“I know; quite the waste of space. But what do the third floor and the fourth floor have in common, Logan? Similar to the library. Think hard for me. Come on.”

A muscle jumped in Logan’s jaw.

“Windows,” Charles finished. “If I were the West, I’d bring helicopters to the fight, lower soldiers onto the roof, let them rappel down – and they’d kick through the windows and take the manor that way. And even if you put paid to their ropes, or shot down the helicopter, the roof’s accessible from the inside, and thus the reverse must be true. You remember last Halloween as well as I do.”

Logan looked as though he wanted to kick a tree until it fell over. Several trees.

Charles dropped his hand, pulled his mitten back on, and shrugged, to soften the blow. “Will that be another activity for a snowy day? Barricading,” Charles calculated, “a good forty-eight windows? We can gather the wood, but who’s going to plane it, let alone put it in place? Do we have ladders, or a saw?”

“All right, you’ve made your point. And we have a saw.”

Charles hummed.

“Come with me. I’ll show you the workbench.”

“One workbench,” Charles started –

“ – for the entire manor. This is it?”

They had trekked through the woods, over a road – “Elmira,” Logan had said – and over a creek. Charles had come close to losing his patience as they had stumbled and slipped their way up a gradual rise of snow, one that seemed to last forever. But before he could catch up to complain, Logan had jumped down a stark drop.

Then he brushed away snow, keyed in a code on a panel, stepped back as a door slid open - looked up at Charles. “You haven’t been here yet?”

“I haven’t.”

“Well, get a move on, bub. Feel special.”

Charles had jumped down. Had followed Logan down a narrow tunnel – from which another door opened onto a long tunnel, tall and broad enough to allow something huge ingress and egress; ridges on its floor to allow that something friction enough to move. “This is quite impressive.”

“No shit.”

“How on earth was it built?”

“I’m the wrong person to ask. By the time I came here, they had already set up this sucker, and the room for the Finder –”

“All those hallways? The panopticon?”

“The what?” Logan’s voice had echoed as he scaled a ladder to another small door, set high up in the wall.

“Never mind. Where does the rest of it go?” Charles had panted, following. For the tunnel kept sloping downward, into shadow.

“That’s where we used to keep the plane. Now that we got an air force, all of them stay in St. Louis.”

“Also impressive.”

“Whatever,” Logan had grunted. “Azazel ’n Lehnsherr? They’re an air force by themselves.”

“It sounds as though you’re jealous.”

“Believe me, I’m not.”

And that had been all, until they had made their way through a final door into a garage.

The first thing Charles had seen was a truck, familiar from his trip to Albany. Then another, less bulky truck, with a gun mounted on top – the one that had come back from chasing Moira. And a jeep. Charles had peered round the last. There had been no sign of any motorcycle.

He had frowned at another door. It was obviously one that folded up to let everything out. “Couldn’t we have come through there?”

“I haven’t had the chance to clear off the snow.”

“Ah. But how on earth would a plane get through a mound of snow? Since I assume the same is the case whence we came.”

“Whence, whence, are you shitting me?”

“Perhaps,” Charles had said, grinning.

“Well, here’s another joke, Chuck. Frost had all this shit built the summer she came here.”

“Oh.”

“You said it.” Logan had slapped the side of his truck, jogged to the garage’s other side, and revealed the workbench with a flourish.

“This is it?” Charles repeated. “For the entire manor, and the grounds?”

“Don’t knock it,” Logan replied, insulted. “McCoy’s got the lab; Lehnsherr’s got other places. This here’s mine. And Marie’s.”

“Marie’s?”

“Yeah. What can I say? My baby likes power tools.”

Charles conceded that the workbench was rather large. He watched as Logan carefully checked every tool; as he opened and shut all the drawers; as he looked in each drawstring pouch hanging from its hook; as he sighed.

“Everything all right?”

“Just fine. Anyway.” Logan pointed. “My circular saw. Her chainsaw. My hand saw. We’ve got enough, I’d say, but I also think there’s a faster way than just boarding all those windows up.”

“Do tell.”

“I still have to think about it. And I’m hungry. You hungry?”

Charles’ stomach growled. “I could eat. It’s dinnertime, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. Muñoz better have made something good.”

Charles fell into step behind Logan, heading to the rightmost corner of the room. He craned his head to look back at the truck –

– or, at least, he did his best to give that impression. All of his mind, his catalogue, his aviary, had snapped to a focus on Logan’s opening a small door and easing through it. “Hustle, X man.”

“I’m coming.”

He followed.

The door opened straight into …. The locker room, Charles had once thought it, with all its compartments and divisions, crammed full of old clothes and tech. He supposed it made sense. Storage, close to transport.

Charles controlled his excitement, carefully, and set his mind to tracking every step. Logan closed the door behind them. Charles noted the mechanism for an ID card – damn – and then fell into step again. Walking down one aisle, they passed three more, branching. And there was the storage compartment he remembered.

“You don’t need another hat, Charles?”

“No. Frost threw away that bobbled number –”

“Good for her.”

“ – and my manteau hood was enough for today,” he chattered. “Which must mean that it’s getting warmer.”

“We can hope.” They had reached Logan’s compartment. “Hang tight a second.”

“I’ll be right here.”

Charles decided to do what he said. After all, he knew very well what else was in this storage room. Erik’s compartment. Erik’s knives. And that scent …

… it was probably faded by now. Certainly there was nothing that made him remember anything.

“Let’s go, Charles. Carry this for me.” Logan handed him a large box.

“My pleasure. What is it?”

“Clothespins.”

“What on earth for?”

“Fortification.”

“You know best, I suppose.”

“That I do.”

Of course, his mind focused on the scent. For the first book Charles opened that night in his reading room contained the memory of Erik leaving him …. after sex. Leaving him dozing, with Princess Alexandra purring in his ear. Before Las Vegas. After Albany.

“Yes, I remember.” He flicked a page; shrugged off the vivid sensation of Erik crooking his arm – Charles’ head supported by the bend of Erik’s elbow, by his biceps – as they kissed, and kissed, and as Erik placed his free hand against his cheek and slowly licked into his mouth –

“More importantly,” Charles snapped, “there’s something there about the garage. Correct? Let’s see.” He flipped pages. Then tossed the book in his lap and watched, irritated, as the pages flipped themselves.

Erik had ridden a motorcycle. Charles had tracked him whilst he did – and tracked him beforehand, as he had left their bed and walked across the manor. And unless there were two garages … Charles realized that the path Erik had taken did not line up with the one he had walked that very day.

“So there’s another entrance.”

His raven crrr’d at him.

“It could be from one floor down, through that pigsty of room, past the infirmary. Or – ah. It’s probably through the larger storage room. You know.” His mouth twisted. “The one I haven’t seen. The one Armando’s looted, somewhat. The one …”

Raven squawked.

“… The one with the fuse box in it. Like Hank said.”

Charles glanced down at the memory of Hank, babbling at him, as it floated over the open pages of the book before vanishing. “You realize, don’t you, that any entrance Erik uses probably has seven layers of metal to seal it?”

And if birds could look crestfallen, at that little comment, his raven did. It tipped its head to one side.

“A good try, though. Enough. We’ve as much of the grounds as will ever be relevant. We might as well get back to Shaw.”

His birds, as one, started flying round him in a whirl. Almost all of them. He resisted the urge to tug the penguin into his arms, from where it was laboring to circle his chair.

“Darlings, go to sleep.” Charles felt exhausted. “It’s too late, for all of us.”

He felt just as tired the next morning.

“Happy March,” Armando said, stirring a pot in the kitchen.

“That’s tomorrow. What are you making?”

“Oatmeal.”

“Where’s Logan?”

“With the kids. Listen, Charles –”

“Bonjour-hi!” Logan boomed as he walked through the door, jogging Kurt in his arms. Scott and Jean were on his heels.

“Good morning,” said Charles. “Did everyone sleep well?”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Logan said, slinging Kurt to the floor; elbowing between Charles and Armando to peer into the pot.

“Did everyone who is not a self-regenerating powerhouse sleep well?”

Scott frowned around his blindfold. “What’s a self – refrigerating –”

“It was just a joke. Do sit.” Charles pulled out a bench. “You too, Armando. You cooked; I’ll serve.”

The children fell to after Charles set bowls in front of them all. Armando did not seem terribly hungry.

“So, Logan. What’s today?”

“Gonna fortify the third and fourth floor. I’m using those clothespins to hang up barbed wire, X man. Armando, you can help me out.”

“Make sure you get the tower,” Charles said.

Logan glared. “You know about the tower, eh?”

“I only ever went there once,” he lied.

“Rule-breaker,” Logan muttered.

“Is barbed wire sufficient protection, though?”

“With Lehnsherr stopping by? Yeah. It’s easier than boarding up all the windows, too.”

Charles frowned at a sudden thought. “All this preparation – we had better be sure they’re not just making a feint. Remember our own strategy at Dallas? Who’s to say they’re not thinking of something similar?”

“That was a double-feint, and I’ll bring it up with her Frostiness, and I really hope you’re just overthinking it,” Logan groaned.

“There’s no harm in doing so,” said Armando.

“Fine, yes, you’re both very smart. Barbed wire, and then we’ll walk the perimeter – unless you can do it solo, Armando?”

“Sure.”

“Which leaves me more time to decorate, which puts you on kid duty, Charles – oh, hey. That’s nice, I guess.” For the children had all bent to finish eating, double-time. “What’s the rush?”

“We need to pick a new book today,” said Scott. “And we couldn’t decide who would do it.”

We were going to have Princess Alexandra pick. We’d put three books out, and the one she sat on would be the next –

“ – but if she peed,” Kurt started, eyes round.

“ – it would end in disaster. As did the Judgment of Purr-is,” said Charles.

His grin was met with Armando rolling his eyes, with three blank stares, and with Scott’s forehead wrinkling.

“One out of five,” Charles sighed. “Well, it wasn’t very funny. I’ll help, children. Perhaps we’ll read the Iliad.”

They did not pick any book. For almost as soon as they had reached the library, Kurt had run to the windows and glimpsed a distant flash of light on glass. Charles had determined it was not a rifle – rather, some surveying contraption – and thus no threat. He stayed silent after pulling his raven back, so as not to spoil the surprise for them.

Jean must have done the same, for she only grinned as Kurt and Scott tried their best to attract the attention of the man on skis laboring up the drive, once he waved the correct combination of colors. Then they had begged Charles to run back downstairs with them, though he had insisted that they walk.

So Armando and Logan had beat them to Hank, who only managed one knock on the front door before it opened.

“Surprise!” Hank had said, holding out a bag.

Then the rest of the morning was for Scott, as he tried on his goggles for the first time.

Charles tried to speak to Hank – what had he been doing, besides designing weaponry and enjoying a wintery day spent surveying? – but Scott’s eagerness made it difficult. And wrangling the children all by himself, with the sunlight off the snow jabbing at his eyes, was a challenge. Charles frowned at Logan and Armando, halfway to the tree line. They looked to be having some sort of disagreement.

“Mr. Xavier, you’re short!” Scott laughed.

“Really, that’s the first thing you have to say about me?”

Hank was hovering. “Be careful,” he said. “The way Forge and I set it up – you have to hit that button, Scott, to let your power out. There’s one on either side. But if you jostle it, it’s possible that – ah –”

“I’d blow things up?”

“If you have your eyes open.”

“It’s weird to have them open. They itch.”

Charles had not been able to glimpse their color before Hank had dropped the goggles into place – and now, they were behind opaque red lenses. That much he had gathered, even with Scott jumping up and down in place.

“Calm down,” said Charles. He took hold of Scott’s shoulder, turning him. “Look that way: towards the tree line, not the manor. Take care to avoid Mr. Logan and Mr. Muñoz.” He waved at them to move.

“Nothing’ll happen unless I press it, Mr. Xavier. See?” Scott jumped from foot to foot. “Nothing. And if I press it –”

“No, wait!” Hank leaped to Scott’s side –

– too late. A wall of energy flashed from Scott and crackled across the snow. Not two seconds later it crashed into the trees at the forest’s edge – and through the billowing steam sent up by melted snow, Charles saw that some of the smaller branches had caught fire.

“Watch it!” Logan bellowed.

“Oh, no!” Kurt wailed.

Princess Alexandra! Jean ran back inside the manor.

“Jean, she’ll be fine. Scott, calm down.” For Scott had started hyperventilating. “It’s all right.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Really, that was quite impressive. Don’t worry. You just made some fireworks.” Charles waved to catch Armando’s attention, and pointed. Armando took the hint and dashed towards the trees, his feet squelching in the new slush. Logan followed on his heels. “Everything will be fine.”

Armando was wading into the smoke. Charles could not quite tell, but he thought his skin had shifted to stone. Silent at his side, Hank was staring. Mouth open.

“Scott, breathe deeply for me.”

“I’m – trying!”

“Easy. Just in through your nose,” Charles demonstrated, “out through your mouth. It’s all right. See? They’re putting out the fire.” He patted Scott on the back, through the layers of coat and sweaters. “Be easy. Shh.”

“I need to tell Lady Frost about this,” said Hank, as Scott focused on breathing.

Charles stiffened. “No, you don’t.”

“She found out what Forge and I were doing. She told me to deliver it when I was done, and then to report back to her.”

“And you delivered it, and Scott put it on with no ill effects whatsoever. And nothing else happened.”

“But –”

“Please? Keep breathing, Scott,” Charles told him, and, taking Hank’s arm, pulled him a few steps away. “What do you think will happen,” he hissed into his ear, “when Frost finds out that little Scott can melt snow three feet deep and light ten trees with a glance? What do you think?” Charles shook Hank by the arm. “Is the army going to Los Angeles first? Or to Oklahoma?”

“I think,” mumbled Hank, “that they’re going to have to defend St. Louis –”

“The point is: where do you want to see Scott in combat? Because if you tell Frost what just happened, that’s exactly where he’ll go. Scott on the front line? Is that what you want?”

Hank shook his head. “But it’s impossible not to tell her.”

“Why?”

“Even if I don’t say it on the ‘phone, she’ll look while I’m asleep.”

Charles checked on Scott. He seemed to be recovering. “She’s done that before?”

Hank nodded.

“We’re not finished with this conversation. Scott? Why don’t you help Mr. Muñoz and Mr. Logan pick up those branches? We could use them in our fires tonight.”

“Mr. Xavier, I can’t wipe my eyes.” Scott sniffled. “It’s not like the blindfold.”

“All right. Listen, I trust you, Scott. Keep your eyes closed.” Charles whisked off his mittens and gloves, then flicked the clasps on the goggles’ sides and back. “Keep them closed …” Deftly, he tugged the goggles away; wiped Scott’s face with the soft lining of a mitten. “Better?”

“Yes.”

Charles wiped the lenses. “Hank, can you put these back on him?”

Hank did so. Then Scott ran to the trees, joining Armando and Logan there. Irritably, Charles tugged Kurt up into his arms and gave him a pat on the back; anything to stop the crying. “We’ll go back inside. Hank, you find Jean. Tonight, we can have a chat in the library.”

Charles had waited to set out until he sensed Hank’s mind, hovering indecisively on the library’s threshold. Even so, it took using his veils to sneak past Logan standing guard.

He closed the library door and mimed silence. Then pointed to the northwest corner.

Slowly, Hank followed him. The whites of his eyes showed when Charles pressed catch and shelf simultaneously and the hidden door revolved inward. Charles stuffed a book in the open space and crossed his arms in front of him. “What did you say on the telephone?”

“Just what you told me to.”

“And what did she say?”

“… Nothing much. We talked about you, and then about Scott. I told her nothing really happened, but I don’t think she believed me.”

“So you think that when you fall asleep, she’ll go into your mind?”

Hank nodded.

“Like she’s done before. Let me guess: she did this in Dallas?”

“How did you –” tumbled out of Hank’s mouth, before he snapped it shut, turning crimson.

“You’re an open book, my friend. Now: this doesn’t go any further than myself. How close was Frost, when she read your mind like that?”

“Um.” Hank’s voice cracked. “Close.”

“How close?”

“Next to where I was sleeping.”

“I only ask, because she’s not going to be that close in the near future, is she?”

“No.”

“I don’t mean anything personal between the two of you. I mean coming here: geographically. Where is she now?”

“Albany.”

“Closer and closer, but not close enough to do now what she did then. For do you know what I think, Hank? I think that I am going to take a stroll around your mind this evening. Not inside. Just walking the perimeter.” Charles raised his eyebrows. “If that’s all right with you.”

Slowly, Hank nodded. “As long as you don’t go in.”

“I won’t. And she won’t get past me. I promise.”

“… As long as you’re sure.” Hank would not meet his eyes.

Charles considered him. Hank looked well enough. He had gained back some of the weight he had lost in the autumn and winter, resembling altogether less a scarecrow and more a man. But if Frost had done what Charles thought she had done, what Logan had said she had done …

Poor Hank. Put through his paces and cast aside: he had to have been upbraiding himself ever since.

“It can be difficult, can’t it?” said Charles, gently. “In an affair of hearts, when one party calls everything off … for no apparent reason?”

“How did you know?” Hank whispered.

Gentle. Careful. “Intuition. Instinct. The experience of a long and disreputable career.” He arched an eyebrow; sent a golden thread of tell me tell me trust me.

For the same instinct was telling him that Hank desperately wanted to be comforted. Come on.

“… She said that I wasn’t any good.”

“Any good?”

Hank had pressed his lips together. He looked nothing but humiliated.

“At sex?”

A silent nod.

And there was the shine of tears, behind glasses. Shite. Thank God he wouldn’t have to have this talk with Kurt or Scott for a dozen years at least.

“That was abominably rude of her. Keep this in mind for the future. Even if you think it’s true – that someone is hopeless in bed – you never say it out loud. Good manners are everything in this our dying world. And come to think of it, had you ever had sex before?”

“No,” Hank gulped.

“All the worse on her part. Recall for me what you have done. With Forge, you’ve made these goggles for Scott in record time, in addition to that device for Alex. With your colleagues in Durham, you’ve turned that nuclear weapon we took from the West into – is it fuel for a nuclear power plant, now?”

“I think so.”

“That’s brilliant! You’ve improved the Finder. You’ve designed countless other things, I’m sure. Hell, Hank, you restarted the bloody Gulf Stream –”

“Vulcana and Riptide did most of –”

“Take the compliment.”

“… Thanks.”

“The most beautiful woman in the world would be proud to have the favor of someone as brilliant as you. The entirety of Great Britain owes its present existence to your work. Just think – an entire kingdom, grateful to you. I’m sure its Queen is grateful too. And she’s a sight better than a queen who tries on men like she does shoes.”

“I don’t think Lady Frost is like that, Charles.”

“Take the blinders off, Hank. I say that judging by the way she’s treated you, She’s an appallingly rude trollop. Even if she thinks she knows what she’s doing – in bed, I mean.”

Hank glanced towards the door, panicked. Charles bit back a laugh. “Does she?”

“Um. I don’t think I should, ah.”

“True – a gentleman should never kiss and tell. Really, though, consider her other lovers. Almaz, who can’t hold onto his own country. Azazel, who can’t stay sober more than half the time. MacMurphy, who was bastard enough to have bombed China, Before –”

“She –” Hank’s eyes had widened. “With Azazel? And with MacMurphy?”

“Actually, I’m not sure.”

Azazel – it was possible; they seemed in each other’s pockets. Charles let the memories unspool: Azazel calling – right on time, little one, and Frost laughing – you’ve no business calling me that. And there was the memory of MacMurphy, shaking his head, rigid, at a crystal goblet Frost held out – over Jean, snug on her lap – but that memory was edged by Erik, holding Jean on his lap, face haggard –

Charles shoved the memories away. “Whatever the list, do you know who holds pride of place? A man named Sebastian Shaw. What do you know about him, Hank?”

“Not a lot. Why?”

“I was just curious. There are several books in this library that belong to him,” Charles gestured towards the hidden door, and started walking. Hank fell into line behind him. “I wondered what sort of person Frost would have fallen in love with. That’s what she told me in Las Vegas, you know; that she had loved him.”

“In Las Vegas …” Hank looked anguished. “She didn’t … with you. Did she?”

“What, have sex? Heavens, no. We’ve an understanding, she and I.”

“Good. I was worried about you.”

“That’s most kind.” Charles patted his back. Such a limited imagination, his thoughts whispered, snide. Hank had not even considered that Frost would force him to fuck a third party. “In any case, what do you know about this Sebastian person?”

“He was a mutant, like us.”

“I thought he might have been.” Charles closed up the hidden room, listening attentively. “What was his ability?”

“Something to do with energy, I think. Lady Frost gave me drinks, the second night I stayed in Dallas,” Hank started blushing again, “and she drank, too. She told me a bit about him, then. Do you know about the Tunguska Event?”

“I can’t say that I do.”

“It was an explosion in Siberia, in 1908. Some scientists thought it was from a meteor or a comet – it registered across Europe as an earthquake. Lady Frost said to me that it was the scientists in the Soviet Union that Was who wanted to know more about it – but that the government already knew all it needed to.”

“Which government? 1908 and 1930 saw régimes quite different in that area of the world.”

“I know. She said that the Tsar refused to give Shaw anything separately, in the Revolution of 1905 –”

“He revolted along with the people? How very equal-minded.”

“He led a faction, she said, after sitting in the Duma – but no one would make a treaty with him. So he told the Tsar he was going to demonstrate what he could do, and then he, well, made that explosion in Siberia.”

Charles digested this. “Did he have Azazel to hand?” he said, finally.

“Azazel’s loyalty is to the Frost family. The Morozovs.”

“He told me that already.”

“And,” said Hank, “Shaw didn’t meet Frost until the second war was almost over.”

“Then that story sounds like nonsense. How would the Tsar see something in Siberia from so far west in Russia?”

“I assumed Shaw sent a vision of it through a telepath –”

“You remember that Frost wasn’t even born until 1928.”

“ – or he had another kind of teleporter there? Or something? Or maybe he did something else, too, where the Tsar could see. In the end, though, he got everything he asked for from the government. Lady Frost showed me a few things that he had given her. She said I could have whichever I wanted.”

In another life, Charles might have thought it hilarious that he did not possess a monopoly on inappropriate tokens offered. Frost and Erik – did they have bloody suitcases of the things? “What did you take?”

“I didn’t want anything. But Shaw – she said that when Shaw let the next few Russian governments know about what he could do, they gave him whatever he asked for.”

“Which was?”

“Money, mostly.” Hank shrugged. “At least, I think so. Lady Frost said they paid him to go live in Italy in the 1920s – far away from them.”

“Money and an Italian villa? What a conventional imagination.”

“Frost said that later on he wanted the Finder, to use … and Azazel, as a servant.”

“That’s a little more ambitious. And he obtained them?”

“She had both. So to get them …” Hank blinked behind his glasses. “She told me that that’s what he did. Once he asked her, she used the Finder for him and let him tell Azazel what to do.”

“How could Azazel let himself be used?” Really, Charles had thought better of him, casual sadism and bad breath notwithstanding.

“I think … He’s Sworn, but to her family, somehow. You’d have to ask him. But I’ve never seen him able to refuse to do something she orders him to do. And I’ve seen them together a lot.”

Charles opened his mouth to refute Hank. Then he realized – he couldn’t.

Azazel’s words echoed in his memory: Family history …

“So, Shaw made Frost use the Finder for him? And used Azazel for his own nefarious purposes? Truly?”

“She said he tricked her into it.” Hank frowned, concentrating. “She said that he made her think he loved her, so she would do things for him.”

“I can’t picture her doling out such favors right and left, let alone being tricked so. Such naïveté …” Charles shook his head. “Not Emma.”

“She said it was because she was –”

“ – young. I’ll bet that’s what she said, hm?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s obvious. That whole story? She was setting it up for you to give all the sympathy to her, and then to fall into bed with her.” Charles gave mock applause.

“You don’t believe her, then?”

“I don’t believe she would give the Finder’s power and a teleporter to someone else. Not without something in it for herself. It’s a powerful story, though, so I can’t blame you for allowing yourself to be persuaded by it.”

Hank was silent.

Poor Hank. Charles moderated his tone. “That is … I don’t blame you for anything you did in this matter. If indeed there was anything blameworthy in it, at all.”

“I had wondered.”

“Wondered what?”

“I just … I’m not used to drinking that much, Mr. Xavier. You remember last year, don’t you?” Hank looked miserable. “And then I woke up, and we were in bed. And I didn’t remember getting there.”

Charles’ thoughts slowed. “What?”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

“Wait.” Scrubbing one hand through his hair, Charles refocused. “Hank …”

One corner of Hank’s mouth trembled.

“Just let me clarify one thing. Which, perhaps I ought to have clarified first. At any point in this, did Frost ask you if you wanted to go to bed with her?”

“… I don’t remember.”

Fuck. “At any point, did you tell her so?”

Hank looked at the floor.

“But ... this entire ... I thought you had wanted to, Hank.”

“I guess I must have.”

“If you didn’t,” Charles snapped, “you didn’t. Tell me the truth.”

“Part of me did, maybe? She’s very beautiful. But part of me – a lot of me … I didn’t really know what was happening. So when I woke up, and she was there, I just. I don’t know. I haven’t told anyone this, Mr. Xavier. Just you.” Hank took off his glasses and tried to polish them – caught them, before they could fall to the floor. “I still don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll tell you what to do.” Charles knew that his anger was speaking. Sod it. “Sleep peacefully. Don’t worry about her, because she won’t touch you, or your mind. Not when I’m here. All right?”

“… but how can you be sure?”

“God damn it, I can be sure of very few things in my life, but I am positive that I can keep her from you.” Charles held out his hand. “Do you trust me?”

There was no hesitation as Hank took his hand, and shook it. “I trust you.”

In his reading room that night, Charles waited quietly.

He reviewed the evening. Armando returning late from walking the perimeter, tight-lipped and silent. Hank’s pensive quiet at dinner. Logan’s one-man comedy routine and the children’s delighted laughter.

Why didn’t you tell me this before? he had asked Hank on the way back from the library. Before you went back to Durham, or on the road to Albany, or before I went to Las Vegas. You could have told me any time – I could have helped you.

Hank had shaken his head. I didn’t want to.

Why now?

Sometimes when I remember it, it’s different. But when I talk to her, when I’m by myself …. Hank’s shoulders had hunched up, again. It all comes back.

Charles concentrated in the dark and quiet, unspooling power from his mind – threading his aviary’s wings and letting them fly far and wide.

I said I would guard your mind, and not go inside, he had said. May I ask one thing, though?

Hank had nodded, warily.

If I send something – a part of me, he clarified, flying to you – would you allow me to see if Frost has left anything in your thoughts? I promise: it would only be to check. In and out. You said you trusted me.

I do, Hank had said. You can check. Just let me know, O.K.? I don’t want to be asleep when you do it.

Charles would do precisely that.

He had chosen his owl. Wings of down, silent and sure …. “You know what to look for,” he had whispered to it. “Fly quickly.”

The owl had flown to Hank’s mind. Had aligned itself with – lovely – the blue fractal, branching into additional formulae, twining into a helix and unspooling into what could be the bonds of some complex carbon. Floating over it all, the owl had searched with its powerful sight.

And found nothing.

Charles had double- and triple-checked, until his owl had felt affronted. “Thank you,” he had said. “You’ve done well.” And thank God, she hadn’t wanted to get her hooks into Hank’s thoughts, for whatever reason.

Nothing worthwhile, Randolph – except your life, except your life, except your life, slithered out of his memory. Charles could have sworn his owl had caught that fragment in its talons and flown it back into his mind before it could touch Hank. Good work.

He had wrapped Hank’s mind in veil after soft veil of protection. Had woven shields that stretched between the two of them, connecting them in sleep. Thus Frost, checking Hank’s memory for truth and accuracy, would be slowed, if not caught outright, by his delicate web. She might make a virtue of necessity, and pay him a visit. Or … she might want to drift to his mind, and pay him a very long visit indeed. It depended on how enticing he could make it.

“The glass of fashion,” he told himself, checking the mirror. He knew he was wearing his armor, just as he knew that Frost would see his evening suit. “The mould of form.”

The first chill took him by surprise.

“A poorly-insulated mould, I suppose. Damn. And we have to put out the fire!” Charles scrambled for his golden chair; draped himself across it. “Darlings, we have our play to play out. Hurry up.” Frost can be fooled.

Arrowing over from making his fire vanish, his raven screeched at him.

“I’ll be careful. And you, control yourself. Or if you can’t, go to the pillar and fly there. Guard it for me.”

A good number of the birds made a cacophony and flew – or waddled – for the hidden room. His owl flew more slowly; Charles felt anxious, watching. “Take care, won’t you?”

His raven flapped its wings. Soon, only his nightingale and dove remained.

“Sing for me,” Charles told the nightingale. “And you,” he murmured to his dove, “could you rest here? Pretend to sleep, just as I do."

The nightingale sang. Charles did his best to relax; he closed his eyes. But it was more difficult than he thought it would be, to let his veils open to her touch.

She had wafted across the outside of Hank’s mind. And now he felt every movement of Frost’s power slipping round his defenses and sliding into his mind. Rippling chills stroked the folds of his veils as she pressed in.

“She’s done this to other people, of course.” Charles focused on the nightingale’s golden song. “I suppose she wants them – relaxed.”

Or asleep. For every touch of ice closing in was easing him to sleep – sleep –

“Not likely,” he hissed.

In his hands, his dove warbled at him, anxious.

“It will be all right, my love. Just let her find her way here.”

It took some time.

Charles supposed that if his mind’s eye were open, he would see Frost floating down through the great window of his reading room. Again. Touching her diamond slippers to the floor, and trailing gorgeous light, silk, and crystalline dust into his mind.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then he heard quiet footsteps.

They were not approaching him. No: they were moving away, even as she exhaled in a long sigh and the room’s temperature dropped.

Oh, he would not have that. Charles faked a shiver, and a mumble of discomfort. He shifted where he sat.

From half a room away, she heard him. Charles hardly had time to marvel before Frost whispered, “Charles?”

“Hm?”

“Are you awake?”

He gave the impression of considering the question. Then Charles faked a yawn. “I’m tired.”

There was no answer. No sound, really, which meant she was staying quite still.

Carefully, he opened his eyes to slits. He saw Frost’s shining gown glowing in the dark, scattering silent crystal motes with every breath she took. Sound stupid; sound asleep – Charles did his best to project through the room a warm, thick tiredness; like a down comforter wrapping round a child’s shoulders. “Why are you here?”

“But I’m not. You’re dreaming, aren’t you?”

“Dreaming?”

“You are dreaming.”

“Oh. I’m dreaming. That’s lovely.”

The shimmering light of her gown moved.

Charles made himself more comfortable in the chair, holding his dove beneath his chin. He could feel the trembling through his throat. “Why’re you in my dream?”

The light stopped. “I’m not sure. Have you ever dreamed of me before, Charles?”

“Oh, yes.” Sound like you’re smiling. In your sleep. “Several times.”

“Really?”

It was uncanny, seeing the gown move, from beneath nearly-closed lids: as though shattered pieces of glass were coalescing and shivering apart simultaneously, a kaleidoscope of cold, moving uncommonly quickly across his mind.

“Emma? I’m getting cold.”

“But I am overly warm,” she murmured back. “I’ve tried to make it less stagnant in here, Charles; several times. It never works. How have you managed to counter me?”

“Hmm, don’t know.” Another yawn, faked. Charles smacked his lips together; angled his head so that a fall of his hair brushed his nightingale.

His nightingale … that was still singing, bless its brave, stupid heart.

“These precious little beauties,” Frost said. “Is that how?”

“Mirror mirror on the wall …”

The footsteps stopped. Ha. Even the silence sounded puzzled – or thick. Well, she could puzzle away, until she remembered that dreams didn’t have to make a jot of sense.

She inferred it quickly, though. Damn.

“… Who’s the fairest one of all? Are you calling me an evil stepmother? What stories has Jean been reading?”

“Reads backwards,” Charles mumbled.

Frost was silent again. But that, he understood. Jean’s habit didn’t make a jot of sense to him, either.

He felt her come closer. Charles stirred; tried to look like he was sitting up. He expected to open his eyes and see that she had found a seat, but she was still standing.

“Lady?” he said.

Frost inclined her head.

“Why am I dreaming about you like this?”

Bare shoulders lifted in a delicate shrug.

“Where are you? Sleeping, right now, I mean.”

“Albany, Charles.”

“And why are you here?”

“Why not?”

Stalemate. “Will you need the Finder, Lady?”

“I had thought to come use it tomorrow. My reports from Denver say that the Free West is planning something on a larger scale. I need to know what it is, Charles. And all I have here is the Seeker.”

Charles smiled, broadly. “It will be marvelous to see you.”

“… Really?”

“Really and truly.”

“It hasn’t been so long, has it?”

“I left you in Las Vegas on the twelfth. That was more than two weeks ago.”

He expected her to say something. But all that happened was that she turned, just so, and he saw nothing but her profile, and, in the gleam of her eye, her gaze flicking about.

And that lasted a while.

Damn. If she got bored and left, she could go back to Hank. So Charles reached out one hand. “Emma?”

“Yes?”

“Your hand. May I have it?”

Silently, she placed her fingertips on his gauntlet. Well, what he saw as a gauntlet. Charles concentrated on the discrepancy – on anything else – as he brought her hand to his lips. “I’ve missed you.”

And that silence had to be shock.

Ha. He glanced up at her face as he brushed his mouth over her knuckles, curled her fingers beneath his chin, pressed the back of her hand against his pulse. “Have you missed me?”

His dove fluttered next to their intertwined hands. Frost slipped hers away.

“Oh, dear. It just means to say,” he lied, “that it missed you too.”

Would she believe it?

The nightingale had stopped singing; both birds had fixed their eyes on Frost. Who, Charles saw, was very pale – even for her – against the warm darkness of his reading room. The blue shadows on her skin looked pronounced … cheekbone, clavicle … cleavage.

Charles let himself stare. It was supposed to be his dream, after all.

“What are you thinking, Charles?”

“That you are rather exquisitely beautiful.”

She had gone completely still. It was uncanny. Unnerving.

Could she hear the lie? Had that been a mistake? Charles scrabbled for anything to break the silence. “How are you enjoying my mind?”

“Very much. I always do.”

Frost smoothed over the soft fall of her gown. Then she turned away, quickly; touched the topmost book on a heap close to her. And opened it.

“Ah, wait a moment,” said Charles. “That’s private.”

“… But that’s Sebastian."

Fuck. “Who?” he tried.

She held up the memory, open, and extended it to him with one hand.

It had changed. It still showed the photograph from the binder, yes, but the figure of Shaw had changed from grey to the rust-red shade of dried blood, oozing color to contaminate the others.

“Charles.” Frost’s voice was flat. “What have you been doing.”

“Just thinking –”

“No.”

Charles shuddered. For Frost had turned back to face him dead on – but had closed her eyes. Beneath the lids, he saw something bright, flickering. “When I first saw you, after I gave you to Erik … I asked if Erik had told you about Sebastian.”

“I know, but –”

“And you said nothing.”

“ – my lady, I didn’t know his name. I didn’t know. You told me yourself, who he was, in Las Vegas, and I didn’t make the connection until then.”

Charles shrank back into his golden chair as Frost’s eyes snapped open, staring down at him. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

Fly, he told his dove and nightingale. They did not need to be told twice, and made their escape in a flash.

“What have you been doing, Charles? Tell me the truth.”

“I …”

Part of it, perhaps. Enough to fool her – yes, to lure her in, to focus on him and not on Hank, on Scott, on anyone else. “I was looking, because …” He licked his lips. “I had wondered, Emma, why you would have loved the man who started World War Three.”

She went still again.

Then Charles almost jumped out of his skin as she vanished and reappeared – right in front of him, fuck. No glowing light or cascades of ice dust. Very like Jean’s habit – no fuss, no fanfare – except now he had to concentrate on not pissing himself.

“And who told you that?” she whispered.

“You did.” He would not look at her index finger, coming up to land on his sternum. He edged away as best he could; winced as the touch burned cold against his armor.

“Not about love.” She was leaning closer, eyes glittering. “About the war.”

He swallowed.

“Who was it, Charles?” Frost let her eyes fall shut once more. Charles saw that same brightness, flickering beneath. This close, he could also see strands of her hair, falling loose from the sweep held up by her crown. This close, they looked – sharp.

“Emma?”

She opened her eyes and focused back on him.

“I would like to wake up now.”

“You don’t want to know anything more, Charles? I’m right here. Why don’t you ask me?” She flattened her hand against his chest. “I have forgotten more about it than anyone else will ever know.”

His armor crackled, sending up energy –

Fine. “How could you love a man like him, Emma? That’s all I want to know. Before you took me to you, I was an historian, and the Third War … No one knows anything about it; the answers were thought destroyed. Answers like Shaw are worth so much. No one else knows, really. I love that I know –”

He let himself ramble. There had to be some truth, after all, if this were his dream. Otherwise she would never believe it.

“I know what you are, Emma, and so … how could you ever love Sebastian Shaw?”

“And what am I?”

“I can’t possibly describe it.”

“Try.”

“You’re a true queen.”

Frost blinked.

“You’ve seen so much. You’ve done so much. You’ve had to make … so many difficult choices, for your people.” Sound enthralled. “More than Britain’s queen ever has. And I thought … I know I was angry and afraid, at first. But now I think …”

“What do you think?” she whispered.

“ … I think you’re a wondrous creature, Emma,” Charles whispered in reply. “So how could you love him? He was evil, my Queen. How could you ever, possibly love him?”

Frost stared at him, silently, for quite some while.

Then she said: “I think I need to see you, Charles.”

“Ah?”

“And soon.”

Charles gulped. “I think I need to wake up.”

Her hand moved up to the base of his neck. Her breath, cold, burned his chin. “When you do, you will forget this little conversation we have had.”

Charles kicked his head back and gritted his teeth against a whine of pain – there was ice, sharp, prickling all over his bare flesh of his throat and the fabric of his golden chair, radiating out from where she touched him.

“Do you understand me?”

Raven. He threw out the command. Fly to me. Hurry.

A distant clamor started. At the sound of screeching and of wings, Frost’s head snapped up. Her hand tightened; he could not breathe.

“You will forget, Charles. That is my command. Now: wake up.”

Doing so, Charles almost fell out of bed. A sharp edge of pain stabbed up from the base of his skull, but he did not feel the need to vomit. Small steps.

“Hank’s safe,” he mumbled to himself. Throwing his power over the manor like a net showed him no sign of Frost’s. “Everyone’s safe. For God’s sake, Raven, start the fire again. I hope you had a bloody good reason for leaving those books out.”

Raven must have started the fire, for his headache faded by the morning. And falling back asleep was no threat: Charles remembered everything when he woke up again.

So it was difficult to pretend he had forgotten, when Frost showed up at the manor door as they were sitting down to breakfast.

“Finish that, darling,” Charles told Jean.

Jean had climbed to her knees on the booth's velvet cushion. She was staring at the bustle outside the window, her hands pressed to the glass.

“Jean.” He took her silver spoon and tapped the china cup with it.

Obediently, Jean sat back down. She smiled up at him. There’s so many people!

“I know.”

The number of pedestrians had increased as the day had advanced. Charles felt every single mind as a burst of frenetic thought, quickly passing by. He sipped at his chocolate, hyper aware of the chili powder stirred in. “Do finish, won't you?”

After Jean did, he carefully wiped away the chocolate on her mouth with a linen napkin.

Frost had collected them both, waving off Logan’s questions and ignoring the others outright. She had bypassed his own protests about security, about the children – had taken his arm in her strong grip and hustled him down the hallway. Azazel will guard me. You will watch Jean. I’m to meet Edward Spencer today – do you remember him?

Charles had nodded, helplessly, as she had told Azazel, To Boston, comrade, and hurry.

Azazel had grimaced and taken their hands. And Charles had promptly felt his gut trying to turn inside out as the four of them teleported to –

“Boston,” Charles murmured, watching the people. “To think that we’re here.”

Not for long, Frost had said, cheerfully. But I must go to Divine Service – this is the only proper cathedral in the East. Edward will just have to keep up. He’ll meet us there, comrade.

Charles focused on his cup of chocolate. “Did you like yours, Jean?”

Jean nodded. It’s like the cake we made.

“Indeed it is.”

Frost had deposited them at a luxurious chocolate shop. Order what you like; I have an account. And Charles had merely stared after her as she had walked away up the street, Azazel slouching in her wake. His mouth and eyes had both been wide in dismay, no doubt.

He must have looked like an idiot.

“Well.” Charles plucked at the monogrammed napkin. Hancock’s Chocolate. He glanced at the clock. “It’s noon. Three hours, she said. They should be done any minute now.”

Jean was balancing sugar cubes, one on top of another.

Be careful, now, Charles sent to her. Use your hands, and not your power.

She nodded.

Power. He sighed, considering the exercise of the morning. He had set thought-fires all around the manor just as Frost was dragging him out the door, but the jaunt to Boston had snapped the connection. Finding them again had been quite difficult. He had focused for an hour; had exchanged perhaps five sentences with Jean. Now, from so far away, his awareness of them was tenuous at best.

At least he had chocolate for consolation.

The bell at the door jangled.

“May I help you, sir?” the server squeaked.

It was Azazel, who had to be a familiar sight, since no one in the shop was screaming. Not that there were many there. Odd, since the chocolate was delicious.

Azazel waved the server away, irritably, and flopped into the booth next to Jean. “Morning, Xavier.”

Charles checked the clock again. “Good afternoon, now.”

“Huh.” Azazel gave every impression of – setting up for a nap?

“Are you joking?” Charles hissed.

“Hm?”

“You can’t sleep. I want to talk to you.”

“Too bad,” Azazel grunted, and closed his eyes.

Gritting his teeth, Charles redirected his frustration. Why would Frost abscond with him like this? Any warm body would do, to entertain Jean. He was needed at the manor. Why bring him here and do nothing – especially after her visit to his mind? He did not know what to make of it. Her face had been difficult to read. The most vivid impression had been left – Charles winced – by her hand on his throat.

Still, that was nothing compared to Erik choking him in reality.

Charles considered the scrollwork on his spoon; licked up the sweet dregs of the chocolate. He had not thought of Erik for some time … as was appropriate. Less of Erik, more of Shaw – and now, away from the library, he had no way of continuing his search –

Perhaps that was it.

Charles flicked the spoon with a fingernail, disquieted. He had wanted Frost’s attention on him, away from Hank and Scott. Perhaps his research into Shaw had obtained that attention, and then some.

Though was it worth decreasing security at the manor?

Erik. He stiffened. Perhaps that was it – Erik would replace him at the manor. Or, since his playing nice with more than one person at a time was beyond the realms of possibility, he would no doubt replace him … in the woods. Roaming and hunting, tracking and killing – or bringing captives back to the stable, and amusing himself there.

If that were so, then Frost was keeping him safe. “Joy,” Charles mumbled.

He glanced over at Azazel, now breathing through his mouth, dead to the world. Then at Jean, who had built herself a ziggurat of sugar cubes. She met his eyes. The corner of her mouth curled up in her fern-tendril smile.

That smile …. It was very like –

Charles forced the memory away and locked it up fast. He gave Jean a smile in return.

Back to Shaw. Erik was broken. Azazel would not be forthcoming with details. Emma was Emma … but she had answers. The trick would be sorting through the lies decorating them. It was a good thing he was not as easily tricked as Hank.

Small comfort, he thought, as his eyes fell on Emma herself, sashaying up the street like a show pony. Edward Spencer, in her wake, looked overwhelmed.

Charles smiled tightly at Jean. Wake Mr. Neyafim, won’t you? he sent. We’ll be going soon.

“You weren’t guarding Frost?” he whispered to Azazel, that afternoon.

“She can take care of herself.”

“But Spencer –”

Azazel sneered. “He’s a gnat.”

Charles peered at Spencer. He had his hands pressed to a glass barrier, through which he was gazing with wide eyes. Much like Jean, at Hancock’s, through the window.

Except Spencer was staring at the original Declaration of Independence.

“Or so you say it is,” Charles muttered at Frost’s back.

“Do you doubt me, Charles?” She strolled up to him, made a moue, and straightened his tie. She had hardly left him any time to change into something respectable, mind you, before dragging him away that morning.

“I don’t know, Emma. It’s been – how long, since you told me the truth?”

“I did in Las Vegas. Was it that long ago?”

“You left me there on the twelfth,” Charles said, peering at Spencer. “In the hotel, by myself. They could have attacked me when you were gone.”

“Nonsense. Howlett was there the entire time. And Azazel moves quickly.”

“For God’s sake,” came a growl. “Are we done yet?”

Radi boga – Jean must have known it. Which meant, Charles supposed, that it was less offensive than Azazel’s usual. At least he had a sense of what was appropriate in front of a child, a guest, and the Declaration of Independence.

“Comrade, hush. Let our Free West friend commune with the greatness of democracy – although really, there are more impressive things. Look, Charles. There,” she gestured at the wall adjacent, “is one of the earliest orreries built on this continent. Much more splendid than any piece of parchment, don’t you think?”

Charles pitched his whisper to carry. “Where are we, anyway?”

Emma looked stern – but then caught the ruse, flicked her eyes to Spencer’s back, and gave Charles a wink. “It’s a secret,” she stage-whispered back.

“You can tell me.”

“Charles, you can’t expect me to tell you secrets just because you look very handsome today.”

“Thank you, I think. You look lovely, too.”

Emma smiled at him, demure.

“I missed you,” he whispered – and had that been a shiver?

If so, she covered it well. “Let’s disconcert him,” Emma whispered in truth. “On the count of three” – Jean, Charles heard her send, you as well: turn to look. One – two – three.

They turned their heads to stare at Spencer, simultaneously. He had only just glanced over his shoulder. And Charles commended his self-control: he could paste a smile on his face, walk over to them, and manage, “My thanks, Your Majesty.”

“Now Edward, I should remind you: that Declaration could be part of our negotiations. All you have to do is tell my friend William so.”

“If I can, Lady,” and Spencer bowed over her hand, “I will.”

Charles stared. Emma shot him a mischievous look above Spencer’s head.

Shite. The Olympics, when reinstated, would have a Free West contender for the gold in gallantry. And there that contender went, holding the bloody door for her.

“Come along, Jean,” Charles sighed.

Jean slid off George Washington’s chair and scampered to his side.

Perhaps they had just been in Philadelphia, Charles thought, desperately, as Azazel teleported them all away. Philadelphia, left pulverized just as much as Boston, but – like Boston – with a salvageable center? Or high ground? Somewhere that would have treasures of the former colonies, all in one place …. He could hardly think. He felt sick, disoriented, as they materialized in Albany’s City Hall. Too much.

“Goodness, Charles, you look unwell. Comrade,” in Russian, “could you watch Jean for a moment? She’ll be going soon. I must speak to her first.”

“He speaks Russian, Comrade,” said Azazel, jabbing his tail at Spencer. “Remember?”

“Of course.” Emma gave Spencer a dazzling smile. “He followed the liturgy very well this morning.”

“Thank you. It’s a shame to leave Professor Xavier out of our speaking, though.”

“You want the word ‘conversation’ there, Edward. And Charles needs his rest. He’s been exerting himself,” she said in an undertone. “The changes I made to the Finder, you understand.”

Spencer looked poleaxed. Emma smiled brightly, and switched to English. “We’ll meet with the governors next. Charles, do rest. My room is upstairs; the staff will show you.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, woodenly. “Mr. Spencer. A pleasure.”

“Likewise.”

The two of them left; Azazel and Jean left. Charles wobbled his way up the main staircase. He was intercepted by a maid in uniform; led to a receiving room, a parlor, a bedroom –

The maid left him there. Charles toed off his shoes and called Frost’s bluff completely by taking the bed.

Delegating the manor’s thought-fires deeper into his mind, Charles had set new ones on the thresholds of all the rooms surrounding him. Thus, he felt it instantly when Frost crossed the entryway, and he shook off his sleep by the time she opened the bedroom door.

“Emma? Is that you?”

“Good evening.” A dim light flared: the gas lamp on her vanity. The pale golden glow in the mirror was that same light, shining through a fall of Frost’s hair.

Charles sat up. “What time is it?”

“Just past seven o’clock.”

He watched, as she sat in front of the vanity and sighed, taking off her hat before she met his eyes in the mirror. “Nothing to say, Charles?”

“Not really.”

“So short with me,” she mused. “Did you sleep poorly?”

Charles shook his head.

He watched, silently, as she undid a catch at the top of her fur cloak, then shrugged it from her shoulders. She was wearing a tight jacket beneath, which she removed to reveal a low-cut bodice. Charles would have thought it not warm enough for the weather.

Frost took a box from a vanity drawer and fished out of it a few small containers and some cotton pads. “You don’t mind my taking a moment?”

“Not at all.”

“Good.”

She was very methodical about removing her makeup. It seemed most of it had been for her eyes – or, at least, she was focusing on them above all. Charles watched the play of her fingers, pressing, wiping, dabbing. The smeared pads accumulated. There was a joke about mountains that could be made, Charles knew, but Kurt was not there to appreciate it. He wondered whether the children had read any books that day. He wondered –

“Would you please fetch me some warm water, Charles? Through there.” Frost indicated one of the room’s interior doors.

Leaving the bed was like trying to escape a snowdrift, but he managed it. The rest was child’s play – indeed, he was as sweet and compliant as the children had ever been. Fetch, Charles thought to himself, sourly.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sighing as she washed her face, Frost said, “I would have thought you’d ask me about everything that happened today.”

Fine. Charles shrugged, and asked the first thing that came to mind. “Why meet Edward Spencer in Boston?”

“To give him a chance to make an intelligence drop. He left Divine Service for a good ten minutes this morning.”

Frost had buried her face in the thick towel. The moment of truth. Charles looked out of the corner of his eye. Discretion was everything in evaluating a woman with her mask off.

When she folded the towel … it was disconcerting, how little had changed. Perhaps her eyelashes were a shade lighter, but he could not be sure of it.

“That,” she continued, “and in a few weeks I have to sit in judgment at their stadium. It’s always practical to walk by the prison for some research.” She considered her image in the mirror. “Well?”

“I don’t know that you need cosmetics, Lady.”

She smiled at his reflection over her shoulder. “Flatterer.”

“It’s true.” He gestured at her flawless face. “Why use them?”

“Because it’s expected, and because I like them.”

“In that order?”

“No, not really. Charles, you can’t blame me for liking nice things.” She tapped her fingers on the vanity top. “Not without blaming yourself for the same.”

“I find judicious hypocrisy the best strategy, there.”

“Then welcome to the judiciary.”

“So, our great minds think alike?”

Frost laughed. “Hang these up.” She indicated her cloak and jacket. “And feel free to make yourself comfortable.”

Like hell. But Charles kept his expression placid as he obeyed her. He took off his suit jacket; placed the clothing on hooks near the bedroom door. Then he leaned back against the wall, pretended to shut his eyes, and started unknotting his tie.

From underneath his eyelashes, he could only just see how intently she was watching him.

“Jean got back to the manor safely, then?” he said.

Frost hummed.

“I promised the children a story. They’re frightened, with all of these new security measures …” Charles sighed. “Am I to remain here, Lady Frost? In Albany, I mean. Will the children be safe?”

“I had supper prepared … but it’s getting late, true. The children will be missing you. I can call Azazel; he’ll be here within seconds. Let me know when you wish to go back.”

Charles blinked his eyes open. She had turned away from him and back to the mirror. He only saw her shoulders; all that bare, pale skin gleaming above the bodice.

He had assumed she would … try something.

But there Frost sat, slipping ornaments out of her hair, reaching down to the buckles of her boots with a sigh – giving up the spindly chair as a bad job, and moving to the divan.

He watched her tug at her left boot for a moment. “Here,” said Charles, hanging up his tie. “Allow me.”

Kneeling, he realized that his instinct had been correct. For as he slid Frost’s boots off her feet, Charles felt her stare hit the back of his skull like a cosh.

“How very gallant of you.”

“It’s no trouble at all, my lady.” He placed the boots to the side. “Will you need anything to protect your stockings?”

“Fetch me a pair of slippers from the closet.”

Charles found the correct door on the second try, concealed his shock at the size of the bloody thing, and picked an innocuous pair of soft white slippers – one of at least twenty. He held them out for her approval.

When she nodded, it was easy enough to return to kneeling and to slide the slippers onto her stocking feet one at a time. She had, Charles noted, good ankles. Strong. After a moment, he let go the right one, sat back – settled his hands palm-down, just above his knees. And waited.

“Charles,” Frost murmured.

“Yes, Emma?”

“Now that you mention it, there is something I would speak to you about.”

He hadn’t mentioned anything, but Charles kept his poker face. “What is it?”

“I know what you’ve been doing in the manor library.”

“Tutoring.”

“That, and uncovering every book from the personal collection of my old acquaintance, Sebastian Shaw.”

“Who?”

“Come now, how absent a supervisor do you think I am? I know you’ve found those books. Though I don’t remember them being that interesting.”

Shite. She had corroborated the entire operation, somehow – or, Charles realized, she just did not want to reveal how she had traipsed through his mind just last night, and was hoping that he would reveal it instead. The latter. He would not smile, though the idea of Frost dashing about conducting research on her own all afternoon was amusing. “And how would you know that, Emma?”

“What if I said that Jean told me?”

“I would say that Jean is illiterate. Improving, yes – I’ve been teaching her since her birthday – but not up to listing book titles yet.”

“That’s true. But she can recognize a bookplate like Sebastian’s. She saw them in each volume. You’ve put them all in one bookcase.”

“How interesting.” Truly. She had used her discovery in his mind to triangulate – and done it damned fast, just by asking Jean.

“Caught out.” One corner of her mouth curled up in a smile. “Admit it.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. And besides, if I were to admit looking up this – who did you say he was?”

“Sebastian Shaw, Charles.”

“If I were to admit it, why would it matter?”

She settled more comfortably on the divan, crossing her legs. Charles leaned back to allow her space for the maneuver, and deliberately kept his eyes from the neat trim of her skirt – sliding up to reveal the press of one thigh on the other – an opaque press, given the white stockings, but as fine an effect as any Bernini, really –

“ – to me? Charles.”

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, meeting her eyes again. “I’m listening.”

“It would matter because Sebastian Shaw was a very remarkable, powerful, and deranged man. And I would not have anyone, especially someone I value, follow in his footsteps.”

“You value me?” Play along. “Is my ability to tutor so splendid?”

“You don’t know what it means to me, not to have to fret about the children.”

“Then I would like to take this opportunity to petition for something.”

“Later –”

“If it’s too much trouble to power the whole manor, then please let us have a gasoline generator. There’s gasoline for the trucks, somewhere, isn’t there? We could run small heaters off a generator; we could boil water much faster. Please, Emma. Your time in Solovki must have been dreadful – so cold, for so much of the year –”

“My little brother died from it.”

“… I’m so very sorry.”

Emma’s face showed nothing. “It was a long time ago.”

“Then … with your own brother dying … you must see what can happen to children in such conditions. Why not improve them? Putting them through the same ordeal you went through, when we can prevent it – it’s terrible.”

Habit allowed him to conclude with some patter about cruelty, while his mind caught fire with the knowledge that he was right. That she had to be recreating her childhood.

But why?

Charles controlled his flinch as she nudged his shoulder with one foot. “You care for them very deeply, don’t you?”

“For the children? Yes. I’ve always liked children in general, in my life. Perhaps it stemmed from losing my parents so young.”

“As so many of us did. You’ve never been a father yourself; not that I could find.”

“I certainly hope not. You’ve never been a mother?”

“Mm. Sebastian would have been an atrocious parent.”

Charles muffled the aviary’s clamor in his mind, gritting his teeth. Here the two of them were again: she wanted him to take the bait. Fine. This time, he bloody well would.

“If I had been researching Shaw … perhaps I heard you mention him … and felt intrigued. That’s all.”

“You only heard me mention him?”

“In Las Vegas, lady. But Logan did tell me about, and I quote, your ‘old cuckoo-bananas boyfriend.’ Is it the same person?”

“Really, how rude. So you concede?”

“If I do, will you take your foot off my shoulder?”

She laughed. And moved her foot. “Now?”

“Very well. I was reading what I could read of Shaw’s collection – but you need not fear for me on that point. No one person, however remarkable, could twist me into ideological lockstep through a mere book.”

“There you are, Professor. It’s been … how long, since I heard your voice? Perhaps when you were advising me on that tea party with Lady Stryker. Such wise counsel.”

Charles felt his shoulders twitch.

“Sebastian would have been impressed with you, I think. He would have offered you brandy and conversation, night after night. He would have insisted on hearing all of your ideas. He would have called you the most stunning mind he had found in his long life.” Sliding a languid hand along the frame of the divan, Emma sighed. “And then he would have twisted you into his ideology, given enough time. It was what he did best.”

“Really –”

“If you don’t believe me, why don’t you come and see for yourself?”

Emma uncrossed her legs and smiled.

She thought she had him. The flounder on the hook. It was thus permissible to stare at her, open-mouthed. “Beg pardon?”

“My mind, Charles. Come see. I’ll show you Sebastian, and I’ll show you why – twenty years after I disposed of him – I mistrust any trace of him remaining.”

It was not a lie, what she said. But it was not the truth. Instead, it was a grinding of the two together in his mind’s ear – a horrible quality.

“Your memories? Isn’t that rather personal?”

“You’ve been there before.”

“This sounds more serious, is all.”

“There’s such a thing as being too polite.” Emma waved one hand at the bed. “Lie down. It will be more comfortable for you.”

“As my lady wishes.”

Charles settled back onto the plush comforter. There was no need to fret. This happened every day: someone going to bed. And unlike poor Hank, he had protection against anything Frost could throw at him.

Emma’s mind was, as always, freezing cold and blindingly bright. Charles shaded his eyes with one gauntlet and looked round for her.

“Over here.”

Her voice echoed in a strange way. It could have been because she was at some distance: framed in his view by mounds of darker ice – standing quite still.

Charles set off towards the White Queen and slipped almost immediately. She did not laugh. Nor did she change their surroundings to something more welcoming, or come to help him. She remained in one place, looking elegant, as he scrambled for purchase on the ice.

They were situated in a part of the glacier with more stone than usual, jutting up at strange angles. His raven cried aloud and launched itself into flight.

“Am I wrong in thinking that this is different from my other visits, lady?” He climbed over a heap of snow, not falling. “Is there a special reason?”

“Other than my current companion?”

He sketched a bow from atop the heap – “Thank you very much for that” – and slid to her side. “But I thought you brought me here to meet an earlier one.”

“Yes, indeed. My Sebastian.”

Emma gazed out at white nothingness. She sighed. Then Charles swallowed hard as the glacier began to rumble and shake. He did not stumble or flinch as the ice in front of them began to collapse; he merely held up his hand. His raven banked, sharply, and began to fly back to him.

“What a pity. She looked so lovely against my sky.”

“You’ll have the memory of it, then. You understand, my lady.”

It was a relief to feel his raven’s talons dig through his gauntlet. Charles transferred it to his shoulder, where they could both watch the breakage give way to liquid: chunks of snow and ice swirling round in a circle, palest blue threading it faster and faster.

Emma glanced at his raven. “Can she behave herself in an enclosed space?”

“Why do you ask?”

With a gesture from her hand, the churning water parted around a huge, black cylinder. It shed fragments of ice and snow as it rose up. “I ask, because we’re moving to new quarters.”

“What is it?”

“A submarine. It’s perfectly safe.” Another gesture, and a gangplank unrolled from the tower and floated to their feet. “It may look fluid – the mind tends to be, after all – but the memories are perfectly solid ones. And you’ll have me there throughout.” Frost picked her way over the ice and stepped up to the gangplank. “Come along.”

Following her, Charles could not say what instinct prompted him to look down.

But there, deep in the water, he saw the paler silhouettes of blue-white hands – more than he could count – plucking at the submarine’s dark sides.

“Charles, come along.”

He checked that sword, shield, cloak, and raven were all secure – and followed.

The submarine was as chilly inside as out. As Charles followed the reflecting surfaces of Frost’s dress, cascading down the spiral staircase, he tried not to think of the water’s pressure on the hull. The occasional creak made him start; he looked for portholes or inner doors, but could see nothing as the walls pressed closer.

“Here. Come along.” She turned back to look at him, and walked through a wall to their right.

“Emma.” Charles swallowed hard. “That won’t take us out into the water, will it?”

The submarine’s metal vibrated with her laughter. Of course not.

Five white spots appeared on the wall. They turned into the lengths of fingers and thumb, then into a palm – and then Emma’s hand slid through the metal, disembodied. Come along.

Charles made sure his raven was safe on his shoulder. Then he took hold of the hand and allowed himself to be dragged through after her.

In the room on the other side, he spat out what tasted like bilge.

“Look,” said Emma.

Charles saw a man, richly dressed, striding up and down in front of a massive, ornate window on the far side of a table. It was a round table – the one from the library, Charles realized, with a shock. And the man was Sebastian Shaw, with fur trim on his collar and cuffs, smoothing his mustache with one thick finger. Charles saw the glint of a ring.

“More of a dandy than I expected,” he muttered.

“Shhh. Listen.”

Shaw seemed to be practicing a speech. “Genes are the key that unlocks the door to a new age. A new future for mankind. Evolution.”

“I forgot you don’t speak Russian.” Emma concentrated. The memory blurred, then cleared. “Now listen.”

He listened to Sebastian Shaw pontificate again. There was a phonograph playing in the background; something warbling and saccharine. All of Charles’ attention, though, was fixed on the slight boy sitting at the table: writing in a notebook with what looked like an antique fountain pen.

“Did you get that?” Shaw asked, kindly. “Let’s see.”

A finger landed on the notebook and twirled it round. Shaw read, his lips moving with no sound; then tsk’d. “Here. ‘Evolution’ with an ‘o’, not an ‘a’, Erik.”

For it was Erik. Charles stared. An Erik much younger and smaller, though with the promise of a larger frame inherent in his wrists and hands. An Erik staring straight ahead, green-grey eyes overlarge for his face, as Shaw circled around to the back of his chair.

Shaw brought the thumb and index finger of his right hand, touching, an inch from Erik’s left cheek.

Or – cheekbone. Erik was far too thin.

“For these mistakes, my boy? There’s just – a little – pip.”

Shaw flicked his index finger.

The side of Erik’s face collapsed.

“Oh God,” Charles yelped. “What –”

“It only looks like that,” Emma said, calmly. “When Sebastian used his power it could distort the object it acted upon, but in one’s vision only. It was nothing permanent.”

Erik was hunched over his notebook. Charles saw blood falling in gobbets from his nose; the blow must have affected the sinus cavities. “You were there, Emma?”

“How do you think I have this memory?” She pressed behind his left shoulder.

Charles looked to the right. There, in the shadows between two bookcases, he saw a much younger Emma. Her thin arms were full of books. She was standing quite still.

On his shoulder, the raven rustled its feathers.

“I watched that entire lesson. That, and many more like it.”

“When was this?”

“When I first arrived at Shaw’s manor. I had just turned seventeen. Erik was to be my student.”

“In that same library?”

She nodded.

“You saw this, and you did nothing to stop it?”

“What should I have done?”

“Said something? To have this happen to a child …”

She shot a glance at him. Veil veil veil – Raven flexed talons into his shoulder. Charles covered his true dismay with a show of disgust. “That’s how your precious prince came to be such a brute, isn’t it? Once he got big enough to hit back.”

“One never hit Sebastian back. His abilities made it futile.”

“What were they? I must say, I’m curious.”

“I was wondering when you would ask. You may come see. However, Charles …” Emma looked serious. “Your lovely little raven must stay behind.”

“What – no.”

“This is my domain; I know which memories can be dangerous in it. You’re perfectly safe with me, but I can’t account for her as well. Send her back to your mind.”

Charles hesitated.

“Now.”

“All right. Darling.” Turning to look directly at his raven, Charles pressed the words into its wing. If I need you, I will call for you. Then fly to me. “You had better go.”

The raven turned its head from where it watched Erik, and clacked its beak at Frost, sharply. Then, in the blink of an eye, it disappeared.

“… How very impressive.”

“I surely think so.” Sound vain. “I’ve had it practice traveling just like that, from wall to wall of my reading room.”

“How very repetitive, then.” Striding past, she grabbed his upper arm and pulled him out of the memory; back to the iron stair and then down another two turnings. Charles hurried to follow.

“Here. Come see Sebastian use his gift differently.”

They pushed through another wall, one throbbing in a way that set Charles’ teeth on edge. The room on the other side contained a dizzying array of reflecting surfaces. He tried not to miss his raven, and quickly resolved to stay still, lest he lose his balance and fall into the room’s center.

For there stood Shaw, both of his hands gliding over ….

Charles frowned. “What’s that?”

“The reactor core of a nuclear submarine.”

“Those existed? When was this?”

“1950.”

“I never knew they were invented that early. When, in 1950?”

“Before the war, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then how did Shaw come to use one?” Charles turned for a better look at the room. Dozens of fragments of himself stared back at him from the walls. “The Soviets let him have the pick of their weaponry? They had only just made a nuclear bomb in 1949.”

“In terms of bombs, Josef Vissarionovich knew there would be some delay in catching up to the Americans. It was mostly due to a lack of materials. And the methods he used, to make up for lost time …. You know, Charles, I came to realize that my family had been lucky to be moved to Solovki before the second war, not taken to Kolyma after. Ice on the one hand. Gold, platinum, and uranium on the other.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“Be patient.”

In front of them, Shaw had taken hold of two glowing rods extending from the reactor core. His face rippled, as if caught in a terrifying heat wave.

Charles knew that if he were in his physical body, in the real world, his own skin would be crawling. As it was, he just felt sick.

“Do you see now? Sebastian could absorb energy from anything. A punch thrown in a fight; a nuclear reactor …” She shook her head. “Anything and everything.”

“That’s still not an answer to my question, Emma. And even if he could absorb this much radiation, this is your memory. You’re watching. How did you survive it?”

“I wouldn’t want you to think me that resilient. I took this memory from him when he died.”

Her words rang with truth. Even so, he would clarify. “When you killed him?”

“To answer your original question: Stalin loaned his dear friend Shuvalov one of the first Soviet nuclear submarines because that dear friend had given him exactly what he wanted. Expertise. Materials. And eventually … one hundred nuclear bombs.” Emma shook her head. “It was at least a third of the bombs the Americans had already made. I never knew the exact figures.”

“How?”

“That’s where history gets very personal. Please don’t think I take any pride in it.” She lifted her eyes to his. “I had no idea he would do what he did.”

She was a very lovely sight. Fragile. Pure.

Unlike the surge of truth and lie together that her words had sent reverberating through him.

The room was rippling, shimmering all around them both. Charles fought off nausea. “Can we discuss this somewhere else?”

“Of course. This way.”

Charles followed her through the wall and down the staircase, walked through another wall, and took a shaky breath of fresh air in the next memory. It was dark, wherever they were, though the grey sky at the horizon could be the dawn. Crickets chirped. Somewhere nearby, he could hear water.

“Where are we now? And when?”

“Solovki, June of 1935.” Emma looked up at the sky. “I was seven years old. I liked to come to this creek when I was a child – I’m sure I’m here somewhere.”

“Please finish what you were telling me.”

She sat for a long moment, collecting her thoughts. Then sighed.

“Sebastian enjoyed great favor. A submarine, a country manor, a palace in Leningrad – countless people to wait on him wherever he went. That, and free rein to do what he wished with the talent he recruited to his side. Erik was his favorite among us. My own talent, you see, had already been shaped – and Azazel answered to me, not to him. Erik was more malleable.”

“I don’t want to hear about Lehnsherr. You said Shaw supplied Stalin with weaponry. How?”

“Subterfuge, sabotage, and then outright theft.”

“Such underhanded –”

“Audacious, I’d say. For example.” Emma smoothed one slipper over the grass, now visible in the dawn light. “The first major favor I did for Sebastian was take a midnight trip with Azazel, to Fort Bliss in Texas that Was. There, I met Wernher von Braun, and persuaded him and his family, his staff and their families, German expatriates all, to relocate to the Soviet Union.”

“Dare I ask how?”

“Does it matter? Azazel and I reached Fort Bliss at midnight, and we had them all snug in Moscow by evening the next day, Soviet time.”

“Wouldn’t American spies have noticed their presence there immediately?”

“Von Braun and his associates were taken to Metro-2, four hundred meters under the city. No escape, no communication – and no desire for either, since Sebastian had them separated them from their families.”

“Oh.”

“Herr Doktor Professor Von Braun.” Frost looked up at the sky. “The Americans had snatched him up from Germany in 1945 … and sat on him after, like the goose on the golden egg. I believe they were still sorting out his clearances.”

“Von Braun,” Charles’ catalogue finally came up with the connection, “who invented the V-2 rocket.”

“He invented many more such things in Moscow. Or under Moscow.”

“Under duress.”

“Recall who you are defending. V-2 rockets fell on London first, I understand.”

“Yes, but –”

“And you must understand: after all that happened on the Eastern Front, do you think the Soviet Union that Was liked it? That a prosperous capitalist country had joined the war just in time to take the juiciest plums from Germany?”

“I’m fairly sure the Americans saw it differently.”

Emma lifted one eyebrow. “That’s a given.”

“And – choicest fruit? Those scientists, after what they had done?” Charles shook his head. “They should have gone on trial instead.”

“Oh, my idealist. Trials don’t invent intercontinental missiles.”

His catalogue gave him another name he knew. “Why not Oppenheimer?”

“Von Braun’s presence in America was still a secret at that time. Oppenheimer was a public figure. Taking him would have provoked some sort of diplomatic incident.”

“I see.”

“In any case, given my memories of what Germany did to Stalingrad, it was my personal pleasure to deliver Von Braun to Josef Vissarionovich himself. I only wish I could have greeted him with the Finder. I would have liked to have made him crawl.”

“Emma …” Charles knelt at her feet. He took her hand. “Why are you so angry?”

For a brief moment, she stared at him as though he had lost his mind. Then she jerked her hand away. “I’ll pretend you didn’t ask that.”

“Please.” Slowly, carefully, he reached out again. He took her hand; brought it to his lips. “Why? You can tell me.”

The sun was rising. Frost was backlit by it, so he could not see her face, but after a while, he heard a quiet sniffle. “I …”

“You can tell me.” He put all the softness he could into his voice. “Emma …”

“Oh, Charles. I was under Moscow, too.”

Charles waited.

“I was …. I had rooms next to the Finder. I had Tesla as a tutor, but he died. I went above ground perhaps three times during the war, and only to have my photograph taken. I didn’t leave until Sebastian asked that I visit his estate. That was in 1945.”

“So from 1941 until that point,” Charles murmured, “you were buried alive.”

“I …”

Something hard landed on their joined hands, rolling into the crease where his palm met her knuckles.

“I’m sorry.” She slid her hand away; reached up to dab at her face – oh. Charles stared. She was crying, but instead of tears, jewels fell from her eyes. Crystals, or …

“If those are diamonds … My goodness. If you could do that in reality, my Queen, you’d be the richest woman on this green earth.”

Emma laughed through her tears. “I suppose so.”

The sun had risen. In the pale light, Charles saw how she rubbed at her eyes. “It’s too early for this.”

“How do you know?”

“I remember. It’s Solovki in June, so that light means that it’s three o’clock in the morning. I suppose I let my brother sleep, this time. Usually I would wake him up, to play.”

“So early?”

“It was the best time to watch the mist on the water. I’m sure I’m doing that, somewhere. Come along.”

Only three memories, and Charles felt exhausted.

What was she playing at?

If the plan had been to tire him out, it had worked. If it had been to overload him with information, it was working.

And if it had been to send his emotions into a tailspin …

Charles sensed that the sight in front of him might do the trick.

Emma had taken them to another memory – of a vast hall, full of warm, golden light. Charles turned round. Looked out, and up, and saw constellations sweeping across an aquamarine ceiling. “What is this place?”

“This is Grand Central Terminal, of New York City that Was.”

“I’ve only ever read about it. What year?”

“1946.”

“And how did you …”

There were so many people, Charles thought, staring. From his vantage point near the top of a grand marble staircase, he couldn’t think of counting them all. He knew he looked ridiculous, gaping. He didn’t care. All those people, intent on their travel beneath the watching constellations, setting the immense weight of marble, wood, and gold humming with life …

“… How did I?”

“Manage it,” he finished, around a lump in his throat.

Emma slid her hands along the marble rail in front of them, where the staircase split. “This was before Fort Bliss. Azazel liked Sebastian well enough in those early days – and Sebastian did ask.”

Watching the crowd flow around a round booth beneath them – topped, Charles saw, by an ornate clock – he considered, before turning back to her. “Is that quite true, Emma?”

“Caught.” Her smile was sad. “As Sebastian caught me. Can you imagine it? He told me he didn’t quite believe that anyone could cross the Atlantic in an instant, or that anyone could conceal two people in love from the viewing public. So … I decided to prove him wrong. And there he is.”

She pointed.

Beyond the clock, near the center of the terminal, stood a figure in a long fur coat. It had to be Sebastian Shaw.

Footsteps pattered on the single stair behind them.

“And there you are,” said Charles. He watched as a younger Emma traipsed by. “Your hat …”

“You’re hardly one to talk.”

“Did you use the entire polar bear, or just part of it?”

Emma swatted his arm. “Hush.”

They watched as the younger Emma walked, then broke into a run, to meet Sebastian Shaw. Laughing, Shaw swept her up in his grip and twirled her around, as though she were light as a feather.

“Very romantic,” said Charles.

“If I had known, then, what he would do …”

By this point, Charles decided, sighing, most of the bait was well into his gut. Nevertheless, “You’ve told me bits and pieces. Out with it. What did he do, Emma? Tell me, and I promise –” he smiled, “I won’t tease you about your hat.”

“Oh, Charles …”

She had done excellent work, picking the golden terminal as the stage for her dramatics. For she only had to tip her head, and the lights around them started to dim. “I hardly know how to tell you.”

“Whatever you think will shock me, I assure you that –”

“Sebastian Shaw started World War Three.”

Charles did not look away. She was watching him for his reaction. Which was …. He knew already, from Erik. She knew already, that he knew. So what did she think he was going to do?

Play his part, of course. So, “No –” He stepped backwards, half-stumbling. “I don’t believe it.”

“I think you do.”

Charles faked a greater stumble; caught the rail and looked out across the marble floor, to where Shaw and the younger Emma were holding each other’s hands. Around them, the flow of people had stopped. Their kiss looked all the more active, and alive, against a tableau of frozen suits, hats, coats ….

He wondered where Erik was. They had probably left him at the manor. Or he was on a lower level, feeling the trains come and go … but he was not thinking about Erik, God damn it.

“So,” said Charles. “That Sebastian supplied Stalin with Von Braun. But materials, too? The weapons themselves? That’s impossible.”

“Erik, Azazel, and I made it possible. Each of us, so talented in our own way, was caught in Sebastian’s thrall. He had Erik tattooed, you know. Twice.”

“Why?”

“Ownership. Commemoration. Should you like to see those memories? I was there, both times - I remember them quite vividly.”

“No, thank you. Shaw didn’t do that to you, did he?”

Emma gave a thin smile. “Tattoos don’t suit me. Sebastian tried. He failed. But he did not fail at starting the third war.”

“Gathering fissile material and stealing nuclear weapons .... I think I see. You could make guards look the other way. Erik could break any security and lift any metal. Could Azazel transport a weapon alongside you two?”

“It tired him. We had to time everything very carefully.”

“Why would he do it?”

“Because I told him to.”

The pain in his throat had returned. “And why would you do that?”

“Because I trusted Sebastian. I loved him.” Her voice cracked. “I believed him, when he said that the way to prevent a nuclear war was to ensure that the foes were equally matched. That they would not engage if they were certain to destroy each other.”

“Except they did. Or, at least, they started, on November 25, 1950 … and this terminal …” Charles gazed into the growing darkness. “Rubble, less than a month later.”

Emma’s eyes glimmered – but with diamonds or tears, he could not say.

“I always think to myself: I stood there, in its center.” She gestured past the opal clock. “And if I had known then, that not five years later it would be gone ...”

Charles could no longer see any people.

Looking up, he could only just trace the constellations in lines of gold, blurring. “You would have stayed, perhaps?”

“I would have stayed. For a little while.”

“I think that sometimes as well. Except with London, of course.”

“I should have liked to see London. Charles …”

She placed a hand on his forearm. He turned back to her.

And went still, as Emma stepped closer.

“Do you have London?”

“Pardon?”

“In your mind?” Gently, she placed a hand on his cheek.

Charles took in a deep breath. Tried to smile. “My memories of London, Lady, are mostly of Harrods.”

“What’s Harrods?” she whispered.

“A department store containing every luxury in the world. It had a sweet shop that I positively adored.”

“You must have been an adorable child.”

He let the smile reach his eyes. “Maybe so.”

Emma let her fingertips touch his temple. Then she brushed her thumb down to the corner of his mouth.

“Emma ...”

“What is it?”

“It’s – ah.” Charles let his breath come faster. It would be natural, really: a beautiful woman easing closer, wide eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up, and down again. Her own mouth was very pink. He could see the pearl-gleam of her teeth and he could feel her breath on his lips.

“Wait.” He tried to step away.

She kept her hand on his cheek, even if she had to stretch her arm. Her eyes were wide. “Charles.”

“I'm not sure I - want to."

“Why not?” Those same eyes had a crystalline sheen. “I’ve told you so much, Charles. I trust you. And you reject me?”

“Well, reject is a bit much, but my lady. My queen. You’re very, very beautiful. Surely you understand, though? I’ve also just learned that without you, World War Three would not have happened.”

“That’s not true. The Finder had …. Do you know how many children they took to Moscow, to find someone who would fit it? If not me, there would have been another telepath. There were so many of us.” Her voice wavered. “They had us all in a room. I remember it felt as large as this one, and we filled it.”

“What happened to the rest of them?”

“I don’t know.” Tears had pooled in her eyes; she blinked, and a gem fell from her cheek to her bodice. “But if not me, they would have found another. Sebastian would have found another.”

“And another Azazel? And another Erik?”

“I trusted him, and they trusted me. I was wrong. All I could do, in the end, was kill Sebastian, and even then it didn’t change what he had done.”

“Speaking on behalf of the world, Lady,” Charles bowed, heart hammering. “I’m glad of it.”

“Are you? My idealist, glad to have a man killed so very slowly?”

Give in. The answers he wanted, within his reach. Charles leaned into her touch. He did not want to think of whether his face burned from his blush or the chill of her hand. “Why slowly?”

“A man with the power to absorb and redirect energy of any blow? The energy of the atomic blasts we witnessed?”

“All of them?”

“A portion of the energy, from each and every one. He got better with practice. He wanted more, constantly, and his power grew to such an extent …. He almost killed me with a kiss, after Paris. A kiss, Charles.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Fine words.” Emma took her hand away. Turned away, shoulders bowed. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

They appeared inside a luxurious room. Charles caught his balance but almost tripped over a chair. The room was familiar; he couldn’t place why.

“Here we are in Germany. It was almost a year into the third war; America had long since fallen to pieces. And this was the night Sebastian revealed his true self to me.”

Charles followed her gaze. There was Shaw, looking larger than life, and – Charles choked back a half-hysterical snort – wearing a bizarre helmet on his head.

“Do you like it?” Shaw said, voice reverberating in the memory. “Josef had it made and I said, what’s a bit of borrowing between friends? So. What am I thinking?”

A younger Emma stood across from Shaw. So thin – but Charles focused on her face, as she tightened her lips and narrowed her eyes.

As, after a long moment she said, “I don’t know.” Blank.

Shaw smiled. His teeth were very white. “I was thinking that you were the most exquisite thing I had ever seen in my life …”

The younger Emma smiled with all her teeth as well. Charles saw instantly that she was covering her shock.

“… and that this needs ice.” Smirking, Shaw held out a glass tumbler. “Fetch me some.”

Her smile faded. Still, she took the tumbler in her gloved hand.

“There’s a good girl.”

The younger Emma walked right to where both of them stood. Frost herself stayed in place, but Charles jumped to get out of the way. He turned to watch her open a small golden door. The look on her face had been –

Wait.

He instantly recognized the room behind the door. It was from Erik’s memory of the opera at Berlin; his memory of Emma placing one cube of ice into a drink before saying, calm and cold, He’s mad, Erik –

The door closed before he could hear anything. As it closed, everything around them winked out of sight.

Charles trembled as it sank in – Erik’s memory –

“That helmet was the ultimate defense against telepaths,” Emma sighed in the dark. “Appalling, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, feebly.

“I couldn’t read his mind after that. He wanted me out.”

“Just like that?”

“Can you imagine it, Charles? If you, as a telepath, were loved – if you were so deep into someone’s mind that when that someone breathed, you breathed … Can you imagine that being taken away?”

Charles shook his head.

“And after everything that I did for him. But even with my love given all to him – he lied.” Her voice caught in a sob. “A month after the third war began, he had the Finder dismantled and hidden. He must have started to mistrust me then, although more the fool I, for I believed him when he said that Josef wanted to take it – and me – back to Moscow, and that hiding it would keep me safe.”

“Ah.”

“The third war went on. The greater the number of cities bombed, the more I knew Sebastian had to be stopped – but I took too long to strategize, alone. And then, with his mind shielded completely, I knew I could do nothing.”

“You had Azazel.”

“He could not kill Sebastian without killing himself. I would not have that.”

“So you needed someone else to help you – and you chose Erik?”

She sighed again, tremulous. “My prince …”

The word was Russian, so Charles said nothing.

“Erik was nearly grown. He should have known the danger we were all in. However, Sebastian’s ideology had near converted him.”

“And that ideology was?”

“The superiority of our kind – of mutants. Sebastian thought that radioactivity from nuclear war would speed up the mutation process in the worthy and kill off the rest.”

“What utter tripe. Any scientist could have informed him –”

“He was far more politician than scientist. My own education was sadly lacking, and Erik knew only what I could teach him. Tesla or Von Braun could have told Sebastian, perhaps, but one was gone and the other was … buried alive, I think you put it?”

In her memory, they were still in complete darkness. Charles half expected it to press in alongside her words and suffocate him. Raven –

“Even if they had told him, he would have proceeded. And why? It’s simple, my dear idealist. He may have believed his own tripe, as you put it, but I saw it as cover for his true aims. He wanted the energy from all those bombs. And then he obtained it, and he thought himself indestructible.”

“With his death, surely all that power would have been released. How did you kill him?”

It was strange, that she was weeping, yet able to speak so clearly. “I’ll show you. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I wasn’t.”

Before Charles could blink, they appeared in the same submarine room again. Except now the throbbing was an outright clattering – the reflecting surfaces trembling so strongly that shards of them were falling to the floor.

Instinct made him gasp and duck as a body sailed over his head and smashed into the wall.

Charles heard a cry of pain amidst the sound of shattering pieces of – glass? Mirror? He bolted up from his crouch to look round, wildly – except the reflected light was blue-green, not gold, rebounding and magnifying the image of Shaw from all sides. There was no bed in sight. In a nuclear reactor, really – Charles gulped back another hysterical laugh.

“This is when it happened,” Frost said, quietly.

Erik, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. It’s starting to work. The same voice – her younger voice, it had to be – slipped out from amongst the shards and through the memory.Those shards were falling fast, from one sharp and expanding fracture in particular.

Charles backed away as the body lying at his feet stirred.

She had projected to Erik, and here he was. Charles stared at him: at the black uniform, trimmed with silver, that outlined his body as he pushed himself to all fours … that showed how he was still far too thin. And … so young.

Charles saw, of all things, a lock of auburn hair falling onto Erik’s brow. It was absurd – he wanted to brush it into place – instead, he jolted back again as Shaw advanced, eyes aglow from within the shadows of the helmet.

“But everything I did, I did for you,” Shaw intoned. “To unlock your power. To make you – embrace it.”

Shaw slipped the fingertips of one hand under Erik’s chin. Casually, he threw him into another wall. Charles cringed as it shattered, as Erik fell to the floor amidst a rain of glass.

He felt Frost press his shoulder. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I want –” Raven. Raven. “I want to leave.”

“Not yet.”

It’s working – he heard Emma’s voice sliding around Shaw’s words – I’m starting to see you, but I can’t yet touch his mind.

“All this time together, Erik,” Shaw mused, from the middle of the room. “You’ve come a long way from bending gates.” He smiled. “I’m so proud of you.”

In the memory, Erik wavered to his feet and started tearing the room apart. Charles gaped. Metal pipes came crashing through the walls, struts and rebar and steel beams – and Shaw deflected every blow. The force of the strikes slammed through the room; each concussion made Charles flinch.

Wait. This was a bloody memory. He had armor and shield and sword, even if Emma couldn’t see them. He would fear nothing. “How is this possible?” he snarled at her.

She raised her free hand. Around him, the memory froze. There was Erik, face twisted up in pain, and Shaw, staring at him, grinning from within the thicket of metal. “Excuse me?”

“How? You aren’t here.” Charles turned in place to check – there was no sign of a younger Emma. “You’re communicating with Erik using telepathy – at least, that’s what I assume your voice in Russian is doing. So how do you have the memory of everyone here? If it were from Shaw’s mind, you wouldn’t see him, would you?”

“You’re so quick to forget our walk through your memories of Albany? Traveling through memories is like using the Finder. There are certain tricks to it.”

The memory had stilled, but his head was still being squeezed by something merciless. “Emma. I want to leave – this hurts. And if it’s painful for me, it must be excruciating for you.”

“Not so much anymore. I took Sebastian’s memory of this conversation, before he died, and I have Erik’s, too. I needed to study it, you see -”

“You call this a conversation?” Charles saw blood on Erik’s face; his eyes looked agonized. Either Frost couldn’t see it from her position or she didn’t care.

“ – just so I could understand why Erik would betray me. Watch.” She lifted her chin.

The noise of falling glass and crashing debris returned. Pieces of metal rebounded, deflected, as Shaw walked towards Erik again. “And you’re just starting to scratch the surface. Think of how much further we could go, my Erik, together.”

“What the hell is he saying? And what did you say, earlier?”

“I’m sorry.” Frost snapped her fingers. The memory froze. “Give me a moment, and it will proceed in English. Unless you want to start from the beginning again?”

“God, no.”

They watched as Shaw sent everything Erik threw at him ricocheting into the walls, and as he forced a beam up against Erik’s chest. As he left it there, considered for a brief moment, and then slid a hand round Erik’s nape.

Frost had done something, for Charles was closer now, without having taken a step. He could see the sweat pouring down Erik’s face; could hear his breath, thickened by blood in his mouth. Could feel Shaw’s whisper:

“I don’t want to hurt you, Erik. I never did. I want to help you. Emma doesn’t understand that I’ve made this our time, our age. We are the future of the human race. You and me, son. This world could be ours.”

Erik looked …

Charles did not know how he looked. Dull, certainly. But there was grief there, too. And in his voice, when he said,

“Everything you did made me stronger. Made me the weapon I am today. It’s the truth. I’ve known it all along.” He turned to stare at Shaw. “She was wrong – you are my creator.”

“Behind you,” Frost said.

Charles turned. He saw a thick cluster of wires split into separate tendrils, all snaking through the air towards Shaw’s helmet. Then the tendrils grabbed, yanked, and –

“Now, Emma!” Erik shouted.

And Shaw froze in place, where he had whirled to catch the helmet.

After a pause, Charles exhaled. “That worked well. Then what? How did it end?”

“Then … well. For the next part of the memory, you’ll need mine, too.”

Charles felt a wave of vertigo as she pointed at the last intact fragment of mirror. “We’re on the ice, far above the submarine. I had Azazel drop Erik in and come back to me.”

Azazel and Emma shimmered into view, standing across from each other. Around them was nothing but blank ice. Emma looked younger; Azazel looked exactly the same. Her face was stony. His … full of fear.

Her hands were on his shoulders, fingers flexing.

“Little one,” Azazel said, “are you all right?”

“Be quiet. I can only control him for so long. Ah.” Charles saw the mirror blurring, refocusing, and Emma appeared again, “Oh, it hurts – but I love you,” she said through gritted teeth, her hands forming fists, “I love you so much.”

It felt far too personal to watch. Charles hoped he had never appeared so anguished, speaking words of love. Abject. Undignified.

“And here we have it,” Frost said. “Come to me.” She waved him to her side. “You can see both best from this vantage point.”

He had no idea whether she meant Shaw and Erik, or the simultaneous memories. But he carefully walked back to her.

Mirroring him in the memory, Erik lowered the beam to the floor, and moved past Shaw’s frozen body. Stood across from him and stared, before gesturing with both hands.

The helmet floated down into them.

“Oh, no,” Charles said.

“Sorry, Emma,” Erik began, lifting the helmet.

The other memory rippled – shock. “Erik, please. Be my prince –”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you –

“ – don’t do this, Erik, there’ll be no turning back –”

The helmet settled on Erik’s head.

Frost held up a hand, face stony. “We had our plan, you see. Erik would remove the helmet; I would take hold of Sebastian’s mind and send him to sleep. A gradual, gentle freeze was of the utmost importance, given the nature of his mutation. But Erik had other ideas.”

“If your way was so important, why didn’t you explain it to him?”

“Perhaps I should have. Then again, none of what happened would have happened, had he obeyed me in the first place. All that time he had his own plan – and as you can see, it caught me by surprise.”

Frost did not even blink as her younger voice rebounded, now from the memory in the mirror alone. “No – don’t do this, Erik, Erik!”

In the memory, she slammed one hand against Azazel. He let her do it, standing like a red and black wall.

Erik stalked up to Shaw and paused, as if thinking. Then, with the faintest tilt to his lips, he moved so that the helmet brushed Shaw’s frozen fingers.

“If you’re in there,” Erik rasped, “I’d like you to know that I agreed with every word you said. Our age. Our time. We are the future.”

He paused again. “But …”

Charles watched Erik walk to the opposite wall.

“… unfortunately, you killed my mother.”

Erik turned. And held up a coin. “This is what we’re going to do.”

“No,” the memory of Emma on the ice rippled again, with – fear, Charles felt. Next to him, Frost took his hand. Charles half jumped, but let her hold on to him as they listened to her younger voice sobbing, “Erik, please.”

“Shall I take him?” Azazel snapped. “Emma. Tell me when to take him.”

“You can’t. Just keep me here, with you – don’t let me fall. This is going to –”

“I’m going to count to three,” Erik said. “And then I’m going to move the coin.”

“Sebastian killed his mother that way, you see,” said Frost. “Unless Erik moved a coin on the count of three, his mother would be shot. And – he didn’t move the coin.”

Charles remembered every inflection in Erik’s voice, from when he had told him very the same thing. But Erik had not told him then, that turnabout had been fair play. He stared, sickened.

“Well, Charles?”

“This is terrible. Emma, he’s going to –”

“Kill Sebastian? Obviously. Hurt me? Of all the surprises that day, that one was perhaps the most unpleasant.”

Beneath her words echoed her own voice, from her memory, like the ebb and flow of blood from a heartbeat, “No, my love, I love you – you’re hurting me. Stop –”

“It’s Sebastian doing that, by the way,” Frost said, calmly. “He didn’t give me an inch. He fought me in his mind with everything he had, until he died. Now: here. This is exactly what I saw.”

And Charles was staring out from Sebastian Shaw’s eyes, at the shadowy figure of Erik in the helmet.

“One.”

All he could feel was Shaw’s rage. And all he could see was the glint of bared teeth and the glitter of eyes from beneath the helmet, and a coin floating through the air. Getting bigger and bigger –

“Two.”

– two coins, because he couldn’t move his eyes. Mein Tod, howled through his mind, Emma’s mind, der kleine Erik Lehnsherr –

“Three.”

Pain lanced through his skull before the image went out like a candle snuffed.

In the other memory, on the ice, Emma screamed.

“Oh God,” Charles gasped, “make it stop –”

“You should appreciate the small things,” Frost said. “I broke the visual link early. It took a while for the coin to sever his optic nerves.”

He could hardly hear with the scream echoing round them both, going on and on. Azazel had taken Emma by her arms and was shaking her, shouting something at her – but Charles did not know what it was. He had never seen anything so terrible: Emma, all mouth with teeth, eyes wide and staring at nothing as she screamed into thin air.

Suddenly, the memory of her screaming turned red. Which darkened. And darkened again: a watercolor wash layered on another wash and another and –

“Emma, what is it?”

“You’ve never had a brain bleed, have you? That’s what it is, to a telepath.”

“But you didn’t –”

“No, not I.” She watched herself. “I felt what Sebastian felt. I experienced every second of his brain being sliced in half. And I suppose my mind let the one sensation color the whole.”

He would not be sick. He would not. Instead, he would watch as Emma clawed at Azazel – as her back arched for one second, and as she jackknifed over, retching.

“Is it over?” Azazel shouted, bending to catch her shoulder again, shaking her. “Is it done?”

“No,” she slurred. “I have him. But it didn’t work. The energy – the fire, it’s going to –”

“Emma –”

“Get Erik. Bring him here. Hurry, I can’t –”

Azazel disappeared.

Emma fell onto all fours, coughing. Then curled in on herself, like an animal in pain, garbling, “Fire. It’s fire.”

“You see, playing his play out, Erik triggered something in Sebastian’s mind,” Frost said to Charles. “I had intended otherwise. I had planned to send his mind to sleep and then to slow it down. It’s the smallest nudge from sleep to death, especially in the cold. It’s very peaceful, Charles.”

“Ah.”

“More importantly, any brain activity controlling Sebastian’s mutation would have come to a very – slow – stop. But this …” She shook her head. “All the energy stored from the bombs was about to find its way out. The only thing restraining it was my hold on his limbic system. It’s something to consider – the seat of our powers, and how brain-death affects –”

“Emma,” he said, appalled. “Look at you.”

For in the memory, she was writhing on the ice, face up to the blank Arctic sky. She was clawing at her own face, eyes wide and unseeing – fire fire –

“Here!” Azazel shouted – then released Erik and dropped to his knees by her side. “Emma?”

Charles saw Erik, the air blurring strangely around him, reach out to take her hands – and then change his mind, and stand frozen instead.

“Azazel,” she gasped, “take us away.”

“Where? Give me orders.”

“Home!” Her back arched as she punched the ice with both fists, “the manor – I can’t hold him, it’s coming, the fire –”

“To the manor,” said Azazel to Erik. “Take my hand.”

“Zelya,” Erik said, urgent. “The Finder’s there.”

“Not you, too,” Azazel snarled, and grabbed Erik’s forearm.

Charles saw the telltale wisps of vapor swirling round them before the memory vanished into darkness – as they must have vanished, into thin air.

For a long moment, in the dark, he could say nothing.

“Where did you end up going?” Charles finally whispered.

“The manor,” Frost replied.

“Azazel obeyed you over Erik, then?”

“Of course he did.”

They were silent. Charles heard a faint, distant sound that might have been his heartbeat, or water against the submarine walls.

“Do you see why Sebastian had to die?”

“Yes,” he gulped.

“He did his best to destroy the world,” Frost mused. “And then Erik took his helmet – and I thought: what if he were to finish what Sebastian started? That childish bit of revenge released enough nuclear energy to destabilize a glacial shelf in Greenland. All because Erik did not stop to think.”

“But would he really –”

“Shortly after I established our home in the East, I resolved to neutralize the CIA’s remaining nuclear bombs. I needed Erik’s help. But he wanted to do something quite different, with all that weaponry. Did you know that, Charles?”

The pressure of the dark was bearing down hard. Charles felt his mind struggle against it. Truth and lie oozed in a discordant morass from behind the chime of her words; the sound of his frantic heartbeat drowned them both out. “When?”

“1955.”

“He still had the helmet? I saw –” he gasped for air, “a vid. Battle - for Ir Tzedek. He had long hair. There wasn’t any helmet.”

The pressure increased. “He had grown stronger. He thought to guard his mind with magnetic fields. He returned the helmet to me. Can you imagine the arrogance.”

It was not a question.

“I don’t understand.” He struggled harder. “Emma. Could you,” help me, he wanted to finish, but the words caught in his throat, gurgling.

Raven. Raven. Help me.

“Oh, Charles …”

Frost sounded distant. Pain throbbed through him with his pulse. He wanted Raven. He needed Raven. Charles stretched out with his thoughts – but they were so deep in Frost’s mind that he could only feel the echoes of its cry calling out to him. On the ice, far above, and they were miles down in the dark and deathly cold water.

He would not panic. If only he could draw breath.

“Emma, let go. I can’t breathe. I can’t see.”

Though Frost said nothing, she must have done something. With a clattering chime of crystal feathers, the thing that had been his diamond bird appeared. It scattered light through the gloom. Charles could see Frost’s drawn, pale face, eyes aflame – could see the hawk flying to perch on her shoulder. It was higher up than he thought. Oh. That was because he was flat on the ground, at Frost’s feet.

The huge hawk, diamond feathers glittering on its breast, stared down at him emptily. It did not preen itself. It did not even move.

Frost reached up to stroke its head, her gaze not leaving him. The bird opened its beak, and chirped. A very small chirp.

Charles felt like vomiting. All of this – everything – dear God, he needed out, out from the ghastly chill of Frost’s touch, from the vicious panorama of her past – from all of the dark pressure, so deep in her mind, grinding him to pieces.

“Emma. Please, I need to wake up.”

“My Charles,” she said, quietly. “You’re not dreaming.”

“Please.” Of all things. Not Erik, not Shaw, not betrayal and death and nuclear war. No, it had to be the sight of the poor creature that had been his bird, that made him want to weep. “Please. I’m begging you. Let me wake up. Let me go.”

She did not move. But she might have closed her eyes.

And then Charles was staring at the ceiling of her bedroom.

The memories already seemed to be … fading. Or: becoming less crushing, all-consuming. Like a bad dream.

Raven, he whispered to his mind. Is that your doing?

Only the slightest thrum answered him. He closed his eyes. Interesting. Dark, threaded with red and gold – perhaps his nightingale was taking the lion’s share of the work, moving all the last few hours down into the deep … Charles groaned. It felt as if thought-fire after thought-fire was going off in his head: each of them a tiny firework. “Oh.”

It took a while for him to push himself up off the bed, careful not to move his neck. His entire body felt bruised. He rubbed his eyes, groggily – and then heard a small sound, from Emma.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“No.”

Charles peered over at her. She was hunched over in a corner of the couch. Legs drawn up; arms wrapped around her knees. She looked miserable.

He stumbled to his feet and tugged at a blanket on the bed. “You’re shivering.” It was difficult to walk, but he made it to her side and draped the blanket over her. “Here.”

“I didn’t know that would happen. My head aches terribly, Charles.”

Wearily, he shoved aside the awful grinding sound of truth and lie. “I have a headache as well.”

“There’s aspirin in the powder room. And water.”

“I’ll get some.”

He wobbled his way there, found the labeled bottle, filled a glass with water – it slopped over the brim as his hand trembled –

“Let me.”

Charles went still. He had not heard her follow him.

She reached from where she was standing – next to him – and turned off the tap. “You first.”

“Ladies first.” He held out the bottle. “I insist.”

Emma shook her head, wearily. “So little trust. They’re nothing but aspirin.” She opened the bottle and shook several into her hand. Then tipped them into her mouth, matter-of-fact, and chewed.

Charles grimaced at the crunching sounds. “That’s a terrible habit.”

“Works faster,” she mumbled.

He downed two aspirin himself; wiped water off his mouth and set the glass down on the sink. Then he saw how the blanket had slipped from Emma’s shoulders and fallen to the floor. He knelt to pick it up and tuck it round her again, careful to fold it around all her bare skin. “You’ll catch your death.”

“A cold? Everything I showed you, and you think I’ll be finished by a cold?”

“I suppose not,” Charles said.

Emma sighed again. Then –

– Charles stiffened as she stepped close to him. Leaned on him.

“Is this all right? You don’t mind?”

“Um.”

“You’re very warm.” She shivered, moving closer. “That’s all.”

Control, he had control. He could move away any time he wished, so it would be idiotic to stand like a statue, arms stiff at his sides. Carefully, he placed them around her back. He patted the blanket, between what had to be her shoulder blades. “Better?”

Emma sniffled, and pressed even closer. “Thank you.”

She was of a height to nestle her face into the join of his neck and shoulder. He remembered that from Las Vegas. She could probably feel his heartbeat galloping; certainly, she felt him swallow hard.

For a long moment they stood still.

Then she murmured, “Are you afraid of me, Charles?”

“After everything you showed me?” He let his breath tremble through his throat. “Yes, rather.”

“Really?” She sounded sad. “You don’t need to be.”

“I thought that was what you wanted.”

“I only ever wanted to trust you. You see, I …”

Charles gazed into her eyes. “Yes?”

This close, he could see a beauty mark above her upper lip. It had to have been concealed, before.

“I don’t know how to say it,” she whispered.

Charles knew his reply. He had given it to so many women, so many times, Then don’t say anything – smile, and bend his head, and –

Oh, fuck.

“Shh, Charles.” She moved a quick, cold hand to his face. “Don’t say anything.”

And with that, Emma stood up on her toes, and kissed him.

She was better at it than Erik.

At least, that was his first impression.

Charles inhaled and parted his lips; let her tongue touch his. She didn’t flail, she didn’t thrust – she just … tasted. And let him taste. It was bitter – the aspirin, he realized – and when she brought her other hand up to frame his face, leaning in to press her body against him, instinct had him reaching beneath the blanket to place his own hands on her waist.

She was warm, through her bodice.

And she seemed to be pleased at his touch. At least, she sighed into his mouth and ran her hands up into his hair. A scrape from her nails made his shoulders jump. He had liked that, in a former life. He controlled his shiver – but broke the kiss.

“What is it?”

Say anything. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I liked that.” He knew he sounded stupid. Too late.

“… Lucky guess?”

“Are you in my mind, Emma?”

Gazing up at him, she shook her head. Gave him a small smile. “Charles …. If I were in your mind, you’d detect me in an instant. You’re that powerful.”

“I am?”

“Kiss me again. Please, Charles. Please.” Emma caught his shirt and pulled, tugging him down. Whispered against his mouth, “I liked it, too.”

Oh, splendid, his thoughts gabbled as he kissed her. With a soft noise in her throat, she twined her arms around his neck, letting the blanket fall to the floor. He could feel her breasts. Which were … large, relative to her frame, from his experience. Experience. It had been – God, he hadn’t fucked a woman since August –

Not that he was going to now, of course. Even if they had angled their mouths to get deeper– still controlled on her part, absolutely nothing sloppy – he wasn’t going to.

He didn’t want to –

Emma broke the kiss and brushed her lips up his jaw to his ear. “What are you thinking?"

"That I wasn't expecting this."

She laughed, quiet, throaty. "Surprise."

"Quite."

"Oh, Professor. So buttoned up." She ran a fingernail down his shirt front. "So elegant and controlled. But something tells me you might like more than just a kiss."

He kept his breathing regular.

"Take me to bed, Charles.”

He tensed. She felt it, so close. “Or to the sofa,” she said, lightly. “Or to any place that doesn’t involve the corner of the sink poking me in the back.”

Charles glanced down between her shoulder blades. Sure enough: there was the sink, right up against her arse. Which seemed quite a nice one. Not that he had ever outright ogled her from the back, but he was making up for lost time now, and shite that had to stop.

He dragged his eyes away; tried leaning back and meeting her own with a smile. Then tried dropping a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Someplace more comfortable, indeed. But, once there, I’d rather not do something we haven’t thought through.”

“You’re still afraid of me.”

“Which I told you already.”

“I told you that you needn’t be.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Hm.”

“And what about Almaz?”

“Oh, he’s not here, is he? Let’s agree not to discuss other men in our bedroom. I promise,” and she dropped her voice, “I won’t make you remember anything more about a certain man we both know.”

“I remember enough: you, giving me to him to be raped, so I would much rather not remember anything about it.”

“Poor Charles.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You should have just sent him to sleep.”

“Because of course I knew how –”

“Because it’s easy. I’ve done so with Almaz, many times. But how can I make it up to you? Fine wine? Books? Clothes? I do have more money than is good for me.”

“To make it all equal,” Charles felt his mouth twist. “I would have to tell you to go and fuck Richard Slade for however long he wanted. In whatever positions he wanted, no matter how humiliating –”

“Mm. If you came along, you could watch.”

“I …” Charles took a moment to recover from the idea. “I think you’ve mistaken the meaning of Vice President.”

Emma breathed a laugh into his ear. And moved, sinuous, sliding into his touch at her waist. “Where were we?”

“I don’t know.”

“We were moving to my bed.” She plucked at the back of his shirt. “Or …”

Charles waited.

“… is the prospect that repulsive?”

“You’re very, very beautiful, my lady –”

“You’ve told me that already. I know that already. What am I to you, truly?”

You’re a true queen, he had lied, just last night. She would want to hear it again – she would want – “I can’t possibly describe it.”

“Try? For me?”

“I can’t, with words. You would have to be in my mind to comprehend it fully.”

“We can go there.” She set both hands flat against his temples, disconcertingly fast. “Right now.”

“No, that is – here.” Charles twined his fingers through hers; drew her hands away. He inclined his mouth closer. “Feel with me.”

He made the kiss slow, to have enough time to fling his nightingale at the cold power creeping up against his veils. Sing. As beautifully and as loudly as you can, please, he ordered, and hurry.

It obliged.

So much so, that when the kiss ended, Frost looked transfixed.

Charles felt too much like screaming to be smug. He was not afraid. He merely waited. For the other shoe to drop, his mind hissed, but –

“Do you know what I thought, when we first met?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“The doors opened – I saw you. And when I felt your mind, all I could think was that I had found him. Someone powerful. Someone beautiful.” She swept her hands over his shoulders, down his arms. Back up. Across his shirt. Like she was polishing porcelain. “Someone just like me.”

“… Like you?” Charles echoed.

“Well. With a little refinement, yes.”

“Refinement –”

He realized his mistake the instant she laughed. “You see? We are both pictures of perfection, and we both know it. Oh, Charles.” She took his hands in hers and steered him backwards out of the powder room. “We’ll never be bored.”

Bored, hell. He reached the point of panic before they even made it to her bed.

Emma was touching him. Not just touching - grabbing. He would never have thought she would be like Erik at a time like this, but the only difference between their respective pairs of greedy, grasping hands was that of size.

That, and her manicure, glinting at him as she unbuttoned his shirt.

"Emma,” he said thinly. “Please, I -"

“Shh.” Her fingers were fast; she sounded breathless. “Let me do this for you.”

Charles’ arms felt like lead. He could not stop her. She finished. “There.”

And she pushed.

He landed on the bed, his heart in his mouth. Perhaps a panic attack would be the way to go. Or he could just play along, he supposed - pretend that his breaths were shallow from arousal and not outright fear, even as she crawled up his body and placed her hands on his belt. "Wait. Emma, I don't know if we -"

"You don't need to say a word," she whispered. "So - don't."

"But -"

"Shh." Emma leaned forward. She had put paid to his belt, the better to pin his shoulders with her hands: surprisingly heavy, given how ... delicate she was, he would have said if he had only seen her in Shaw's library, in her mind - or fragile she was, if he had only seen her in the anteroom to the Berlin opera, in Erik's mind - but he had seen her cross a room in the blink of an eye in his own mind, and it was one leap from that to the idea of her traveling through walls and windows and mirrors - except that was impossible and she was whispering:

"I don't want you to talk. I want you to kiss me."

He gulped.

"Darling." She plucked at his shoulders. Her voice sank, almost inaudible. "I've waited for you, Charles, and now I have you. So kiss me."

"Oh," he said, faintly. Oh, she was straddling his hips, adjusting the tiniest bit - he knew the particular motions well enough to acknowledge her skill at gauging his body's interest, even as she snaked forward to find his mouth. Hers was hot and wet - but not in the way Erik's was hot and wet. Erik felt like a clumsy boy. Emma felt like Charybdis.

Her skirt was riding up, almost to her waist. He felt the raddled cloth as he twisted his body, trying to get her away -

"Mmm, there," and Emma broke the kiss. "There."

"No -"

"Yes."

“No, Emma - please. Please stop!”

She stopped moving. Still straddling him; still with her skirt riding up. Charles saw the quickening rise and fall of her breath, in front of his eyes. He saw her pulse flutter at the base of her throat.

“Charles? What is it?”

It seemed she had stopped. So it was sheer relief making his voice wobble. “It’s too much. Too much like –”

“Like what?”

“Like him. My God.” Charles made a show of burying his face in his hands. “All those days, all those nights – all that he wanted was me on a flat surface. And I don’t want to remember it.”

She was silent.

Charles tried a sniffle, as loud and wet as he could make it. With any luck, she would be disgusted and back off. Or think twice and back off. Or … just think.

For he could almost hear her mind working. Perhaps she had a catalogue like his, though hers would have to be memories on individual shards of ice, shaken together and sorted out like an oracle.

He dropped his hands and looked up. Her face was blank – except, a split second after he moved, she slotted an expression of sorrow and sympathy into place. 

Charles fought to keep from shuddering visibly.

"There, there, my love," she murmured.

It was practiced. It was fake. It was a store mannequin pretending at humanity. Or - she. She was. Leaning over him, still, with an ample display of cleavage right in front of his nose. She smelled of sweat beneath her perfume. Not quite a mannequin, then, but still not moving away -

Until she eased back. And off. And knelt at his side. Thank God.

“Poor Charles. I didn’t mean to bring back any bad memories." A fingertip trailed over his cheek.

Charles turned his head and kept looking up at her, putting all the sorrow he could into his eyes.

“I’m sorry. Truly, I am.” She withdrew completely from the bed. He felt the mattress shift. “I am ashamed to admit that I forgot you had been through so much."

"I ..." Don't mind, he supposed he could have said, but he couldn't shape the words. In fact, it was all Charles could do to try to button his shirt. His hands felt palsied.

"Let me do something for you, Charles. You’ll like it, I promise.”

No, no, no. “What’s that?”

“I’ll give you a lovely supper. And then …. Charles, do you remember what you did with Sean? How you lessened his pain? Certain memories can be too intense – can take over similar experiences happening in real time. So when we’ve had our supper, I’ll show you how to lessen your own pain. Those memories, and others like them, can be muted.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be afraid.”

"I'm ..." Not.

Except that would be a lie.

"Won't you sit up for me, Charles?"

He obeyed without thinking. Rather like a marionette - and he shook the thought away and moved to the edge of the bed. Shoved his feet over the side - one two - and let them fall. Did his best to meet her eyes without flinching.

Frost had to know how beautiful she looked, in the dim light of the room, when she reached out to run her hands through his hair and then to frame his face.

“I won’t hurt you in any way."

He was silent.

"Don't you believe me, Charles?" She stooped to drop a gentle kiss on his mouth.

"That you won't hurt me?" He felt her lips, warm, as his own shaped: "My lady, you already have. A great deal."

"Oh, my dear. It only made you stronger." She withdrew. But she kept one hand on the side of his face; kept a soft stroke with her thumb - until even that stopped. “You're just like me, after all. I might love that about you."

“My lady …”

She waited.

“I might not know how to love,” Charles confessed.

“My white knight." She smiled. “I’m sure we can learn together.”

Frost moved her right hand from the side of his face, straight to his mouth. Charles took the hint, and the hand, and kissed it.

She let him up, and led him to an adjacent room. Charles’ mind, fractured as it felt, catalogued the crystal chandelier glittering above them, the sideboard covered in silver and lace, the elegant table in the center … set for dinner.

Dinner for two.

“Light the candles.” Frost gave him a little push. “I just need a moment to check something.”

Before he could protest, she eased away and closed the door.

Charles took a moment to catch his breath. To finish buttoning his shirt, and to blot his mouth on his sleeve. To make sure his birds were …

They were silent.

“Understandably,” he said.

He took another moment. Just to think. “It will be all right, darlings.” He tugged his suit straight. “I’ll just tell her ‘no’.”

And then he had to sit for a while, and put his head between his knees.

When he could stand again, Charles found matches in a sideboard drawer. It was easy to light the candles on the table, two on each side of the centerpiece of roses. In that light, the settings sparkled: porcelain, silver, crystal. The roses, mounding up from their vase, were a lustrous pink.

He supposed that his face ... was not.

"Buck up, man." He dragged his eyes away; stared down at the goblet to his left. He flicked it with one finger.

The chime from the crystal sounded strange, in the silence. Too loud, perhaps. Too piercing.

In another life, Charles reflected distantly, he might have been hyperventilating at this point.

“You're not afraid,” he gritted out. “Memories, a meal, and then off with his head? She wouldn't do that. It'd stain the carpet.”

Then he tried the door. It was unlocked, which he supposed was something. He could leave any time he wanted, especially if he felt uncomfortable with such opulence.

He could leave right now.

Gasping, Charles sent his power out through the capital building, but veiled, absolutely, lest she see. There were more minds than he had expected at this late hour. He found Frost instantly and flew back up from the building’s depths, darting through all the rooms, lightning-fast. He catalogued bureaucrats, asleep; secretaries, asleep; wait staff, asleep; Jean and Kurt, awake –

“What?” He focused in an instant. Jean? What are you doing here?

Mr. Xavier! she sent back. It was framed with golden happiness. Lady Frost brought Kurt so I wouldn’t be lonesome. But I didn’t know you were here, too!

“But why would –”

Though the capital building, right under Frost’s nose, was safer than the manor …

Is Scott there? he sent.

Nope. Where are you?

Charles sent the impression of the ornate table with a spark of power, thinking with everything else: if Scott were at the manor, but the other two here –

Are you having another party? Jean sent, excitedly. Can we come?

“Excellent notion,” he muttered to himself, and replied: Yes, with force. Come here, right now. His owl dropped the location into Jean’s mind; he felt her spring into action.

Scott at the manor, along with Logan, Hank, and Armando – before he could dither further, Charles catapulted his raven in their direction. West – “Fly, darling, and fast,” to find the others and make sure –

West.

“The Free West,” he breathed, as Raven shot through the sky – the world beneath solid as any stone, with only a few scattered lights of Syracuse, Utica – there. The echo of a small lake set his power vibrating; then a road and the flare and flicker of –

– a dozen minds, at least. Crawling up the manor’s walls like fire ants.

“Oh, no.”

In an instant, Raven found Logan’s thoughts, grim and focused but spiky with anger. Logan! Are you all right? Charles fired off the words and winced as they hit Logan’s mind – it was like punching a tree.

Where the fuck are you X man get back here hurry –

A mind appeared – Schrödinger’s mutant – and Azazel and Logan flickered out – and then back in, higher up. Another floor of the manor? Wherever Azazel and Logan were, they flanked a seethe of raging power that Charles knew –

No.

“They’re attacking,” he gasped into the empty room, in Albany. “It’s now. Why the hell,” he reeled Raven back in and sent it arrowing down through the building to Frost, “are we still here?”

He felt rather than saw Jean and Kurt dash into the room. “Did you run very fast?” Charles said, distracted.

“I took us,” Kurt chirped.

There was Frost’s mind, good. He sent the alarm to her instantly. “You know you’re not supposed to do that, Kurt. Not without your papa.”

Mr. Xavier, what’s wrong?

He dragged his attention back to them. Jean was peering up at him, worriedly. Kurt had gone to the table and was pulling out a chair.

Charles forced a smile. Pulled out another chair for Jean. “Let’s wait for Lady Frost,” he said. “She’ll be able to explain.”

It roiled through his mind as his fingers dug into the upholstery: an attack, happening now, and he could do nothing to help, save taking hold of the Free West soldiers’ minds and stopping them, point blank.

Which, come to think of it, he might be able to do. Even from Albany. As long as Frost didn’t notice –

“Do we get cake?” said Kurt.

“What?”

Kurt bounced in the chair. “It’s a party. Do we get cake, like at Valentine’s?”

“We’ll see. Jean, when did Lady Frost bring Kurt here?”

“Only just this afternoon, Charles,” Frost replied.

He twitched where he stood, and turned. “My lady.”

She was framed by the door. And there behind her, Charles saw Azazel, gasping for breath, a lock of hair falling over his face.

“You got here very quickly, Lady.”

“Comrade,” and Frost touched Azazel’s arm, “it’s all right. Be easy.”

“I need to get back –”

“It will be over in five minutes. I need you here.”

“What’s wrong, Papa?” Kurt said.

“Never mind.” Azazel pushed past Frost and stumbled to the sideboard. He grabbed a carafe, slopped it over a glass, and made a show of gulping down at least a pint. Water spattered the inlay.

Frost’s mouth thinned. “Ridiculous. I bring you here for a respite, and you repay me by –”

“My lady,” Charles snapped over what promised to be a Russian diatribe, “what are Jean and Kurt doing here? Is the manor safe?”

Azazel set down the carafe. “He doesn’t know?” he said to Frost, still in Russian, damn it, so Charles knew he had to keep playing the fool –

Know what? Jean sent to them all.

In English.

Perfect, for he could echo: “Know what? If these two are here, and Scott’s at the manor,” he said to Frost, when Azazel shot a glance at her, “what’s happening there?”

“Emma, enough of these games. I …” Azazel turned round, and took in the sight of the room, fully.

He said nothing more.

Emma patted Kurt on the head as she turned to Charles. Switched into English. “Now, Charles, there’s nothing to worry about –”

“On the contrary. Their safety is my priority, Lady, so I insist I return and help.”

Her fingers rested on Kurt’s dark hair. Her smile was fixed. “Everyone there has the situation well in hand.”

“I insist.”

Charles did not look away as she approached him.

“If you insist? Then absolutely.” Emma touched his cheek with her fingertips. “I just wanted to make sure you have only the best of memories of tonight, Charles. For the future, you understand. I won’t have you thinking back with fear.”

She dropped her eyes. Stepped closer, fuck, and – she kissed the corner of his mouth. “My prince was taking care of those soldiers when Azazel left. Wasn’t he, Comrade?”

“He was,” came Azazel’s voice. Flat.

Charles tried to look, but could not move away from Emma leaning in for another kiss. “Can you promise not to be afraid of him, Charles?”

“And whose plan was it,” he hissed against her mouth, “that I should be afraid?”

“Mine, of course – and I’m so sorry for it. But you need not fear. Remember what I told you: any fear, any pain … I can take away from you. For you.”

Another kiss, and she slipped him her tongue. His heart was pounding up into his throat, but if he struggled or protested, he did not know what she would do. All he could manage was to cup her face in his hands, open his mouth in response, give the best impression that he was enjoying himself.

Eventually, she let him breathe.

Charles wanted Kurt to squeal in disgust, Jean to start asking questions – Azazel to sneer. Looking round, though … all he saw was the three of them, staring at him.

And there was nothing but satisfaction in Emma’s smile as she turned away. “I’ll just go put on another layer. We’ll leave when I return, Azazel.”

“But is it safe for them to –”

The door shut behind her.

“ – go back?” Charles finished.

“By now?” Azazel said. “Probably. Erik’s been swatting the Free West like flies.”

Erik. Nausea rushed up; Charles found a chair to stumble into. “I don’t want – I didn’t –”

Azazel clicked the claws of one hand on the sideboard. His teeth were bared. “Enjoying the game, Xavier?”

“No,” he choked. “You knew? You knew she would –”

What game, Mr. Nefayim?

“You go help Lady Frost, little one.” Azazel stared at the board like it held treasure. “You too, little backbiter; don’t let Jean out of your sight.”

Charles waited for the door to close. Then said, hoarse, to Azazel’s back: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How could you miss it?”

“She bloody well gave me to Erik. Was I supposed to read that as an invitation to the dance?!”

“I told her that was a mistake.”

Charles would not look away from the lashing tail. He was not afraid. “That’s why you were so angry about it –”

“That’s why, nothing.” Azazel wheeled on him and glared. “Leave Erik out of this.”

Charles gulped.

Azazel continued, “What do you think she’s been looking for? What do you think she’s wanted, all these years?”

“Cannon fodder.”

“True. But you must finally understand, Professor … that sometimes a very, very capable person can want more than two things at once. It’s an amazing feat. But it does happen.”

Charles felt faint. “I don’t think I can do this –”

Azazel leaned back against the wall. Shrugged.

“I mean I don’t want this.”

“You’d better learn to want it, and fast. No one says no to Emma –”

“Quiet,” Charles gasped as his thought-fires flared. “She’s coming.”

Azazel turned at the squeak of the door opening. Charles saw his eyes snag on the children, skipping back into the room; on Emma, following.

“Here’s your jacket, Charles,” Emma said. “Now, Azazel will make sure Erik keeps away as soon as we arrive, but stay close to me anyway.”

“Hands, everyone.” Lightning-quick, Azazel’s tail coiled around Kurt, who giggled. Charles winced as Emma grabbed his hand and squeezed.

“My lady –” he said.

"- that hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Charles,” she said in his ear. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

She kissed him on the cheek, releasing his hand. In the cold, the damp on his skin prickled as soon as her mouth slipped away.

Between Frost and Azazel, Jean whimpered.

Charles knew why. The sickness from teleportation, the shock of the cold … no. It had to be the sight of the manor in front of them. It looked like a shadow in the light of the half moon …

… but rather more substantial in the light of the fire raging in the front hallway. Visible through the shattered walls at what had once been the main entrance.

“But,” he started. “Those doors. Those were – huge.”

Frost made no answer, folding her hands beneath her chin instead. She was wearing gloves, Charles saw. His own fingers cramped in the cold.

He heard distant screaming. Three floors up? his mind catalogued – then ground to a halt. The roof.

“Azazel, if you would.”

“Children,” said Charles, hoarsely, as Azazel teleported. “Come stand by me.” He pulled his ability to him as close as he could – he wanted to feel nothing of Erik. Not now.

“I’m cold, it’s cold –”

“Shh, Kurt. Just imagine we’re on a mountain. On K2. And here –” he took off his coat and draped it around them. “You two can share.”

I don’t like this fire, Mr. Xavier. Jean sounded tearful. Can’t we stop it?

“If only Ororo were here,” said Frost. “Oh, but look!”

The flames outlined a silhouette, which – after a long moment – started to steam.

“Muñoz,” Frost said, fondly. “So talented. Him, you, Howlett, Azazel, Scott – my prince – all of my defenders.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I value you so highly.”

“… What do you mean, ‘Scott’?”

“Mr. Xavier,” Kurt said, fangs clattering together, “can we go inside?”

Charles stared at the damage. The rubble in the firelight lay in a blast pattern. “Are you telling me –”

“Let’s go closer. Do you see, Kurt? The fire is almost out. I’m sure the embers will be quite warm for a while. We’ll warm up, too.”

They moved to the remnants of the doors, charred and smoking, scattered in pieces.

“Hey, Charles,” Armando said, before he started coughing.

“Are you all right?”

“I inhaled some smoke, is all. Lady.” He nodded at Frost. His features gleamed in what was left of the light from fire and moon. Because his skin had turned to stone and ice, Charles realized – a fascinating adaptation, but –

“Did you get that trick from Bobby?” said Frost, smiling.

“Who?” Armando had to cough again.

“He was a student here in the autumn,” Charles said. “Armando, what happened?”

“The Free West attacked. Logan and I headed off the first wave here, and we thought Hank had taken Scott to safety, but – I guess he hadn’t.”

“Are they all right?” Charles croaked.

“We can’t find Hank –”

“He’s safe in Albany,” Frost interrupted.

“Right.” Armando stared at the embers. “Scott ran back; he said he wanted to help. And this is what he did.”

“Armando … Did anyone die?”

A nod.

Oh, God. And Scott had only just turned nine years old …

Charles looked over to Frost. She was gazing at the wreckage.

Smiling.

Like a mother whose son had helped win a football match, at the thought of Scott killing – nine years old –

His attention snapped to Kurt, shivering harder now. “I need to get them inside,” Charles said, abrupt. “Where’s Scott?”

“His room,” said Armando. “Logan’s with him, but Charles, Lehnsherr’s here.”

“He won’t bother me, I’m sure of it. Will he, my lady?”

“Hmm?”

“Is there a path clear, Armando?”

“To the left.”

“Wait. Charles, where are you going?”

“It’s below freezing,” he gritted out. “The children are not equipped for it. And Scott killed a man tonight. I need to talk to him.”

“Two men,” Armando muttered.

“Really …” In what light was left, Frost’s eyes glittered. “Howlett’s talking to him already.”

“Well.” Charles’ own eyes burned as he blinked, hard. “I’m cold, too.”

“You were the one who insisted on coming back –”

“My lady.” He bowed, stiff as a board. “Please excuse me.”

“Ah, ah. Leave Jean here. I wish to speak to her.”

“I …”

I’m not cold, Mr. Xavier. Don’t worry.

You’re sure?

Jean nodded, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of one hand. I’ll come soon.

“We just have to talk about what happened, is all.” Frost was watching, looking … indulgent, now. Charles saw how the embers’ glow was lighting her face. Jean’s as well.

He wanted to snatch Jean away. He knew he could not.

Watch them, he sent, veiled, to Armando – as forcefully as he could. Then he turned on his heel and hustled Kurt inside.

“Is Scott O.K., Mr. Xavier?”

“Let’s go see.” It was too bloody dark inside the manor at this hour once they turned the corner from the fire. But Charles knew the way. He half-ran the rest of the way to Scott’s room, tugging Kurt along.

And twitched as he saw Logan staring at him from in front of the door, arms crossed on his chest. A candle flickered in its holder, at his feet.

“How is he?”

Logan’s voice gentled as he stooped. “Hey, kid." He patted Kurt’s shoulder. “It’s past your bedtime, but you can still tell Scott a story.”

“Logan, I could tell them a –”

Charles winced in the face of Logan’s withering glare. Watched him snatch up the candle and usher Kurt into the room. He strained to hear something, anything, but the boys' voices were too low.

Soon enough, Logan came back out into the hall and closed the door with a click. “X man. It took you long enough.”

“To …”

“To fucking get here!” It was a hissing whisper. “Where were you?”

“I couldn’t leave –”

“Azazel was back and forth from Albany at least four times.” Logan held up fingers in Charles' face counting. “Status check here, take the Seeker there, drop off Lehnsherr here, take McCoy there – you’re telling me you missed feeling him?”

“It must have happened before I checked the building, Logan. But with Hank gone, and you and Armando guarding the door, Scott was left alone –”

“We needed you. Right, Armando?”

“You could say that.”

Armando had joined them. Charles stared, indignant. “I told you to watch Jean!”

“I tried. Frost sent me away.” Armando muffled his cough. “What happened, Charles?”

“I was just –”

“Kissing up in Albany when I needed you here, Charles. You could’ve kept him from blowing the front yard straight to hell!”

“Logan … Yes, I was in Albany. But I didn’t know about the attack. Believe me, if I had known … The instant I found out, I demanded Emma take me to you.”

“Her majesty?” Logan reached to pick up his rifle, resting next to Scott’s door. Gave Charles another smile with no warmth to it. That’s catching, Charles thought, wildly. “How’s that working out for you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Logan leaned forward, and sniffed. “You sure?” His lips curled back from his teeth. “You sure you weren’t so busy you just plain forgot about us?”

Charles felt his face heat. “I couldn’t leave,” he mumbled. “I was in her mind …”

Where Raven, he realized, would have sounded the alarm. Told him. Perhaps. Unless Frost had planned the whole thing –

He started back as Logan shoved his rifle at him. “Your turn to guard. We have to go put the brakes on Lehnsherr. Armando?”

“Yeah.”

“Fun and games with barbed wire. Let’s go.”

"Wait." Armando took the candle from Logan. "Even if the power goes out, I got it, man."

"Whatever you say."

Armando passed the candle to Charles. "Keep good watch."

"I will," Charles said.

"Move it," Logan growled, and Armando moved.

God. Charles sent Raven flying to the west. There, on one of the higher floors – he felt Azazel’s mind flickering in and out, one place after another … but in one room. Dodging, he realized. The seethe of metal in the center, twisted round with rage … shot through with vicious intent. Maddened by … Erik was doing something with the barbed wire.

Trying to catch people. It made sense.

He expanded his power’s reach. There was no one other than Erik and Azazel, in the entire West Wing.

No one left alive.

Charles watched, wordlessly, as Armando and Logan disappeared round the hallway’s turn. Armando looked back. Logan didn’t.

He wobbled to the wall opposite Scott’s room. And slid down it, to sit on the floor.

Where Frost found him, not two minutes later. She was holding Jean’s hand. “Charles, who gave you those?”

He stared - rifle on his right side, candle on his left. "Logan and Armando."

"Hm."

“They’re gone,” he said, to his knees. “West Wing.”

“I know.”

She tipped her head to the side, looking down at him. He had the memory of how her eyes looked from much closer – how the blue was flecked with grey, and with something paler than grey – how she tasted, for God’s sake –

She reached out to touch him. Charles flinched away.

“Oh, dear. I thought this might happen.”

Are you hurt, Mr. Xavier?

“Shh, dear one, he’s not. Now you go in and take care of Scott and Kurt. Remember what I told you.”

Can I have Princess Alexandra?

“‘May I’, Jean," Frost said, smiling, "and of course you may. Go find her, and sleep well.”

Jean nodded, solemnly, and walked to her room. She opened the door with her power. Only when she walked out, cradling the kitten, crossed into Scott’s room, and closed the door, did Frost speak again.

“Charles, listen to me.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said.

“Cold feet. I knew it would happen. Even with Sebastian, it happened. But unlike Sebastian, you’ll make the right choice, I’m sure.” She crouched down in front of him. “Shall I send Azazel to fetch you back to Albany, in due time? Or would you rather not?”

Charles kept his face blank. He nodded once. Then again, more vigorously, as her power crackled around his mind like a vise, snagging on his veils. “When I return, my lady, perhaps we might resume our supper.”

“I’d like that very much,” she said. “You must guard the children until Howlett and Muñoz finish their work. I’ll try to make sure that my prince keeps to the woods. I can almost guarantee that he will.”

Terrified, Charles remembered. He was supposed to be terrified. “Don’t let him hurt me,” he mumbled.

Frost cupped his cheek with one hand. “He’ll never hurt you again, my love. We’ll have our supper, and in the morning, I’ll introduce you to my staff. To the governors, if you’d like. You won’t have to tutor anymore. Someone else will take care of the children, starting tomorrow.”

“Yes,” said Charles. “Anything.”

“Good.” She gave him a gentle kiss on his mouth. “Guard them for me now. Azazel will be back soon. And I hope to see you in better spirits when you return to me, my Charles. Cowardice does not become you.”

Charles did not turn to watch her walk away to the West Wing. He watched wax drip from the candle instead.

He felt, flaring across his outstretched power, Logan’s mind, Armando’s mind, both alight with action. Frost’s and Azazel’s, disappearing. Erik’s …

… moving, faster than should be possible, through the woods.

Azazel will be back soon.

Charles gritted his teeth, and checked that the rifle was loaded.

The wait was intolerable. The candle burned down, steadily. All he could do was send his nightingale to Scott and wrap the children round with warmth and safety. He would not do anything to Scott’s mind – bad enough, what had happened when he took away the pain of others before, experimenting.

Experimenting. Strategizing. His endless plans … all they had done was land him in his present snare. Snare, hell: it was a bear trap. It was as bad as the chain Frost had clapped on his ankle last autumn; it was as bad as being Erik’s toy to abuse. Worse, since it seemed Frost could not be fooled – since he had gone in, all confidence, knowing everything that she had done, knowing that he would not be seduced, and still given her exactly what she wanted.

Or, at least, she thought he had.

Someone just like me – her voice slinked out of his memory. He swatted it away. He knew he wasn’t like her. But Charles also knew he couldn’t do what she wanted, or he would become just that.

What, his mind whispered, can be done?

“Think of something,” he grated at himself – at the aviary, at anyone or anything that was listening. “Think, man.”

He tried, desperately, to think. All options were being walled off as soon as he thought of them: by snow, by Erik’s guarding the grounds, by Azazel’s imminent return – by having to guard the children. God. If Frost tried to part him from them in earnest, well, he’d make it a condition of his …

“Of what?” he whispered to the hallway. “Of your employment? For God’s sake,” he gasped, “you’re already accepting it. Think.”

His raven presented him with the image of … Erik.

“What about him?”

Charles found his mind again. It was not moving, now, deep in the forest. Charles did not dare touch him. For through his power he could see how the vicious metal cloud was slowly turning: shards, nails, spikes, all tearing and ripping like the bloodiest Catherine wheel. Grinding any care, compassion – humanity – to a powder.

“Oh, Erik …”

He shivered in the cold.

But why should he care? No matter what he had seen in Frost’s memories, what remained was a monster. One that had imprisoned him, tortured him, only just kept from raping him. An animal with glimmers of a soul …

Why did he care? Perhaps it was because of that last.

But Charles knew he could not care; not anymore. Because caring had gotten him into this trap, just as much as any strategizing had.

He swiped his free hand over his eyes – and started, as Azazel’s mind flashed into being near the front door. Charles waited until a pair of weathered boots entered the dim circle of candlight. They stopped in front of him.

Then one of them started tapping.

“So, where are they?”

“Who?”

“Howlett and Muñoz.”

“The forest.” He checked. And blinked. There was no sign of either of their minds. There was Erik, but …

“Where, in the forest? Can you give me a direction?”

Charles lifted his chin. “Go ask Erik, why don’t you?”

“Did you leave your manners where you left your courage, Xavier?”

“If I’m to be … with our Lady, you’ll be the one to learn some better manners. And soon.”

A snort.

“Why are you looking for them, anyway?”

“This little skirmish left two Free West helicopters unguarded, right by the cell outside Syracuse.” Azazel’s tail quivered; he had to be stretching. “Everyone gets to join in the fun. Even I am getting a second wind. Are you ready to go back to her, Charles?”

“No,” he said, quickly. “I’ll stay here. Someone needs to guard the children.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say. I’ll be back a bit later. Be ready.”

He vanished. Charles inhaled the sulfurous vapor; coughed it back out. Or tried to.

Azazel’s mind did not reappear in the forest. Perhaps he had thought better of asking Erik for directions; perhaps he wanted to take his time. For when he did show up again, it was deep in the West Wing. Which was odd, but more so was how he disappeared again, and not in the usual way –

Charles stumbled to his feet.

His maps and catalogue made the connection fast as light: Azazel had slipped inside the room protected against telepathy. 

And he was not alone there.

Last September Logan and Hank had dragged him out of it into the light of day. Now ... Logan and Armando had secreted themselves away, and Azazel stepped in to join them. Why?

To have a discussion … protected from Frost?

His power had been stronger than that protection, Charles remembered. He brought it to bear, gritting his teeth. What felt like five minutes of grinding effort rewarded him with a dim impression of Azazel’s mind, of Logan’s, of Armando’s …

… of Marie’s.

“What,” Charles said, into the empty hallway.

Marie was there. And Angel. And someone he remembered from chasing after Sean, so long ago. Jean-Paul, the flyer.

It was pretty damn thin at the beginning, Logan rumbled from his memory: just Jean-Paul and me, and only after Mags got me out of Alkali late '55.

And then there was Alex. What the hell? All of them, crammed into the room –

– but all of a sudden it was too late to press further, for Azazel took them all away.

For a long moment, Charles’s mind felt as slow as the melting candle wax. Except for its reaching an obvious conclusion: they could have been there to have a conversation without Frost, true enough … but.

They could have been there to have one without him.

Charles felt desolate.

… He could have helped, surely?

With whatever they had been discussing?

Except it was easy enough to deduce. He had come late from Albany, too late to help and apparently reeking of Frost. Enough to make him distrusted.

“Just as well,” he whispered, so his voice would not crack. “I don’t need any of you. I never did. I’m – I’m leaving, God damn you and your war.”

For he should have done it at any point before, but he had been afraid, or had been so possessed of scruples – but now his back was to the wall. So. Azazel would return. Charles would shake his hand, say hello, take hold of his mind, and make him take him back to Britain.

If he could, he would take the children. They were all alone here, after all.

Charles checked his power blanketing the manor and the forest. There was no one there, save himself, the children … Erik.

Damn. If he were to do this mad thing with Azazel, Erik would need to be taken out of the picture. Before he could reconsider, he sent his raven out to Erik’s mind.

He touched it.

And Charles had to suck in a deep breath as Erik’s thoughts leaped to meet him. Coils of metal whipped around him, squeezing: all the sharpest edges of the shards facing out, and something dark, and hot – vibrating with want – pressing up against his own mind.

He focused on breathing. In. Out. “Hello, my dear.”

Except Frost had been close to calling him that – Charles throttled the surge of sickness and sent more power to meet Erik. “You’re all right, I suppose?”

It felt as thought the metal cloud was ratcheting tighter, closer. Purring, rubbing up against him like a cat.

Erik, he tried sending –

– and then wheeled with a gasp as he heard a peculiar scraping sound. It was barbed wire, slithering down the hallway. “Fuck,” he whispered, frantic, as he pressed himself against the wall as flat as he could. Stop! he sent.

Of course, Erik didn’t. Rather, the entire mass of barbed wire found his shoes, moved to form a semi-circle around him, and shot up like ivy would up a wall - but in a matter of seconds. And there it stopped. Barbed wire hanging on thin air – except then the coils of wire pressed in, pricking at his clothes, scratching at the rifle – and now he couldn’t bloody well move.

How am I supposed to shoot? he sent, furious, along with the image of the rifle in his hands, its barrel swathed in wire. Let me go!

All that he got in return was a throb of … satisfaction.

Charles clenched his teeth. Or if you won’t, then come to me. He framed the command with iron. Now.

It seemed Erik’s mind had liked that that. At least, it snapped up the iron, fast; started moving again, faster. Right towards the manor – fastest.

Charles tried moving. Barbs caught at every inch of exposed skin and prickled him – fuck – he felt goosebumps race up and down his body, but he didn’t think there was blood. Best to leave off. So he did, and stared ahead, and waited.

At least you can stare. Erik had left his eye sockets alone, though they were surely wreathed in wire. My eyes – so long ago – I’ve been told they’re very beautiful …

Erik’s power felt like a whirlwind, approaching at a rapid clip. Don’t you dare make a sound, Charles sent. I won’t have the children frightened again.

He did not have to wait long.

For all the clamor of his mind, Erik himself was uncannily quiet. He ghosted up the stairs and the hallway, coming to a stop in front of Charles. And anyone staring as hungrily as he was staring would look like a fool … but Erik.

Was holding a pair of swords.

Charles swallowed, staring in turn. The metal of the swords was not clean. Much like ...

Erik was obscured by the barbed wire as he eased closer, but Charles could pick out some detail - even with the candlelight dimming. The bulk of his coat; his trousers and his bare hands. The metal on the soles of his boots scraping the flagstones. The heavy steel wire coiling around one shoulder.

The way every strand of barbed wire quivered when Erik tipped his head, just so.

Memory hit like a punch: Erik curling his fingers in the air and bringing the helmet down to his head – and Shaw – Charles had to push it all away, for the present time, lest he start screaming and never stop.

“Let me out of here.” He kept his voice quiet. “This is ridiculous.”

“Rabe,” Erik whispered. “You’re safe.”

“I’ll be safe even if you let me out. Do it now, Erik, or I’ll …”

“Yes?”

“Please,” said Charles. He tried to move; winced as barbs caught at one of his hands. “There are other ways to keep me safe.”

Erik closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Then the wire began easing away from Charles, one strand at a time. Slowly. Charles kept his breathing steady. Watched the line of Erik’s throat. No scarf. He couldn’t see any tension. Just Erik swallowing – then a long sigh.

“You’re enjoying this,” Charles whispered, accusing.

“You feel … bigger.”

“What?” Charles hissed. “Erik, what the hell –”

The wires ripped apart in time for Erik to fling the swords aside, dive forward, and grab.

“ – do you mean by –”

That, his mind finished.

Erik had buried his face in the crook of Charles’ shoulder. Had taken hold of his waist with both hands, and had – squeezed him. “This …” Another squeeze. “Charles. I –”

“‘ – want to bite you,’ of course you do,” Charles finished for him, toneless. “Again.”

“… I’m glad you’re here. Where I can feel you,” Erik finished, rather more softly than Charles had.

“Oh.”

Charles could move now. Carefully, he placed the rifle to the side. Then he reached up and plucked Erik’s knit cap off his head, the better to scratch his hair. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“Liebster Rabe.” Drawing back, Erik frowned. “Where are your friends?”

“Excuse me?”

“Howlett. Muñoz. I was chasing them. Then they were chasing me. I thought they’d be here with you, but then I couldn’t feel James, so I wondered.”

“Did you fall and knock your head at any point during these chases?” Charles said, coldly. “They went to hunt helicopters in Syracuse.”

Erik blinked. “No one told me.”

“It seems you and I are guarding the children, although you were meant to stay in the forest, I think. What possessed you, to flout your Lady’s wishes?”

“You,” Erik growled –

Charles placed a hand over Erik’s mouth. “Quiet.”

The grey-green eyes were dark, staring at him.

“The children,” Charles whispered. “They’re sleeping.”

Erik did not look away, even as he pressed a kiss into Charles’ hand.

Charles swallowed hard. In the slight space between his fingers, he caught a gleam of teeth. Then he felt the slick slide of tongue. He swallowed again at the sight of blood, darkened to brown and flaking off the side of Erik’s face. “Is that yours?”

Erik kissed his fingers again. “No.”

“Don’t you ever worry about hepatitis?”

Another nuzzle.

“Really,” Charles pushed at Erik’s face. “Must you?”

“I know I’m not clean, Rabe. I’m sorry,” said Erik, simply. “I just wanted ...”

"Wanted what?"

It was enough of a distraction - for as Erik lipped at his fingers, Charles checked the net of his power, lying over the manor and the woods. If he concentrated, he could expand his reach to encompass Ithaca – so he did. A burst of additional effort sent the raven flying to Syracuse, to drape the net over it as well.

He deliberately stayed away from the welter of activity he detected, southeast.

And manfully controlled his flinch as Erik nudged his hand aside and pressed forward, to kiss ...

Charles blinked at the image that swam into his mind: Erik at the Rose in Bloom, aiming a dart at the well-worn board opposite the vid screen. Laughing as he missed the center, sliding his hand round a tankard, bringing it up to his mouth to sip, once, then again, and passing the other hand over Charles' hair as Charles prepared a shot of his own ...

Except it was too ludicrous. Erik in a pub; one might as well bring a lion on a leash. The look on Geoffrey's face alone would -

Charles exhaled as Erik left off kissing the corner of his mouth and slid his own mouth home.

Hurry up. He opened his mouth mechanically as Erik flicked at his lips with his tongue. Angled his head so Erik could get deeper, made all the right little gasps and moans. And he could do more; there was practically a list by now, really - so he could slip his hands to Erik's chest; could hitch one thigh over and up, to give himself leverage to grind against Erik's leg if it came to that. He could move to spread his palms over Erik's back, careful to avoid the heavy wire.

Erik's breath was warm, his tongue was warm, his bloody saliva was warm and there was too damn much of it. Charles brought up the catalogue and started in on the rips in the fabric of Erik's coat. He plucked at each one he found - perhaps from darts, perhaps from arrows -

The steel wire touched his right hand, and slithered to life like a snake.

"Fuck - Erik! No!"

Charles jerked away as best he could, trapped between Erik and the wall and all the barbed wire. At least he had not yelped. Had not whimpered. Had not.

But he had knocked over the candle. So much for any light.

Erik had moved with him - was still less than an inch away, for Charles could feel his breath. Could smell it. Copper. Why hadn't he tasted it? Why, because it was normal, was that it?

"... I'm sorry," Erik whispered.

He couldn't stop shivering. "Fine."

"I didn't mean to frighten you."

"You didn't fucking frighten me," Charles snarled. "I was surprised. That's all."

"Shh." Erik was touching him; petting his hair, his neck - his brow, his cheekbones. Charles felt his gorge rise.

"Your hands are no cleaner than your face."

"Rabe, Rabe ... I'll wash, then. I love you."

Which would be a non sequitur to anyone but Charles Xavier, heir to Pavlov. Fine. Lure the creature in, subdue it - he would feed him up and fuck him if he had to, and Erik would sleep, or - the opiates, his mind whispered - and then Azazel would be short one mindless killing machine of a comrade if he called for help -

If he could just stop shaking.

Enough. It wasn't so cold.

“Schöner Drache,” Charles said, smiling. It felt tight on his face. “You wash up. Just a bit, though. I find, tonight, that I like the sight of your … prowess.”

Silence. Then Charles felt the warm puff of laugh. “Schönster Lehrer, at any point this evening, did you fall and hit your head?”

“Shut up.” He thumped back against the wall. “Is it too much to say that I just want you close by? And I don’t want it to take long,” he gritted out, “is all.”

Lies, lies - and to him, Erik’s ensuing silence felt electrified.

“Yes,” Erik breathed, finally. “I’ll go do that. Right now.”

He turned and practically ran into Charles’ door.

“Open it like a normal person would, please.”

“You distract me.”

“As per usual.” Charles followed Erik’s stumbling path; registered the few embers left on the hearth. “Build a fire, too. Have you eaten?”

Erik shook his head. He had dropped to his knees, instantly, and taken two great handfuls of kindling; Charles could see that much. And now he had to be looking up. Waiting.

There had been the lines of Erik's cheekbones and jaw, bumping up against his face just a moment ago. They had been sharper. And there had been the painful jut of hipbone he had felt, fucking Erik, two weeks ago.

“I’ll make you something,” Charles muttered.

“Thank you.”

It took a moment or two to stumble there, but as soon as he had relit the candle in the kitchen, Charles focused on the memory of the splash of blood over stubble on Erik's face. He fanned his distaste into a flame while he tossed bread and cheese onto a plate.

It made mixing opiate into tea much easier.

Of course there were second thoughts to dispense with. Back in his room, Charles gnawed his lower lip as he stared at the fire, now burning merrily away.

For example: what if the Free West attacked the manor again?

“They wouldn’t try a failure twice,” he told the flames. “Although this, and those helicopters … it feels like a feint.”

Which he had warned Logan was a possibility. “Should have trusted me,” he said, coldly, before he put it out of his mind.

Another thought: what if Frost tried calling Erik to her side?

No. She wanted him, Charles, there. And in the meantime, she wanted …

Him, terrified. Clawing at Azazel to return to Albany, to flee from Erik. And everyone going to Syracuse – fuck it, she could have just wanted the excuse to leave him alone with Erik lurking, ready to attack, the bitch. Charles had to applaud her, for an obsession that let her deduce how best to torment him even in the midst of a military exercise.

If it were indeed that.

Charles stretched his power to survey the southeast of Syracuse. He frowned. The furor there had stopped. And he could not feel the minds of his friends. “Former friends,” he told the bedspread.

“Who do you mean?” Erik said.

Charles shook his head at the floor. “Never mind. I was just woolgathering.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Aside from this skirmish, poor Scott killing two men, and you killing however many more? Everything is fine.” He looked up. “I – suppose.”

He was proud that the last word had made its way out of his mouth. For there was Erik, leaning against the bathroom door frame, his body licked golden by the firelight.

“Erik,” Charles managed. “You could put some clothes on.”

Erik tilted him a lazy smile. And stretched.

Charles positioned the plate more strategically in his lap. “Now who’s a distraction?”

The smile turned pleased. “Really?”

“Um.” For Erik paced over and went to his knees, Jesus Christ, on the floor right next to Charles’ feet. “Yes, really. What if the Free West were to attack again, right now? You’d charge out to fight them in the nude?”

“There’s no one else here; not for miles.”

“You’re using your ability?”

“As you are, I think.”

Charles jerked a nod. “I can’t feel anyone, either. They could have taken all the metal out of their clothing and acquired wooden weapons, so I have the advantage. Unless you’re able to sense someone’s blood at a greater distance, now.”

“That’s for war.”

“Erik, how many people did you kill tonight? You don't call that war?"

Erik yawned.

For God's sake. The simpleton, returned in full force - Charles felt like choking, even as Erik shuffled closer, quietly and placed his chin on Charles’ right knee. He could feel the warmth of that long throat through his trousers.

“Is that for me?” Erik said.

“Is what?” A glance back showed Erik staring at – oh, thank God, he was only staring at the meager contents of the plate. Charles willed away his flush. “Yes. If you still want it.”

Erik moved his head, to rest his cheek on Charles’ thigh.

“Do you expect me to feed you?” Charles said, waspish.

“If you did, I’d eat everything we have. Just hand it here? Please?”

“Fine.”

Charles slipped him the plate. He would not focus on the long fingers wrapping round it, or on that damned ring still on Erik’s left thumb and the way it clinked against the porcelain. Nor would he commend Erik’s manners, in taking small bites of bread and cheese, alternately. Instead, he stared at the mug of tea steaming away on his bookshelf.

Charles sent his raven to check the children; they were fast asleep. He scanned the nets of his power again for any sign of Azazel. Nothing.

It had to be done.

And sooner, rather than later, lest he talk himself out of it.

“Are you thirsty?”

Erik nodded as he swallowed a mouthful.

“Well. There’s some tea. Let me –” Charles moved to fetch the mug, and darted back, cursing himself for missing Erik’s warmth immediately. “There. Drink up.”

“There’s none for you? That doesn’t seem very civilized.”

Charles swatted him as cover for his flinch. “I had mine in the kitchen. I’m sorry I didn’t wait, but we British love the stuff.”

For a long moment, Erik stared into the mug.

Charles distracted himself by considering how the hair came to a curl on the nape of Erik’s neck. The fire was not high, so that hair was a darker shade of red than usual -

Erik’s head snapped up. “What was that?”

“What?” Charles jumped. “Where?”

“Outside. I thought I felt –” He rose to his feet, swiftly; moved towards the door.

Charles outstripped him, elbowed past him into the hallway … but the children were still asleep, and nothing had changed under the net of his power.

“What was it?” he whispered.

“Sorry,” said Erik.

Turning, Charles frowned at Erik’s sheepish expression as he lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “I think it was a body.”

“A body.”

“Falling from a fourth-floor window.” Erik walked back to the bed and sat. “The wires gave way. I must have felt his bandolier, going down.”

“A dead body, then.”

“Well, he’s definitely dead now.”

“Well, so much for a pleasant night,” said Charles. He frowned at the fire, now sending up smoke. “Did you –”

Erik yawned again. Charles heard his jaw crack, and saw the empty mug resting on the hearth.

“ – oh. You drank it.”

“It was good. Now come here.”

“But we were talking.”

“We can talk here, can’t we?” Erik settled back comfortably onto the bed, still completely naked.

Even with the fire well on its way to dying … in its light, he was so beautiful.

Oh, God.

He couldn't be. For fuck's sake - Charles wouldn't let him be. He was a murderer. He was mad. He would - what had happened to the steel wire? Charles flicked his glance round the room, but - no, it would be in the bathroom, on top of the pile of Erik's clothes - which no doubt stank. It would be coiled like a snake, ready to strike - or to chain him up again, chain him like he had been by them both, Frost and Erik - by the whole bloody pack of them, chained in his room like a prisoner.

He was god damned done being a prisoner.

“- Charles?"

Erik must have been calling him. "What," Charles said.

“Come here? Please?”

Charles walked to the bed; sat down. He gazed at the scars. He reached out to touch his own, faded over Erik’s clavicle. “I’m here now.”

“Good.” Erik gave him a smile, and reached to hook a finger into the waistband of his trousers.

“Aren’t you forward this evening?”

“I only want to feel you again.”

One long palm came to rest at his waist. Charles looked away.

Erik gently tugged his dress shirt out of his trousers. “This suit.”

“What about it?”

“I like it. Did you go somewhere?”

Charles gave a tight nod. “Boston.”

“Schön. Did you see the lines?”

“What lines?”

Erik flicked open a button. Then another. “Most have collapsed, but there’s still parts of the red line, and the green. The blue. Some people live down there.”

“Public transit? You’re asking me if I got the official tour of whatever public transit is still available in Boston? Priorities, Erik.”

Erik slid a hand inside his shirt. Hummed. “There was a station called Charles – I saw the signs. I think it flooded after the third war.”

“The third war.”

“What about it?”

I know more about it. All of Frost’s revelations – everything Erik had done – but it was hopeless to ask him, now. “Never mind. Oh.”

The hand stilled. “All right?”

“Fine. I’m not ticklish. Just don’t pinch me.”

“I won’t.”

Erik contented himself with petting him. Charles let him do it. Considered his expression: the strong lines of his face relaxed, his eyes half-closed. His mouth. The thin, sensual curl of mouth that he, Charles, had been licking at not ten minutes before ....

And there went the petting hand, straight down to Erik's cock. Back to normal - though now was really not the best time, so it would have to be quick.

“Shall I help you with that?”

“Oh please. Yes.” Erik tipped his head back as Charles bent his own.

Charles breathed, considering the slow strokes of Erik’s hand. With the right timing, he could send damp heat over the head – ah. It worked; Erik shivered. He was still near flaccid, though, and the twist of his hand was easy and slow. Too slow.

“You’ve been practicing?”

“I try to make it last. And I think of you,” said Erik, eyes closing. “Only you.”

Full marks, Charles sighed, and gave him a touch of tongue.

“Nnh. Wait.”

Leaning back as Erik tried to sit up, Charles allowed himself to catalogue that abdomen – the muscles bunching in it, rippling – before Erik fell back with a groan.

“I don’t understand. I want you to suck my cock ... but Rabe, I’m so tired.”

“You must have had a long day.”

“Yes.” Erik’s right hand slipped away from his cock and fell to the bed; his left hand slid off Charles’ belly.

Charles did up his shirt buttons again. "Perhaps you should go to sleep, my dear."

“Schatz. Did I tell you what I saw in Boston, once?”

“What was that?”

“The lights, when night fell. Over the harbor.”

“Not fireworks?”

“From the sky.”

“The aurora? Lovely.”

“And then I remembered Baikal.”

Charles couldn’t help it. Misery welled up and clogged his throat. “I wish you remembered more.”

“It’s all right, Rabe. I love you.”

“No.” Charles closed his eyes, so he wouldn’t have to see Erik slump into his drugged sleep. “It will never be all right.”

Only quiet breathing answered him.

Charles scrubbed at his face and considered. The opiate had worked fast. But Erik had downed the tea in record time, so that was that. Charles checked the manor, Ithaca, Syracuse, everything in between …

There was still no sign of Azazel.

“Erik?” Charles placed one hand on his abdomen.

Erik did not move.

“I wish I could have known you before."

But now I have to leave. For with Erik sound asleep, as soon as Azazel returned, Charles would do just that. He wanted to go home. He needed to go home ... while he could still remember it.

I wish you remembered more. The past, all locked away. And surely Frost had buried secrets deeper in his mind than Charles had ever thought possible.

… In his mind.

“No,” Charles breathed, “not now. God, don’t even think about it.” His hands were sliding forward, almost of their own volition, his fingertips brushing Erik’s hair. Red. “No. Fuck, no. This is the worst time.”

... He could see if Erik knew that Jean was his own daughter.

... He could see what, if not that, Frost had worked hardest to hide.

... He could find something to destroy her -

Charles winced at the passing thought. How. Erik was the one whose mind was destroyed. How, then, could he leap from that wreckage to the idea of the wreck hiding secrets of unimaginable power ... 

"Jean's that, though. Isn't she?"

There was no reply, of course; nothing verbal.

All Charles felt was a strong sense of ... urgency?

He called up his raven. It appeared in his mind's eye, lightning-fast. “Listen to me,” he told it – and all the aviary, all his power. “If you sense Azazel here, or anything coming to the manor, friend or foe, you pull me out instantly. Please?”

His raven made no sound, but sent him a pulse of approval.

“That’s new. But on that happy note –”

Charles took a deep breath.

He exhaled in one long gust when he opened his eyes in Erik’s mind. “Let’s hurry.” He turned, looking. “Raven?”

There was no reply.

“Search,” Charles ordered. He knew it would hear. “Find what’s hidden. Shaw, find me Shaw or the day the third war started, or …” He felt helpless. “Or find if Jean, if that’s important. Just find the most important thing that Frost has hidden, and do it fast.”

It took matter of seconds to check his gear – sword and shield, cloak and tokens – and to orient himself. Even in the dark, he could see roiling clouds obscuring the sky. He heard a distant rumble; he didn’t know what it was. He had landed on the near side of the terrible river … closer to the forest than he had ever been on his arrival.

The metal forest, through which Charles saw a path stretching, broad and clear.

Carefully, he approached it. He stepped past the first few trees. Something brushed his shoulders; he flinched. Looking back showed how the silvery branches had closed behind him; had folded up into a web from his heels to his hair and pressed him forward.

Charles stumbled another few steps up the path. More branches slid together, fast as thought. He was put in mind of a Venus flytrap.

… Except the metal had not hurt him.

Not yet, he thought, wildly, and started running.

The path stayed unbelievably clear compared to his first race through the forest. Charles was staring at the castle almost before he knew it, the battlements and towers jolting in his vision as he sped for the gatehouse door. It opened easily. The bunker in the courtyard was battered shut, dark and stained. He ran past it. The doors to the keep swung open easily as well, and Charles would have spared that a thought – worry, fear – were he not so focused on the final sprint. The dust inside the main hall caught in his throat; he stopped in front of the Imperial staircase and his cough echoed off the looming walls. Blood red banners fluttered above him as he looked round.

“Raven?” he called. “Raven?”

There was no reply.

Charles had to bend over to catch his breath. “Damn it,” and he coughed again. Spat out phlegm. “What the hell?”

There was another rumble, shaking his feet, setting his teeth on edge. That was new. He could see glittering dust puff from between the flagstones of the floor. Squinting through the haze that dust formed, Charles saw the dark place between the double stairs, swathed in the strange cloth, red and black and silver.

There were secret memories past it, he knew. As far down in Erik’s mind as he had ever gone.

… But his raven was not there, and he had given it orders. And shite, from the beginning, he could have told it to whisk him to the precise location he needed. He could have spared himself a sprint; he could have – Charles coughed and coughed – spared himself this.

He tried walking to where the haze was thinner, with little luck. He tried placing his cloak in front of his nose and mouth – it was slightly better, he could take a silent breath, good.

But in the silence he heard the door of the keep open. And shut.

“Oh, no.”

Charles let his cloak fall; drew his sword and raised his shield. He stared at the swirling haze – and through it, at the shadow peeling off from the door and starting to walk towards him.

He couldn’t run, not coughing. “Raven,” he said, “take me away.”

Nothing happened.

“What? Raven!” Charles panicked. Without its help, there was no escape possible – unless he could run again. But he stumbled back and hit the pillared end of a banister.

He could see that the shadow was Erik, walking steadily, and – that meant Erik had been awake this entire time? Oh no, no –

Charles brandished the sword as Erik reached the stairs.

Erik just looked at him.

In the sword’s shining light, Charles could see no weapons. No metal springing from his hands, limp at his sides.

“Erik?” he said, cautiously.

There was no reply that he could detect. Not even a change in Erik’s expression this time. Before there had been rage. Fear. And … some curiosity, perhaps, when Erik sniffed at him – and now there was just a blank.

“Erik, I’m sorry. I know I promised you –” Charles cleared his throat, a mistake, because then he had to hack and cough, “I promised I’d stay out. I’m not here to hurt – ow,” he coughed, and it felt like it was cutting him, “ow!”

Erik’s taking hold of both his shoulders was a shock. Charles yelped and tried to wrench away. But all Erik did was push, slightly. Push, and then follow him, with one step. Push, and then follow.

“You want me to go somewhere?” Charles shook his head. “Just walk. I’ll follow you. Somewhere I can breathe.”

That somewhere turned out to be the tiny square fountain, burbling water, near the wall that had held the unicorn tapestry. “That’s right,” said Charles, and he sheathed his sword as he stumbled over, “you’ve hidden it. Oh, thank God.” He took a clean breath, then cupped his hands and splashed water on his face. “That’s better.”

And more than better, for the water tasted wonderful. Before he knew it, Charles had taken a deep drink. Then another. After the second one, he looked up and saw Erik watching him, steadily.

It had better not have been a mistake, consuming something in another’s mind. Charles gritted his teeth, trying to remember if he had ever – oh, except Jean had eaten scones and jam in his, and she seemed all right. So. All he had to worry about was water dripping off his chin. “Forgive my enthusiasm.”

Erik was silent.

“Here.” Charles held out his cupped hands. “Won’t you have some?”

Silence. Again.

“Drink.” He stepped close to Erik. “Won’t you? I’m sure you’d like it. Is this because of the tea?” Lifting his hands, he kept talking – anything to drown out the guilt clamoring at him. “I’m very sorry. I only wanted to come here to help you. Because … Erik?”

Charles had reached up to Erik’s mouth and tipped his hands – but the water ran over closed lips, and down, and down, to spatter on the stone floor.

“Erik. What’s wrong with you?”

Erik stared at him, his face a blank.

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” He heard his own words ring – truth. “I want to help you, because there’s something very wrong here,” Charles stretched his arms, to encompass the hall, the dust, everything. “And Frost has done it to you.”

The whites of Erik’s eyes flashed.

“Shh, shh. I’m sorry. I want to help you. Will you let me? Erik?”

But when he reached up to Erik’s face again, Erik flinched.

“… All right.” Charles took a careful step back. “I won’t touch you, I promise. Just … can you tell me how to help you? Can you tell me anything?”

Erik seemed to be considering. After a long pause, he let one shoulder rise and fall.

“Good. We can have a system. One shrug is yes, two is no. And that shrug - who came up with that? You or ..."

Jean, he would have finished, but his tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Charles took another drink of water. Wiped his face. “Tell me it’s not true, Erik.”

He wheeled on one foot. Everything that he had put together – he could say it. No one else would ever hear. “And tell me that Frost isn’t her mother. Please.”

That was perhaps the limit to those questions, for Erik now looked like a corpse: chalk white under the dust coating his face.

“I wish you could drink,” Charles said, miserable. “And I need to breathe, and even with this,” he hooked a thumb at the beautiful fountain, “I don’t want to stay here. Can’t we go to your woods?”

They ended up going to the highest battlement.

Once there, Charles gasped in relief and ran to the statues. His raven was bobbing its head and croaking from Erik’s shoulder. Well – the statue of Erik, of course, for the real Erik was following close behind him. He saw Jean’s tea light flickering at the statue’s base.

“My darling,” he said, stroking Raven’s feathers. “I give you specific orders and then you won’t even come when I call? I was terrified. I’m sorry,” he told Erik over his shoulder, “but you had that effect on me, for a good long while.”

Charles watched Erik pace past the statue of Shaw, reach the far edge of the battlement, and look out. Or at least, Charles thought he looked out. It would be difficult to see in the dark even if Erik were not wearing black.

He was far enough away for Charles to whisper, “Azazel?”

His raven was silent.

“I’ll take that as a no. Now, Erik,” he said, for Erik had covered several meters in a split second and was staring at him again, “let’s have our system. One shrug for yes, two for no?”

Erik was silent.

“One nod? One blink? Or you could try writing: is there charcoal anywhere? Can you twist your metal into words for me? I could give you a quill – could you, darling?”

Raven screeched and molted several feathers at once.

“There, you see? And you can use my blood if you have to. Write down how I can help. Tell me.”

There was still no response. Charles’ heart sank. “Is this what she’s done? You can’t tell me how to help you in any way?”

He did not need to see the empty face to conclude: of course. “How very cruel.”

Raven was quiet.

“But I can still try. Raven, we have work to do, and we don’t have much time. Come along.”

It flapped its wings again.

“I won’t even say 'one flap for yes, two for no.' I told you to find what’s hidden, didn’t I? And I know you like coming here, and I’m glad I can breathe, but we have to go down to that door behind the tapestry." He gave Erik a brief look. “I’m sorry for what I did to you in the room with the mirrors, but those three memories are important, I think. I – easy! What is it?”

For his raven had shrieked in distress. Charles reached out to soothe it. “Darling, what’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”

He looked closer. A pinion had caught on the statue’s concrete face, or granite, or whatever it was. He stepped up on the pedestal, careful to avoid the tea light, and worked the feather free. “There now. Better?”

His gauntlet scraped the stone; an edge caught on the groove in the statue’s hair.

Wait.

“This,” Charles said.

Every instinct in him flared.

“This is important, somehow. Every time I’ve been here, I’ve seen it: you don’t have a crown.” He turned to look at Erik. “Is that it? Do you need a crown?”

For there was one, he remembered: down in the depths of the castle. A fearsome crown, set between the wreck of the Washington Monument – that had been it – and a reflecting pool of blood. An ugly crown, all wrought iron and jagged collets.

“They have jewels and you don’t, so if I put a crown on you, something happens? Something is fixed? Oh God, that has to be it.” He jumped down from the statue, heart pounding into his throat - the idea - of ice melting, doors opening, every last treasure revealed - “Raven, come along. We’ll go find it,” Charles said to Erik in a rush, “right now. I still have time.”

Fuck, what had he done wrong now? For Erik looked out at him, eyes smudges under his brow … looked at him like Charles had killed him.

And to be killed, Erik had to be alive - how could he have thought those eyes were dead? They were alive, and they were in pain.

“What, Erik?” Charles said, agonized. “If not a crown, then what?”

On the statue’s shoulder, Raven screamed.

“Not you. Erik. What do I need to do?”

But Raven screamed again.

Erik wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was looking over Charles’ shoulder.

Charles turned to look, himself.

And Frost’s statue turned its head, to look right back at him.

Charles catapulted out of bed. His back hit the wall opposite.

In his mind, his raven was still screaming. In Erik’s mind, Erik had thrown himself between Charles and the statue of Frost, just as the tea light exploded.

He stared at Erik. “Are you …”

Erik’s eyes opened. He stared at the ceiling.

He started to tremble.

“What have I done?” Charles gasped. “No, Erik– stay there!” He ran to his wardrobe. Pawed through it. Nothing – so he grabbed a pillow from the bed and ripped the pillowcase off. The jewel box, unless – it would tear – he emptied it, and took the first aid kit, his coat, a pair of socks, a scarf – gloves –

He wrenched round to look again. Erik had not moved from the bed. Not even when Charles had yanked the pillow away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. But promise or no promise, I can’t stay here another minute –” He wedged his feet into his shoes and ran into the hallway; stumbled into the mass of barbed wire, and shouted in pain as it tore at his hands.

"Mr. Xavier!" Scott wailed. "What's happening?!"

“Is it the bad men?” Kurt’s voice was shrill behind the door. Charles heard thumps and scrapes.

“No – Jean, Kurt, Scott, you stay there, do you understand me?” He pulled free of the barbed wire. Which, he saw, was not moving. “It’s safe; you’ll be fine.” His voice cracked. “Just stay!”

Mr. Xavier where are you –

Cursing himself, Charles turned and ran.

The library, he thought, frantic. The hidden rooms. He could hide in one until he figured out what he could do –

His power caught the flash of Azazel’s mind, appearing in the center of the Hive. “Fuck!” There were others, too, and they all ran in different directions out the panopticon – Logan, Armando, Kitty Pryde, Jubilation Lee, Alex, John – and Victor Creed, oh God –

Let the door be open, and it was, but –

– but Logan was sprinting down the hall towards the library, from the east.

Charles stood frozen in place. Instinct seized him: he put the pillowcase down, and nudged it beneath the sofa with one foot. And just in time, for Logan crashed through the door.

“Charles!”

“I …”

Logan ran up and took hold of him. His eyes were wide. “Are you all right?”

“Yes?” Charles began to breathe again. “I’m all right.” Not regularly. But it seemed – Frost hadn’t yet - said -

Except there she was, and not five seconds later the Finder roared to life in a fury. Charles yanked his strongest veils around his mind and tried not to pass out.

“Ow – fuck, I get it! Charles, where’s Lehnsherr?” Logan gasped.

“My room,” Charles said, teeth chattering.

“Your room?” Logan sniffed him. “Shit, I should not have left you. Did he hurt you?”

“Logan.” He trembled. “What’s happening?”

“Albany’s under attack; Frost just dragged us here. Ammo, we need more ammo.” Eyes wild, Logan slapped something plastic into his hand. “Get to the Finder; she’ll want you there. I’ll take care of Lehnsherr.”

And he sprinted away.

Charles looked down. The piece of plastic was Logan’s I.D.

He looked back up. Made sure all his shielding was as strong as he could make it. And added another veil – a real one, in the real world – to conceal himself from sight.

Then Charles snatched up the pillowcase and darted through the library - wrenched open the door to the Hive with one pass of the I.D., slammed it shut behind him. He towards the Finder – she wouldn’t expect that – keeping well beneath the crash and surge of its power. He swiped the I.D.; passed through door after door. But where was he going –

His raven flew ahead of him to the garage.

“There,” Charles gasped, and sprinted after. He rounded corners, slammed through doors – shoved open the door into the smaller storage room, ran down and across. Past all the compartments, past Erik’s. He found the other I.D. mechanism –

– and paused. Doubled over to catch his breath.

From the other side of the door came the noise of things being thrown about and an engine turning over. He felt Victor Creed, Jubilation Lee, Yuriko, John, two minds he did not recognize – and Kitty Pryde.

His raven careened back into his mind, showing him Kitty’s hands on a steering wheel.

Charles licked the sweat off his lips. Carefully, he eased his power out behind him. Veil. Frost … in an unspeakable rage, wielding the Finder. Azazel … flashing over to the West Wing. Logan …

… was hurt.

And Erik …

He didn’t dare touch Erik.

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispered to his hands, covering his face. Oh, God – the children, hearing whatever Erik had done to Logan. He checked on them – and then let his hands fall, fast, for the children were gone.

“What happened?! This is –”

Raven dropped into his mind the image of Armando ... crouched in the larger storage room.

“What does that have to do with –”

The power went out.

Charles instantly looked down at the I.D. reader. “No. No,” not after this far, “please work. Please have an override.” He swiped the I.D. – and after a slight delay, a green light flared. With a gasp of relief he stepped through, pouring all the power he could into his veils and shields.

It was chaos. In the darkness people were cursing and shouting – until, “Hey!”

It was Lee. She held up one hand; it fountained over with sparks and light. “As you fucking were!” she bellowed. “Get on the munitions!”

The babble of voices stopped instantly. Everyone ran into a ragged line, passing what looked like ammunition from one person to another to the truck.

“Where the hell is Lehnsherr?” Lee snapped.

“You know, I think all the cold means she’s on it,” came a voice from near the truck. John.

Lifting her hand, Lee sent light further into the garage. “Don’t make me come over there, Allerdyce.”

“You look like the Statue of Liberty, ma’am,” John sang out. “Oh-h say can you see / all the West-ies get killed?”

“Shut up. Double-time it! They need this!”

Charles stared at the truck. They … in Albany. He was sure of it.

Before he could falter, he moved along the perimeter of the garage. Kept his eyes in front of him; kept his fingers tightly knotted in the fabric of the pillowcase. He stood across from the truck; stared at the doors hanging open. It was rapidly filling with ammunition.

Charles knew he would have to time it carefully.

One chance.

“Good,” Lee shouted, and closed her fist around the light – once, twice. “John, step back. Victor, close it up.”

Charles beat him to it – bit back a yelp as the door slammed on his foot. As Creed grunted; tugged; slammed the door shut again and by that point Charles had curled in on himself in pain, so all was well.

All would be well. He closed his eyes. He wasn’t a praying man, but –

“Kitty, on my count,” came muffled through the wood of the truck’s walls. “One. Two.”

– Charles didn’t have time for anything before Kitty transported them.

He rolled over what had to be canisters of bullets, clawing at his temples to keep from crying out. The transport, the wrench of his mind ripping away from the manor and everyone there – and now the fear and pain of everyone here, for he was close enough to Albany to feel everything.

Charles sent his raven to check. It sent back an image. They were at Albany’s gates, well behind the defenders’ line. Mounted guns, rifles and barbed wire were everywhere – the impressions dripped into his mind like blood.

Shaking, Charles crawled to a corner of the truck and hid. “Just a little more.” He would not weep. “Just let them – open this.”

And he still had luck, it seemed, for the doors were torn open not thirty seconds later, and another relay started emptying the truck of ammunition. Charles watched it all disappear. He felt, carefully, with his power – to gauge when he might dash out, and in what direction.

So he instantly felt Azazel, Logan, and Lee appear atop the city wall.

Shite. “Go away,” he whispered. Lee stayed on the wall; two teleported again to the ground - Azazel and Logan, heading directly for him. “Please, please go away.”

It took them two minutes, and in that time he heard enough machine gun fire to root him to the spot.

“Out of the way; out, you. Move,” Azazel whipped his tail through the air. “Well?” he snarled at Logan.

“Give me a second.”

Logan had a torch. He held it up. In its wavering light, he looked ghastly – the left side of his face all bloodied strips hanging off bone, with an eyeball terribly exposed as it flicked round - but that same side knitting itself back together even as Charles stared.

The torch's beam moved to the corner opposite. Then to Charles’ corner. It paused.

Then Logan grunted. “Nothing.”

“Tvoyu j mat, nothing?! Stay here!” And Azazel teleported. Presumably to tell Frost.

Logan passed his free hand over the intact side of his face. Charles saw how it was shaking.

Then he said, “Hey, Charles.”

Charles froze.

“I told you that you’d have to make a choice. Is this it? Is this really what you’re gonna do? Leave? When I need you here?"

Which was a lie, Charles thought, savagely - because of what Logan had done not one hour ago. He stayed silent.

"You know I can smell you, right?"

He would not react. He would not.

“And now I don’t smell you, so thanks a lot.”

What …

“Your choice. Your life. You want to go, you fucking go –”

Charles was no longer listening. For his mind was clicking over the possibilities, and drawing one conclusion.

He managed to turn his head and look down at the empty space to his left.

He blinked once. It stayed empty.

He blinked again. He saw Jean.

Oh, no.

Charles hardly registered Logan’s shouting at Azazel and struggling. He hardly noticed them disappear. His thoughts were occupied: fear. Horror.

But mostly fear.

Mr. Xavier? Something soft brushed his mind, quivering. Please don’t be mad at me!

Charles shook his head without making a sound.

So close, he could see Jean’s eyes shining in the dark; could see her small hands holding a bag in her lap. She sent him an image of his face, pale and twisted with fear, staring down at her. Framed with her own frantic tumble of words, Mr. Xavier, where are you going?

How did you get here?

I followed you.

From outside came the sound of shouts, carried on the wind, and then the rattle of more gunfire.

Why are you going away? Tears started pooling in Jean’s eyes. Mr. Xavier, why?

“You have to go back home,” Charles whispered, numb.

No! I want to stay with you!

“Jean,” he gasped, but then pressed the words into her mind. There’s no time. I have to leave.

I’ll go with you!

It’s too dangerous.

I can help!

No, Jean. What about Scott and Kurt? What about – oh God, was he really going to – What about Princess Alexandra?

Jean’s eyes went huge. She clutched at her bag.

Who will take care of her if you’re gone, Jean?

But I forgot! Can we go get her?

No – you need to go back, where it’s safe. Charles jerked his head at the whistle of an aerial bomb. He winced and threw his arms around Jean; shielded her as it exploded – quite a distance away, but the truck shook.

I won’t leave you! Jean shoved her face into his coat and started to cry. Please!

Charles as tightly as he could. “Shhh,” he said, muffled by her hair. But there was no need to remind her; she was weeping without any noise at all.

He was still veiled – he stretched his power to include Jean – they were veiled, and the two of them working together would be invisible in every way, to everyone. He jumped at the sound of the truck’s front door, slamming shut: audible above a cacophony of shouts, the rattle and creak of chains at the city gates, and then what sounded like a foghorn.

“Oh, God,” Charles mumbled. You’re sure? Even without Princess Alexandra? We can’t go back.

Jean tightened her grip.

All right. He scooped her up. We’re going.

He grabbed the heavy pillowcase and ran for the truck’s double doors. Open on the darkness outside, they looked like a giant, wood-framed mouth. We’re going. Guns spat more bullets. Horror seized his gut. We’ll be fine, his thoughts gibbered. It will all be fine.

Charles jumped.

Snow and wind walloped him full-force; he gasped and turned his back, flinging the thought at Jean: Don’t let go!

I won’t!

He started to run. One look back showed the dim outline of the truck, disappearing into the whirling snow.

How would he – but the foghorn sounded again, and Charles sprinted towards it. The worst of the snow was behind him – Ororo, it had to be her – but the wind was still pummeling everyone else who was running for the city.

The raven strained, concealing them, as he neared the press at Albany’s gates: guards, soldiers, passengers from transports, men and women with guns, all milling about – shouting, crying – the stench of gasoline burning and the bang of tires exploding. He held Jean as close as he could, shielding her from the chaos.

Mr. Xavier!

Yes, darling?

The words felt tearful. I’m scared.

Don’t be. We’re almost there.

Where?

But Charles had to focus on pouring power into his veils as he lifted Jean and slid along between the crowd and the wall. Two men were fighting over a suitcase. He elbowed past them – dodged a guard – ducked under a rope. Hush. Keep quiet.

He sprinted up the steady incline to the market square. There, Market Hall loomed above them both, dark and obscured by gusts of snow. And there was ice everywhere. Charles hissed and adjusted his footing as he wheeled left, hard, and ran down Pearl Street, ducking into the shadows cast by houses and shops.

255 South Pearl St. – the memory flickered in his mind; he tossed it over to Jean as he ran. That’s where we’re going.

Jean sent nothing back but a sense of - ? - blurred by the cold.

“Dr. Vogelzang.” He sent the memory of her face; felt Jean grip harder.

God. Charles gasped to somebody, anybody, that Vogelzang would be home, that she would answer – as he skidded to a stop, heaving for breath, his hands like blocks of ice and all the muscles in his arms and legs on fire.

255. There. As quietly as he could, he unlatched the gate, then stumbled up the steps and set Jean down.

He rang the doorbell. “Please,” Charles muttered to himself. “Please.”

He heard the thump of footsteps. Dr. Vogelzang opened the door.

Charles stared.

“What is it?” She squinted past the chain stretched in front of her eyes. “Who’s there?”

Closing his eyes, sending the most heartfelt thank you, love, thank you, that he could manage to his raven, Charles let his concealment fall. Jean was still shielding – a small part of him, the detached and observing part, marveled at it, even as the rest of him sagged in exhaustion.

Even as he heard Vogelzang gasp. “What –”

“You remember me?” he croaked. “Charles Xavier.”

Vogelzang kept staring.

Charles gulped in air. “I ran with – and I didn’t know where to go, except I knew you could help us. Please.”

“‘Us’?”

He moved to the side. Do it, Jean. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Not here.

Jean shimmered into view.

Dr. Vogelzang’s dark eyes flicked back and forth between them both.

Then she undid the chain and tugged the door open wider, spilling light onto the snow of the front yard.

“Both of you – in! Hurry!”

And Charles darted inside, still holding Jean safe, and let Vogelzang slam the door behind them.