Standing on the gently swaying deck, Christophe could see the headlands becoming more distinct with each passing moment. The long voyage had been stormy, but the ship's crew predicted nothing but clear sailing for the remainder. He hoped so. Gods, the journey had been so long. Where did one mark the beginning? He supposed it started when he left the Barony, or earlier, when Darius captured them in the northern forest. Perhaps when Carlo gave him the task of escorting his daughter to the relative safety of Carras. It had been a very long four years, but time had also sped by.
      Christophe glanced back at his wife, sitting in the sun with the little changeling, Gwendolyn, nestled comfortably in her strong arms. Sera's long, perpetually tousled, red-blond hair gleamed like a second sun. Two loose braids, in the Dirkswain manner, hung down on each shoulder, holding her hair from the sweeping sea wind.
     "Did you finish it yet?" he asked. "We're almost there." At the sound of his voice, she opened her azure eyes. She smiled at him in her languid way, causing his heart the familiar flutter.
     "Not yet. I will. I'm otherwise occupied, dearling." Sera glanced fondly at the sleeping yearling. "I have a plan of how it will go." She settled cozily into her cloak. Her calm face filled him with satisfaction.
     "A plan, huh? Am I ready for anymore of your plans?" he said, half in jest, but fully earnest. A ghost of remorse crossed his rugged face. If Sera found nothing to worry about, what need had he?
      Sera's eyes glistened. "Only a small one, Christophe," she said. Placing the slumbering child in the carry basket beside her, she picked up the transcribed volume and leafed through the last few pages.
     "How do I follow such a piece of work? The three of you told the tale. I have nothing to add." But she saw the resolute look on her husband's face and, sighing, began to write her entry — the final one.
      Christophe watched as Sera worked. He knew her compliance with his wishes arose from her desire to please him, to assuage her guilt for his pain, but also due to her need to finish a task. No matter, it needed done. This journal, recounting the events prior to Aaran's death, would be as important as Michel's sketches, the hidden books and philosophy scrolls, or King Frank's travel logs. The insider's tale told, one never to be found as part of any official version of history. Christophe might find his own focus in the narrative. Sera shut the pages with an air of finality.
     "Already? Let me see it," Christophe crossed to his wife. She handed him the journal and, without a word, made a place for him beside her.
      Gwendolyn began to coo, unlike the twins — especially Arika, Christophe thought — who would have screamed loudly at that age. He picked up the little dove and smiled at her. The serious round brown eyes regarded him with an intensity that belied her age. He nuzzled her soft round cheeks, blow­ing raspberries, and received a giggle as reward. The plump arms embraced his neck delicately. Ah, the smell of a child. A crisp snapping diverted the child's attention to the billowing sails. Such things could amuse her endlessly. Her tiny features — so unlike Sera's — would they someday reveal paternity? Did he want to know?
      Did Sera know? Did she think of it at all? Sera's peaceful acceptance contrasted sharply with Aaran's defiance and frustration. How much different could two women be? How would his Barony family and friends react to this particular Dirkswain bride, subdued as Aaran had been brash, reticent as Aaran had been outspoken? He wondered if they could possibly be more surprised than he?
      Not that there'd been a conscious choice on his part, some courses are preordained. The circumstances were etched on his memory. He thought back to the welcome at Tastlek and old Redmond's peculiar expression when told of Aaran's death. The envoy had ushered Christophe into the fortress to present him to the Dirkswain chieftain. There, as she gripped Tristan's arm, he had beheld Sera. In that moment, as if waking from a nightmare, his crushing grief passed.
      Her initial reluctance to speak alone with him and Tristan's constant, protective, proprietary presence had filled him with dread. Finally, listening to her halting explanation — of her brush with death, of her long solitary journey, and subsequent slow recovery. She spoke of her fear of his rejection because of her obvious pregnancy.
     "No matter, no matter, as long as we are together," he had replied to her unvoiced question. "My children will be yours, and yours will be mine," and he meant it, would mean it for always.
      The creak of the ropes brought him back to the ship.
     "No, I've got her," he said, as Sera reached for the child. Christophe tucked the sweet pocketful into the crook of his arm. As he turned the thick journal to the last pages, she placed her hand on his, tracing a light pattern in the hairs of his wrist.
     "From the beginning, my love, you've plenty of time," she whispered, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her breath stirred the small hairs of his neck. The usual reaction, a shiver of bone-chilling desire starting in his knees then rising, made him grateful to already be seated, wrapped as securely in her arms as in her cloak.
      Never able to resist or refuse her, Christophe turned to the first entry. The beginning, he mused, always a wise place to start.