‘I love you, too, Favilla. Always have, always will,’ he says. It’s as gentle as I’ve come to expect of him, as steadfast and sincere as I could ever wish for. We stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, and then, as one, we say, ‘I’m sorry.’ We both pause, then open our mouths, then close them upon seeing our actions mirrored in one another. ‘You first,’ I say when I open my mouth again. ‘You have nothing to be sorry about,’ he says. ‘I do,’ I insist. ‘I’m sorry I did that to you. I didn’t mean to. You were never supposed to be the one to find me. I was—’ I pause, realising that it might not necessarily be the best path to follow. I start again: ‘I mean, I know I’m not Aura any longer, that she was the one who made the decision, that she was probably very ill and in a very bad place mentally, but I still feel responsible, somehow, for putting you through that. Please, let me apologise for that, at least.’ He seems to consider it for a moment, but then he nods, mind made up. ‘

The last thing Canus remembers is the sheer devastation of it all—the bitterness that had seeped into his very core, the pain and regret in her eyes, the purity of her confusion as he gave her his last order. And then there was pain. And then there was nothing. Then, quite suddenly, there was something. There was rain, each droplet splashing down against the roof in a familiar arrhythmic patter, banging against window panes in similar fashion. There was the silken slide of his shirt against his skin, the press of firm cushions against his back. He was slowly lifting out of his trance. He’s always been slow to wake in the evenings, just like he’d been slow to wake from sleep as a mortal. He makes use of his grogginess well, however. Letting it dissipate as he collected his thoughts. Meditation, as he learned from a pair of old acquaintances—mystics of a rare western school of Buddhism—was an invaluable tool in the life of an immortal. It was a habit that he’d practised since long

‘Please, my lady, there’s no one else!’Strangely enough, the man pleading to me from outside the reception chamber sounds completely mortal. He must have been a thrall at some point, but he can’t be any longer, not with that level of emotion to his voice.‘Simon, let him approach.’Simon gives me a look that speaks volumes of my presumed softness, which I pretend to ignore. To him, this is the first time that I've held court as Canus’s representative, but I’ve done it before, a time or two, back during my first life. It takes a moment, but Simon eventually unbars the door, letting in the human. Only two other petitioners are in the room, and though they seem annoyed, they also make no move to protest as I skip over their non-queue.As the human approaches, I realise that he’s somewhat familiar. I’ve seen him before. At court? No—he looked younger back then, barely more than a teenager, and he’d been immortal when we met, barely more than a newborn and stuck fast to his master, a dark