The Grotto of the Gossamer Heart had been fully restored and reshaped by the ordeal that had changed Aelwyth Morghaine into Vesperis Morghaine. The opalescent walls were mended, beautiful violet tiles covered the floor, and a few inches of condensed magic formed a crystalline shell around the beating magical heart. Dahlia had not descended to the sublevels of her Manor for an idle visit.

  Mr. Disapoofer stopped every dozen feet and sniffed the air.

  “Arrf?” It still smells like Ruth. Mr. Disapoofer had returned from his hunt across the demi-plane with a scent like Ruth’s fading in and out of the Grotto.

  “Did you have a sibling, Ruth?” Dahlia asked, rather than question Mr. Disapoofer. After all, she could use his senses through the familiar bond. Since his upgrade, though, doing so involved a level of disorientation that Dahlia preferred to avoid.

  The incorporeal spirit made of darkness and flames shook her head.

  “No, I didn’t have any siblings,” Ruth said. Then, after a frown, she added… “Not that I recall. Some of my life is very hard to remember.”

  The Last Ember grew warm against Dahlia’s finger when they descended the long spiral stairs. While the ring, shaped from the bones of Nantes, was always slightly warm, it reached an unpleasant level that was just short of painful. The only explanation Dahlia found plausible was that the ring reacted to lingering remnants of unreality created by the Sable Elegy,

  Something potent must have been unwoven from the tapestry of physical reality. Was it something or someone? Whatever the case, whatever had been deleted seemed to fight against its removal and struggle to be remembered. This further cemented the idea to Dahlia that it was a who, and it was tied to Ruth.

  “Ruth, do you remember seeing your mother during the fight against the Chorister?” Dahlia asked on a hunch.

  “No?” Ruth answered immediately. The mage didn’t ponder it; it was a cut or dry question, and Ruth’s answer conflicted with Dahlia’s memories of the fight. Was that why The Last Ember burned against her skin?

  I was here. I was here. I was—was—was…

  A voice broke the silence, carried on the erratic flow of magic from the Gossamer Heart.

  Dahlia bit her lower lip in distaste. Internally, she raked the mental projection of one of her sharp, black fingernails across the consciousness of Servant. It chittered defiantly at the punishment.

  “The Gossamer Heart seems to be protecting a portion of an erased being,” Dahlia explained to Mr. Disapoofer, Ruth, and the silent Xeras.

  “…mom?” Ruth asked.

  “I believe so, but do not get your hopes up. That you struggle to remember your life suggests that the Sable Elegy unwove most, if not all, of Elyssandra. We shall see if I can undo what a Chorister has done,” Dahlia declared dramatically. Internally, the fairy hoped the old Ram’s magic did what it was supposed to do.

  Mr. Disapoofer responded to a mental command from Dahlia. One of his eyes appeared underneath the Gossamer Heart, and then the wolf and Dahlia appeared there despite not moving. It was much more disorienting than the flickers and blinks that had been the previous teleportation method of the Warp Wolf.

  Before Dahlia lay a wound in time, a curse in fate, a cruelty beyond imagining—and it was still ongoing. The Gossamer Heart protected what little remained of Elyssandra, but by the moment, more of her slipped away—no doubt why Ruth’s memory grew weaker by the day. When Elyssandra vanished, what would happen to Ruth? Would she also vanish, or would time shift and recast her history? Would any of them but Dahlia even notice it? How often did things like this happen? Only someone with the relics Dahlia bore could even keep track.

  The Last Ember grew warmer with the increased proximity and threatened to burn Dahlia’s skin.

  “Mmm,” the fairy mumbled and lifted her right hand, displaying the shining bone ring on her middle finger. Dahlia focused her will on channeling the most potent power of the ring—Twilight’s Keeper.

  Liquid light spilled out of The Last Ember and flowed around the Heart. It went this way, that way, and it seemed even to try and enter the heart, or maybe it did—Dahlia couldn’t be confident, so potent were the magics of both the ring and the heart.

  “What was taken, I reclaim.

  What was lost, I unveil.

  Between the twilight veil and memory’s thread,

  I weave back that which lingers—not even dead.”

  With the first word spoken, the Grotto of the Gossamer Heart trembled as if reality itself were afraid of what could be done with the power unleashed from the divine relic known as The Last Ember. Wisps of twilight energy spiraled around Dahlia, forming dozens of minuscule needles that flew into the liquid light.

  Needles, after all, were how you sowed things together, and the unseen threads of Elyssandra would require many repairs. The Gossamer Heart beat in time to Dahlia’s pulse as if it had a will of its own and desired to aid the restoration of Elyssandra.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “From the dusk where echoes fade,

  From the void where names are unmade,

  I call thee forth, undone no more—

  Step from the shadows, be restored!”

  The liquid light formed itself into the silhouette of an elf, but the power of Amon-Ra did not seem to be enough on its own. Dahlia knew what to do, and she smiled at Ruth before focusing. Dahlia’s voice went unaccompanied by instrument, but her singing skill had steadily improved to the point it was still a joy to listen to—if the tiny quirk of a smile on Xeras’s lips was anything to go by.

  ?”By quill and breath, by ink and bone,

  Let silence break, let Truth be known.

  a name once lost, I sing anew,

  A thread rewoven, by dusk and dew.

  No tide shall wash your tale away,

  No shadow will lead you astray,

  Where fate is frayed and stars are dim,

  I call thee back—I call thee in.

  Elyssandra Val’Ratheon,

  Scholar of the Gossamer Heart,

  Keeper of the Unforgotten,

  Mother of Ruthialle,

  Rise in twilight, walk in shade,

  Stand unbroken, never to fade.

  The hush is sundered, the verse is spun,

  Thy name is scribed—renewed existence begun.” ?

  Dahlia’s hymn-like song resonated through the grotto, each word shaping and finessing reality. That which had been stolen had to be returned, and Dahlia could tell she succeeded by the brightening of light within Ruth’s eyes, a solidifying of her smile, and a general sense of strength that had begun to weaken within their bond.

  The essence of Elyssandra, still a vague form of liquid light, struggled to manifest a physical existence.

  “Hold,” Dahlia instructed. I have only restored you to the threads of existence; now, I will restore you to a facsimile of life—or rather, unlife.”

  Dahlia saw no reason to beat around the bush. If Elyssandra had unfinished affairs and wished to reunite with her daughter, she would accept the curse of undeath. If not, well, Dahlia tried. The fairy drew her lute from the Feywoven Satchel.

  ? “Drift no more on ghostly tides,

  No shade unclaimed, no voice denied.

  Through whispered dusk, through silver thread,

  Step forth, O lost, forsaken dead.”

  The air thickened with the plucking of lute strings and vibrated with a deep resonance to Dahlia’s echoing voice. This was no concert hall; the Grotto of the Gossamer Heart was a place of deep magic. Yet her words echoed and remained true, even when they bounced off the multihued walls.

  ? “By twilight’s loom, by midnight grace,

  I weave thee whole in death’s embrace.

  Not dusk, not bone, nor withered husk,

  but silk and shadow, dawn and dusk.”

  The liquid light of Amon-Ra boiled when exposed to the potent song of the Gloamcaller. It reluctantly gave way to her control, and Dahlia created a new tapestry of ethereal silk wraps taken from abandoned scrolls to form a body preserved and untouched by rot. The silver eyes of Elyssandra, which Maeravel had sought to erase, were not just preserved, but restored.

  ? “Thy name resounds, thy path is spun,

  No hand unweaves what I have sung.

  Rise as Keeper, rise as Warden,

  Bound to wisdom, fate is a burden.”

  Dahlia already had a role in mind for Elyssandra, and it was not as an active combatant within the Ebon Chorus. The ruins of her new city needed mending, watching, keeping, and sorting. The roiling mix of twilight and light birthed a new undead that Dahlia had never seen before.

  ? “O Keeper sworn where dusk entwines,

  In silken shroud and silvered signs,

  No dust shall claim, no time shall sever,

  Bound in twilight, awake forever.

  Not bound by dust, nor sealed by stone,

  Thy name resounds, your will is known.

  Through whispered dusk and starlit page,

  Stand unbroken, beyond time’s cage. “ ?

  Dahlia’s song faded, and her voice rested. Ruth clapped.

  Before Dahlia, the shimmering form of an elven woman emerged from the dying, fading vapors of the liquid light and gloam. Elyssandra, as an elf, was tall. She stood nearly as tall as Xeras, with his sizeable, antler-like head. Ancient scrolls had been transformed into the wrappings that covered her body, which was formed anew by magic. In the gaps between wrapping, Elyssandra still had skin, although it had been pulled taut and showed slight signs of aging. Elves handled undeath quite differently than humans.

  Elyssandra’s hair hung in cascades of silver that escaped from the lighter wrapping around her face. Her eyes were the same silver. Although her lips looked parched, she might pass for a living elf. If you ignored the somewhat obvious tell of her mummification wraps.

  “I.. ?” Elyssandra spoke from a throat that hadn’t known water in two hundred years.

  “Mom!” Ruth shouted. Seconds later, the spectral form of the fire mage wrapped the newly created mummy in an enormous hug. Ruth could affect the world, as proven by her wielding of the wand, but she wasn’t a purely physical manifestation like Drynthor or Lorien.

  “Mommy mummy,” Dahlia said under her breath, giggling. “Say that three times fast. Mommy mummy, mommy mummy, mommy mummy.”

  The tip of one of Xeras’s fingers bopped Dahlia on the head, lest she ruin the reunion between mother and daughter.

  “Thank you!” Ruth cried out to Dahlia, still hugging her mother, who hugged her spectral daughter in return—or tried to.

  Once more, Dahlia took the lack of new Glimmer points as a sign that her minions couldn’t generate Glimmer by being thankful since there was no doubt that the mage was sincere in her gratitude.

  “Am… am I a mummy? Can Elves be mummies?” Elyssandra asked in confusion.

  “Sure, seems like you can be. Ruth can explain what happened to you, the Gossamer Heart, and the Lord and Lady Thornheart. When you’ve worked out your memories, we’ll talk about my mission for you in the library.” Dahlia went for a quick excuse to let the two spend time together before she put Elyssandra to work.

  “You’re a Noble Fey. Did Titania—no… I suppose the Queen of Summer doesn’t have associates who use magic like you do, would she?” Elyssandra laughed bitterly. Her silver eyes swept over the binding wraps and Ruth’s insubstantial body.

  “Ruth can tell you about me. Enjoy your reunion.” Dahlia put a sliver of command into her tone, which none of the Ebon Chorus could ignore.

  Twilight settled comfortably over Vesperis Morghaine now that the strange anomaly had been dealt with. Shadows of a silk-bound figure were cast across the Grotto of the Gossamer Heart, generated by the flaming spirit reuniting with a scroll-wrapped elven mummy. When Dahlia’s purple eyes turned to the ever-loyal Xeras and the mischievous Mr. Disapoofer she winked. The Warp Wolf’s and Gloamknight’s eyes were misting, not Dahlia’s. At least, that’s how she intended to tell the story.

  “Come on”, Dahlia sighed while she stretched—and shook off the weight of rewriting fate and erasure of existence. “Performing miracles makes me hungry, and if I’m to keep my genius mind working at peak think-itude, I need sugar.”