For all her fighting prowess, Marikit isn't a very good teacher.

"Grab whatever you can and move as fast as possible," she says, when asked for advice. She's met with blank stares, all waiting for any further elucidation.

"Maybe a demonstration would help," Edeline suggests.

They're lucky the winter midmorning isn't as cold as it could be, but it's still shocking to Jasper to see Marikit tug off her overcoat before her sparring demonstration with Tai. Without the covering of the large coats she usually wears, the wiry strength in her arms becomes more apparent.

Tai, as aloof as ever, waits for her on the other side of the open yard. Bordering the bare lawn, under a gray expanse of sky, the rose garden languishes in its seasonal barrenness. The few flowers that do bloom in the cold are bright and white, reminding Jasper uncomfortably of the very specters they're now training themselves to defend against.

In the citadel armory, discovered weeks ago but largely left untouched until then, they had unearthed a pile of wooden weapons, presumably to use in practice. Now, Marikit and Tai face one another amid their crowd of spectators, each with a long wooden knife in hand.

Edeline, officiating, signals for them to begin.

Jasper knows-- and this cannot be stressed enough-- quite literally nothing about combat.

Despite this, even he's able to pick out the differences between Tai and Marikit's styles. Tai, trained by his famed swordswoman of a mother, is clearly out of his depth from the beginning. Not only are they using makeshift knives instead of his longer weapons of choice, but he must have never seen Marikit fight before, because he's evidently taken by surprise.

As soon as their bout begins, she lunges forward. Jasper can't keep track of her footwork as she slashes and hacks at Tai's poised defense. His posture is (from what little Jasper can tell) impeccable, and his movements are efficient, but Marikit is almost blindingly aggressive.

Inelegant, belligerent, and quicker than the darting leaps of a hare, she eventually gets in close enough to seize Tai's dominant wrist. Jasper watches, wide-eyed, as she uses her grip to twist his arm while yanking him downward.

Tai lands on the ground, dazed.

He may hate being beaten, but he can recognize when it happens. "All right," he says. "I yield. But those were hardly fair tactics."

Marikit, panting from exertion and accepting Dalmar's congratulatory pat on the back, tosses the wooden knife in her hands from side to side, at ease with it. "I don't know any other way. And if these specters don't have a 'fair tactics' rulebook to hold us to account with, then what does it matter?" She smiles, sharp and death-dealing. "I won."

As their eager watchers erupt in demanded explanations of Marikit's strategy ("I already told you: be quick and mean. You want to overwhelm, not look pretty and poised."), Tai angrily feels forgotten as he sweeps a hand through the brittle, near-frozen ground, searching for his dropped practice weapon.

"It's on your other side," a voice says, still hoarser than usual from his illness.

Skander gestures to Tai's left, where the wooden knife waits unassumingly on the pale, cracked grass.

No sooner has Tai picked it up than a hand appears in front him. He reluctantly accepts the offer and is pulled to his feet, letting go as soon as he's back upright. Skander watches him straighten his coat and adjust his hair, and Tai can't figure out whatever's in his eyes. Even while frowning, he's picturesque against a chilled landscape.

"You should go inside. You look awful," Tai tells him. Skander's face is shadowed and drawn, and he looks tired all the way through the tips of his hair. If ever there was anyone in need of broth and a rest, it's him, so why is he even out here?

"I wanted to see who would win," Skander says, answering his unasked question.

Tai bristles at this. The inner cup of his pride has been shaken and spilled over: it wants to make itself known. "Of course the former pirate would win the knife bout. Anyone could have told you that. As surely as Edeline will beat all of us in archery. But if you'd really like to risk your health to stay out here and be impressed, I can outdo them both in anything with a sword or a spear." And he sets off to regain his reputation, preferably humbling Marikit while he's at it.

Puzzle, cleverer than most, turns tail and retreats to the warmer kitchen hearthside through these frigid winter months of competing and instructing. The world may constantly turn and change in its way, but a cat will always find a comfortable space to curl up and sleep.

————————————————————

Although she'd initially been ecstatic to discover her resistance to fire, Giada doesn't know what to do with herself now.

Her limbs brim over with strength, and no flame can mar them. Helpful? Probably. Interesting? Sure. But the reality of it makes her feel shaky and unmanageable.

One unhurried afternoon, when even the sunlight seems to take slow steps down from the sky, Giada's feelings of uneasiness come on stronger than usual. Walking down the upper hall of the western wing, she approaches Zahara's door and knocks.

There's hardly any time between when Zahara opens the door and when she pulls Giada into a happy hug. Giada sinks into it. Suddenly, everything about where she is and what she's doing is alright.

Zahara pulls her inside to where her trunk full of paint bottles and brushes is already open.

"Don't give me any of the delicate work. You know I'm no good at the details," Giada says, carefully selecting one of the thicker brushes.

Zahara's hands rest thoughtfully on her hips as she sweeps a look over the available paint colors. She plucks out a few bright yellows from the masses. "I'm surprised I'm letting you handle a brush at all," she says, but she's joking and Giada knows it.

Although it's true that Giada is hopeless at art, she knew Zahara would still ask for her help to decorate her new room, if only because they had spent so many blissful hours doing just that for her old one.

"I want this one to be filled with trees," Zahara says, throwing out an arm to indicate one of the blank walls. "I'll put canaries along the branches and daffodils coming out of the ground."

It'll be beautiful because Zahara thought of it, Giada already knows. She'll accept whatever directions she's given.

This honeyed reverie of their quiet, synchronized work is broken by a fluttering sound by the balcony. Giada looks over and feels a swift spike of frustration at the sight of the raven now hovering there.

Zahara notices it too, and waits for it to change form. When it only continues to perch politely on the balcony railing, she grins. "If I kiss you, will you turn into a prince?"

Suddenly Lionel is there in his human form, laughing. Same useless headband, same wide smile. He comes over to push playfully at Zahara's shoulder for her joke.

Giada's paintbrush emits a soft cracking sound in her clenched grip, and she makes an effort to loosen it.

"Still need help with your painting, Zahara?" he asks, after greeting Giada. All of his movements are rapid and relaxed at the same time, as if he lives his life at a faster pace while still being at complete ease. No wonder he was chosen to be a twittering bird, Giada thinks bitterly.

But Zahara bears no trace of bitterness herself when she looks at him. Instead, she looks pleased to have him visit, flushed and bright at his appearance on her balcony. Was this something he did often?

"If you have the time, I'd appreciate it. But you can leave if anyone calls you for a message."

Lionel waves his hand dismissively and in a matter of only a few rushed seconds has selected a brush and dipped it into an open bottle of paint. "It's a slow time to be a courier. Not as many specter sightings recently."

Lionel, despite his claims of never having been a painter, is much more adept at the work than Giada is. Frustratingly, he's a quick study, and he tosses ideas toward Zahara that she latches onto eagerly. Upon his suggestion, they start adding little bees among the daffodils, carrying on the theme of yellow that Zahara had proposed.

This inevitably leads to Lionel telling her a childhood story about accidentally knocking down a hive of bees while tree-climbing, years ago. His older brother Skander had had to patch him up afterward. What really gets Zahara laughing, though, is Lionel's attempts to recreate his panicked flight from the angry swarm, his hair flopping to and fro with all his movement.

Giada wishes she could hate him for being a self-absorbed show-off, but he watches so attentively for Zahara's laugh that she knows it would be an unfair assessment.

When he does finally leave, Giada still doesn't get a reprieve. Instead, she has to hear Zahara exclaim at how quick he had been to pick up the trick of holding the brush, and of painting skillfully and vibrantly in so short a time.

"I can't think of anything Lionel's tried that he hasn't been good at. He's an excellent tailor; apparently he would pick up different sewing jobs while living in the city. He told me he can play the fiddle, too; I hope I get to hear it some time. He's been climbing trees since he could walk, and do you want to hear something amazing? When he was thirteen, a traveling showman taught him how to throw a knife, and he still practices to keep the skill."

And on and on and on.

Days later, they continue their sizable work on the wall painting, Lionel flying in once more. Only this time, Jasper somehow rings himself in to join them. Giada is embarrassed beyond belief to find that he's a better painter than her too.

Jasper being around at least gives Giada someone to talk to while Lionel and Zahara whirl around each other. After over a year of knowing him, she's less suspicious of his sudden comings and goings. At this point, he's just another strange thing in a strange world.

After the two men have gone, again Zahara sings Lionel's praises, this time for the practice he put in to accelerate his raven transformations.

So what if he turns into a bird? I'm stronger than anyone in this citadel, and if I put my hands through fire, they'll emerge just as strong. Look here, and I'll show you. I'll do it again.

January creeps in, and still they all paint together. Giada is sick to death of it, but keeps coming because her oldest and dearest friend asks it of her.

After this session, Zahara excitedly tells her about how she and Lionel have discovered that their birthdays are only a day apart. Joyfully, she begins making plans for them to celebrate together, sharing a party, a cake.

Giada watches her.

You will not love me back, she realizes, and is pierced by the truth of it.

————————————————————

The winter months are made up of short days that tick past in swift succession.

Most mornings are spent in makeshift lessons: Edeline instructing them on how to shoot with a bow, Tai displaying his swordsmanship, Marikit demonstrating how to use their surroundings in a fight. Dalmar insists on imparting some of his physician's knowledge too ("You can't only learn how to kill things"). He walks them through simple salves and wound wrappings.

They await news from the city council, or from the other fortresses.

Puzzle spends mornings sleeping by the kitchen hearth, afternoons dozing in the library, and evenings curled up in Tai's room.

Lionel comes to Zahara's balcony, to paint or to talk or to see her face light up at his arrival.

Giada's heart follows the weather in its cold and slow breaking.

And through it all, Jasper is always coming and going, coming and going.