He walked for most of the afternoon.

This was not unusual for him — walking had always been the form his thinking took when thinking required a body, when the sitting-still version of consideration produced diminishing returns and the work needed to move through space to find its shape. He had walked through grief. He had walked through composition problems. He had walked through the specific knot of feeling he carried about his mother, many times, without fully untying it.

Today he walked through everything.

The route was not deliberate, but it retraced itself — he found, at intervals, that he was in places he had been in the early days: the Promenade where Lysandra had found Caelum, the Academy quarter where the bulletin board had carried the Festival announcement, the corridor where she had declared her fictional pursuit of his best friend in front of three witnesses with the calculated confidence of a person who had decided that efficiency and audacity were functionally synonymous.

The market district in the early afternoon had the quality of ordinary life proceeding — the stalls open, the canal boats running, the ordinary commerce of a city that had celebrated a significant Festival and was now returning to its baseline. He walked through it and thought about six weeks.

Six weeks was a unit of time he had a reference for. Six weeks ago, Lysandra Vespera had walked through the gate of the Solitude Cathedral while he was watching from the bench, and he had not known who she was or what she was beginning. Six weeks. In six weeks they had built a performance, reclaimed his music, completed the Rite of Lustration of the Moon-Laurel tribe, and arrived at this afternoon, which was the afternoon after the night he had learned the full truth of everything.

He found himself, without having navigated toward it, in the Academy library's restricted stacks.

The archivist nodded when he came in — he was a familiar enough presence that his appearance at this hour required no explanation. He went to the relevant section. He took out the document he had found weeks ago: the incomplete record of the investigation into the Moon-Laurel tribe, with the missing last page and his mother's initials at the bottom of the authorization stamp.

He read it differently now.

Not for the facts he hadn't had before — he had those now, from Caelum's account. He read it for his mother. For the Seraphine Vance who had signed this document at some point in the years before his birth, when she had been a Judicial Composer for the Royal Academy and the Inquisitor's office had brought her a case about an unlicensed tribal magical practice and she had authorized whatever action the torn last page described.

He tried to read her in it. The handwriting of her initials was the same as the handwriting in the teaching compendium's margins — her mature hand, the one she had when she knew who she was and what she was doing. The initials were not hesitant. They were placed with the same precision as everything she did.

He thought: she believed she was doing the right thing. She usually did. She had held standards that were sometimes indistinguishable from cruelty and had applied them consistently, to him and to others, in the sincere belief that rigor was a form of care.

He thought: she was wrong about this one. The Moon-Laurel tribe had been practicing something real and old and theirs, and the suppression had contributed to their end, and his mother had participated in that contribution, and being wrong in the way she was wrong had cost people everything they had.

He thought: Lysandra came to him knowing this. Knowing his mother's name on this page. And she came anyway.

He replaced the document and left the archive.

The walk home took him past the Festival's remaining decorations — the banners still up in the Academy quarter, the last of the Cadence lanterns that had been added for the event still lit, their amber warmth in the pre-evening light. He passed the bulletin board near the main entrance. The Grand Final results were posted. Their names.

He stopped and read them, as he had read every posting on that board for twenty-one years of passing it daily.

*Vance and Thorne, paired performance. Grand Final: Solitude Cathedral, Winter Solstice.*

Thorne. The name she had used in Oakhaven, not her name, but the name that had been present at every rehearsal and every performance. Thorne and Vance. He thought about how she had signed herself into the competition registry — the administrative form, filled out in her careful hand, the alias she had maintained throughout. He thought about the specific bureaucratic permanence of official records and what it would mean for a name to be in them.

He walked home.

In the practice room, he did something he had not done since before his mother died. He opened the cabinet where he kept the older scores — the compositions from the Vance family archive, pieces he had played at various points in his training and career, some of which he had not touched in years. He found the Seraphine Concerto.

The manuscript was in his mother's hand — the original, not a copy. She had written it over the course of three years, beginning when he was thirteen, calibrating its difficulty to his development so that it would be ready when he was ready. She had given it to him on his sixteenth birthday, the morning before the performance, with no ceremony: placed it on the piano bench with nothing but his name on the cover.

He sat at the piano bench with the manuscript and looked at it.

Then he put the manuscript on the stand, took the Aetheris from its case, and played.

Not for the Academy. Not for Seraphine. Not for the performance he had given of it at sixteen, which had been technically perfect and emotionally not yet fully equipped for the piece's requirements. He played it for the practice room in the early evening light, for the exercise of it — the long complicated piece that his mother had written and calibrated for his hands specifically, that contained in its forty minutes of music more of her love language than everything she had ever said to him directly.

He heard it differently now.

He heard: I wrote this for you. I wrote it to the exact shape of what you are capable of, which means I knew what you were capable of, which means I was watching. He heard: the G string deviation I noted in the fourth movement the night of your debut was not criticism — it was the reflexive response of a person who cares about your playing the way they care about your heartbeat, the way they notice it because it's something they can't stop noticing. He heard: I didn't know how to say I was proud of you, but I wrote you a piece that required you to be.

When he finished — all forty minutes, without stopping, the first time he had played it in full since the performance at sixteen — he sat with the Aetheris in his hands in the practice room in the dark that had come in while he was playing, and he thought about the two griefs and how they were not separable.

Seraphine Vance, who had loved him imperfectly and had been wrong about things that mattered, and who was gone.

Lysandra Vespera, who had loved him indirectly and was dying, and who had six weeks.

He sat with both of them.

He was not angry. He had checked for anger, in the way he checked the Aetheris for tuning — methodically, covering the range. There was hurt. There was grief, both old and new. There was the specific complicated feeling of having been protected from something by someone who loved you and finding the protection and the love simultaneously true. But not anger. He could not sustain anger at someone who had done what she had done for the reasons she had done it.

He thought: I have six weeks.

He thought: I am going to use them differently than she planned.

He put the Aetheris away carefully, with the attention he gave it when the session had been significant. He closed the case. He went to the kitchen, where Mrs. Aldren had left dinner that he ate without tasting but ate completely, because eating completely was one of the small forms of continuing that he had decided to maintain.

Then he went back to the practice room and sat at the desk with notation paper and a pen and wrote, without stopping, the title on the cover of the 26-bar portrait piece.

He had known the title for some time. He wrote it now because it was time for it to be written.