When winter came again, so did Bruce's first birthday in this life.
Sadly, there was no snow.
This was not the snow-death winter of her birth, all white teeth and howling wind. This winter was muddier, rainier, and far less honorable. Cold without glory. Wet without drama. The sort of weather that crawled into socks, boots, blankets, bones, and moods, then made itself comfortable there.
But the roof held. The door held. The garden slept behind its fence, mulched and waiting. The food stores held.
And Rob was there when Bruce turned one.
There was no grand celebration like the ones Frank had once arranged in her old life, with police department friends, family, too much noise, and people pretending not to cry during speeches. There were no bright packages, no plastic toys, no camera flashes, no cake with candles.
But there were chickens. There was a fire warming the cabin. There was Lili. There was Rob. And there was apple pie.
That was enough.
Rob had brought the apples from a market far to the south, wrapped carefully in cloth like treasure. Lili had nearly cried at the sight of them. Together, she and Rob baked a rough pie in the iron pot, and though the crust was too hard in places and blackened in others, Bruce decided it was perfect.
This time, she could actually eat some of it.
She had teeth now. Not many, but enough to make her dangerous. She was also slowly retiring from the whole breast-milk arrangement, which she considered an important step toward dignity, though she still accepted it when necessary because survival outranked pride.
The pie was sweet, hot, sticky, and wonderful. Bruce shoved her fingers into the apple filling, tasted it, and announced with great seriousness, "Yummy."
Lili made a soft little sound, as if the word had struck her directly in the heart. Rob laughed, warm and pleased, but Bruce was not finished yet. She had one more thing to give him, a proper gift, a thank-you gift.
She stood, properly stood, and waddled across the cabin floor toward the bed. There, with great effort and much concentration, she bent down and picked up the thing she had hidden beneath the blanket.
It was a small stuffed bear.
At least, it was meant to be a bear. The body had been made from scraps of rabbit fur. The inside was stuffed with soft chicken feathers. The eyes and nose were tiny dark stones sewn into place, which unfortunately made the bear look as if it had survived several terrible wars and now trusted no one. Lili had helped with the sewing, because Bruce's fingers were still traitors, but the idea had been Bruce's.
It was not large. It was barely bigger than something a person might hang from a keychain, that is if keychains existed in this world.
Bruce held it out to Rob.
"For you," she said.
Rob blinked.
Lili covered her mouth with both hands.
Bruce pushed the little bear closer. "Bear. Rob bear. Keep den safe."
For a moment, Rob said nothing.
Then his expression changed in a way Bruce did not fully understand. The laughter left his face, but the warmth did not. He took the little fur bear carefully, as if it were made of glass instead of rabbit scraps and chicken feathers.
"For me?" he asked quietly.
Bruce nodded.
Rob turned the bear over in his large hands. He noticed the clumsy stitches at once, and from the way his eyes flicked briefly to Lili, he knew she had helped. But he also seemed to understand the shape of the idea.
A little bear for the big bear who watched over the den.
"Well," he said, voice rougher than usual, "this is a mighty gift."
Lili knelt beside Bruce, glowing with pride. "She made it for you. Planned it all herself."
"Did she now?" Rob looked down at Bruce. "Then I shall keep it safe."
Bruce puffed up with satisfaction. "Soft inside," she explained. "Chicken feathers."
Rob squeezed the bear once, very gently. "Aye. So it is."
Needless to say, everyone was impressed.
Drunk on victory, Bruce ate nearly a third of the apple pie, drank far too much water, and ended up lying on her back near the hearth with a round belly, sticky fingers, and no desire to move ever again.
The adults laughed softly at the sight of her.
Bruce allowed it this time. After all, she had walked like a proper person, eaten pie, and given a diplomatic gift. That was a full day of achievements.
Outside, rain whispered against the roof. Inside, the fire cracked softly, the chickens settled into their corner, and the little cabin felt warmer than the weather had any right to allow.
Then Bruce, full of pie and birthday courage, began asking dangerous questions.
"Why Rob kiss Mama?"
Rob choked on his drink.
Lili froze.
Bruce looked between them. "What purpose?"
For some reason, both adults became very interested in not answering.
"It is…" Lili began, then stopped.
"A thing grown folk do," Rob said.
That was not an answer.
Bruce frowned. She understood happiness. She understood love, sort of. Love meant warmth, loyalty, worry, and doing strange things because someone mattered. But kissing had no clear value. No food was exchanged. No problem was solved. It seemed to make people happy for a moment, except when it did not, and in movies someone sometimes got slapped for doing it wrong.
Suspicious.
"Does kissing make baby?" Bruce asked.
Lili went red.
Rob stared into the fire like a man praying to be rescued by flames.
Bruce narrowed her eyes. "Is Rob my father?"
The cabin went quiet.
Lili's smile came too quickly. "Yes," she said softly. "Rob is your father."
Bruce's old police instincts stirred.
Not fully a lie, maybe.
But not fully true either.
Rob looked at Lili, then at Bruce, then down at the little bear in his hand.
"Aye," he said carefully. "If she will have me so."
That was definitely not the same answer.
Bruce pointed at Lili, then Rob. "Then why not married?"
Lili's cheeks flushed deeper. "Sometimes children happen before marriage."
That made some sense. Bruce knew the basics from school: sperm, egg, uterus, fertilization, terrible diagrams, children laughing until the teacher threatened detention. She knew babies came from mothers and fathers. She knew adults did something called sex.
But the important part was still missing.
How did the sperm get to the egg?
The school diagrams had been extremely unhelpful on that point, and old movies only showed people kissing, falling into bed, the blankets moving strangely, and then later someone was pregnant. Bruce had never kissed anyone romantically in her old life, never been in a real relationship, and had certainly never watched anything that would have explained the missing step.
So, because it was her birthday and she felt brave, she asked honestly.
"How babies made?"
Lili pulled Bruce into her lap at once. "Some things are for when you are older."
Bruce looked to Rob. "Papa?"
Rob picked up a piece of firewood and studied it as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
"Listen to thy mother."
Coward confirmed.
Bruce sighed.
So Rob might be her father, or might not be. The bad man from the tower might matter somehow. Kissing apparently meant love but did not necessarily make babies, except maybe it led toward whatever did. And adults, once again, refused to explain the one useful part.
Soon enough, after that strange little birthday party, winter passed.
They did not celebrate anyone else's birthday, apparently. The adults seemed to have decided they were too old for such things to matter, which Bruce considered unfair but accepted with dignity, mostly.
Spring came again, soft and green and smelling of wet leaves.
Warmth returned to the forest. Greenery returned to the garden. Frogs returned to the reeds and began shouting their opinions at the lake. And, according to Lili, Bruce had somehow become even cuter. This was a problem.
Bruce had wanted to become cool.
Cool was different. Cool was black clothes, a long coat, dark glasses, silence, confidence, and walking into a room as if gravity had personally agreed to respect you. Like Neo from that movie.
Bruce had tried this once in her old life.
She had walked into a gas station wearing all black, sunglasses on even though it was night, and said very calmly, "So, got anything good for me tonight?"
For some reason, the man behind the counter had trembled and kept one hand beneath the counter as if reaching for a gun. That had been confusing. Nobody ever screamed at Neo for wearing black.
Now, unfortunately, Bruce was not cool.
She had tried, truly, she had. But cool was difficult to achieve when one was barely over a year old, dressed in tiny fur-trimmed clothes, with round cheeks, soft baby hands, and long platinum-blonde hair that shone white-gold in the sun. Her violet eyes were too large and bright for proper intimidation. Her lashes were too pretty. And whenever she frowned with all the grim seriousness of a veteran police officer, Lili only clasped both hands to her heart and whispered that her little Lilypad looked adorable.
It was deeply unfair.
Bruce had wanted to become mysterious, dangerous, powerful. Instead, she had somehow become a tiny magical woodland princess who toddled through the garden with muddy knees, glowing eyes, and chickens following behind her like she was their chosen queen. It was unfair.
Still, appearances were not the mission. Usefulness was the mission. And on that front, Bruce had begun learning more about the light-heart.
It was not separate from her flesh heart anymore, not really. When she focused inward, she could feel both beats at once: the small, ordinary thump of blood and the quieter pulse of white warmth folded through it. The two were tangled together now, one living thing with two rhythms.
If Bruce concentrated, truly concentrated, she could draw that warmth outward. First through her chest, then through her arms, then into her hands. From there, with enough focus and stubbornness, she could push it out through her palms and into something else.
Living things answered best.
Small cuts answered, bruises, scrapes, little aches. If she sent only a careful thread of light, the hurt eased without draining her too badly.
Chickens answered too.
Mister Terminator once cut his foot on a sharp stone and stood there with great dignity, pretending not to limp. Bruce caught him, despite his offended flapping, held his little foot between both hands, and pushed the light into him. The cut closed slowly beneath her palms. Mister Terminator stared at her afterward with what Bruce chose to interpret as respect.
Plants answered most easily of all.
A wilted herb straightened. A sickly leaf darkened. A thin stem grew stronger. Berry buds swelled when Bruce fed them light, though it left her sleepy, thirsty, and hungry afterward.
Mother answered too.
Lili knew about the light. She had known since the tower, maybe before Bruce was even born. When Bruce used it on her, Lili did not resist. Her body welcomed the warmth, softened around it, let it move where it needed to go. That made healing her easier than healing anything else.
Rob was different.
Once, while Bruce was half-asleep on Rob's chest, she tried to send a little warmth into him. Nothing dramatic, just a small pulse, the way she sometimes did for Mother when she was tired.
But the light stopped. It did not vanish. It did not hurt him. It simply met something closed inside Rob and went no farther, like water touching a locked door.
Bruce opened her eyes and frowned at his tunic. That was new. Maybe Rob's body did not trust her. Maybe the light needed permission. Maybe people could refuse it without knowing. Bruce was not sure. Plants never minded. Chickens complained loudly but still accepted it. Mother accepted it completely.
Rob, apparently, had walls.
So Bruce made a rule. Do not push the light into people who are not open to it.
That sounded important.
One afternoon, Bruce sat in the garden with a strawberry flower between her fingers and made a discovery that felt even more important.
If she ate well, rested, and then focused the light into a single plant, the plant answered, slowly. The flower changed, it closed, thickened and swelled. Green gathered where petals had been. The tiny fruit grew pale at first, then faintly blushed. By evening, it had become a real strawberry: small, red in patches, not quite ripe, but impossibly far along for a single day's work.
Bruce stared at it like a holy relic. Then nearly fell over.
The work still cost her. Not as badly as before, but enough to leave her dizzy and hungry, as if she had run around the cabin ten times while carrying a chicken under each arm.
The chickens stared too. They had been watching her more closely lately. But not only the chickens either. Birds lingered near the garden fence. Frogs sat in the reeds and looked at her with their stupid wet eyes. Once, even a rat crept from beneath the wall and sat there twitching its nose, not brave enough to come close, but not running either.
Animals seemed drawn to the light, or to her. Bruce was not sure whether to be flattered or concerned.
Mister Terminator stepped forward and pecked at the strawberry.
Bruce shoved him away with both hands. "No, bad fat chicken. No eating berry. Not ready yet."
The rooster gave her a look of deep offense. Bruce ignored him.
What mattered was the strawberry. It was not enough to feed them, not yet. One half-grown berry would not fill a stomach, solve winter, or buy them passage out of Albion. But it proved something. The light-heart could do more than heal cuts and soothe pain. It could strengthen the garden. It could help living things grow. It could turn effort into food.
Perhaps, little by little, it could turn Bruce into someone useful.
The Godling's words returned to her then, soft but clear in memory.
"Be brave. Be kind. Work on becoming better, so you can help others."
Bruce smiled, because for the first time, she felt as if she understood how to begin. Grow things. Mend things. Learn what the light could do and become better at using it. That mattered.
But it would not be enough by itself.
They still needed coin.
Rob could hunt. Lili could sew. She had begun making small clothes from wool, fur, and cloth scraps: little caps, tiny mittens, baby wraps, and warm shirts better than anything Bruce had expected from a woman who still cursed every needle that pricked her. Rob said village women might buy them. Mothers at markets. Travelers. Maybe even merchants, if the work was fine enough.
That was good, but Bruce wanted something bigger. Something rare and valuable, which was, "Paper."
The idea came slowly, then all at once.
This world had parchment, maybe. Wax tablets. Scratched marks on wood. Expensive books, if books existed here at all. But cheap paper? Useful paper? Paper for letters, maps, accounts, prayers, contracts, labels, lessons, records?
If Bruce could make paper, they could sell it and earn lots of coins. And if they could earn coin, perhaps they could buy their way out of Albion.
At first, Bruce thought of a printer.
A printer made lots of pages, did it not? That was the point. Then she remembered, with irritation, that a printer did not make paper. A printer only put marks on paper.
Paper had to come first. Civilization had steps like that. So step one was paper. Step two, possibly ink. Step three, maybe printing. Step four, indoor plumbing, if God was kind.
So Bruce began.
She experimented with plant fibers, inner bark, nettles, reeds, and linen scraps Rob brought from town. She asked Lili to boil things. She made foul-smelling messes in pots. She mashed softened fibers with stones until her arms shook. She tried to strain pulp through woven cloth, reed mats, and little wooden frames Rob made after much confused questioning.
Most attempts failed. One dried into a cracked lump. One tore apart if anyone breathed too near it. One smelled so bad Lili threw it outside and told it to die in the rain. One was eaten by a hen. That hen was not invited to future experiments.
Still, Bruce persisted.
Late one evening, while rain whispered against the roof and Lili dozed beside the fire, Bruce sat on the floor with a flat piece of bark across her knees. Using charcoal from the hearth, she drew plans and ideas.
Then, because her ambition had apparently escaped supervision, she drew more. A water-powered paper mill. A movable-type printing press. Even a small windmill and all the parts that came with it. And importantly better tools to make better tools. Maybe she could begin recreating civilization here, now that would be cool.
It was all kind of ridiculous, probably impossible. Definitely too much for a one-year-old woodland girl sitting on the floor with charcoal-stained fingers, but it was a begining.
Bruce leaned closer, tongue sticking from the corner of her mouth, and tried to draw a lever from a memory nowhere near as clear as she wished.
Then the moment of concentration broke, as a shout came from the forest.
"Lili!"
The charcoal slipped from Bruce's fingers.
The chickens lifted their heads at once, startled into silence. Bruce perked up too, heart jumping as she recognized the voice as Rob.
Mister Terminator rose from his place near the corner and marched to the door as if preparing to defend the cabin with his life.
Rob's voice came again, closer this time, rough and urgent through the rain-dark trees.
"Lili! Run! We have to go now!"
Bruce went cold.
This was wrong, Rob did not panic. Rob laughed at danger, chased bad men down as if it were ordinary work, and carried himself like the world was something he could manage with a bow, a knife, and enough stubbornness.
If fear had found its way into Rob's voice, then whatever followed him through the forest was something terrible.
The fire burned low in the hearth, just bright enough to keep the night chill away. Lili woke with a start, blinking in confusion as thunder rolled outside and rain tapped against the roof.
"Rob?" she said in confusion.
Rob had left only the day before, heading back toward Einsway. They had not expected anyone. Bruce had thought this would be a good night, a quiet night of rain, fire, and plans drawn in charcoal.
Then the door burst inward.
It slammed open so hard Mister Terminator had to hop aside with an outraged cluck. Cold night air rushed in, scattering ash and dust across the floor. Heavy boots followed, pounding over the boards with no care at all.
Rob stormed inside. He did not look at Bruce, not even once. He went straight to Lili.
"We have to go," he said, breathless. "Now."
Lili rose too quickly and swayed. "What? Rob, what is—"
Rob snatched up the bucket beside the hearth and hurled the water into the fire. The flames died with a violent hiss. Smoke curled upward.
"Rob!" Lili cried. "What are you doing?"
"There is no time." His voice was sharp now, nothing gentle left in it. He caught her by the arm and pulled her toward the door. "I'm sorry, Lili. My family began asking where I kept going. I told them too much. Word spread."
His voice broke around the next words.
"The duke's men are coming. They suspect I am hiding you."
Lili's face drained of color.
"But Lilypad—"
Rob finally turned to Bruce, and the look on his face made Bruce's heart leap painfully into her throat.
"Little kitten," he said quickly, voice tight but steady. "Listen to me."
Bruce nodded before she knew she had done it.
"You are strong," Rob said. "You are brave. But if we all run together, you will slow us down."
Bruce did not understand.
Lili did. She shook her head violently. "No. No, Rob. I will not leave her."
"Lili, please." Rob's grip tightened on her arm. "We cannot outrun them with the child. Think. If they catch us carrying her, what do you think they will do?" His voice lowered. "They may not spare her. Not if they even for a second think she is mine."
"No," Lili sobbed. "I will not leave her."
Rob swallowed hard and made his decision. He crossed the room in three long strides and scooped Bruce up. Before Bruce could make a sound, he carried her to the hearth and shoved aside the loose stones where firewood was fed. Behind them was a narrow, soot-black hollow, dark and warm from the dead fire.
He lowered Bruce into it. Ash dusted her feet. Warm stone pressed around her. The space was tight.
"Hide, little kitten," Rob whispered. "Stay still. Stay quiet."
Bruce's chest tightened. The air felt small.
"Papa and Mama will come back," he said quickly. "I promise. Be good. Hide."
Lili was crying openly now. "Rob, no. Please."
"There is no time." Rob's voice cracked as he turned away. "I'm sorry."
He dragged Lili toward the door.
The last things Bruce saw were Mother reaching back for her, Rob pulling her into the rain, and the chickens scattering in panic across the floor.
Then Rob looked over his shoulder one final time.
"Be a good girl," he said, sharp and breaking. "Stay hidden, my little kitten."
The door slammed. Footsteps fled into the night. Bruce stayed where she was. Because she had been told to. Because disappointing people hurt more than fear.
Darkness swallowed the cabin. Only a thin blade of pale light slid down through the chimney, catching the dust and soot until it looked like falling ash. The hens murmured anxiously somewhere beyond the hearth. Mister Terminator clicked and shifted near the door, restless and puffed up, patrolling the cabin like a guard who did not understand why his flock had suddenly lost its people.
Something was wrong.
Bruce did not understand it. Why were the bad men coming? Why did they want Mother so badly? Why could they not just leave them alone?
She hugged her knees and waited. The silence although did not last.
At first, all she could hear was her own heartbeat thudding. The ash beneath her knees felt gritty. Her throat burned from holding her breath. Rain whispered outside, steady and cold.
Then came the sounds from the forest. The sound of men, many of them.
Boots crushed wet leaves and snapped branches. Heavy steps moved through the garden with no care for the beds, the fence, or anything living in their path. Metal clinked with each stride, chain and plate touching like teeth clicking in the dark.
The chickens stiffened.
The hens bunched together, trying to become one frightened creature. Mister Terminator stretched his neck and stood before them, feathers rising.
Bruce pressed back into the hollow until the stone bit her shoulders.
Then a hand struck the door from outside. The door flew open so hard it banged against the wall and shuddered in its frame.
Cold night poured into the cottage. Men came with it. Big men with muddy boots, wet cloaks, harsh breathing, torches, iron. The cabin filled instantly with the smell of rain, sweat, leather, and metal.
From her hiding place, Bruce could only see pieces of them: boots slick with mud, greaves streaked dark, sword hilts, spear shafts, the hem of a cloak dragging rainwater across the floor. Torchlight swung through the room, making every shadow jump.
"Where is that fucking hunter?" one man barked.
The words were Albion speech, but rougher than Rob's, sharpened by some strange accent Bruce did not know.
Another answered, impatient. "He was here. So was the bitch. Look. Fire's out."
A third cursed. "Damn it. After them. Fast."
Boots thundered out again as some of the men gave chase. But not all, a few remained. They moved through the cabin, closer to the hearth searching for something.
Bruce's lungs locked. A shadow fell across the opening where she hid. A boot stopped near the fireplace. The leather creaked. Metal scraped softly as the man shifted his weight. Ash trembled off the stones.
Bruce clamped both hands over her mouth so hard her lips hurt. The soldier leaned closer.
Then another man spoke from across the room.
"Hah. Look here. Drawings. Some sort of contraptions."
Bruce's eyes widened, they had found her bark drawings.
Another man came closer. "Ain't those like the drawings the Crown Prince is said to make? How'd they get here?"
The soldier near the hearth paused.
Bruce could feel him thinking.
Then, just as he bent toward the dark of the fireplace, Mister Terminator exploded.
The rooster launched himself with a furious scream, wings beating, claws out, and struck the man's head like a feathered demon from hell. The soldier roared, stumbled backward, and crashed into the shelves. Pottery shattered across the floor.
For one brief second, the other men laughed.
Then the hens attacked. Seven furious bodies burst into motion, flapping, shrieking, pecking at boots, hands, cloaks, anything they could reach. Men swore. A torch swung wildly. One hen cried out in pain, and Bruce nearly moved before terror pinned her in place.
Mister Terminator landed, screamed again, and fled through the open door. The hens followed in a burst of feathers and panic. The men stormed after them, cursing in rage. One kicked the bed as he passed, sending straw and blankets across the floor.
Then they were gone.
The door hung open, broken and crooked, rain blowing through it in cold sheets. Silence fell like weight over the cabin. Bruce did not move. She wanted to check the chickens. She wanted to run after Mother and Papa. She wanted to know where they had gone and whether the soldiers had caught them.
But every thought felt like death. So she stayed hidden.
Her whole body shook in tiny, uncontrollable tremors. She sat in the soot-stained hollow with ash on her toes, ash on her dress, and both hands still pressed over her mouth.
After a while, small sounds came from outside. A soft cluck, a rustle. One hen slipped through the door, feathers puffed, eyes wide. Then another. Then another. They came in slowly, one by one, battered but alive. They squeezed awkwardly toward the hearth opening, pressing their warm little bodies near Bruce as if they knew exactly where they were needed.
Mister Terminator came last. He stood before the door, bloodied but proud, watching the rain and darkness with his chest puffed out like a king who had personally defeated an army.
Bruce swallowed. Her throat felt dry as sand. She stayed hidden. She stayed quiet. She did exactly what she had been told.
And in the dark, with ash on her toes and fear hammering in her chest, Bruce tried to understand how a good night had become this. And how long "Papa and Mama will come back" was supposed to mean.