Gwen spread her hands. "I cannot say. Yet soul or dream, I think she's freed for Heaven."
"Still," Rod mused, "it wouldn't do any harm to have Father Boquilva over for dinner. He understands computers, and he carries holy water."
Faint in the distance, a hoarse, raw masculine scream rang out one last time, diminishing into the fading echo of dying laughter. Then, finally, all was quiet.
"Is it cleansed now?" Gwen asked softly.
Magnus frowned, went to Foxcourt's chair, and grasped the wood firmly with both hands. After a moment, he nodded. "Not even a trace doth linger—naught of him, nor of any old angst or melancholia."
And, suddenly, she was there, radiant in the darkness before him, glowing with faint colors, vibrant, alive, and more beautiful than she had ever been. " 'Tis done—thou hast wrought famously!"
Magnus could only stare, spellbound.
So it was Cordelia who asked, "The wicked lord is fled?"
"Aye." Sola turned to her, glowing in more ways than one. "Foxcourt saw that he would be forever mocked, if he dared to linger here—so he hath fled to try his fate in the afterworld, convinced it cannot be worse."
Rod asked, "Didn't he ever have a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher?"
"Aye, and therefore called a priest, and confessed his sins, when he foresaw his death—yet that part of him that lingered here did seek to turn again to some pale shadow of its old delights."
"Foul!" Geoffrey glared, indignant. "Is there no justice in Heaven, either? Will he not be dealt with as he did deal?"
"Not so." Gwen's hand was on his shoulder. "For, though he may yet be redeemed, he must first come to know his guilt, and to believe in it, in his heart of hearts; then may he make reparation. He shall be long in Purgatory, son—if he doth win to it at all. He may not have been truly repentant when he was shriven."
Geoffrey still didn't look content, but he was silent.
"Justice, I desire," Sola admitted, "yet I'll be content with his wickedness ended. Thanks to thine aid, good folk, none shall ever again suffer from the cruelty of Count Foxcourt. Thou hast proven the worth of my father's death, and my brother's; thou hast given their chivalry meaning, and vindicated my mother's suffering. Thou hast made their fates worthwhile by encompassing the downfall of a villain!"
Rod looked around at his family. "You'll pardon me if I feel a certain sense of satisfaction about that.''
"As well thou shouldst." Sola stepped forward, arms outstretched as though to embrace them. "I thank thee all, most earnestly; thou hast rescued me from ancient suffering." She turned to Magnus. "Yet most greatly I thank thee, good youth, for I do know 'twas thee who did most earnestly press to aid me. 'Tis thou hast ope'd the way for me, that I may leave this mundane sphere, and commence my journey up toward Heaven."
"I… I was honored…"
"As I am honored by thee! Be sure that, if I do gain the Blessed Mede, thou wilt ever have a friend in the hereafter!"
Then she turned, lifting a hand. "Farewell, good friends—and pray for me!"
Then she was gone.
The hall lay dark and still, except for the murmuring of the flames on the hearth.
"Pray I shall," Magnus murmured, gazing at the space where she had been, "and may thy journey be brief and blessed, beauteous lass."
But a friend, Rod noted, was not what he'd wanted.
The hall was quiet, and Cordelia and the younger boys were finishing straightening the furniture that had been tumbled about in the wake of the ghosts. Geoffrey, of course, had complained before, during, and after. "Wherefore hath Magnus not aided, too, Mama?"
"Hush," Gwen said. "Let thy brother alone awhile, to let the pieces of his heart join together again."
Cordelia looked up, startled. "Was he heartbroken, then?"
"Let's just say that his feelings had become too thick on one side, and too thin on the other," Rod hedged. "He needs to get them into balance now."
"It makes no sense," Geoffrey grumbled, and went off to Fess, in search of sanity.
Gwen looked out the nearest of the high, thin windows, and just barely espied the small, antique cemetery outside the castle walls.
"What do you see?" Rod said softly.
"Our lad," she answered, equally hushed. "He doth stand quite still, gazing upon a tombstone."
"Ah." Rod nodded. "Sola's, no doubt. Poor kid—I know how he feels."
Gwen turned to stare at him, startled. "Dost thou so!"
Rod gazed deeply into her eyes before he let the smile lift the corners of his mouth. "Why, of course, dear," he said quietly. "You know you had to heal my heart, when you found it."
She gazed back at him, then slowly smiled, too. She turned to wrap his arms about her, her back to his chest, resting her head against his shoulder as she gazed out at the youth confronting death below them. "Will he, too, find one to heal him?"
"We can only hope," Rod breathed, "hope that he, too, will someday meet a woman who will make all his previous wounds unimportant."
She looked up into his eyes, and hers held stars.
Across the hall, Cordelia watched them, pensive and thoughtful. "Fess?"
"Yes, Cordelia?"
"Was Mama the only lass who ever fell a-love with Papa?"
"I have spoken to you before, about asking personal questions about your father's past." Fess was instantly severe. "Such information is definitely confidential. You must ask your father to tell you."
"But he will never tell me of these things that truly matter, Fess!"
"Then neither shall I, Cordelia."
"But are we never to learn more of Father's wanderings?" Gregory asked.
Fess was still a moment, then said, "I cannot say, children. It will depend on your father's permission, of course…"
"And he will never give it!" Geoffrey said, in disgust.
Fess stood mute.
Cordelia noticed, and said, "Dost thou think he might, good Fess?"
"One can never tell, Cordelia. Even I cannot tell what your father will agree to, when the time and the circumstances are correct."
"There may be more tales, then?" Gregory asked hopefully.
"Oh, certainly there will be more stories! You had many ancestors, children, and not all of them lived dull lives. Whenever you wish, you have but to…"
"Now!"
"Another ancestor, Fess!"
"They are ours, after all!"
"Tell!"
"Well, not immediately," the horse temporized. "Even I feel the need of rest and reflection, after the upheaval of our confrontation with Count Foxcourt."
"At bedtime, then?"
"At bedtime," Fess agreed, "or perhaps another day."
"Tomorrow," Cordelia said brightly, "is another day."
Epilogue
Jose rose to go report to his supervisor. It meant his job, but that was better than having a robot go wild and kill somebody because of a programming flaw.
He knocked on the door. "Al?"
The door was open. Al looked up and smiled. "Hi, Jose. What gives?" Then he saw the look on the younger man's face and straightened. "Come on in. Need to sit down?"
" 'Fraid so, Al." Jose sat down carefully, feeling old.
"So what happened?"
"I copied the Declaration of Independence into a robot brain along with the operating program."
Al just sat very still, his eyes growing very, very round. Then he said, "You copied the WHAT?"
"The Declaration of Independence."
Al erupted into guffaws.
Jose stared, then frowned. "It's not funny, Al! We've got to catch it before it's installed!"
"I—I'm sorry," Al managed. Then his face split into a grin, and he was off again. He leaned back in his chair and held his belly, whooping with glee.
Jose sighed and waited for it to pass. Illogically, he began to feel there might be hope.
Finally, Al got himself under control and leaned forward, grinning. "I'm sorry about that, Jose—but you have to admit, this is a new one. How'd you manage that?"
Jose spread his hands, the picture of forlornness. "I called it up to check something that was bothering me, then left it on scroll when I went to help Bob. By the time I came back, it was off the screen, and I'd forgotten about it."