Duke Alistair led them not to an office, but through a series of elegant, hushed corridors deeper into the private residential wing of the bastion. The ever-present hum of the Dominion guard patrols faded behind sound-dampened doors.

“My wife and daughter are waiting in the sunroom,” Alistair said, his voice low. “They know only that you are refugees from a fallen world, friends of mine in need. The guard detail is posted at the outer vestibule; my personal retinue is at the dining chamber doors. We may speak freely here.”

He opened a set of double doors into a warm, circular room bathed in the soft, artificial twilight of Caledon Prime. Two women rose from a plush sofa. The older, with graceful silver streaks in her dark hair and a kind, lined face, was introduced as Elara. The younger…

Vernon, holding tight to the ‘Laura’ persona, felt the air leave his lungs.

She was perhaps his own age, with her father’s sharp cheekbones but her mother’s warm eyes, the color of polished amber. Her hair was a cascade of chestnut waves, and she moved with an unselfconscious grace that seemed to pull all the light in the room toward her. She was introduced as Lysandra.

“Sara Kerigan, and my daughter, Laura,” Marius said smoothly, his vocal modulator rendering Sara’s pleasant, feminine tones. Vernon managed a small, practiced curtsy, his own modulator producing Laura’s soft, “It’s a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Elara said, her smile genuine. “Any friend of Alistair’s, especially in such times…”

“We’ve prepared a late supper,” Alistair said, guiding them toward an adjoining chamber where a long, polished table was set for five. As they took their seats—Alistair at the head, Elara and Lysandra on one side, ‘Sara’ and ‘Laura’ on the other—Alistair leaned forward, his voice dropping to a murmur the servants, clearing the first course, could not hear.

“Elara, Lysandra… the truth. This is not Sara and Laura. This is Marius, my old comrade, and Vernon. Arturus’s son.”

Elara’s eyes widened, filling immediately with a profound sorrow. “Oh, my boy,” she whispered across the table to Vernon. Lysandra stared, her amber eyes scanning Vernon’s face with new, intense understanding, seeing past the wig and the makeup to the haunted young man beneath.

The meal proceeded, a strange mix of formal dining and whispered conspiracy. Over roasted fowl and steamed greens, Alistair said, “You cannot return …