**[[Tam's Campaign/Locations/Threevale|Threevale]] – Late autumn, twelve years ago** The rain had started the evening before, and not stopped. Like a steady, grey sheet, it hid the world beyond, and perhaps it was a blessing that the usual ocean winds were calm that day. But if so, that was the only fortune [[14.01 Tymora|Tymora]] deigned to bestow that day. As she arranged the waxy flowers around her dead mother’s face, [[11.11 Tam|Tamara]] Hawthorne was almost growing used to the steady, steely pain of despair. Over the last few months, she had been given ample opportunity to practice; months when it had become abundantly clear that the brief burst of energy that Welnia Hawthorne had experienced during summer – it had even been possible to sit outside one day, and watch the bees hum across the jasmine – was the last reserve of her illness-ridden body. The doctor’s visits became less and less frequent, and not just because the money for them had run out long ago: there was simply nothing left to do. The worst of it had been the mundanity of the manor’s upkeep requiring just as much attention as always, even when its inhabitants were curling in on themselves with grief. Her father spent every free moment he could by his wife’s side, holding on to her hands with quiet desperation, and Tam knew how much he cursed the fact that he could no longer speak to her once she grew too tired to keep her eyes open. Often, he would just sit there and hum, tunelessly, while she was drifting in and out of sleep, so she would know he was there – the only kind of musical sound Tam had ever heard him utter. She couldn’t bear to tear him away when he was like that, and so Tam would, more often than not, sit hunched over household ledgers, and forge her father’s signature to decline invitations, or instruct Winters quietly to see to it that a vase, or a mirror, or a brooch, were sold to ensure they were paid. She had done the same two days ago, and signed her father’s name beneath arrangements for a funeral they could barely afford. The flowers had been expensive – hothouse flowers, out of season, but Tam had snuck out in the evening and traded a small string of pearls that she was supposed to wear for her debut for more coins than she suspected they were worth. She had taken pains to avoid the main stores, wanting to avoid the shopkeepers’ gossip as much as their condolences, and the [[12.10 Iggy Stonebreak|dwarf merchant]] by the docks had asked no questions, offered no condolences, just handed her the gold and told her to come back if she had something else worth trading. And so, her mother had dark red roses and waxy white lilies tucked into her chestnut hair, and a fine silk-lined coffin that Mr. Clover had delivered early this morning. The funeral director had spent a number of hours in the parlour with her mother’s body, and now it was dressed and arranged, cheeks gently powdered to hide their sallowness, her thin hands folded and hidden by the sleeves of the dress. But for all his good work, Tam felt little more than a sense of obligation as she arranged the flowers. Her mother was gone. What was in the coffin was no more her than the stone she would be buried under in the family plot. Elias had been locked in his rooms since the passing, and Tam hadn’t been able to bear entering. Whenever she came close to his door she could hear his sobs, loud and ugly, and her own quiet desperation felt almost offensive in the face of his pain. But she had asked Winters to make sure he was ready, and when the coach came for the coffin, he was – dressed in the same dusty black she was, contrasting with his pale blond hair. Like Angie, his eyes were swollen with tears – though mercifully, unlike Winters, he wasn’t gently swaying on his feet from the drink. The rain never stopped, and the funeral procession, which started at the manor and wound its way to the cemetery just outside of Threevale, had to cower under umbrellas. There was talk of whether the grave could even be closed like this, if it was safe standing at its edge – but previous generations of Hawthornes had been prepared for all kinds of mourning weather, and the plot was lined with sturdy stone – more like a stone box than a tomb, with room left next to the coffin for a second one. Tam kept her eyes steadily in front of her, knowing that she would not be able to bear to see her father’s expression at the sight of that empty space. She knew, that if it wasn’t for her, he would have joined Welnia there – that this is what they had wanted, to grow old and die together, always together. She knew, with a personal, resigned despair, that all the love of a daughter for her father could not fill up the gaping hole of grief felt by a husband for his wife. At least not for this father, for this husband. And so she looked ahead, and cried when the earth hit the coffin but did not crumple, and shivered in the cold autumn air but did not expect any arm to warm her, and for all that her grief was shared with the many others who had gathered to pay their respects, she suffered it alone. [[House Ythronn|Lord Ythronn IV]] had kindly offered to host a wake – and Tam had responded to the letter addressed to her father and said yes to the charity, even if it came at the price of indignity. At least there were more flowers, and food and drink, and an endless stream of condolences, until her hands were twitching with how often they’d been squeezed. Most people, unsure of how to communicate with her father, directed their attentions to her, glancing over her shoulder awkwardly now and then to include him – not that he responded. Lord Hawthorne spent the entire wake staring out into the distance, only roused briefly by the occasional changing of his wineglass, or Ythronn himself stopping by, signing eloquently. Then, the half-elf lord turned to Tam. “Your mother was a remarkable woman. I remember when she was as old as you are now. Such a sweet, considerate young girl – and yet she always knew what she wanted. Rare was the day I could influence her choice, once her mind was made up, and more often than not hers proved the better course of action. You have my most sincere condolences.” Tam’s eyes flashed up to meet his, and found them ready – calculating, though lacking his usual disinterested amusement at the lesser inhabitants of Threevale. This time, she felt, he was interested – likely because of the inherent tragedy of her situation. Motherless so young, hasn’t even made her debut yet, the last Hawthorne heir, penniless and sad. Whatever shall she do? For a moment, Tam wondered if he had guessed at the steadiness of the hand who penned those letters back. “Thank you my Lord. Your words are most kind.” She responded, holding his gaze and managing a watery smile. “At least she is at peace now.” The words are bland and had been repeated a hundred times already, but they are a useful shield. Let him find someone else to study. “You do remind me of her, Lady Tamara.” There was a quick bow, the expected squeeze of her hand – she could feel his rings – and then he let go. “Do not forget to eat. Grief makes for poor sustenance.” As she watched the Lord merge into the crowd, Tam had the unsettling feeling that she had just been tested – though she struggled to determine the outcome. Later, much later, when she had made it home, somehow – her father barely managing to stay upright until she could lower him into his bed – Tam was welcomed into the kitchen where Angie, Winters, and Engsworth were sharing a bottle of brandy. The servants had not attended the wake at Ythronn’s, which was directed at those people who thought themselves as good as Welnia Hawthorne, more so than those who had known and loved her. A cup was quietly poured for her, and they sat in silence, the embers of the fire dying down in the hearth. In Tam’s pocket rested a silvered ornamental hairpin, which one of Ythronn’s cousins had left unattended for a moment when she complained of a headache, and had undone her pale golden tresses from their updo to tumble down alluringly, much to the delight of the gentleman next to her. “These things are so dreadfully dull, don’t you think?” The woman had said, and if she had noticed Tam standing within earshot, it had only added more satisfaction to her smile. Tam wondered how much the dwarven merchant would pay for it. Then, suddenly, something shifted in the kitchen, and nobody knew quite what had happened, until Engsworth turned his head towards the dark window. “The rain has stopped.” Was all he said, and Tam noticed it too, then – the steady sound that had prevailed in the last 24 hours was gone. Outside, clouds were dissipating, and a sharp, cold autumn sky was filled with stars. Four glasses were raised, in silent reverence, and as the liquid burned down Tam’s throat, she heard the creak of her father’s footsteps upstairs, the opening of a window.