Weaves of Ashes

Chapter 350: Chapter 345: The Giving

Location:Nexus Pavilion

Date/Time:1 Frostforge, 9939 AZI — the wyrmlings’ assigned birthday

Realm:Pavilion sub-space

The common room was decorated in the style of a household that had collectively decided to pretend to have no taste and was, in fact, failing at the attempt.

Green’s ribbons along the doorways — cream and silver and a particular shade of sunset-copper that caught the Pavilion’s perpetual warm light the way old bronze caught it — ran along the lintels in the neat military swag of a woman who had decorated barracks for ceremonies across eight thousand years of service and had never once tolerated a crooked one. Yinxin’s dragon-scale garlands — small silver-iridescent scales strung on fine silk threads, each scale a breath-offering the Queen had been making in quiet evenings for weeks — hung in the doorway arches like small frozen rainfalls, catching light and casting it back broken into its component colours. Jayde’s formation-lamps — tiny, green-approved, Green-audited, one-point-source-only — sat along the window-sills, burning with the steady soft blue-gold of stable essence in a well-made containment. Reiko had, through some method Jayde did not inquire into, obtained a dozen silver bells the size of fingertips, which Yinxin had threaded through the garlands and which chimed very faintly whenever anyone passed through a doorway.

At the long common-room table: the cake.

Lopsided, imperfect, slightly scorched on its southwestern edge, two bloodcap berries placed in a trigonometric conversation at its summit, and — visible now that Takara had been removed from it — a small, perfect, kitten-shaped indentation in the icing on the northern slope. Green had, with the specific malice of a healer who understood the emotional architecture of a successful celebration, declined to fix the indentation. It stayed. It was, she had declared, part of the cake’s personal history.

Jayde looked at it for a long moment.

(It’s terrible.)

It’s adequate, given the constraints of the available —

(It’s terrible and it’s perfect and I love it.)

...agreed.

The family assembled.

Yinxin stood at the head of the table, silver-white hair loose down her back, golden eyes steady on her children; her hands were folded in the small formal-maternal position that ancient silver-dragon queens had used when they welcomed their hatchlings into a first-year celebration, except that Yinxin’s hatchlings were, collectively, one adventurer, one healer, and one calculator, and the formal position had, quietly, been adjusted in its application to match the specific children in her line. Green stood beside her, arms folded, emerald eyes bright. White stood behind them — far enough not to participate, close enough not to be excluded, which was his own personal doctrine of family attendance and had not yet been violated in his time with them. Reiko occupied the full length of the east wall, lion-sized, silver-eyed, the mercury rune across his forehead casting faint patterns on the ceiling the way a moon cast patterns on still water; his tail tip flicked once in time with the kitchen bells.

***

Yinxin spoke first, because Yinxin was the mother and the Queen and the house, and the order of ceremony on a first-year day belonged to her.

”Children,” Yinxin said, and her voice had the particular resonance it acquired when she was speaking as Queen rather than as Yinxin, a note beneath the note that carried the weight of inherited mothers stretching back to the first silver-scale ever hatched, ”today is the day you are one. Today, we give you what we have been making for you.”

Tianxin’s eyes went round. Huaxin’s wings fluttered. Shenxin sat up very straight.

Yinxin unrolled her gift.

From a long cloth-wrapped bundle she had carried into the common room earlier and laid, quietly, against the wall — a silk tapestry. Four paces wide. Three paces tall. Embroidered across seven Pavilion months in quiet evenings when Jayde had assumed she was meditating.

At the centre: a young silver dragon with three smaller dragons arranged around her in the pattern of the Three Prime Stars — the ancestral constellation of the silver queens, three lights that never set, that the Ancient Queens had named Daughter, Warden, and Healer long before silver dragons had invented the writing that let them record the names. Tianxin’s corner held a small fire-touched sigil. Shenxin’s corner held a small blade. Huaxin’s corner held a small open hand.

Each corner was rendered in the exact scale-colours of the child it belonged to.

”This will hang here,” Yinxin said, indicating the common room’s longest wall. ”For as long as you live in this house. And after. It is how you will know: wherever you go, this is the shape your mother made of you when you were one.”

Tianxin burst into a small radiant flame for a half-second — her whole body lighting in overspill — and flung herself at Yinxin’s legs with a small keening chirrup, and Yinxin caught her without looking, the way a mother caught a child she had caught a hundred times before, and pressed her face briefly against the small silver head. Shenxin came to Yinxin’s side more slowly and sat, leaning his weight against her calf, and did not look at the tapestry for a long moment because he was absorbing what his sigil was — a blade, Jayde realised, and Yinxin had embroidered it herself, with no input from Reiko, and Reiko had not needed to tell her — and when he finally looked up his golden eyes were bright. Huaxin floated, wings barely moving, from Jayde’s shoulder vicinity to the small open-hand corner of the tapestry, and touched it with the tip of one small claw, and then returned to the air.

”Mama is the Queen,” Jayde murmured to Eden, under her breath.

”Mama has always been the Queen,” Eden murmured back.

***

Green went second, because Green had declared, ten minutes into the planning week, that she absolutely would not be the centrepiece of anything, and Yinxin had agreed to take centre stage specifically so Green would not have to.

Green’s gift came in three small embroidered cloth pouches — flint-grey, oathsteel-grey, pearl-cream — which she produced from somewhere about her person in the specific way of a woman who produced things from about her person whenever a situation required them, and which she opened, one at a time, without ceremony.

”Tianxin,” she said. Inside Tianxin’s pouch: a small stiff-bristled brush. ”For the ash. You shed it. It gets in my kitchen. This is yours. When you come to my kitchen, you will have cleaned yourself first. If you have not, you will not be in my kitchen. The brush is yours, and the rule is yours, and the decision is yours. That is the gift.”

Tianxin’s face did the full-body lit-up-with-joy thing it did when she had been spoken to as though she were a person with agency rather than a small fire-affinity accident. She nosed the brush experimentally. The brush was soft at the ends in a way that would not hurt a young scale. Green had, Jayde realised, tested it on something first — herself, probably.

”Shenxin.” Inside Shenxin’s pouch: a small, smooth, weighted stone the size of a walnut. ”Carry this. Not to lift. To hold. When you are thinking about something too hard and your thinking is making your body tight, you will hold this. And when you are not thinking about anything and your body has nothing to do, you will hold this. It is a weight for the hand. It is also a weight for the mind. It knows how to be both.”

Shenxin took the stone in his small, clawed paw. He turned it, once. He closed his paw around it. His tail-tip flicked.

Green’s mouth tugged at its one corner. She did not say anything else to him.

”Huaxin.” Inside Huaxin’s pouch: a small square of finely woven cloth, edged in pale silver thread. ”For when you are working on something that bleeds. You put this under what you are healing. You do not put it between your hand and the wound — you put it under, to catch. A healer carries her own cloth. Now you do.”

Huaxin settled in the air. Her small face did the thing it did when she was being taken seriously as a healer by another healer, which was: her eyes got enormous, her wings went very still, and she pressed her small paws together in the specific folded-hands gesture that Huaxin used in place of words when she was overwhelmed by something she loved.

Yinxin breathed a small laugh. ”Green.”

”Quiet, Queen.”

”That was a lovely gift, Green.”

”I said quiet, Queen.”

***

White went third, because White had had to be threatened into participating at all, and had negotiated — with Green, over the course of a single eyebrow lift — a gift-giving slot that came AFTER Green and BEFORE the emotional climax, on the explicit understanding that he would not be asked to make a speech.

He did not make a speech.

He simply walked to the long side table where a cloth-draped bundle had been sitting since morning — which Jayde had registered earlier as a Green-adjacent item, and therefore not something to ask about — and removed the cloth, and stepped aside.

On the table: three small carved wooden sticks.

Not weapons. Not toys. Ceremonial hand-sticks — the kind the old silver-dragon houses had once used as the first grip-training object given to a hatchling, the kind that a child would hold in their front paws while they learned to sit formally. Each stick was the exact correct length for the wyrmling who would use it. Each stick was the exact correct weight. Each stick was finished with the fine, smooth oil-worked surface of wood that had been handled carefully, many times, over a long period, by a very patient man.

On Tianxin’s: a small fire-glyph at the grip end.

On Shenxin’s: a small equal-mark — two parallel lines, clean, minimal.

On Huaxin’s: a small, unbroken circle.

Each glyph was seared in with something that looked suspiciously like a Galebreath-tempered knife’s very tip. The kind of work that took a steady hand and several hours.

Green looked at the sticks.

Green looked at White.

White looked at the ceiling.

”...I don’t remember buying those,” White said.

”You didn’t buy them,” said Green.

”I don’t remember finding them.”

”You carved them, you enormous idiot.”

”...I don’t remember that either.”

Jayde bit the inside of her cheek hard.

Tianxin went to her stick and picked it up and held it in both front paws exactly as the old silver-dragon manuals indicated one should hold a hatchling-grip. She turned to show Yinxin. She turned to show Eden. She turned, last, to White — and held the stick up to him with the ceremonial presentation-pose of a dragon-child offering thanks to a carver.

White, whose facade had now absorbed three successive blows in rapid succession, said — approximately under his breath, to nobody — ”...hells.”

”Language,” Green said pleasantly, from her end of the table.

Shenxin took his stick silently. He tested the weight. He placed it across his front paws in a precise horizontal hold. He bowed his head to White. White nodded, once, minutely, and looked very hard at a point on the far wall.

Huaxin floated to her stick, lifted it, turned it in the air until the small unbroken circle was visible to her, made a small soft hah of recognition, and drifted back to Jayde’s shoulder with the stick cradled against her small chest.

”I don’t know who put my knife away yesterday afternoon,” White said, to the ceiling, ”but whoever it was did it wrong, and I spent twenty minutes looking for it.”

”Did you,” said Green.

”I did.”

”Mm. Terrible inconvenience.”

”Terrible.”

They did not look at each other.

Jayde put her head down on the table.

***

Reiko went fourth.

Reiko had been — Jayde was fairly sure — practising this for approximately three weeks.

She had registered it, in the low-level way she registered things through the bond, as a kind of rhythmic internal muttering that occurred during his evening patrols around the Pavilion perimeter: three phrases, repeated, the same three phrases, delivered in three slightly different inflections each time as though he were workshopping them. She had not asked. She had assumed he was preparing for something and would tell her when he was ready. He had not told her. He had simply nudged his enormous silver-black head against her hip this morning, run the three phrases past her bond in their final form — ceremoniously, once, with great weight — and then, before she could say anything about them, trotted away to lick crumbs off the back of Takara, which had compromised the gravity of the moment considerably.

Now, in the common room, it was his turn.

He did not move from the east wall, because he had calculated — correctly — that the east wall was the optimal acoustic position in the common room for what he was about to do, and that moving would require him to recalculate the acoustic, and he had not budgeted the time.

He opened his bond-voice to the room.

Not in the usual casual way — the family-dinner register, the someone-is-at-the-door register, the don’t-climb-on-that register he had been using with the household for months — but in the specific formal mode he had been, Jayde now realised, saving. The register of a shadowbeast who had decided in advance that what he was about to say would carry the weight of a thing bound. The register of someone who had only a small number of these in him, in a lifetime, and had elected to spend one of them now.

The wyrmlings — who had grown up with Reiko’s voice in their heads the way children in other houses grew up with the sound of a parent moving in the next room — went absolutely still anyway, because the register was different enough that they understood immediately something had changed.

[Small ones.]

Jayde felt it land in each of them through her own bond — not the wonder of hearing his voice for the first time (they had heard his voice their whole lives; they had squabbled with it, been scolded by it, been sung to sleep by it) — but the startled recognition of this voice. Not casual-Reiko. Not play-Reiko. Not the Reiko who narrated his own misjudged landings as tactical repositioning. This was a Reiko they had not yet met: older-sounding, quieter-sounding, the Reiko the rest of them knew was in there, and none of them had ever seen arrive in a room this way. The silver-weight of his attention direct.

Tianxin’s wings trembled. Her small mouth opened in astonishment.

Shenxin sat up very straight. His eyes went enormous.

Huaxin made a tiny, overwhelmed trill.

Reiko, who had been waiting for this reaction with a degree of barely-controlled pride that Jayde could feel vibrating down her bond-thread like a plucked harp string, held his ceremonial silence for the exact number of heartbeats he had decided in advance constituted appropriate ceremonial weight. Then, with the full-throated gravity of a young primordial shadowbeast delivering the most important set of words he had ever strung together in his life:

[Three names.]

[Three charges.]

[When you are afraid, call. I will come.]

The oath landed.

It landed with the specific pure-hearted weight that came off of adolescent creatures when they were doing something they had decided really mattered — the weight of meaning every syllable without a trace of irony, the weight of having rehearsed until the rehearsal dropped away, the weight of offering the largest thing you had to offer because these were yours and you loved them and the loving required a shape you could hand to them. The mercury rune on Reiko’s forehead flared — once, bright, deliberate — and dimmed to a warm, steady glow.

And then his composure cracked.

He held it for approximately four seconds after the third line. Jayde could feel him holding it — the exact specific effort of a young shadowbeast being performing adulthood — and she could feel the moment it became untenable for him, because adolescent shadowbeasts who had just said the most sincere thing they had ever said in front of their entire family could not, in point of fact, maintain ceremonial stillness past the landing of the line.

His tail flicked. Once. Small.

Then, through the bond to her only, in the specific aggrieved tone of a cub who had just been extraordinarily grown-up and was now entitled to collapse:

[Jayde. Did I do it right?]

You did it perfectly, Reiko.

[It sounded right? I practised — it sounded right when I practised —]

It was exactly right.

[The pause between charges and call. Was the pause too long? I think the pause was too long.]

The pause was perfect.

[I was going to do two heartbeats, and I did three heartbeats. It was three.]

Reiko, it was three perfectly-placed heartbeats.

[...all right.]

A small bond-shimmer, of the kind he produced when he was pretending not to be pleased and was in fact extremely pleased.

And then — because the universe, in its mercy, arranged these things — the wyrmlings moved.

Tianxin broke ranks first. She was the eldest, and nothing she had at her disposal — not chirps, not essence-loops, not the full-body radiance she had spent a year perfecting — was adequate to the thing she was currently feeling, so she did the thing she had been wanting to do since the first word small had landed in her head: she launched herself across the common room, wings fluttering, and hit Reiko’s enormous silver-black flank with the full weight of a small fire-affinity toddler who had just been claimed. She did not bounce. She stuck. She pressed her entire body against his shoulder and made the small keening sound of a dragon-child who had been overcome and did not have a better response available.

Shenxin followed in two slow, dignified steps. He did not launch. He did not collide. He walked, with the precise cautious gait he used for formal occasions, and placed himself between Reiko’s forepaws, and — in the first physical gesture of affection Jayde had ever seen him initiate without being preceded by someone else — pressed his small head against Reiko’s chest, just below the mercury rune, and closed his eyes.

Huaxin, who was already airborne, simply floated across the room, hovered for a half-breath above the mercury rune, and lowered herself onto it. She did not land beside it. She landed on it. Her small belly-plates settled against the pulsing metal. Her small paws arranged themselves in her folded-hands posture. Her eyes closed. She made a tiny hah of contentment.

Reiko — enormous, silver-black, ceremonially composed, the dignified young primordial who had just delivered the most important oath of his short life — found himself, inside of four seconds, with one wyrmling plastered to his shoulder, one tucked under his chin, and one actively sitting on his forehead.

He could not move.

The bond to Jayde carried, very clearly, the specific electrical signal of a young shadowbeast who had just discovered that the cost of saying something that mattered was the total physical surrender of all tactical mobility for the foreseeable future.

[Jayde.]

Yes, Reiko.

[Huaxin is on my rune.]

Yes.

[She’s sitting on my rune.]

I can see that.

[...I can’t get up.]

No.

[I wasn’t going to get up. I want to be clear. I was going to stay right here. But I couldn’t get up. If I wanted to. Which I don’t.]

I know.

[Jayde.]

Yes, Reiko.

[They accepted.]

They did.

A pause. Another pause. Then, in the small private tone of a creature saying the quietest true thing he knew how to say:

[I’ve been planning this since we first met. I knew before I had words for it that I was going to do this for them one day. Do you know that?]

I know that, Reiko.

[Good.]

The mercury rune pulsed once, softly, beneath Huaxin’s belly. She trilled, still half-asleep, and nestled closer to its warmth.

Reiko, enormous and pinned, closed his silver eyes with an expression that, on any other creature, might have been described as blissful, and which on Reiko was denied immediately as soon as it was observed.

Reiko had said what he had come to say.

He was not, for the next hour and a half, going to be saying anything else.

***

Isha went fifth.

Isha had, at the beginning of the morning, explained to Yinxin that he would not be participating in the present-giving ceremony on the specific grounds that he was (a) incorporeal, (b) a scholar rather than a gift-giver by disposition, (c) the kind of being who had, across his considerable length of years, been wary of offering personal objects to the young since the complicated incident with the T’khana hatchlings that he absolutely did not wish to discuss. Yinxin had listened to all three reasons. Yinxin had then told him, with the patient motherly authority of a silver dragon queen who had outlasted three arguments so far this morning and was not intending to lose a fourth, that he was family, that he was Uncle Isha, and that he would be participating, and the question was only whether he required her assistance in selecting an appropriate gift or whether he would be selecting one himself.

Isha had selected one himself.

He began without preamble, because Isha’s preambles had long since been identified as the principal hazard of inviting Isha to speak at any occasion with fewer than three hours set aside for the purpose.

[I have, over these last several Pavilion months,] Isha’s voice said, arriving through the ambient with the specific warmth of a scholar who had chosen his words in advance, [been listening to the three of you. Not to your speech — which I have predicted with some confidence will arrive any day now, and which I will be recording carefully for my archives the moment it does — but to your other sounds. Your essence-tones. The pitch at which each of you hums when content. The harmonic each of you produces when you sleep. The note your small wings sound against the air when you fly.]

The wyrmlings had gone very still. Tianxin’s head — from where she was still plastered against Reiko’s shoulder — had cocked to one side. Shenxin’s eyes, from the nook beneath Reiko’s chin, had closed. Huaxin, from her adopted perch on the mercury rune, had tilted her small face upward toward the ceiling — toward the sound of the ambient itself, which was where Isha, in her small emerging cosmology, lived.

[I have in my archives,] Isha continued, [every piece of silver-dragon music known to the record. Some of it pre-dates the Sundering. Some of it pre-dates the Ancient Queens your mother inherited. None of it was written for you. So I wrote you one.]

A faint tuning-note sounded through the room. It was a sound Jayde had never heard before — a sound she would not, she suspected, hear again until the next important occasion in the household’s life, because Isha’s ambient-acoustic was used sparingly and with intention — and it was, she realised, a prelude.

[I will play it once now,] Isha said. [The notation exists in my archive. It is there for any of you for any time you wish it. The three voices in the melody are: Tianxin at the fifth, Shenxin at the root, Huaxin at the octave above. The blend, when correctly held, is a chord the silver queens called ch’ira vethin — the three-strand harmony, which is what mothers sing to children who have not yet learned to sleep without music.]

He played it.

The piece was short — perhaps thirty seconds — and simple, and the simplicity was the work of a being who had, over long years, learned that true gentleness required effort. Three threads of melody braided together. Tianxin’s line was warm and bright and edged with the faint metallic ring of a small copper bell. Shenxin’s line was low and steady, the anchoring root, a note that did not move because the other two needed somewhere to come home to. Huaxin’s line soared above them both — thin and clear and impossibly delicate, a silver-white thread through the pattern.

When the three combined — which they did, briefly, at the middle of the piece and again at the end — the chord that emerged was the kind of thing that stopped conversation in a room. Not loud. Not dramatic. Simply — correct. The sound of three children fitted into one family, expressed in music.

Tianxin had, at some point during the playing, begun to cry. Not loudly. Just the small, quiet tears of a dragon-child who did not yet have the vocabulary to understand what was happening to her but knew it was important. Shenxin’s eyes had remained closed. Huaxin — who had not moved from her adopted perch on Reiko’s mercury rune — trembled, very faintly, each time her own note in the three-strand harmony rose in the composition, and when the piece ended, she was shaking, tiny and silent, with an emotion she did not yet possess the capacity to name.

Yinxin, whose queen-memory reached back through uncounted generations of silver mothers who had sung to their children, was weeping quietly with no attempt to hide it.

[That was Uncle Isha’s gift,] Isha said, after a respectful pause. [It is yours. Always.]

Huaxin’s small trill arrived from Reiko’s forehead — formal, grateful, slightly wobbly from how full she was.

Isha: [You are most welcome, small healer.]

”Isha,” Yinxin said, in a voice that was not quite steady, ”that was beautifully done.”

[I have had time.]

”You have had time.”

[Several thousand years, Queen.]

”Yes, Isha.”

[It is the first piece of music I have composed in approximately four of those thousand. I am pleased with it.]

”You should be.”

[Thank you.]

A pause.

[I will retire to the archives now, before I become sentimental.]

”Isha.”

[Uncle Isha will retire to the archives now, before Uncle Isha becomes sentimental.]

Yinxin smiled, wetly. ”Thank you, Uncle Isha.”

[Yes.]

The ambient warmth shifted, very slightly, in the direction of the archive door — Isha withdrawing, in his specific incorporeal way, from the centre of the moment and leaving the family to the rest of the ceremony.

***

Jayde went sixth, because she had planned it that way, because she had wanted Yinxin and Green and White and Reiko and Isha to go first — the household, the mothers, the weapons, the guardian, and the scholar — and because what she was about to give she wanted to give with the full weight of the household already behind it. Doc would go last, by Jayde’s arrangement and Doc’s own quiet agreement — because some gifts needed the room to have settled before they arrived.

She produced her gift from the inner pocket of her tunic.

Three small crystals.

Each was the size of a thumbnail. Each was hollow. Each held, suspended in its centre, a tiny formation-glyph she had been building across the last forty-seven Pavilion days — a micro-anchor, looped once, with the second loop unfinished in a deliberate opening.

”These are anchor-stones,” Jayde said.

Yinxin’s golden eyes sharpened.

”Formation-linked,” Jayde went on, because she had planned exactly how to explain this and was not going to allow her voice to go soft and lose the plan, ”to my Life Disk. Not to my person, not to my cultivation — to my Life Disk. Which means: wherever I am, wherever you are, the link holds. If you are afraid, if you are lost, if you are hurt — you hold this, and you push once, and I will know, and I will find you. There is nothing in any realm that can sever the link without severing my own Life Disk, which means: the link does not fail. It will exist for as long as I exist.”

The common room had gone still again.

”I couldn’t give you this until the anchor-formation was stable in the Disk itself,” Jayde said, quieter now. ”The Disk has been mine for a little under a year. My Kindling failed when I was small — there was nothing to kindle, then. Isha helped me manifest it in the Pavilion before I went to the Academy; some of you were here that evening. Once the Disk was mine, the formation still had to be built into it, and that took time, and it had to be tested, because I wasn’t going to give any of you something that might fail. Isha confirmed it was stable last Quenchday. So today is the first day it could be yours. And today is the day it is yours.”

She knelt. The children she was giving the gift to were small, and the gesture of kneeling was correct.

She held out three crystals on one palm.

Reiko — at the east wall, still plastered with wyrmlings — shifted his weight in the specific small way that meant the Commander is requesting you, small ones, and I am releasing you, and I want you to know that I am not, in fact, sorry to see you go, although I am going to miss the weight exactly as much as I currently weigh because you are mine now and that is how the contract works. Tianxin peeled herself off his shoulder first, reluctantly, and padded across the common room with the slow, dignified gait of a dragon-child who had been claimed twice in one morning and was managing the honour with grave composure. Shenxin detached from under Reiko’s chin a moment after, pausing to press his small forehead against Reiko’s foreleg once before following. Huaxin stayed on the rune another breath, considered, made a small hah of determination, and detached, drifting across the room to hover at Jayde’s eye-level.

Tianxin came first. Jayde fastened the crystal to a short loop of fine silver silk she had made for it, looped the silk once around Tianxin’s neck. The crystal settled against her small chest, warm-amber against the copper-silver scales. Tianxin pressed her small cheek against Jayde’s palm.

Shenxin came next. The crystal settled cold and clear against his slate-silver. He held Jayde’s eye for a long count. He touched the crystal with the tip of one small claw. Something about his wings — the set of them — said I understand what this is, and I accept what it does.

Huaxin came last. She did not land, for this — she hovered at Jayde’s eye-level, wings opening and closing in a slow pulse, and she allowed Jayde to tie the cord around her small neck while she was airborne, and when the crystal settled against her small cream chest she closed her eyes and made a sound that was the closest thing Huaxin had, at that moment in her life, to a hymn.

”Always findable,” Jayde said, very quietly, to all three of them. ”Always. No matter what happens. You push it, I come. Those are the rules.”

Eden, behind her, had placed a hand lightly against the small of Jayde’s back.

Jayde rose.

(Commander.)

What.

(That was a good gift.)

Thank you.

(Doc’s turn.)

Yes.

(She’s going to make us cry.)

We are already crying.

(...we are?)

Jayde touched her cheek. It was wet.

Yes. We are.