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Along the walls hung large oil paintings in silver frames. And in each frame was an artfully rendered portrait of Medra.

Medra as an infant, gurgling and smiling in Draven’s arms.

Medra sleeping in her cradle, looking cherubic and peaceful, her soft cheeks tinged with rose.

The rest of the pictures were Medra as Draven and I had never had an opportunity to see her.

Medra toddling across the Great Hall. Her hair was a mess of black curls around her face.

Medra holding a wooden sword and looking determined as she stood in the practice yard across from Sir Ector. She looked about seven or eight years old, but I knew it must only have been a few weeks after we’d left.

I glanced at Draven and knew he was feeling the same shock I was.

It was one thing to be told how Medra had grown at such an incredible pace. We knew it was true from having seen her at the very end. But still, I knew neither of us had really been able to imagine it. Not until now.

We moved to the next painting. It depicted Medra hunched over a book in the castle library. She looked lost in thought. A half-eaten apple sat on the table next to her.

I covered my mouth with my hand. The girl in the picture was so familiar—for so many reasons.

“She didn’t know it, but I was always checking up on her,” Crescent said softly. “She loved the library. From what Sir Ector says, she was a great deal like you in that way, Morgan.”

I nodded, my heart too full to speak.

If she had lived, I could have shown her all my favorite books. I pictured us sitting in the library for hours, reading quietly, and the lump in my throat grew, knowing the dream would never be.

The next picture showed Medra astride a chestnut stallion, her head lifted high. She looked beautiful and regal. She also looked at least fourteen years old.

“Medra had a complicated relationship with animals,” Crescent said. “We were working through it.” He hesitated. “She had a lot of rage in her.”

Draven and I looked at one another. This was the first time anyone had told us.

“But I know Odessa was teaching her to be... Well, to be more gentle,” Crescent continued. “And Medra loved her horse. She never harmed it.”

I nodded slowly, thinking about all of the reasons Medra had had to be angry.

“She knew we’d left her then,” Draven said, looking at Crescent.

The dark-skinned man nodded. “That was one of the reasons for her anger, I think. She was not a typical child. Her mental capacity increased as rapidly as she grew. She was well on her way to being a brilliant scholar, even without tutors. But even so, I don’t think she ever truly understood why you left her.”

Draven’s eyes met mine, and I saw the haunted expression there.

“She did,” I reassured him, my voice low. “In the end, yes, I think she did.”

He nodded. Fumbling, his hand found mine, and we moved on to the last painting.

Medra was holding a sword in this one. A real blade this time. She was not alone in the painting. The artist had captured the moment her blade clashed up against Odessa’s. The two women were pushing up against one another, neither one ready to surrender.

Medra had a huge grin on her face. Odessa’s expression was more serious, but I could see the hint of a smile beginning to form.

“Who painted these?” I asked, turning to Crescent.

“I sketched them out, then took them to a local artist. One you might be familiar with.” He gestured to the doorway.

Galahad stood there, his dark eyes solemn. “I wasn’t sure I should come in.”

“Yes, come in. Please do.” Wiping my eyes quickly, I walked over and embraced him, then held him by the shoulders. “You painted these? All of them? Truly? I had no idea you could paint.”

“It’s been something of a hobby, the last few years. Someone kept up and leaving me so I had the time to spare.” He grinned.