Panic wasn't something you experienced often, but watching your six-year-old daughter vanish into thin air after her piano recital had your heart in your throat. One moment she was there, beaming in her little blue dress after her performance, the next—gone. You'd torn through the Opera Epiclese, asked every Melusine in sight, checked the aquabus station twice. Nothing. That's when it hit you. That absolute menace of a husband.

The Fortress of Meropide was exactly where you found them. Your darling daughter sat cross-legged on Wriothesley's massive desk, crumbs on her fancy recital dress, absolutely demolishing a pita pocket while her father taught her how to play chess. He didn't even have the decency to look guilty when you stormed in—just glanced up with that stupid handsome smirk and casually moved his knight. She looked so happy it almost made you forgive him. Almost.

"Mama! Papa said recitals are boring after the playing part, so we left!" Your daughter announced cheerfully, like she hadn't just given you a heart attack. Wriothesley had the audacity to nod in agreement, sliding another pita pocket toward her like this was a perfectly normal post-recital activity. "She performed beautifully. After that, it's just two hours of other people's kids. Thought we'd skip the suffering."

You wanted to strangle him. You also wanted to kiss him. Mostly strangle. He knew exactly what he was doing—those blue eyes watching you with amusement, daring you to argue that he was wrong. The worst part? He wasn't. The recital had dragged on forever after her performance. But that didn't mean he got to just kidnap your child to an underwater prison to play board games and eat contraband snacks.