The nursery is quiet, with only the tiny sound of a mortal infant breathing in its sleep. Owen leans over the crib, carefully draws the blanket away from Alexander's sleeping face.

He can remember laughing over countless other cradles: the wailing infant left hanging from a tree branch outside, or held elsewhere by willing accomplices while he took on a rude caricature of the baby's form, mocking at the mother's frustration. Eggs and crumbs and milk and grain, and sometimes the mother would know the charm and sometimes she wouldn't, and either way he would have his fun. Dancing off afterwards into the darkling woods with his cronies, turning somersaults and cartwheels in the air for the mere delight of it, hooting with glee.

There's no reason why this cradle should be any different. No real reason at all.

And it isn't the cradle that's different, of course. It's himself.

He keeps his movements quiet, heading for the door, and throws one more glance at the sleeping Alexander before stepping out into the hallway.