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Rosalind Naaktgeboren had been a mother four times over. Anyone would have rated this as good going and agreed that she had done her duty, and did not have to do it again: but every single one of her children had grown up. At this point she counted as a grandmother. Four children, one happily married, one who had married about six times per year because he kept on changing his mind and really whoever invented the Vegas wedding should have been shot on her son's account. Her children had, to wit, grown up.

This bugged her biological clock.

It was probably getting to work with kids again, too. The Liberty Center kids were all great. Crazy, sometimes, but great, and seeing them change was like watching a baby grow -- they were different every day, sometimes literally. It made her feel a little sad to think that there were cabbage kids out there who had sprung from plant to teenager within the space of little over a year. Dealing with puberty all with just one Christmas. It didn't feel like growing up to her. But they all seemed perfectly happy: and hell, they'd never known anything else. They never would know anything else.

She loved children. She loved babies. She loved Sabrina's children and it was her who had been a horrible kind of Uterine Alarm to all of the others -- have a baby! Have more babies! Have four hundred babies! while pushing little embroidered socks on her friends with an unsubtle wink. (Lots of them had never appreciated it.) She'd loved her best friend's baby as though it had been her own, holding Charlotte in her arms and playing with her feet and playing with her hands and pretty much keeping that way until Charlotte was up and married herself.

Okay, so, she had Empty Nest Syndrome.

Badly.

And she'd only gone to look at the lab, really, not gone there for any other purpose than the looking, to see what the cabbages looked like and to get nostalgic thoughts back to the Cabbage Patch Kids. (She'd mauled all of her Cabbage Patch Kids. Bless.) When she got there there was a quiet, pale-haired little woman with nervous hands and very blue eyes that she felt all maternal and sorry for the moment she saw her; and the woman, perhaps seeing that Lindy was unaggressive, swallowed a little, and so badly wanted to start up a conversation that Rosalind put her out of her misery.

"It's so bizarre," she said conversationally, "really, seeing that children come out of these things. Totally 'what the heck! Stork!' right?"

The woman nodded fervently. Lindy continued: "I mean, I've had four of my own, and it kind of seriously peeves me to think that you can get a perfectly good baby without nineteen hours of epidurals that don't work -- "

She laughed a little, that other woman. "I know how you feel," she said, a little resignedly. "Not that I -- I mean -- it's just, it's not unnatural, just... strange. Are you here to..."

"Yes," said Lindy, who never could lie to herself.

The woman's pale hands twisted over themselves, like butterflies. "I don't even know you," she said, "but -- but you have a kind face. Please, I -- the cabbage the third from the left; please take it. Please."

Lindy said, quite gently: "Are you sure that you kind of don't really want to take that cabbage instead?"

And the woman said, quite sadly: "Yes."

She looked so terribly unhappy that Rosalind's heart was sore. She put her arm around the woman's shoulders and squeezed a little impulsively, even if the woman flinched a little, and she said: "Then I'll take it, I promise, I swear; I don't know if I can live up to you, to whatever you think of me, nobody's told me I have a kind face before. I mean. But I'm a mother and I haven't done so badly before that they're going to take me away and put me in Bad Mum Prison or whatever and, God, I know I'm babbling, but -- "

The other woman turned to her and smiled; it was a sort of brave, watery smile. "Thank you," she said. "That's all I can say. Thank you."

And then she walked quite briskly away, but as she did, she turned over her shoulder and she said:

"Its name is Casca."

It wasn't as though Lindy couldn't take it after that. Even if Casca sounded like a brand of fizzy drink.

She had gotten a little bit of the nesting urge. She'd spent all day scrubbing the floors from top to bottom of the house; prodding the crib until she felt like the Hand That Rocked The Cradle, whitewashing the walls, texting her daughters every fifteen minutes until Mia eventually just started answering with SHUT UP ABOUT THE BABY. Sometimes the texts were ruder. Lindy stocked up on teething rusks instead, and pulled out all of the old toys she'd preserved so lovingly from her last three children, sitting in a chair and embroidering teddy bears with bugs and bright patches to cover up the bare bits. She'd tried not to be too distracted at school: she'd been unusually silent. Some of her kids had even been driven to ask if she was fine, she wasn't sick, was she coming down with something? The other kids had seemed relieved to have the silence.

It had been a Saturday morning, actually, when it had happened. Saturdays were good. She'd been feeling that the karma that had haunted her all her life with regards to babies would happen -- with her first baby, with Bee, she'd been working out in the fields so long ago picking peas and had given birth then and there with the rest of the Union because her daughter had been in way too much of a freaking hurry to get out and see the world. Lindy hoped the cabbage wouldn't catch this.

It didn't. She woke up to make herself some fruit toast and some coffee and sit on her sofa and watch the birds outside -- she had a feeder in her back yard, and the sparrows and the blackbirds would come and gum up their beaks on too much honey and leftover muesli and birdseed -- when the cabbage opened, and she very nearly spilled her tea in her desperation to get to it in time. Lindy brushed her hands down her jeans furiously and went over and --

-- found that what was in the cabbage was a little stone baby.

She felt a little like a mother whose infant had been taken by the gypsies. Or changelings, the goblins, an ice baby instead of a real one. She touched the little weird statue -- it had wings! Wings! Horns! It was more gargoyle than baby -- and rubbed it in vain, talked to it, put a blanket on it hopelessly in the end and spent the entire rest of the day feeling bereft. She couldn't move it. It was too heavy. She felt horrible. Her silence was such that that afternoon Mia sent a text message saying mum? which was unheard of, and at least her daughter worried about her; that was something, wasn't it.

Lindy moped around for the whole day; spent it at home rather than doing anything productive, tried to read a book on the couch and failed, watched TV as the afternoon light dimmed and was too sore at heart to get up and even put the light switch on. It must have been how Mia felt every single day of her life. She wasn't used to being depressed.

She was dozing on the couch at the end of that day -- when dusk finally settled -- when she was startled out of her sleepiness by hearing a small crack. Then a bigger crack. And then another, and another; she hurried over to the cabbage, all horrified again, and had to shield her face with her arms as with a barrage of stone chips the statue shed itself.

There was a little boy there -- mostly little boy -- little nubbly horns on his forehead, big ungainly clawed hands, like kitten-scratch claws and a little tail and the membranes of the wings still wet from being born. He had the most hair she'd ever seen on any baby: a big curly mess of white deepening into bright dark blue, and big grey eyes to boot, which were squinching up in displeasure. When he finally started to cry out, she fell in love. It was such a baby sound. She couldn't help herself.

"Shhhh," she cooed, pulling himself up -- he was heavy! -- pulling him to her hip, where he snuggled into the warmth, obviously still pissed-off about the entire process and sleepy. Stone babies. Why had he chosen to awaken then? She was still wild about the eyes about it and wanted to talk to fifteen pediatricians, distracted by the gulpy wails of the baby, who had changed tack immediately from pissed off to relieved that he was being held and cuddled and that things were being done from him. He wasn't satisfied for long: the bitching started up again almost immediately. He was hungry.

"You," said Lindy, "are the weirdest baby ever."

He was perfect. Almost immediately she took a hasty picture on her cellphone and sent it to Mia for inspection. What came back would pretty much define her daughter's entire relationship with her new little brother:

WTF

Lindy never worried about cooking for lots of people; an ex-mother of four (plus two -- her household had always joined forces with her best friend's) she tended to make too much anyway, freeze the rest and eat it as leftovers. She had already gotten most of the preparations ready before her little stone son shed his shell and made his displeasure at awakening known; she sat on the counter and fed him a bottle as the food cooked.

"Hey, baby," she said, "social gathering! First social gathering! That's cool, am I right? I left a text on your big sister's phone but I don't know if she'll show. Mimi does not like doing the wild social whirl. But you are about to make friends with two totally adorable little girls."

She'd changed her shirt as well, and redone her hair; but it was still all casual as hell. She was a mum. Creola was a mum of twins. She would understand; they'd probably all end up sitting on the couch anyway feeding the kids and eating off their laps.

Creola had a time dressing up the girls. By the time the second one was dressed, the other had run off and gotten messy. So much of giving them matching outfits! Getting them ready to go anywhere was a real test of parenthood.

At least she had made deviled eggs to bring over. Spicey deviled eggs, that was. Only dessert was good without spice.

She was dressed casually, having not trusted herself to anything fancy. As it was, she was heading for her neighbor's door with Kash balanced on her hip. "Okay, our first family, social dinner," she said, as if having to remind herself of it.

"Dinner!" Kash said cheerfully, bouncing happily on her mother's hip. "Mac 'n cheese!"

"Have you been watching too many commercials again?" Dyer asked his second daughter, who was carried on his hip. He still wore his suit from work, but he had gotten rid of the coat and tie. His hair was messy, because the girls had suddenly decided to play with it, right before coming over. He didn't realize it was sticking up in the back, otherwise he would have fixed it already.

Lindy opened the door with her own son on her hip; Casca looked sleepily at the girls and at their parents, his own curly hair only half-brushed, since he had escaped before it could be fully brushed. He was a big baby to hold on somebody's hip, but his mother seemed to be managing. "Hi!" she said. "Come on in, I was just plating. I realised I should've asked if there's anything the girls were allergic to -- Casca, won't you say hi?"

Casca buried his face in Lindy's shoulder. Obviously not.

"Issa lem-it-ted time offer!" Rhye said, talking about a button that had 'fallen off'. She beamed up at her father, adoring as anything. "An' I want Mac'n'cheese too!"

"Awww, ya mean ya don't want any of mommy's eggs?" Creola asked Rhye teasingly.

"Mommy's eggs too!" Rhye added.

The the door opened. "Hi there, little man!" Creola replied, beaming at the shy little boy. He was a cutie. That might spell problems later! Then she looked to Lindy "Dunno about food allergies yet. They seem to take what the do well. Girls, say hello to Ms Lindy and Casca."

Rhye peered around so that she could see the boy, now that he wasn't in stone. He was more colorful now!

"Hello!" Kashmira said, smiling brightly. "We played with Daddy's hair," she said. "He looked funny!"

"And I probably still do," Dyer admitted, reaching up and running a hand over his hair. "Dyer Maker," he introduced himself. "Since you seem to know everyone else here." He offered his free hand to shake. "Sorry if these two have caused you any problems."

"Not one bit," she said, reaching out to shake, and "I'm Lindy. Come on in, I won't have you guys all standing out in the doorway like, um, doorway people."

She moved back; Casca was inspecting Rhye and Kashmira now, perhaps recognising them as small girls as he was a small boy. He still had not said anything; and usually he was chatty as all hell. Still making his ideas up. "Won't you have something to drink?" she said. "I have juice for the girls -- unless you two like milk? Ugh, they're such cutie-pies at that age, it's hard to tell them no. Casca's just as bad."

"Hello," Rhye finally greeted Casca now, still watching him too. He was little like them, after all. Then she heard what was offered and beamed at Lindy. "Juice! I want Juice," she said. Then added like an after thought: "Please."

Creola followed Lindy into the house. "Ah did manage ta make some eggs," she said. You couldn't just go to eat without bringing something. Then she gave Dyer a look. "See? Told ya they didn't do anythin' wrong."

"Of course, they can't do any wrong, isn't that right, girls?" he asked, inwardly laughing. This doting father role had taken him off guard, but he planned on enjoying it thoroughly. "Unless it involves finger paint, that is."

"But Sissy looks good in red!" Kashmira protested, having had this conversation several times. "I want juice!" she added to her sister's cry.

Lindy lead them through her house -- she liked bright colours, apparently, her decoration moving towards trendy, though they could both see a fairly recent move to get everything breakable and dangerous off the floor -- settling Casca down (he made a protesting sound) as she opened her fridge to retrieve a pitcher. There were mingling smells of baking bread and something just about done in the oven. "How about you two?" she said, scraping her hair back as she retrieved plastic cups. "I've got some coffee going; I've also got some beer in the chiller if I dig down deep enough. I'll probably need a pickaxe and a miner's lamp, but hey."

Casca looked at Rhye. Casca looked at Kashmira. Then Casca realised he was missing out. "Juice," he demanded. "Pleez."

"You just had your bottle," Lindy protested.

"Juice."

"Ice tea or water is good for me," Creola answered. She had sworn off anything like beer a long time ago. She then sat the eggs on the table before placing Rhye next to the little boy, so that they could meet more. "Would you like help with anything?"

Rhye just looked at the boy.

Kashmira was sat next to her sister and she twisted to see around her, looking at the boy. "You sleep funny," she told him. "You no move. Rhye moves lots, she kicked me last night." Even though they had insisted on sleeping in the same bed.

"Coffee is fine," Dyer said. "I would offer to help but unfortunately I'm not that... equipped in the kitchen department."

"I'm all good," the bright-haired woman said cheerfully, "if you just get the twins settled -- I put booster seats on the chairs, I figure we can just hold the little twerps in our laps if they get too much. Here you go, ladies."

The twins were given sippee cups with apple juice; Casca was also awarded with one of these, which he slurped at immediately clutched in his clawed hands. After a while he detached, looked at the girls, and said: "Puppy."

"Little girls, pumpkin," said Lindy, "they've just got fur."

"Puppy."

Rhye had attached herself to her own sippy cup. Then Casca called them puppies. Being called a puppy wasn't that bad a thing in her mind. Puppies were cute! But this called for a name-calling back.

He had wings, but not like a bird... so... "Bat," she said, finally pulling the sippee cup away from her mouth.

"Bat," Kashmira agreed. "Like the counting guy." They had taken to watching Sesame Street and it showed. She loved the Grouch best. He was green and grumpy. But green. That was the important part. She took a drink of her sippy as well, figuring the topic was complete.

"Puppies," Casca repeated stubbornly, and then -- really quite snobby -- sipped at his apple juice. He didn't really know what a bat was, but it wasn't a Casca, and he didn't like how they had agreed that he was something without asking him first. He sulked.

Rhye liked the cookie monster the best. He was blue. She was sipping away at her drink, then looked up at her mommy brought her a plate, setting it before her, then set another one before Kash.

"Here ya go, babies, and be nice to Casca," Creola told them.

"He called us puppies," Rhye pointed out.

"But aren't puppies cute?"

"They pee in the carpet," Kashmira said. She had watched the animal channel before. "We don't."

"Because you wear diapers," Dyer said patiently. "But you're learning to be big girls, aren't you?"

Kashmira suddenly paid a lot more attention to her food.

The adults chatted amicably about boring adult things -- Casca didn't bother even attempting to pay attention to whatever they were chatting about -- scooping his food into his mouth with his claws and scoffing it down until his mother started wrestling with him to use the baby spoon. Eventually, pouting, he wielded the baby spoon in his big clawed hands, and he stared opposite the table at Rhye and then at Kashmira intently as they all ate.

Unable to help it, he reached out to Rhye, who was sitting the closest as she'd been placed next to Creola; he reached out and patted the fur of her ear, unable to help it. Maybe that was what a puppy felt like.

"No grabbing," Lindy told him.

Rhye had taken this eating time to show off just how well she could eat with a spoon, since the boy was using his hands. Even if some of it went around her mouth, she was still a good eater with the spoon.

Then the boy reached for her, and she blinked at this. "No touchie," she told him with a tail flick and moved her head further away.

"No touchie my sister," Kash ordered, her eyes narrowed on the boy. She could fight with her sister all she wanted but when it came to someone else bugging her, she jumped to her defense. "Less you let us touch wings," she added. She wanted to touch those, after all!

"That's being selfish," Lindy told her son, and he looked mulish and blushed at being told off. He hated that. Normally Lindy was easygoing; but she was stern about niceness. "If you're going to grab at somebody's ears, Cassie, then you can let them touch your wings. What's wrong? You always let Mimi touch your wings." (Mimi was Casca's older sister. They loathed each other. He would let her touch anything; he was just in the process of ignoring her.)

He frowned at this. Eventually, finding no way to get around it, he grudgingly said "'Kay." One small wing was extended from where it had been sitting cloaking his shoulder; they made a rustle a bit like an umbrella being opened.

Rhye's face lite up s the wing came to her. She liked the idea of touching the wing in trade and since it was a trade, she didn't mind the touchie now. One hand went out, petting his wing.

"Be gentle," Creola reminded her daughters.

"Yes, mommy," Rhye said, petting the wing gently. Then she took her hand away and presented an ear to him. "Now you can touchie."

Kashmira leaned forward as far as she could to touch the wing as well. "Ooooh," she said. "Feels funny!" Then she pulled back to let him pet her sister's ear. She knew how the ear felt, she had her own, after all. "Sissy furry."

The wing-patting did -- he admitted -- felt good, so he made a noise of approval as he reached out to play with Rhye's and then Kashmira's ears just in case they felt different. Seeing that the kids had finished up most of their supper and were totally distracted, Lindy lifted up her son and beckoned to the other girls to a rug just in front of the table where their parents would see them -- it had a couple of Casca's toys scattered around and was probably better for playing.

Tired with ears once they were all on the rug, Casca reached out and patted at Rhye's tail. That was a lot more furry. "Amn't furry," he said, looking back at his wings.

"Your wings are soft. Soft is nice!" Rhye reassured him as they were all brought to the ground to play. She looked at his tail then and noted how it wasn't furry either. Then she looked at the toys. "Your toys? Can we play?"

"Beep beep!" Kashmira said, already having grabbed a toy truck and started playing. "Beep beep! Brrrroooooommmm!"

Casca had grabbed a slightly clawed-at Barbie doll (he had inherited a lot of his older sister's things) and placed her right in front of the Jeep, possibly as a sacrifice to get run over. "Grrrrrr!" he said, only it was a real actual little growl right at the back of his throat.

Rhye we impressed by the growl, and she smiled, picking up another toy, another car. "Veerrooommm," she said, moving her car to help her sister against the 'monster'.

"SCREE!" Kashmira said, slamming the truck into the barbie doll with a malicious little laugh.

"Well," Dyer said dryly. "At least they seem to understand each other well."

"I thought it'd help break down gender roles if I gave him Barbies," Lindy said sadly, watching Casca drop the Barbie doll as though she had been mortally wounded and making biff bam noises. "He just makes horrible things happen to them."

Mornings were the worst for Casca. After all, they hardly qualified as mornings -- he felt much too active to sleep during the night, and so he'd already started to hit the coffee when he thought his mother wasn't looking to try to get himself ready for what felt like to him the most aching part of the night. He got to leave school early, and had a calling card for as many naps as he felt like, which he abused, but it was still undeniably awful. He felt stiff and uncomfortable in the wake of sunrise -- the long, dreary morning hours until schooltime felt forever and forever.

And then Lindy had gotten the call that the two girls next door were ready to go to school. He'd been on one of his sleeping jags -- no time to make the apple-pie congratulations visiting round that his mother had made -- but he supposed that Kashmira and Rhye wouldn't be any different to how they were as annoying little twin girls. They would simply be larger annoying little twin girls, though there was always the hope that with growth they'd gotten more interesting than before.

He waited outside their house at quarter to eight, backpack slung across his back, yawning hugely as he rapped at the door. His mother had already left. He wanted another coffee. He wanted three more coffees. His wings shivered, cloaked around his shoulders, but he plastered on an impenetrably fake smile.

"I got it!" Rhye called from the other side of the door. The morning had been spent preparing for school. Their mommy had fussed over them greatly, preparing them for the day off. Both girls were dressed up.

She opened up the door, looking at Casca blankly for a moment. "Morning."

"Casca! Good morning," Creola said, finishing up on Kashmira's hair which was refusing to settle. "The girls are just about ready."

"It's fine, Ma," Kash said, batting at her mother's hands. "It never does what it's supposed to, it's not going to start now." She had a punkish outfit on, complete with catholic schoolgirl skirt and choker. She looked at Casca blankly for a moment before grabbing her bag and slinging it over her jacket and taking a bite of her poptart. They had breakfast already, but she was addicted to the things.

"So... School," she said, not sounding too enthused.

Casca's eyes were crinkled up with sleep, but they still hadn't sharply missed the main fact: that the two twins were still very pretty little girls, which counted for something. His tail lashed at the ground as he called out, "Morning, Ms. Creola," and, "You're looking beautiful today, Ms. Creola."

Fully aware of his sucking-up, he gave Kashmira a slow, lazy grin, looking at her from top to bottom. "Well, don't you clean up nice and easy," he said. The same examination was given to Rhye. Adequate, he thought inwardly. "Let's get a move on, ma petit souers."

He yawned again, splitting his mouth. "Mum says if I fall asleep on the road," he added, not sounding too concerned, "just try to prop me up and pinch me. Be gentle."

"Pinching's not supposed to be easy if it's to wake you up," Rhye said, getting on her own jacket and grabbing her school bag. She was dressed up in a skirt and blouse, not punkish like her sister. And her hair was longer. She wasn't as addicted to pop tarts as her sister. She like toaster strudels better.

"Well, Ah can try," Creola said, shaking her head. "Now, you two 'ave fun at school! Don't be worried or anythin, 'nd go to the nurse to call me if ya don't feel good, 'nd--"

"We'll be okay, Mom," Rhye said.

"I don't know, I'm not feelin' so good," Kash said shamelessly. "I think I need to go back to bed. For like... another two hours or so. Then I might do some gaming--"

Casca's arm was immediately slung around the girl's shoulders. Because they had all played fairly constantly throughout their childhood, it was the kindly, brotherly grasp of Someone Who Cared, or at least it might have if it hadn't been Cascati. He touched her lightly on the nose with one claw. "Nice try, small fry," he drawled. "Bye, Mrs. Creola."

He reached up with his tail to slip the door closed behind all three of them, and he yawned again hugely before uncurling his arm around Kash and instead patting her on her silvery head. "Well now," he said, "I guess it's easy to tell you apart... now." (Another yawn had paused the sentence.)

"Yeah, not getting away with that," Rhye smirked, then sighed. looking out at the sidewalk. "So, now we go to school?"

Strangely, she was just a little bit excited about this. It was probably because it was some place new. It would more than likely end soon, anyway.

"We could skip," Kash said cheerfully. Then she paused, having a thought. "Wait! We'll get to see Chris again!" she said to her sister, grinning widely. "Awesome! Let's go to school, Casca!" She started forward, almost running. Then she stopped.

"Where was it again?"

"Just keep going up the street," said their next-door-neighbour, "and wake me up when we get to the traffic lights."

He sighed again, deeply, eyes half-closing as they all started along the pavement. "And you can't skip," he said, "they call your parents. Forge a note in advance, dear hearts."

"Forge a note, huh? When we wanna skip? Wouldn't they notice that, though?" Rhye asked, walking along. She was keeping an eye on Casca, in case he just stopped walking or something while he sleep-walked them to school.

"If Casca can do it, we can," Kash said rashly. "Hey, what else is at school?" she asked him. "Is it all stupid book learning, or is there somethin' fun to do, too? Like art classes?"

"No," said the gargoyle boy, letting the twins sort of propel him along. His eyes were entirely closed now, hands in his pockets as he walked along in the crisp morning air. He had already squinted at the light. It looked odd and slightly unnatural to see him out during the day. "It's boredom followed by more boredom, with all the seniors making you pick up their things in-between trying to make out. Except that I, my dears, get to get out of it whenever I want because I have a doctor's note about having... to... sleep."

"...." Now that wasn't fair at all! Being able to sleep when ever you wanted. Though he had been in stone and sleeping during the day, when he was small like them. Frankly she didn't see what was wrong with reading. She liked reading. "The older students make you pick up things?" she asked, though. "Why? Can't they pick up things?"

"Casca's getting bullied," Kash said tauntingly. "Who can be surprised?" She turned, heading straight again since he hadn't said she was going in the wrong direction. Then she yawned. "So no art classes?" she asked. "At all?

"Sure, there are art classes," he said, obviously not caring about the accusation of bullying, just smiling vaguely -- "but I sleep through them."

His head nodded down at the traffic lights, and he proceeded to apparently sleep on top of Rhye's head. He drooped with his tail dragging down, eyes closed, breathing easy and even. A stray curl slipped and fell out over the smaller girl's head. His wings insulated him against the chill: obviously Casca was pretty comfortable.

"Hey hey! You're not supposed to sleep on my head!" Rhye protested this action, trying to pull away, not even noticing his comfort or the curl that was now on her head. Why did he have to be taller? It was rude! Her tail even gave a whack at him, to get him awake.

Kash turned, just as the car hit the only puddle in miles around, splashing her with dirty water. "Aww, maaaan," she moaned. "My new clothes!" Stuff like this ALWAYS happened to her!

"Well, we could go back," said the apparently-asleep Casca, head still leant on Rhye's even with the tail-hitting and the squirming, horribly moving even to keep his comfortable position. "But my mum would just dress you in cute little smocks with frilly sleeves. Do you like cute little smocks with frilly sleeves? I suppose Rhye does, ma cherie."

"Nope," Rhye said, mentally telling herself she'd have to find out what a 'smock' was. The sleeves didn't sound bad, however. Then she looked at her sister, apparently having given up for now on getting Casca off. "Wanna go back home? And get you something new to wear?"

"No," Kash said darkly. "Knowing my luck it'll just happen again if I do. I'll try to clean it up when I get to school." For some reason her eyes were drawn to the golden arm bracelet that her sister was wearing.

"Of course, little mud blossom," said Casca, and he proceeded to fall asleep on Rhye's head again. He somehow sleptwalk there over the road as the traffic light turned green, and slept there the whole walk down the road, his legs carrying him somehow. His tail dragged every so often.

Rhye didn't like that look her sister was giving her bracelet and covered it over with a hand possessively. She kept walking with Casca on her head, still miffed about him doing this. "Ya know, Casca, I'm not going to let you do this -every- morning," she told him, even if he was asleep.

Then she wondered how much further the school was.

"Is that it?" Kash asked, pointing at a large building with kids heading inside. "Looks boring."

Suddenly Cascati pushed himself upright, ruffling out his wings a little, apparently as entirely awake as he'd been entirely asleep. "You're not wrong on that account, dear heart," he said, "only it's even more boring than it looks."

Then he sauntered off in front of them, and the message was clear: he'd walked with them to school but he wasn't with them. They were pretty much left on their own.

Jerk.

Christmas carols were now a fixture in the Naaktgeboren home: it seemed like they were on 24-7, ceaseless and terrible, a constant neverending string of angelic child choirs boring themselves though Hark, The Herald Angels or When A Child Is Born. On the weekends Casca took off his bracelet and slept during the day, more often than not awaking to find his stone shards covered in crepe paper and coats that Mimi used to perversely hang on him.

"Really need to get involved with a gargoyle clan somewhere," said his mother brightly, "you know, so that you can get in touch with your culture, it's so fun being a bi-species mother!"

"Gargoyles have culture?"

"Oh, yes," said Lindy, "I read fourteen books."

"Or I could sleep in, mum," said Casca, a little plaintively, but this went utterly unnoticed. At least she hadn't got around to organising that yet. It was all school, waiting for the Christmas holidays, and her asking him excitedly had he made any friends yet other than the Maker twins -- and that was a whole other kettle of fish that he was calmly approaching. His bedroom had a pillowcase filled with the contents of his plan. Just needed to put it into practise. Both tribes were ignoring each other, even though Lindy was still good friends with their parents and hadn't guessed anything was wrong.

The only other sort-of-friend he had made was Carlisle -- and that had kind of begun out of misery, and Mimi, and wanting to make sure he wouldn't tell, but the dark-haired boy wasn't bad. Wasn't super cool or hip, but wasn't a little snot-nosed swot or anything, just -- normal. He probably wouldn't be bad to hang out with. Casca was desperate for normal.

It was just working out how to call him without sounding desperate or lame, that was all, or how to approach him in school about it. Ugh.

"Deck the halls with boughs of holly," his mother was warbling, "fa la la la la, la la la la." (And she didn't even like Christmas. She called it 'consumerist capitalist pap.' That was his mother for you.)

What with Mimi doing everything to ruin his school rep (why couldn't he have better relatives?) and the Maker twins having been seriously misjudged, it was a pretty crappy time to be a kid, all around. It wasn't bad at home, family-wise. His mother was a good person. He admired her. She was sweet and kind and talked to him, even if she was vaguely sugar-coated; and she was a good mother. Mimi was less of a good sister, but Mimi was on more prozac than God. He had a good house. He felt vaguely grateful at times without knowing why, and sometimes he dreamt weird things when he was asleep and stone.

Didn't do too badly at school -- well. He liked languages. The rest of it was dull. It wasn't like it was hard but it was uninteresting, and when it was uninteresting that was dull; he just didn't really get why he had to learn things like chemistry or mathematics when it wasn't really what he wanted to do in life. What he did want to do he wasn't sure; but it seemed much more important to try to get in on social things before he turned into a teenager like Antony.

Not that Antony didn't hang around with all the chicks and his blonde twink. At least he was getting in on that gig.

No, he'd drawn up the list of potential friends he thought might help him out in the future: it had been depressingly small. The Liberty School seemed to mostly consist of people who could not hang if their lives depended on it. Those who were in any way cool were also kind of unwholesomely crazy, too.

Damn. It was Carlisle or bust.

Much of the Naaktgeboren house activity now took place at night. Cascati would come home from school, drop his bag in the doorway, and then immediately take to his bedroom to pull off his bracelet and get a few hours' sleep: at first he'd dropped into his stone statue poses in the garden, but found that Kashmira and Rhye (and sometimes Mia) would do cruel and unusual things to him in the few hours he got before sundown. So he put himself in his bedroom instead: cool and asleep and at peace, finally.

Still tired when it came to nighttime, except on weekends, but, well -- otherwise he wouldn't get to go to school, and be even more of a social loser than he already was. He was still wincing from Mia's assault the last time they'd gone out together: she was at the house again, curled up in one of the easy chairs and listlessly going through a magazine as Casca kept an eye on Lindy's dough. Their mother never stopped -- it was bread or it was cookies or it was something, ceaseless, all the energy that wasn't quite used up in her counselling and teaching. The Liberty School was a bit under-intellectual for Lindy. Frustrating, too. So what excess there was went into Christmas cookies.

He was good at kneading dough. Claws were somehow great at it; you could cut it without a knife.

Thankfully Lindy didn't mind noise, either -- in fact, it was rare that you could catch her sleeping without it: his mum caught cat naps, ceaselessly, sometimes with her headphones in her ears with The Police blasting out of them as she slept deeply with a faint smile on her face. His mum was crazy. He was deeply fond of her.

"Okay," he said, checking on the various doughs, not making Mimi look up much from her magazine. "What do I have to bribe you to stop ruining my social life?"

"I see," said Mia, not looking up still. "A bargainer."

"I like to plea bargain, ma soeur."

"I hate your ridiculous language s**t," said Mia, "and I hate that you're going to get worse and worse as time goes by, like some kind of crazy debutante."

"Money," he offered, "though it's not like you need that, right? Dog walking -- "

"I like walking Dirk Dingo just fine myself, bratarse."

"Food."

"I only eat soya sauce and mashed potatoes."

"Abasement."

"You'll do that anyway."

"Begging?"

"You can try if you like," said Mia, and she flipped another page across. "I may even find it funny."

This was going to take some doing, Cascati reflected: his older sister-aunt knew she'd won, as her smirk followed him all the way from dough to dough. Maybe fratricide, he thought dolefully.