Victor coughed brusquely in embarrassment at the mention of turning him into a reader. Reading was clerks' work, something officers and quartermasters did and certainly not soldiers! Well, not most soldier, he had to admit to himself. There were always a few odd ones, here and there, men who had been running from something and hid in the ranks so they couldn't be found. Victor was far less interested in reading and talking about books than he was in simply listening to her read.

"Yes, well," he grumped a bit, "We'll see."

He helped her up onto the driver's bench and then climbed up to sit besides her to take up the reigns. With a gentle snap of the leather and a clucking sound, he urged the gelding to start moving again. The road had a turnabout a little ways further. Once around that and they would be headed back for the house. Victor quickly regretted the curt reply he had given regarding the idea of becoming someone who had time to read, and tried to make it up with what small talk he could muster.

"Don't know if Feather even knows how to read," he abruptly announced after a few minutes of silence on his part. By then they had reached the circle and were turning about, the green grass in the center looking all the world as though it were made to be the perfect place for a family's day out; it was large enough for games yet small enough to be private. To Victor, it was just a wide circle of grass that needed mowing. "Most folks around here don't," he continued awkwardly, "Read for pleasure, that is. Or read at all. Not much time to spare for it. Some of the elders and richer farmers for contracts and the like, sure. And Vicar Parsons at the Church, of course."

The creak and sway of the cart was calming, and as nervous as he felt he was around his guest the journey back helped to relax him. "Listening, now? Folks here about are great listeners, especially if they like what they're hearing. A beggar or tinker that can spin a good yarn or tell a tall tale won't ever be short of a meal and a place by the fire in Arbordale, miss, I can tell you that. Vicar Parsons says its part of the region's 'oral tradition' or some such. I don't know from 'oral tradition', whatever that is, but they do love a good story here about."

As he spoke, the ex-solider was all too aware of her proximately and warmth as he drove them back. It made his throat dry. Every now and then the cart jolted a bit, causing Kijani and Victor to bump up against one another. It caused any number of pleasant sensations in him, dampened down by his expectations of reality. It was rather frustrating. He was starting to admit that he found her attractive, that he liked her voice. Only he doubted as fact that anything would ever come out of making a go of it. There were too many obvious obstacles to even admitting possibilities! She was a guest, one who would soon be returning to Verrun! And she was among the elite. Kijani had come right out and admitted her family used auto horses, the tireless automatons that pulled the wealthy and powerful about the city for pleasure and pursuits. What she called the 'lower parts' of the city, with its real horses and oxen, was actually where the middle class merchants and traders works and lived! Down in Verrun's bowels, where lay the rookeries and the orphanages and the soldiers' recruiting stations, down where Victor had been born and raised, a horse was a meal and one that had probably been stolen at that! Besides, he was quite clearly making her nervous. He could see it in the way she twisted her braid about her finger, the way she looked away now and then and stammered.

If only he had seen those same mannerisms in the way he was acting, Victor might have better understood instead of trying to steel his heart against disappointment. To distract himself (and thinking he was giving her a way out), he changed topics.

"So how long are you with us, Miss Kijani? Alderman Brown never said."

Kijani quieted as the ride back to Mr. Croil's home began. She could tell he wasn't on board with the whole reading thing, and she was sorry she'd said it. It was maybe implying that readers were better than people who didn't read. While she was a touch surprised that Feather couldn't read, Mr. Croil's explanation made perfect sense. If the citizens of Arbordale were too busy for that kind of thing, to simply sit and dream, then... well, that meant they were working hard. Who was she to say that they were missing out? Maybe she was missing something by not having something more concrete to do.

As they went along down the road, the cart bumping and rumbling, they would occasionally bump each other. She was getting more warm with each accidental touch. Part of her, a very unused part of her, was very aware of his solidity and strength beside her. Unfortunately she really had no idea what to do with that feeling. All she knew was that he probably thought her a silly, flighty city girl with all sorts of finery, but no real inner strength. She knew he was right- for all his outward... uniqueness, there was something deeply powerful within him, something that made her respond in a way she did not understand.

She was listening through her discomfort and heat, though, and caught something that was quite interesting. “Stories, they like stories?” She thought about that, quite curious. The subject was shifted quite suddenly, back to her, and she tried to deflect. “Ah... tell me, the stories the people enjoy, are they real-life stories that happened to the people telling them? Or are they just... any kind of story? Because if you enjoyed me just doing the poetry, perhaps they would enjoy a full story...” She smiled, briefly and uncertainly at him.

“As for how long I'll stay...” She hadn't yet considered that. She didn't want to lie and get called out for it later, but at the same time, she had to keep up the story. “Er... I was thinking about a month, if you'll put up with my presence that long. Although honestly, I'll stay as long as you and the other folks will have me.” She couldn't help but look away at that. Honestly, she didn't want to go home. Going back meant putting herself right back into danger. She could feel goosebumps running up her arms, despite all the heat she was feeling. “I... I truly hope we do become... tolerant of each other.” At this point, she was certain friendship would be too much to ask for.

There wasn't much said for some time as the cart creaked and rumbled its way home. Victor was very much lost in his own thoughts while being all too aware of the young lady's proximately to him upon the bench. Tolerant. He mulled that word over in mind again and again. Was that how people saw him, as a person who 'tolerated' others with no room for friendship or understanding? The former soldier knew that he was not the easiest man in the world to get along with, not after years of what amounted to forced labor under deadly conditions, all topped off by callous betrayals from his so-called 'betters.' There were those foolish romantics who insisted that men in the rank of file made poor officers, not just because of their upbringing (or lack thereof) but because those soldiers wanted their officers to be full of grace. Better than them. It was nothing but strop. Soldiers did not want their own becoming officers because they would end up as right bastards, worse than those born to their station. Such living had made Vincent a hard man to get along with. But still... to be tolerated. To be thought of as someone who only tolerated others...

He reasoned with himself as he drove the cart along. If he only tolerated others, would he have shown up at the barn raising without being asked and given free drinks to everyone? If he was merely tolerant of people, why would he have let it be known that the fruits trees in front and to the one side of his house were free for the taking? The idea that Kijani seemed to think that the best he could do was tolerate her presence? It stung in ways he hadn't expected.

There was also the notion that she could so casually say that she was planning her holiday to last a month or more! As a soldier in the army, the best he could ever hope for was a week's leave once every two years! Once a month, soldiers were granted a three day leave, true, but since they were rarely stationed in the city or in any town of note there had been little to do anyway. Three days of freedom meant little when you couldn't do anything with it. And here she was, saying that there was nothing so great of import that she couldn't spare several weeks of time for her own leisure! It was an astounding revelation to wrap his mind around! Yet it also said so much more...

A month away. If she had a lover or a fiancé, would she stay so long away from him? Or her, for that matter? Was no one waiting for her back Verrun, not even her family?? In fact, she seemed to imply that she was in no hurry to go back at all! It brought a queer hope in his heart that Victor did not quite know what to do with. Where his mind failed him, his body reacted on its own.

"A month, huh?" He heard himself say. They drove beneath a low hanging branch, heavy with ripe and red fruit. Without letting go of the reigns, Victor stood up suddenly upon the footboards on his good leg and raised one arm to snag an apple. Even the snapping of the small stem from the limb brought forth a sweet, wooden smell that promised the fruit would smell and taste even better. The prize firmly in hand, he sat again and offered his guest the apple without looking at her.

"A lot can happen in a month." There was no keeping the curious hope out of his voice.

Kijani tried to relax in the silence of the outdoors, somehow soothed by the odd noises of the moving cart. She had a feeling she had said something wrong. Then again, perhaps it was just her own nervousness betraying her. She didn't know Mr. Croil well enough to gauge the silences to find his mood, and with that thought firmly in mind, she simply tried to forget. Meanwhile, she tried to think of what she would do here for a month. Perhaps her parents were scouring the city for her this very minute. A wry smile twitched at her lips at the very thought. Her mother hadn't scoured a thing in her entire life, and Kijani doubted she would start now, even for her own daughter. Her father would probably elict plenty of bustle from the city Watch, who were probably not going to gain much. She truly hoped not. The last thing she wanted was for her freedom to be cut short. This had been her entire plan, and she didn't know what she could do if it failed...

Mr. Croil's murmurings brought her from the edge of a very dark series of thoughts, and she turned her head to ask him to repeat himself. Before she could, he stood up, so suddenly that she was a bit startled. But he was only going for... fruit. They'd passed under a beautifully scented branch with plenty of ready fruit. To her surprise, instead of eating it himself, he offered it out to her. He wasn't looking at her, and she doubted there was a smile, but... the gesture was clear. A gift.

Kijani found a smile of delight suddenly growing on her face. "Oh! For me? Thank you, Mr. Croil." She took it from his hand, and for the briefest of moments, their fingers brushed in the handling of the apple. His hand was warm and rough, she could tell as much even from the few seconds of contact. To try and distract herself from the warmth that she was suddenly dealing with, she rubbed the apple with a clean handkerchief from her skirt pocket, until it was even shinier than it was. The apple was a brilliant ruby, with a scent more inviting than any perfume she'd ever worn.

"...I beg your pardon for my upcoming lack of manners." With an eagerness in her eyes, she took the apple in both hands. She leaned down and bit right into it, enjoying the way the firm skin split under her teeth, revealing the sweet, juicy flesh beneath. It had a wonderful crispness to it, and she found herself letting out a little noise of pure delight. "Mmm..." Suddenly the city woman was gone, replaced by a young lady who wanted nothing more than the simplicity of being able to bite into a whole fruit. A bead of apple juice ran from the corner of her mouth down to her chin as Kijani chewed cheerfully. She made sure her mouth was clear before she spoke.

"Mr. Croil, it's absolutely perfect! Just the right ripeness, sweet and yet just a hint of tart. So crispy! Honestly, the apples we have in the city are nothing so delicious as this." There was a warm grin on her face that was altogether different from the polite smiles she'd worn before.

He couldn't help but look at her sidelong as she sank her teeth into the apple's flesh. It made him almost feel a tad uncomfortable, as though he were intruding upon a private moment as she savored every sensation that the fruit had to offer: taste, texture, scent, solidity... Victor's eyes followed the bead of juice as it graced her mouth to trail to her chin. There was the uncanny desire to lean over towards that drop and towards her chin, and then-

Victor nearly had to shake himself physically from that train of thought. That way led heartache and trouble, no doubt. Yet he was certain that in that moment, he had seen Kijani in way that almost no one else had, if ever. The grin that followed proved it to him. Here she was, stripped of the city's veneer and the trappings of wealth and class and revealed to be... a beautiful young woman with a wellspring of passion. No one could eat an apple like that, he reasoned, and have a cold heart. Worse, the grin was contagious. Even as she complimented his produce, a small smile crept along the corners of his lips in response. Pride? No, more than that. It was... pleasing... that she enjoyed something he had a hand in growing, and it despite the dangers he knew lay along those lines he wondered how else to make her smile at him like that again.

"Try eating it from the top down," he advised sagely, "Eat it sidewise like that, it's hard to get 'round the core. Pull the stem and go top down? You can finish off almost the entire apple."

Hope was something of a stranger to Victor. Most of his life there had been just the one forlorn hope, the one his unit had been named after: the hope that you managed to stay alive. There was little room left for anything else. Now, despite however much he wished to stomp it down, another hope began to his in heart, a hope he didn't have a name for. That hope kept him talking long after he normally would have lapsed into silence with anyone else.

"If you're going to stay a month... or longer... you'll be here for the harvest." They neared the house and barn, his hands guiding the reins expertly to let her off near the porch. Victor hazarded to keep the conversation going. "Usually a dance after the harvest, you know. Everyone celebrates for a good three days. And nights. Can't dance myself but... it's usually a good time. For the apples and cider, if nothing else."

Before he could say anything else, Feather came out upon the porch. The young girl was wiping her hands on her apron, smiling sweetly at the sight of the two as they returned from the backlots. "Master Vinegar!" she called, "Me Da stopped by. There's to be a hiring fair in Brindlebank next Third Day, if you're interested in hiring help. And that Master Bandleman will be arriving in Arbordale tomorrow, if Mistress Kijani is still interested in some shopping."

At the sound of Brandleman's name, Victor scowled fiercely. "Oh, he will be, will he?"

"Yes, Master Vinegar," she replied dutifully. It was clear she completely missed the dark tones in which the ex-soldier replied. "He is arriving tomorrow, which is Seventh Day. He'll be in the village for all of Eighth Day. Then he'll be leaving the morning of First Day, that being the day after Eighth Day. Me Da is wondering if you can drive Miss Kijani in, Master Vinegar."

Kijani adjusted her grip on the apple after Mr. Croil's instruction. It was very nice to see him smile, even a little. She wanted to see it again- it made him look so much different, so gentle. She listened to him closer, wondering if she was only imagining the increase of warmth in his tone.

The idea of a harvest sounded so very simple. Although her reflexive thought was to dismiss it as something simple and rustic, she followed that one with another, new type of thought. Simple and rustic was not bad. In fact, a dance party that was actually a dance party sounded very nice, considering all the other parties she'd ever been to were excuses for people to make alliances rather than friends, and to check out who was doing what. Dancing was less of a fun activity, and more of a way to gain favor with interested people. She wondered what that would be like- dancing for the sake of music and joy.

They stopped near the porch, and she knew she should get off. It was odd for her to realize that she didn't want the conversation to end. Before she could ask more about the harvest dancing, Feather appeared and started talking. She smiled, hiding her disappointment behind a carefully cultured mask. She wondered what Mr. Croil had against this Mr. Brandleman, and what she should know. If she was to shop, she didn't want to get cheated.

Once Feather departed back into the house, she turned to Mr. Croil. “Thank you for the ride back, and the apple. You truly are a wonderful farmer.” She smiled warmly. “If it's alright, I do believe I'll stay for the harvest. I haven't enjoyed dancing in quite a while.” Her gaze turned away from him briefly. “Erm... Feather didn't seem to catch it, but it's quite unmissable. There is obviously some bad blood between you and this Mr. Brandleman. Is there anything I should know about, before I give him any of my coin?”

Victor clicked his teeth in irritation, his eyes glaring after Feather and the news that she had bore. Not that it was her fault, he knew. Never shoot the messenger, at least not unless you were a captain or higher... Still, he had felt that he and his houseguest had been shared what he had heard called 'a moment', and the lamed soldier was loath to end it. Even as he helped her down from the wagon from where he sat, his fingers lingered on hers but reluctantly let them go. Her questions, however, he could not dismiss. Turning his head to look towards the setting sun, he squinted his eyes.

"Oh, his prices are good enough," he extemporized through his teeth, "I'll grant you that."

Looking down at Kijani from his perch upon the wagon, he scowled. "Man was a quartermaster in the army. Stayed safely behind the lines for most of the war. Got the job by claiming poor eyesight, but he can count every coin in your purse from across the street in a blink. Anything but ammunition and rum had to come out of our pay before we even got paid, and you can be sure that he gouged us hard for every biscuit and bootlace we needed, damn the man. He wasn't the worst of them, not by a cannon's shot, but thank the Gods that I didn't have to see his smarmy face more than once a year at best. He did his best to be nowhere near where the action was, because he knew we'd shot him in the back before the enemy even opened fire. Only about five years ago, there was a bit of scandal with a lieutenant and a captain's daughter that he had a hand in, next thing we know Brandleman's cashiered out with pension. Didn't see that ruddy face of his again until he stopped in Arbordale not long after I arrived. Set himself up as a sutler. Buys goods from the city and sells it in the country. Usually has a band of tinkers following him to patch pots and pans, sharpen knives, and the like."

He looked back out again at the horizon. "Maybe he's turned honest. I wouldn't say for sure, but I doubt it. What I would say is to check anything that catches your fancy with a close eye. Say... small mended tears? Maybe with dark stains about them? Or things that looks too fancy for a sutler's cart? Or things that might have fallen off a wagon?"

"Then again, the folks of Arbordale don't know enough what to look for." Victor sighed, conceding the reality of the services that Brandleman brought to his neighbors. His voice was softer, resigned to how things were. "Even if they did know, it's not like they could afford any better than what Bandleman brings. So I keep my mouth shut and avoid the man. What else can I do? I open my mouth about Brandleman and my neighbors, honest folks all, would stop doing business with him. They're that good a folk around here. But if I do that, they have to truck to Miles Cross or Rail Yard or one of the there larger towns where they'll have to pay twice as much if they're lucky."

Kijani listened to Mr. Croil, lingering on the porch as he spoke. Even though his body was still, she could tell a lot from the tone of his voice. He and Mr. Brandleman would never be friends. Unfortunately though, from the way he put things, the crook was the better of two evils in this town. She only wished that there was some way to... fix things. But there she was again, trying to interfere. "I will be very careful." She smiled, and stepped closer to the porch. When there, she called out, letting her voice carry into the growing twilight. "Thank you, Mr. Croil. For... all of today." A sweet, secretive smile brought a touch of joy to her eyes. Without waiting for a response, she went inside to see what miracles Feather had performed for dinner.

---

The next day passed with much more calmness. While she did have the same nightmare again, she was able to quell her reaction before she dressed and went downstairs. She was up much earlier, and so did her best to attempt to help Feather with the breakfast. To be honest, she was probably more in the way than helpful, but she did set the table without breaking anything. Next was to learn to cook. The morning and afternoonn were blazing hot, so Kijani decided to stay in and read. While part of her did want to go and see if she could just happen to run into Mr. Croil again, she figured he wouldn't want to be distracted from his work. So she stayed upstairs with her books. While she tried to stay quiet, eventually snatches of stanzas could be heard echoing down the stairs. She probably should try to stay quiet, but it was something purely reflexive. When she was the most excited about what was on the page, she wanted to hear the words in the air.

The reading helped to quell her thoughts, which threatened to consume her every time she stopped doing something. By now they would certainly be looking for her in the city. Had she covered her tracks well enough? Perhaps she should have falsified a ransom note, to further muddy her trail. But no, that would have required more talent than she possessed. She would've had to distort her handwriting, invent a kidnapping, leave false evidence. No, this was better. After all, they didn't know which way she'd gone, or how far. Most likely they'd pass Arbordale completely and head to the next largest town.

The day passed with minimal incident, and soon Feather was calling her for supper. She washed up and alighted down the stairs, smiling politely and inhaling deeply. "It smells like pure heaven, Feather. You're very talented, you know. I wish you could teach me."

As evening descended, storm clouds began to roll in to add a thick humidity to the heat and bring an early darkness to the sky. The wind was just starting to pick up when Feather let her mistress know that supper was prepared, and the breeze brought a chilling relief to the sticky weather. Feather, however, seemed oblivious to the discomfort. Hair plastered to her head, she moved spryly about and maintained her pleasant mood all the while. And when Kijani complimented her on the wonderful smells that came of her work, the girl could only smile happily.

“I’m glad you have a liking for it, mistress! Ma always says that good food should smell how it tastes, and that if you can do that you’re halfway there.” She began to pour cider from a cool jug, a share for each of them into rough wooden tumblers. “Found this in the cistern, mistress. Don’t think it’s started to turn over yet so it might be softer on your tummy than the harder stuff the menfolk drink. I don’t remember seeing it there this morning though. I think it’s fresh squeezed.”

A rumble of thunder rolled across the heavens just then, causing Feather to look up towards the ceiling. A soft patter of rain began to make itself known against the roof. “Sounds like it’ll be a sod churner, mistress. I hope Master Vinegar is alright. He hasn’t come back in yet. Working late, most like. I know he was up early this morning, too.”

It was dark enough outside now that the next flash of lightning could be seen, and a second peel of thunder rattled the shutters.

—————

Victor was not having a good day. He had stayed up late the previous night in the mill house by the steam, pressing a fresh batch of soft cider for Kijani. It had probably been an… inefficient use of the water powered cider press, but the sight of how much she had enjoyed the gifted apple the other day and the memory of watching the juices run from the corners of her mouth had stuck in his head. His houseguest had savored the fresh fruit so much that he though it a little enough thing to squeeze fresh juice for her. Come morning, he rose early to bottle it and place it in the cooling cistern for her and Feather to find.

Then after a quick breakfast, he had headed out to mark some of the older trees for cutting on the furthest lots. Apple trees were usually productive for about a hundred years, and after that would have to be cleared away for new saplings. Victor didn’t know the exact ages of any of his trees, having bought the orchards only recently, but he could tell by sight which ones weren’t producing as they should. The pear trees were worse. At best, he might get twenty years out of them. It was easy to go through the pear lots and see which ones had to go! Once the harvest was over, he could let the woodcutters in to take whatever he’d marked and (after setting aside his own share for seasoning) make a tidy profit.

Only the further lots were upstream from the mill, and he could see by the rising waters that there must have been a storm upstream; the waters were fast and muddy. Victor knew he would have to hurry back to not only beat the rains that were surely coming, but to raise the floodgate on the cider mill’s damn. If the water was allowed to build up behind the stone embankment, the damn could easily burst and wreck the mill wheel in the process! The amount of water wasn’t dangerous so much to anyone downstream. The danger was to his livelihood. Without the cider mill, a good half of his work would be impossible! The press allowed for cider and juices and apple wines, provided pulps for jellies and jams and apple butters, and a destroyed mill and wheel would destroy profits he would need to help pay hired workers in the next season.

So it was with all due haste that he had tried to drive his cart horse and wagon back. Neither were made for racing, however, and a bad rut caused him to bounce hard upon the wagon’s bench. A crack of wood echoed despair in his heart as Victor realized that the rear axle shaft must just have splintered in its moorings. The cart’s speed slowed considerably. The rains had just started as he turned about to see both back wheels canted upwards at odd angles, a sure sign that the axle had not only splintered but had outright snapped. There was no going anywhere at this point. The horse struggling in its harness, Victor snapped his head back around to see the beast suddenly go down lame. In trying to pull the shattered wagon, it had managed to throw a shoe and twist its own ankle in the process.

Victor, frustrated and angry at fate, paused long enough to chuckle bitterly. A broken cart pulled by a broken horse owned by a broken man. Looking skyward, he scowled up at the heavens and yelled, “You know, you’ve got a weird sense of humor!”

Shaking his head, he dismounted and limped forward to unharness the wounded animal before it hurt itself any more.

Kijani frowned at what Feather was saying. The girl didn't seem too bothered, but then, she rarely was. Meanwhile, her own mind was working double-time. Mr. Croil was no fool; he had a respect for land and nature. He wouldn't stay outside in such weather. The burst of lightning across the ominous clouds, and the roll of thunder across the air made her stomach drop. Something felt wrong, here. She wasn't much for relying on her own intuition, but she felt, deep in her soul, that something was deeply amiss.

"Feather... I need a lamp!"

Without waiting, she rose up from the table, snatching up a thick cloth napkin from the waiting supper. That she folded rapidly and stuffed between her blouse and her corset. Certainly a garish place for a woman of good breeding to carry anything, but it would at least stay dry. She snatched an oil lamp from the table, and made sure the flame was strong and the cover was tight. "I'm going out, Feather. Stay here."

She went out the door and two minutes down the path, hurrying with her skirts bunched up in one hand, and the lamp held tight in the other. Only when another crack of lightning and thunder seemed to split the sky did she question what she was doing. Why was she running out into the wrath of nature for a man she didn't know? Her mind turned over the question, going toward logic as usual. He was the owner of the house she was staying at. If he was truly ill or harmed somehow, then she owed him at least the kindness of worry.

But she could worry from under a nice, sturdy, dry roof, couldn't she?

This was something else. He'd shown her courtesy and respect without truly having to, hadn't he? Yes, she was a guest that was paying for board, but he could have gone about his business and not spoken a word to her. Yes, she was a woman of class, but that mattered little to these people-- she was so far removed from their way of life that she was more a novelty than a woman. Her station didn't make her respectable, it made her alien. But Mr. Croil had been kind, for no reason. Perhaps he was hoping for a better tip?

Her mind called up a soft compliment, spoken with shyness and fumbling care. 'I think you have a beautiful voice, miss...' A sly man would praise her elegance, and do it with flowery language and gesture. But Mr. Croil had simply looked her in the eyes, as if his words weren't enough. No one had ever done something so simple, and yet, so truthful for her. Everything came with a price attached, hidden or overt, everything came with expectations in her world.

But she wasn't in her world anymore.

That much was clear, as she tried to shield the lantern with one arm, dropping her water-heavy skirts to the ground. She couldn't see him yet, and so, she called for him.

"MISTER CROIL! ARE YOU OUT HERE? MISTER CROIL, ANSWER ME!"

She had taken voice lessons since she was ten. While her natural tone was a bit too low to be a chirping songbird, her voice was strong and bold. She inhaled deep, squared her shoulders, and let her voice carry across the orchard. "MISTER CROIL! SAY SOMETHING!"

The buckles kept slipping in his hands, the freezing water making his fingers numb and the harness difficult to remove. All the while, Victor cursed and muttered under his breath as the cart horse neighed and screamed agains the flashing lightning and now ground quaking thunder. The beast was scared witless. In such a panic, it could easily lash out with a hoof to catch Victor in the thigh or chest to leave him in a heap upon the ground, only Victor did not want to see the animal further hurt itself as it rolled about between the wagon traces. “Damn you!” he shouted finally, “Be still while I-“

A sudden blinding flash and explosive din, and Victor was transported back to the battlefield. In his ears the screams of the horse became the cries of the dead and dying about him, the cart nothing more than a cannon’s carriage. Victor slipped in the mud, his bad leg giving out beneath him. The storm began to reach its peak, the thunder and lightning becoming mortar and artillery fire all about him. The old soldier’s fear rose in his breast. Eyes wide and wild, Victor cursed again as he dragged himself forward through the mud away from the wounded animal. Where was the reinforcing regiments?! Where was his battalion?! What addled generation had commanded an attack in the middle of storm?! Every bilesome vexation he could call down upon the heads of his commanders found rebirth in his mouth as he crawled through the rain.

Only the storm and memories became as one to him. A current set of strikes blazed down upon the orchard, setting fire to a nearby set of trees and adding the smell of ozone and smoke to the misery. Hastily, Victor scrambled back to the shelter of the artillery carriage as he glanced about in heart pounding terror. In the shadows between trees, he thought he could see men running forward, always forward. “Get back here, you idiots!” he screamed at them. “Reform! Reform, damn you!” The phantoms in his mind pushed forward though, ignoring him as he begged and pleaded and ranted at them not to through their lives away. Victor tried to rise only to slip once more as he knee buckled. Had he been shot on the leg or taken shrapnel? He couldn’t recall, he only knew he had been wounded and that it hurt like hell. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes as he watched troops in his mind charge off to their bloody, explosive demises… and he could do nothing to stop them because of his useless leg.

The last of the soldiers were gone, vanished among the orchard’s trees and the heavy smoke from the rapidly smoldering trees; they had flamed briefly, but the torrents had quickly extinguished the flames to leave a haze of smoke and fog between the raindrops. Leaning weakly against the cart as the horse gave once last whinny before collapsing, Victor cursed the skies and the men beneath it who thought that land and wealth was worth more than other men’s lives.

The his ears caught it. Someone was calling his name, calling out for him from the darkness. The sound brought confusion for it was a woman’s voice! How had she come out onto the field?! Didn’t the fool woman know the danger?! A sniper might well sight in on the spark of her lantern, his attention caught by the force of her voice over the roar of the battle in his head and in the heavens! An artillery shell could pick up and fling her against the landscape in bloody chunks across the landscape! Hell, their own side could order a charge and she would be run down by the hooves of the heavy cavalry before they ever saw her.

Fearing for her, Victor screamed out to her. “Over here! Over here, quick like!” Another burst of lightning and Victor shielded his face against the blaze. “God damn it, woman, get down before you’re shot!”

Kijani heard his voice, so much fear laced through it. She could have sworn he said something about being shot, but the thunder muffled his words. Her lantern swayed violently in the wind, and her dreadlocks whipped her face, her thick hair absorbing water like a sponge. She followed the sound of his voice, struggling against the rain.

The cart seemed to come out of nowhere, with the unconscious or dead horse nearly tripping her up. "Mr. Croil?! Mr. Croil!" She was so sure he'd come this way. Then she saw it, his shape against the cart in the darkness. "Ah! There you are!" Moving toward him, she was startled by another burst of thunder. It took her off guard, and it was very close, so much so that her eyes were left with nothing but a purple afterimage. In her half blinded state, she tripped over her own soaking wet skirt and tumbled. "Ack!" She flinched in obvious pain, and then staggered to a crouch, making the rest of the way to him with a sort of dogged disdain for the storm.

"Mr. Croil, are you alright? I was worried, so I came out!" She frowned, getting a good look at him as she raised her lantern toward his face. The flame was sputtering for life- she must have cracked the lantern when she'd fallen. Mr. Croil's eyes were dark with not just fear, but panic. "Mr. Croil... what's wrong?" Surely a man so tough couldn't be afraid of thunderstorms?

The figure struggled closer, and Victor was filled with worry for her. Was it some camp follower out looking for her man, to see if he had fallen injured behind the advancing line? Or worse, was it a looter? There were those that followed armies in one role or another but whose true purpose was to rob from the dead, their deeds hidden by the fog of war. And should they find an injured man, he would be dead soon enough and riper for the picking. Fearing the latter, Victor scrambled up against the cart as his hand sought out his rifle. Where was it, where was it, where was it?! The only thing his hands could find was stout cane.

Her voice came again, much nearer than he expected, and whirling about he found himself almost face to face with-

"Miss Kijani?!" he cried in confusion. Victor whipped his head around, scanning the orchard rows about them and seeing no sign of the shell pocked landscape or dying men that had been there moments ago. He could still smell the smoldering smoke, his nose telling him that it was simply wood and not the lung choking stench of gunpowder and cordite. The explosions were in the heavens, not falling around them. He felt shamed, embarrassed by his lapse. Looking back at her, Victor grimaced. He was angry, angry at her for bothering to come after him and angry at himself for putting her in danger by dragging her out into what had to be one of the worst storms he'd ever seen. "What the hell are you doing out here?! You're going to-"

The horse whinnied again and floundered. So close were they to the horse the Victor quite clearly heard the snap of the best's one rear leg as it stumbled in the mud and slipped once more. Victor forced back a groan. With a broken leg, the cart horse was useless to him now. The beast was of no use to anyone save as glue and meat, for being a gelding he couldn't even put it out to pasture. What he could do, however, was put it out of its misery. The storm still raged overhead. The lightning and thunder began to slowly die off and fade, yes, but the rains came down all the harder and began to bring hail. Small white balls of ice bounded off of them.

Ignoring the pelting, Victor grimly drew his knife and dragged himself around Kijani. "Stay here!" he shouted, trying to push her into the lea of the wagon. There was no way of knowing if she had ever endured weather like this, and so Victor wanted to make sure his guest was as protected as she could be while he tended to a last mercy. Some sensibility also told him that she would not want to see what he was about to do. Crawling through the mud, he made his way safely to the horse's head from behind. There was no preamble, no warning. Victor murmured an apology to the normally obliging beast before reaching over and expertly slitting its throat. The blood fountained up to spray across the mud of the track. It soaked Victor's one arm, only to be washed away again by the heavy rains. He'd had to put horses down before, and it was never an easy thing for him; it was funny how he'd learn to kill men in battle so efficiently and yet felt such sorrow at the death of a simple beast. Closing his eyes, he murmured a small prayer for the creature before wiping off his knife and sheathing it again.

For several moments, he simply sat there, exposed to the wind, rain, and hail as he leaned against the now deceased horse as tried to regain his senses.

Kijani flinched at Mr. Croil's anger. She hadn't expected him to be entirely happy with her actions, but still, to be mad didn't seem right. Then again, he didn't seem entirely right at the moment. His eyes were elsewhere, it was obvious. He seemed to come out of it though, and before she could ask him what was wrong, a horrible noise hit her ears. At first, she thought a branch had broken from one of the trees, but the horse's screaming pain told her what it had been.

Then the ice started to hammer down, nicking and pelting her with frozen, stinging pain. She was glad for Mr. Croil's quick thinking, as he shoved her into the small bit of cover provided by the wagon. "Wait, where are you going?" She reached out for him after he turned around and went back. He either ignored her, or didn't hear her at all. She couldn't see what he did in the dark and the pelting hail, but she did hear the horse's pained screaming and thrashing stop suddenly.

Then the smell of the blood hit her nose. Even with the scent of the rain mingling with it, and washing away, that coppery stink was enough to overwhelm her. She gagged, low in her throat, suddenly afraid all the day's food would make a reappearance. Taking deep breaths, she forced her stomach to relax. The scent of the blood was still heavy, but fading. And yet, Mr. Croil hadn't come back.

Peeking her head out of the cover of the wagon, she called out for him. "Mr. Croil! Please come back..." Her voice was shaking slightly. The cold was starting to dig into her bones now, her fine and tailored, soaking wet clothes doing nothing to help warm her. Figuring she wouldn't be getting any more wet, she slowly came back out, moving slowly in the direction the horse had to be in, until she nearly stumbled over the dead horse, and Mr. Croil leaning on it.

"Ah! Oh..." She had to swallow back another rush of bile, and averted her eyes from the dead creature. With a paling face, she turned and stared at Mr. Croil. He was just sitting there, for reasons she didn't understand. "You'll get hurt, or freeze to death, sir. Please..." She knew her hands were likely ice cold, but that didn't matter as much as getting him inside in one piece. After coming all the way out here, she was not prepared to quit without the task being fulfilled. Grabbing his forearm with both hands, she gave him a little tug. He wouldn't be going anywhere even if she tried her hardest- she wasn't nearly strong enough to get Mr. Croil to move under anything but his own power.

"Please, sir... At least come where you won't get an ice stone to your head."

The reek of the animal’s fear mixed with the harsh scent of its spilt blood and fast death even as Victor shivered against the heat of the body. He wanted to swear, heatedly, but found he simply did not have the energy. The cold of the hail had sucked it out of him. He felt weary as he sat there, simply beaten and tired. The gelding had been a loyal beast in its own way, and the ex-soldier regretted doing what he’d had to; it seemed an ill way to replay the horse. There was also the fact that the cart’s axle was busted, he might not get to the dam in time to open the flood gates and prevent the damage, his high paying guest had felt obliged to drag herself out into one of the worst storms he’d ever seen and on his account, and replacing the beast was going to be costly.

Although, technically, he did not have to replace the gelding. There was another option, although it was one he was loath to think of.

Victor was brought halfway to his senses by the feel of small hands ineffectually pulling at him, trying to raise him to his feet. Looking up, he found the frightened but capable gaze of Miss Kijani staring down at him. Her beautiful dark skin seemed far paler than it should have been, even in the darkness of the night. Sighing, he nodded to her and began to get to his feet. Victor had to swallow his pride in the process, realizing that even with the aid of his cane he would need her help to navigate through the mud, rain, and howling winds. In her soaked skirts and fashionable boots she would have nearly as much trouble as the lamed man. There was little choice but for them both to grab onto each other and start out.

Torn between society’s expectations and the need for the help, Victor snaked his arm around the small of her back to rest his hand upon the swell of her hip and motioned for her to do the same. Hip to hip made their way through the storm. “Head for the mill!” he shouted over the thunder, and Victor pointed roughly in the direction they needed to go. “It’s closer than the cottage! We’ll be safe and dry there!”

As if to emphasize his point, a larger chunk of hail struck the ground at their feet. It was about half the size of a chicken’s egg and would definitely hurt anyone it struck.

It was a grueling journey in the darkness, punctuated only by the blinding cracks of lightning and deafening peels of thunder that rang across the heavens and shook the air. The oil lantern Kijani carried scarcely cut the gloom at all. Freezing to the point where his fingers began to tremble, Victor held her soft form close to try and shelter her smaller frame from the worse of the storm, even as he tried to ignore how soft her body was and how the faint scent of her perfume still seemed to linger about her. The desire to swear came back again. Victor clenched his teeth against it, determined not to vent. Not only might it offend his guest, but it would be a waste of much needed energy.

After an eternity of cold, the silhouette of the cider mill could be seen against the flashes of lightning. The tall barn like structure was black against the light. Even as they descended the hill towards it, Victor could hear the great water wheel spinning far too fast for its own good. Within, the whirl and clunks of the mill’s heavy gears were audible even above the winds! That would have to be deal with, too, he realized. The sluice gate would have to be closed, the wheel locked, and the dam’s flood gates opened as quickly as possible lest the whole affair be wrecked.

Only there were far more important concerns to be dealt with first. As cold and numb as he knew he was, his guest had to be suffering worse! The voluminous amounts of cloth and fabric that she wore were wet through and through with freezing rain water, and Victor had no doubts that she would be unused to such hardships. She had to get warm and dry as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if she stayed cold and wet longer than necessary…

“Inside!” he bawled out, trying to hurry them along. “The door’s unlocked!”

Kijani was clinging to Mr. Croil for dear life. Despite the rain and hail, some stern governess living in the back of her head was berating her about being so friendly with a man that wasn't her husband. Luckily that voice was quashed when a rather large hunk of ice nearly smashed into her foot. It looked like it could have broken her toes, at the least. Improper or not, she was not going to break anything, and neither was he. Her cold hands felt frozen to the handle of the lantern. She wouldn't let it go, even though the flame was barely alive. Her fingertips felt numb and burned with cold, and she was having serious thought about at what temperature metal could freeze to human skin.

She could feel Mr. Croil's hands shaking against her. Even through the cold, even through her fear, even though his hands were just as ice-cold as the rest of her- she still felt some trigger of warmth, deep in her body. That would bear thinking about later, though, hopefully when they weren't about to freeze solid!

The mill, dark against the gloomy sky, was a welcome sight, even in it's eerieness. At Mr. Croil's insistence, she pressed forward with all of her strength. Something about his voice gave her courage, and she hit the door, yanking the handle open with stiff and aching fingers. Once they were both safely in, she shoved the door shut against the wind and weather, and slumped against it once it was fully closed.

"...Are you alright?" She only spoke once she'd settled against the nearest wall, and caught her breath. It seemed her clothes had taken on ten extra pounds, as they were fully soaked and dripping with water. Her hair was plastered to her scalp, and ice cold. With a faint sigh, she took a fistful of her damp dreadlocks and started to carefully wring them out.

Victor only paused for a moment of breath, leaning hard against a wall as Kijani wrung out her hair. Gulping another lungful of air, he launched himself away again to stumble up the wood stairs to the upper lofts of the cider mill. Thankfully he had remembered to disengage the press earlier. Even as the gears continued to rumble loudly and fill the air with the grindings of machinery, the wooden press remained thankfully still. There were other issues to deal with, however.

At the top of the stairs, he limped across the causeway to where the controls for the sluice gate were. Shaking violently, Victor grabbed the crank and shoved the lever with all of his might around. Outside, he could hear the gate slowly closing off the sluice so that the water returned to its natural flow. The great water wheel slowly spun to a stop as the source of its motion ebbed away. Moving himself along hand over hand, he reached the axle break and push his shoulder against the heavy lever to lock the wheel in place. There was no helping the dam outside now. Victor was not about to chance running back outside into the throes of the storm to try and raise the floodgates; the dam would either hold back the water, the water would simply flow over it, or… the dam would break to send a tumultuous wave of water and stone pounding down the creek.

Wearily, he struggled back down the stairs. He could feel the chills entering his bones and stealing the warmth from his chest, his reasoning starting to get cloudy. It was there, clear as day to him, that he was in trouble! Only he had no way of conveying it! His lips seemed to move independently of his mind as he looked towards the young woman and said, “Get your clothes off.”

He said nothing more until he reached the bottom of the stairs. The he glanced up at the shocked look upon her face. “Oh stop that,” he muttered irritably, “Gotta get these clothes off, Miss Kijani. The water… the cold… seeps into your body. Can kill you. Need to get… warm and dry. Especially dry. There’s empty sacks over there. Bit rough, but they’ll do for modesty. I’ll be… I’ll be over there…”

Without another glance at her, Victor limped his way slowly around the massive press to the far side of the mill. It seemed to take a very long time to him. By the time he reached an unobtrusive spot and started to pull off his own jerkin and shirt, he completely forgot why he was doing so. Worse, with his back turned towards the doorway, he had little idea that he was stripping to the waist in view of his guest across the building!

Broad and muscular, it was clear that Victor had spent a hard life doing a great deal of work and manual labor. It was also just as clear that the war had left his mark on him. Here and there flashes of scars could be seen on his torso, but these paled in comparison to the criss-crossing pattern of welts that danced across his back. Some were raised and some were gouged, but all were purple-red and tinged with a silver-white around the edges.

At some point Kijani’s host had been flogged. Badly.

Victor, still unaware, lost complete track of what he was doing. His shirt and vest were in a sudden puddle atop his boots, and he was trembling a great deal. He knew it was cold, but… he couldn’t remember why… or where he was exactly… or anything else other than the fact that he was cold and light headed.

“Get your clothes off.”

Even though he was rather far from her by the time he said it, Kijani felt her stomach drop to her knees as Mr. Croil spoke those words. A violent shiver ran through her body, one that had nothing to do with the frostbite creeping into her body. He could hurt her. It was just the two of them, in this isolated place. He could easily overpower her, especially since she was so weak with cold. He could do anything to her, and no one could intervene... She found her gaze darting around, looking for something to use as a weapon. Something of her panic must have shown on her face, because Mr. Croil explained his comment soon after. The logic in it brought her back to thinking, instead of panicking. “Right. The cold. You're right.” As soon as he was out of sight, she slowly started to strip down. Her dress went first, and then she peeled away her underthings as quickly as she could. Her skin felt numb underneath, and her corset almost felt like it was frozen to her skin. She got it off, though, and quickly wrapped herself up in the burlap sacks. They itched, but compared to her icy clothes, they were luxury. Once she was sure she was properly covered, she looked up.

What she saw made her nearly drop her handful of sacks. Suddenly she felt warm, blissfully warm from the core of her body. Mr. Croil... his body was so muscular, so sturdy and strong. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she tried to avert her eyes. It was very improper for her to look at a man this way! Her head wouldn't lower, though, and she suddenly wished it had.

At first glance, she thought he had some kind of skin condition. His skin looked awful; all sorts of sickly colors stark against the worker's tan of his skin. When she found her gaze tracing the lines of the markings, she realized that it wasn't a condition, but a mass of scars. Her stomach twisted in revulsion and she pressed a fist to her mouth. Who could have done something like that to him? Why?

Speaking of why, why had he stopped moving? He would freeze to death without something to cover him... Something seemed so wrong with his movements. He looked disoriented. Like he wasn't there, in spirit. “Oh dear...” Kijani murmured to herself with half numb lips. With a burst of energy brought on by purpose, she gathered up the rest of the sacks and headed over slowly to his side of the mill.

“Mr. Croil, please...” She held out the armful of sacks, and stared at her own blue tinged toes. “Put something on you. You'll catch your death, and that would be very unfortunate...” A faint smile graced her face. “I would be rather furious with you if you died, after all the trouble I went through to come get you.” She was deliberately trying to rouse him. Perhaps frustration would get his brain working again.

Trouble. The word floated in his ears as though mocking him, for what had his life been besides anything but trouble? Kicked in the orphanage, enslaved upon the fields of the city’s farms, thrown into the army to die, betrayed by his own officers… Now Victor had thought he had escaped those sorts of troubles. The orchard and lands had been something fresh and clean and new that was all his, and had it been only the storm that threatened his crop and damaged his millworks that would have been fine. Only now his guest was in danger, too. Kijani was in danger. Kijani.

Her name replaced the word ‘trouble’, and it was the sound of her voice that spurred him on. The dark skinned woman had come closer, and despite the overwhelming scent of apples and aged wood Victor was sure he could still smell her perfume. There was a vague notion that not doing what she asked would make her sad, disappointed. He couldn’t have that. It would look bad on him as a host if a guest was displeased, and there was also the fact that… that… There was a very important reason why he wanted to make her happy, something specifically and uniquely related Kijani, only he couldn’t think of it. There was a reason though, Victor was sure of that. His back was still towards her, what was left of his conscious mind not letting him turn around. Instead, he reached back and with shaking hands grabbed one of the burlap sacks. In halting motions, he dragged the rough material over his skin to whisk away what moisture he could. It seemed to take forever. His torso as dry as he could make it, his eyes flickered uncertainly about much in the same way’s that Feather did when she was trying to think hard.

Trousers. He had to remove his boots and trousers. Only she was still there, behind him. “T-t-turn your back. Please. Nnn-not right. Proper for you.” It came out through chattering teeth and numb lips, his sentences fractured as he sought to protect her modesty and reputation.

Once sure that her gaze was somehow averted, Victor fumbled at the button fly of his trousers. In the end, it was simply easier to pull down the fabric instead of trying to undo each of the bronze studs. The tough material of his work pants chafed and scraped the skin of his hips as he pulled them away, the cold thankfully erasing the pain of it. In the end, he had to sit upon the floor to finish shucking off his boots and removing the rest of his clothing. He worked as best as he was able to finish drying the rest of himself before eventually pulling the remaining sacks about himself to gather what warmth he could to his all too freezing body.

“Horse blanket,” he whispered from his huddle against the mill wall. “Horse blanket somewhere around here. Need to… to… something about warmth… Can’t think… Think. Think! Cold bodies… cold bodies… one blanket…” Victor was frustrated now, but the energy to remove his clothing and dry off had exhausted him far more than he had realized and trying to wrestle with the memories of what to do in this situation was simply beyond him. His trembling lips just kept repeating the same word: “Share… there’s a blanket… blanket…somewhere… share…”

Kijani was immensely relieved as Mr. Croil seemed to come back to the present. He snatched a blanket from her and started to dry himself. It seemed to take ages. Part of her wanted to help him, because he seemed to be having such difficulty. It was no wonder- his fingertips were a sickly pale blue. Hers were barely better, but at least she was alert. Helping him would mean breaking a cardinal rule, though. She couldn't touch him, not that way. It would be... unthinkable.

Even he seemed to still be aware of that, as he mumbled for her to turn away. She did so with great speed, heat rushing to her cheeks. She could still hear him shuffling and trying to get out of his clothes, which lead to all sorts of thoughts and questions that a sensible, proper young woman should not be thinking about! Especially not at night... in the dark... alone with a man who was not properly dressed. Kijani rubbed her reddened face with both hands, trying to take the warmth of her embarrassment and give it to her fingers. She didn't move, and tried hard not to think.

Mr. Croil's shivering voice pulled her out of herself, and she peeked slowly on one side to make sure he was properly covered. Once she saw that it was safe, she turned and listened to what he was trying to say. Something about blankets. A horse blanket? Why would he want such a filthy thing? Then she understood, all in a rush. “Yes, share the blanket, share the warmth! I read this in one of my novels! Stay there, just... don't sleep.” She rushed off, picking her way through the dim light and trying to find the blanket.

It took her five precious minutes, several stubbed toes and more than one splinter, but Kijani came rushing back with the horse blanket billowing behind her. It smelled like animal sweat and hay, but it was thick, wool, and most importantly, completely dry. She knelt and pulled it from her own shoulders, wrapping it around Mr. Croil quickly. “There.” Leaning back once he was fully covered, her arms went reflexively around her body as she tried to keep herself warm. “A-are you still awake, Mr. Croil? Please don't... don't rest. I heard that if you sleep when you are this ill, you stand a chance of not waking up ever again.” Her hands moved in a fidgety motion that was strangely warming.

“I really would rather you not die. So, as a request from a lady to a gentleman... don't.” She chuckled, but the noise of mirth was weakened by a bout of violent shivering. “I-if I tell you a story, will you s-ss-sss-” She let out a sneeze that racked her whole body. “Ouch. Will you stay awake?”