Author's Note: I have a thing for sevens lately. More notes at the end.

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Stone

Cain was up with the suns.

It was an old habit, early rising, one he could never manage to shake. Ingrained, one might have said, if that one happened to be Ambrose, who seemed to always be poised with an answer or opinion on hand. Cain didn't mind opinions so much – it was the questions that got to him, the constant stream of whys that bothered him to no end.

The why of it didn't matter so much to Cain; he knew why, after all. The answer was so simple that he wasn't quite sure his brainy friend would accept it at face value, were Cain ever so inclined to spread out his broken bits and share the story of this one or that.

And he never, ever was, so what did it matter, truly.

As near as Cain could ever tell, stories of the past always held more power than they necessarily had a right to. Done is done. He had long stopped trying to fight what he couldn't change, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't change this.

So he was up with the suns on that morning, dressed, waiting patiently as the first sun gained the horizon to dispel the grey haze of dawn. He had a fire started in the stove when the second sun filled the room with clean light. He went to the window. The birches down by the bend in the road were all aglow with autumn's glory.

There'd been no sign of anyone yet, but it was still early. Central City was a half-day's ride away.

After an hour and two cups of coffee, he put on a warm jacket and walked out into the morning chill. The long reeds by the creek glistened in the sunlight, but the trees deep in the shadow of the house were still white with frost. Winter wouldn't be long in coming. He felt ready this season, at least. The past few annuals had been different. Cold and desolate. It wouldn't be that way this time around – or at least, he hoped.

He put himself to work in the shop for the morning, where his mind and his hands were kept busy. There was a woman from the village had been asking for some pieces from him, a chest of drawers, a rocker for her front porch. He hadn't taken the job yet, even though she'd made the walk out to his place on three separate occasions. He had put her off, no matter the idle conversation and baked offerings, but with the cold season setting in, he'd started thinking about it again.

Winters in the O.Z. were long, dark stretches of misery, and his memory was too long and dark as it was. He didn't fancy being locked up with it while the snow heaped up to the shutters and the wind threatened to tear his roof clean off.

Even after three annuals, he still had difficulty being alone with himself.

It was mid-morning when he finally heard the sound of a car in the distance. He strolled slowly out of the shop into the sunshine, and looked out toward the road. He heard it again, that low engine hum, steady and drawing nearer, and so he pulled a rag from the pocket of his jacket and wiped the grease from his hands. He was brushing off his shirtfront, leaving a trail of wood shavings across the yard, when the car came into view, sleek and black, the sunlight glinting off the windows.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, bobbed a bit on the balls of his feet, and waited.

It was a long wait, as his road was not made of Central City cobblestone, nor was it paved with brick. They never learned.

The car turned in a wide circle at his gate and parked straight and regal, as if his little house was the Ozian National Theater in Quick City, or even the crown jewel of the shining city on the hill, Alta Torretta itself. A driver in full livery got out, the crest of the Gales emblazoned in emerald thread upon his breast. All business, he didn't so much as cast a sideways glance toward Cain as he opened the rear door of the car.

For his part, Cain was on edge by then, and his hands had come out of his pockets in preemptive respect. He wondered who it was this time, who was the poor soul saddled with the burden of driving all the way out to where he'd settled himself as far as he could get from Central City and all the troubles that lived there.

He didn't guess the reason they had come. The reason was always the same.

He did, however, breathe a sigh of relief when Ambrose exited the car, pompous and officious in his travelling suit. At the sight of Cain standing there waiting, his face split into a wide grin, and he swept the hat from his head in a grand, exaggerated bow.

"Cain," he said with a laugh. He stepped forward, ready to embrace like the old friends they were and weren't, but Cain was at the ready with his hand held out. Without missing a beat, Ambrose took it up in both of his and gave it a vigorous shake. "Why on earth am I still driving all the way out here to find you? Civilization would suit you well if you'd just let it, my friend. There's been a lot of recent restoration work in the Bellicose district, and –"

Cain cut off the long-winded smalltalk he'd never had the patience for. "It's good to see you, Ambrose," he returned in greeting, as polite as he could manage while being pointedly rude. It was difficult, the old name that was once more the only name; that other name was an unspeakable thing. And while they all slipped up from time to time, but Cain was too tense to make that mistake now.

Instead, he got right to the point. No sense dancing around it.

"Where did you lose her this time?" he asked, trying to be amiable.

His friend waved a dismissive hand, looking out over the creek and the marshland beyond to hide the obvious guilt in his eyes. "We didn't lose her," he said. "We know precisely where we left her. The problem is that she is no longer there." He paused to laugh at the absurdity of it, but Cain didn't find it so funny. "A mere technicality, I know, but an important one, and –"

"You lost her," Cain said, and smirked. His hands went back to his jacket pockets. The morning hadn't warmed up much, despite the suns. Ambrose and his soft, warm hands only reminded him how cold he'd gotten used to being.

"I was hoping you'd say she was here," the forlorn Ambrose said, glancing back at Cain.

"But she's not here," he said. He turned, and gestured back toward the house. "What makes you think she'd come all the way out here?" He ignored the pointed look his question received, and folded his arms over his chest. "Seems to me that half the time she heads straight to Milltown, and the other, she never leaves the city to begin with."

"Hass headed out to Milltown. He's probably already there," said Ambrose. "Turning the place upside down."

That time, Cain couldn't help but laugh. "You haven't fired that poor kid yet?"

Ambrose only shrugged.

"Listen," Cain said, "you know as well as I do, she wouldn't come here. Not after the last time."

Ambrose shook his head. "Are you certain she didn't send you a telegram? A letter? She used to write you all the time."

"You know, she might have," Cain admitted, though he found himself a little ashamed in doing so. "It's been awhile since I was in the village. We could head down and check with the postmaster, if you want."

"Your mail isn't delivered? You don't live that far out."

"No, he holds it for me."

Ambrose raised a sceptical eyebrow into a well-manicured arch. "Even if it's carrying a royal seal?"

"Especially if it's carrying a royal seal. I don't want to be bothered," said Cain, far more firmly than he intended. "Besides, anything that important comes by messenger. I thought you were the one that sends me those gods-damned things, anyway."

"Yes, yes, of course," Ambrose muttered. He pursed his lips and cast a glance back at the driver, who was standing beside the still-open car door. Time was wasting; Cain could almost hear the tick-tock, tick-tock running through that miraculous brain, snug in its skull. The zipper had been gone fully two annuals now. The hat collection hid the scar and little else. "She hasn't said anything –"

"Not to me," Cain said, and by the gods, he hoped that would be the end of it. "I haven't heard from her since that last trip I made into Central – which was a favour to you, you'll kindly recall. How can you have no idea where she's gone off to? You see her every day, except today, mind you –"

Ambrose narrowed his eyes. "Or yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Cain said, almost impressed. "Well, I'll tell you what. If she does end up on my doorstep, I'll bring her right back. Won't even charge you for the trouble."

"Yes, as she would be so agreeable to that," Ambrose said with a roll of his eyes.

"I'll tie her up if it comes down to it. You have my word." The oath went sour as it fell so easily off his tongue. Ambrose noticed nothing; he was eyeing up the property now, remembering, trying to forget. Cain could only wish him luck; it was what he expected to be doing for the rest of his life.

"I was sure she'd come here," said Ambrose, though it seemed to be mostly to himself. His eyes followed the well-beaten path down to the creek, and lingered for a spell on the tree by the dock, all dressed up in autumn splendour.

"Maybe a route patrol has picked her up already," Cain offered. "She could be sitting at a ranger's outpost as we speak." He reached out and clapped Ambrose on the shoulder. His friend seemed almost shocked at the spontaneous show of support.

"Maybe. You're sure she didn't –"

"She didn't," Cain said firmly. "Tell you what. I'll finish up here, head into the city tomorrow. I can help you look, if she isn't back by then."

That caught Ambrose's attention. "You don't mean that," he said, ready to laugh it off as Glitch would have done, let hope flit away with the faith that something else was sure to happen along. But when Cain did not laugh, nor crack a smile, his offer was given more thorough consideration. "You're serious? You'll come back to Central City?"

Cain nodded.

It was almost painful to see how his friend lit up then, and the guilt just kept on coming, a damned onslaught of shame, as Ambrose smiled that crooked smile of his and took up Cain's hand again.

"I'd be in your debt, Cain."

"And don't go forgetting it."

As he shook his friend's hand, Cain realized he was most likely going to hell for this. He kept up his smile and what little charm as he could muster for as long as he was able. He said goodbye and reinforced his promises as he ushered Ambrose into the backseat of the car.

"I'll see you in a few days," were his parting words.

From behind the glass, oblivious in his comfort, Ambrose gave an absent smile and waved his farewell.

Cain stood with his hands in the pockets of his jacket as he watched the car bounce and jar down his road, back toward Central City where it belonged. It picked up speed as the road curved into the trees and out of sight, where it wasn't so boggy and the going wasn't so rutted. He waited until he couldn't hear the engine anymore over the wind through the jack pines before he turned and walked slowly back toward the house.

DG was up and waiting for him, sunny as the waning morning.

"Tie me up, huh?" she asked, a teasing quirk at the corner of her mouth.

Cain felt a flush rise in his face. "Isn't polite to eavesdrop," he said, not near so cold as to warrant the chill that was coursing through him. "What are they teaching you if it isn't your manners?"

The teasing quirk became a wry twist, and she folded her arms over her chest. "Says the man who just lied through his teeth to the face of one of his nearest and dearest." She slouched out of spite, but her tone remained light, happy even. As it damn well should have been.

He went to the old wood stove to warm his hands in an attempt to avoid her eyes. Now that he had proven to her just how far he was willing to go to help her, DG had relaxed a great deal. He imagined that she'd spent the entirety of Ambrose's visit hovering near the window in his bedroom, craning her neck to ungodly angles in a vain attempt to see and hear without being seen or heard.

He couldn't blame her for listening at keyholes, not when she was so certain he would turn her over without so much as a second thought. And he certainly had thought about it when she'd showed up on his doorstep; he was by now so tired of her games. But something in those eyes of hers had him holding the door open and letting her back into his life.

There had been a trust between them once. Damned if he knew where it had gone.

When he finally looked up from the stove, his skin burning from the heat of it, he caught her staring at him, and instead of her eyes skipping coyly away as she once might have done, her gaze didn't falter and her face gave nothing away as to what thoughts fluttered through her head. Carved of stone, but for those eyes, pale as a winter storm.

"You sure you want to do this?" he asked after too long, after the silence had grown too heavy.

"The question is, are you sure you want to help me?" was her reply. She looked at him plaintively. He knew all too well what she wanted, and he knew how much it would cost to give it to her. There was no changing her mind. There never had been. After all, there she was, sitting at his table and watching him, bold as brass. The way he saw it, she wasn't giving him much of a choice but to help her.

He didn't say so, coward that he was. Instead he only nodded slowly, resigned to his fate. He ran a hand down his face, pausing over his mouth. It didn't sit right with him, just how closely she watched him. After all, he was not the one with anything to prove. Still, he was at her mercy, and with this thought, he jerked his head toward his bedroom, where her things were hidden at the back of the wardrobe.

"Then be ready to go soon," he said. "Let's just get this done."

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Author's Note II: This is, for me, the Tin Man bunny that has been nibbling on the back of my brain for longer than I care to admit. I'll say up front that I haven't forgotten about 'Til Kingdom Come, but I have no intentions of returning to it right now, if ever.

Like the first note said: Seven chapters. Questionable rating. Buckle up, bitches, a storm is coming. ;)

(I missed you guys.)