Now, it has been said that frightening circumstances reveal our true characters. If you subscribe to this theory, the simple fact that Marigold's instinct as a teacher was the first to kick in is likely to tell you a lot about her. After cutting between Tristan and the man, whoever he was; Marigold instructed her student to leave.

"Tristan," she said coolly, although she remained entranced-nearly drowning in the endless blue eyes of the wounded man, "I want you to take my keys, lock yourself in my office and call downtown for help. Just please don't ask for Jake. I will explain everything to your parents when they arrive. Is that clear?" Silence. An ironic surprise. Her otherwise talkative students never spoke when she needed them to. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Miss Casey."

She listened to her leave, silently ordering the trembling stranger to not watch where her student had disappeared to.

"I promise you, Madame," he remained still as a statue, "I mean you no harm. Neither of you."

Marigold nodded, but remained stern. "Yes, well. I am a teacher first when my students are under my watch," she moved, still holding his gaze, "now that I know she is out of harm's way, I can attend to your needs. Is the blood on your shirt your own?"

If he looked frightened and defeated before, Marigold's tone had only worsened his discomfort. In truth, she didn't dislike him. Even when she was stern with her students, she did so on a platform of cheerfulness that inevitably shined through. He merely put her on edge and her lack of tact was the result. Before she could rephrase, he responded.

"Either mine or yours."

As you can imagine, this comment did more harm than good. She flushed, stepped backwards and considered yelling for help. But things didn't add up. If it was a threat, it was a very strange threat. "Tristan said that you asked for me, why?"

"Because you're Annabelle Casey." The man said simply. Like before, the name was spoken with tenderness and care as though he was reciting a five-syllable sonnet written long ago by an esteemed poet.

Marigold crossed her arms. This conversation was getting all the more peculiar by the minute. Because her mind had been racing to piece everything together since from the moment she stepped out of the schoolhouse, it had only just registered that the man was English—just like her previous husband. She never would have admitted it because it was a dreadful generalization, but this only fueled her hostility. "If you're going to stalk someone, Sir, you should at least get their name right."

"Are you not Miss Casey?" He interjected, stepping closer.

"I am Miss Casey. Miss Marigold Casey. I have been all of my life save for a miserable three-month blip back in 2015 in which I was Marigold Anderson, but we don't discuss that. There hasn't been an Annabelle in my family since 1770-something…"

"1781." The man confirmed with a smile. "You see, Miss Casey, 1781 is when I last saw her. She always spun the most intricate stories, but never of the year… 2015. Or with such a masterfully designed set. Might I ask… where did you ever find the time and funds?"

Marigold threw her head back and laughed at this. "Okay, who set you up for this? Baako, I bet. They're hiding in the woods, aren't they?" For the first time during this encounter, she turned her back and walked towards the edge of the woods. "A plague! A plague on ALL your houses! What kind of plague, you might ask!? Locusts and frogs? No, they would be far too cheery! Smallpox would be a cakewalk compared to what I have in store for you! Give up? Try the plague of SUMMER SCHOOL! Perhaps with a mild case of cholera on the side. And it won't even be with someone as amazingly cool as me, I'll make sure that you are all placed with Miss Greene or Mr. Rosen- oooh, or Mrs. Travers who will have you polishing all of the desks in vacant classrooms with shaving cream-" she turned back to the clearly stunned "prankster", "that stopped being fun back in the third grade, right? I suppose the mild case of cholera would even things out, don't you think?"

Her rant was extremely confusing and yet, he couldn't stop smiling. "This woman is Annabelle," he reassured himself, "from the musicality in her laughter to the faintest skip in her walk to the madness in those spellbinding green eyes. Even the most artful player on the world's grandest stage would fail miserably upon trying to impersonate her."

A brilliant flash of red and blue followed by a loud siren and the slamming of a car door ruined this "moment", whatever it was. A lanky thirty-something officer with a buzzed haircut and a partial goatee raced across the lawn.

"Hey, jackass!" He yelled in the thickest Southern accent imaginable. After removing a handgun from its holster, he took aim. "I hear you're giving my sister trouble! Bad choice. Bad choice! Hands up!"

"Damn, I said 'no Jake'," Marigold mumbled, "Jake, there's really no trouble here. He's just a little bit disoriented. We were having a conversation…"

"How many times do we have to tell you, Mare, you can't talk your way out of everything. Now, Fella, you have about ten seconds to give me your name, explain the blood, your sissy-ass man-blouse, and tell me why on God's green earth you are harassing my sweet, baby sister. Capisce?"

"Colonel William Tavington," he seemed to recite, the mere utterance of his name caused his posture to change slightly, "as for the rest, I'm afraid I will have to disappoint-"

"Tavington?" Marigold swatted Jake's firearm away as if it were nothing more than an annoying fly. Something had clicked inside her mind; this was the turning point. She had to be clever and this Tavington character had to follow her lead. "My God, I actually do know him." Their eyes locked. She prayed that he could read her thoughts; that he would follow along with the fabrication that she was about to orchestrate. "You're a friend of Henry's, aren't you?"

What happened next was truly miraculous. This pair of perfect strangers shared something that lovers after decades or twins after lifetimes together experienced only if they were truly lucky. They spoke to one another in silence with perfect clarity.

The words- nay "lines" that she fed him were delivered with perfection. "That is correct. Henry is my colleague and I wish to retrieve a book for him. As for the blood and the attire, surely you are familiar with the Shakespeare in the Park event? If you are interested, I would be happy to gift you with complimentary tickets." He arched his eyebrow at Marigold and she chuckled. Perhaps the last line was a bit of a stretch…

"So, you're a Colonel-actor-historian thing?" Jake's forehead creased. "You'll go away after she gives you a… book?" They both nodded. "And you're okay with this, Mare?"

"I've actually been meaning to get rid of Henry's things… if anything, it will help me out." Marigold shrugged.

After a tense moment of silence, Jake pocketed his weapon and pulled out his keys. "Well, I'd be a bad cop and an even worse brother if I didn't offer you both a ride to Mare's…"

Marigold remembered that Tristan was still waiting for her parents to arrive and was about to use that excuse when a silver sedan appeared causing the poor Colonel to fall to the ground in a panic.

"What the devil!?" He cried in despair.

Jake shook his head, not in the mood for any theatrics. He tipped his hat to Tristan as she threw Marigold her keys and climbed into the car. Then, after pulling her traumatized new "friend" to his feet, Marigold led Tavington to the street and coaxed him into the back seat. She saw that he was trembling again and honestly, felt terribly for him.

"What do you call this contraption?" He asked as Jake turned on his blinker and set the car in motion.

"What was that stupid movie with Hugh Jackman that you used to make us watch every time you came home from college, Mare?" Clearly, Jake had no desire to play along.

"It wasn't stupid, it was adorable." Marigold patted Tavington's knee in hopes of settling him down. "And it's only my favorite movie on the planet. Talking about being a bad brother…"

"A carriage without horses." Tavington mumbled. "A carriage without horses! Ah! This is truly inspired!"

"Kate and Leopold." Jake thought aloud. "That's what this clown is trying to be like. Don't you think? See, that's why I don't trust him. He waits for you outside of your place of employment and starts reenacting your favorite movie… plus, he's a friend of that douchelord Anderson. I should feed him to a fire ant colony-"

"Did I really leave the bathroom light on again?" Marigold interrupted as they pulled onto her street. She gathered her things and placed her hand on the door, more than ready to escape the confines of Jake's car. "Thank you for this weird, unnecessary ride home."

"You don't want me to take Leopold back to Meg Ryan's house after-"

"Jake, nobody's laughing. And no, I am having Colonel Tavington over for tea this evening and you are officially not invited."

They stepped onto the road, but Jake refused to move. He rolled his window down, causing Tavington to jump a mile high. "Hey buddy," he gestured for him to move closer, meanwhile Marigold hunted for her keys, "I'm the nice twin. Jack works for the government. Don't think we aren't watching your every move. Oh, and by the way, she has a big dog. Like… really big. Cheerio!"

Once Jake was out of the picture, they headed up the stony pathway to a humble yellow bungalow with white shutters. As if on cue, a large collie dog stuck its pointed snout to a window and bellowed a mighty bark into the street. Marigold was the first to reach the door, but instead of unlocking it, she turned sharply on her heel. This caused the already jumpy Tavington to step backwards into a low hanging hummingbird feeder. Marigold suppressed a laugh as the bright red liquid spilled onto his already soiled shirt.

"Okay, buddy," she began, "here's how this is going to work. My hand is on the doorknob. If you think my brother is protective, just wait until you meet Moxie. Plus, you are covered with sugar water which is entirely your fault… I need to know who you are. And what that was earlier. Right now."

"You are not obligated to accept the truth that I have offered you, Miss Casey. But I haven't lied to you. I never will."

Marigold narrowed her eyes. "Can I show you something?" He hardly moved, but his expression read "yes".

Without looking back, she squeezed through her door and past Moxie (who was barking frantically at this point). By the time she reached her bookcase, her heart was pounding loudly in her ears. All evening, she had been piecing this puzzle together. Who was he? Why was he so familiar- and unfamiliar all at once? Her fingers bounced across the bumpy terrain of book spines until they reached the title she sought- Victory and the Green Dragoon: The Biography of William Tavington. As the portrait on the cover came into view, her heartrate quickened. Posing proudly beside a chestnut mount in a handsome red coat was the same man that she had spoken to not moments ago.

Her mind continued to race as she headed back to the front door- fighting helplessly in favor of logic. Before heading back out, she flipped through the pages and marked the one that her ex-husband had found for her years ago. She would use this as a starting point and finish by showing him the cover. If he truly was who he claimed to be, this would be the gentlest route for her to take.

"I am Annabelle Casey's descendent," she shut the door and leaned against it, "but I never saw any pictures of her until Henry showed me this book. It was frightening… like looking in a mirror. Do you know why this is? Or better yet, why a book about… you… would contain this information?"

He examined the book, causing Marigold to hold it tighter. "My Annabelle was from humble origins. I was one of the few people to ever draw her. If not, the only one. Of which drawing do you speak?"

She shook her head, "List them."

"Well… in one, she is disguised as a boy and riding a big black horse. In another, she is sitting at a table and writing. There were several rough sketches of her looking out windows and braiding her hair. Then in the last one, she is wearing a ruffled gown and holding a hummingbird in the palm of her hand."

Marigold opened the book as nonchalantly as she could and presented him with it. He smoothed his hand over the scanned image of the last drawing that he had listed.

"This truly is the most unusual dream…" his bright eyes bounced back to Marigold who was beyond pensive. "And even if this is no more than a dream, you still don't believe it. Why?"

She picked up the fallen hummingbird feeder from earlier and twisted several of its loosened pieces back into place. "Because if you truly knew and loved Annabelle Casey… if you drew that picture and are the man in the portrait on the cover of that book, that also means that you committed the brutal murders that have been listed therein. Your story is terribly convincing from all angles and your resemblance to him is… uncanny. But-"

"I'm terribly sorry for earlier when I broke your…?" He gestured to the feeder.

"It's becoming too cold for them, anyway. You might have even saved a few when you broke it. But that's not the point, Sir." A blast of icy wind traveled down the road and across the porch. "What bothers me most is this- some historians, Henry included, deciphered fragments of letters which led them to believe that Colonel Tavignton murdered Annabelle Casey's sisters in front of her. Surely, I realize that this wasn't his worst crime, but it strikes a personal note for me if that makes sense. If Solomon, her father, hadn't remarried after Annabelle's mysterious death, I wouldn't be standing here today."

He turned his attention to the book once more- sifting through the pages and silently recalling the aches and pains caused by standing still all day when that "dreadful" portrait was painted before he journeyed to the colonies. "These historians that you speak of make pretty mosaics from broken pieces… but they will never shine as brightly or be as complete as the glass was before it was shattered." Then, he attempted to return the book to Marigold. "These pages are nothing more than gossip to me. If the truth is what you wish to hear, why not ask for it from the original source?"

The breeze appeared a second time; except now it was even colder than before. Marigold tried her best to conceal her reaction to the cold, but it didn't work.

"That's right, I offered you tea." She thought aloud as she turned to face the door. Moxie, who had been eavesdropping in the kitchen the whole time, started to bark excitedly. "Her bark may be worse than her bite, but she's a better judge of character than I am."

He didn't know how to react to this. Who could? "A cup of tea would be lovely, Miss Casey."

"Are you a dog person?" Clearly, she was stalling. After all, smart women typically don't allow perfect strangers (let alone, potential murderers) into their homes. "Because you strike me as more of a cat person…"

There it was, that charming smile again. "I am a horse person, Miss Casey." For now, this would have to do.

As the door swung open, Moxie came bulleting around the corner. Her claws clattered rhythmically against the hardwood floor. Marigold smiled at the friendly-faced collie and, to Tavington's relief, indicated that all was well with a cheerful tone before she slid towards him.

"That's right! I brought you a friend! You go ahead and give him a good sniffin' while I make us some tea." There were more licks than sniffs, unfortunately. In the discomfort of the moment, Marigold had forgotten about the hummingbird food that had seeped into his clothing. "Oh, yes. Thankfully Henry left some clothes behind when he… dashed… you look about his size. What's your favorite color?"

Tavington was far too busy shooing Moxie off of his boots to respond. So with a shrug, Marigold left them in her living room and returned not a moment later with a pair of black jeans, a blue flannel and a white t-shirt. In secret, she decided that the blue would accentuate his eyes, but that's unimportant.

"Here. You can use the powder room to change. It's over there by the piano. Is chamomile alright?"

At this point, Moxie was attempting to eat the edge of Tavinton's pantleg. Marigold reached out and grabbed her by the collar. "Backyard. Now." Obediently, the collie stuck her tail between her legs and began a slow, shameful walk towards the large "doggie door" across the room.

"Sorry. She normally doesn't eat people's clothes. It was the sugar water from the feeder…"

He smiled and gave Marigold a tiny bow, "I'll gladly endure all of the hounds of hell if it means that I can have tea with you at the end, Miss Casey."

After awkwardly exchanging grins, he headed towards the powder room to change. But the small piano that Marigold had mentioned earlier caught his attention.

"Are you a songbird, Miss Casey?" He asked, glancing at the sheet music on the stand. It was for a song that he did not know, "Goodnight my Someone" from a show titled "The Music Man".

"I'm more of a hummingbird these days." Marigold replied, filling a whistling tea kettle with water from the kitchen sink.

Naturally, this comment would have made his heart leap with delight, but a highly accurate "painting" on the wall above the piano prevented this. It was of Marigold and the man she had called "Henry" in front of a small, white chapel on their wedding day. He knew this man's face and had seen it a hundred times before. He knew by now from what little information Jake and Marigold had provided, that the man in this "painting" had disappeared without a trace. Perhaps there was something more to this "strange dream" that he had fallen into than previously suspected.

The pain of this man's loss was apparently still new in Marigold's heart. Why else would she hold on to his clothing and books? What she did not know, however, was that Tavington was dealing with the loss of this same man- if not, under different circumstances. A little over a year ago, his only friend in the colonies was wrongfully executed. Learning that he would never see his friend again and that he was unable to help, ate away at him for many months. The image was haunting, but he could not look away.

"Good God," he whispered to himself, "it's John Andre."

Author's Note: For fans of "Turn", yes, I am treading dangerously close to "crossover" territory. I nearly spit my drink across the room when I read in Bass' "The Green Dragoon" that Andre and Tarleton were close friends. Since I'm extracting inspiration from history books as well, these are muddy waters. I'll make my decision as I pen the following chapters. As always, thank you for your reads and your lovely reviews. Like "Victory", I'm having too much fun with this fic; stories with Tavington are just so addictive to write!