"High Inquisitor Darklaw."

Eve paused, turning back to see Rogue sticking her head out the tavern door. It was past closing time, but the woman motioned to her unhurriedly. "Come here for a minute." Without further ado, the bright crop of hair disappeared back into the tavern and Eve was left standing in the middle of the alley. She looked about, trying to decide whether to go in or not; she wasn't the most popular person in this part of town, and she'd never really spoken to Rogue outside of a friendly greeting now and again. Finally she sighed and doubled back, entering the tavern as she looked over her shoulder to make sure no one saw her. Whatever it was, surely it wouldn't take more than a few minutes.

She'd never been in the tavern before; this placeis a mess. She frowned as she peered into the dark crevices; it looked shady enough that she wouldn't frequent it on a regular basis, even if she was Rouge's friend. Not that it was dirty, per say. No, the entire tavern had the air of being hygienic enough, or at least swept up on occasion. It was just sorely evident that no one cared about the upkeep: there were daggers sticking out of the walls, broken furniture piled up in a corner, splintery stab-marks all on the counters, and a large tear in the decorative tapestry. She craned her neck to see the chandelier creaking ominously, looking as though it might fall at any given moment. In the far corner was a spindly staircase that led to who-knows-where.

There were a few patrons about, even with the closed sign hanging crookedly in the window. A scarred man stood in a corner, tongue stuck out in concentration as he whittled a large piece of wood, the floor around him littered with shavings. The captain of the Vigilantes sat at the counter, staring down at strategically-placed daggers and holding a chalice in his hand. He scratched his chin, too absorbed in his thoughts to be his usual noisy self. At a table beneath the stairs, three men sat in a card game that seemed to be escalating towards a brawl as one of them laid out four aces with a smug grin.

"Oi, clear out!" the voluptuous bartender ordered loudly, hitting her fist against the side of the counter. All the men looked up at her save Boistrum, who was muttering to himself as he twisted one of the daggers. "I want to talk to the High Inquisitor alone. Go home and get some sleep." She nodded to the sculptor. "Or in your case, just get upstairs." He sighed dejectedly, but climbed the stairs without a word, leaving nothing but the shavings in his wake.

The men grumbled, but a stern glare from the tavern keeper had them quickly gathering their cards and stuffing money down their shirts. They passed Eve warily, one of them looking at her with a defiant expression that dared her to stop them and take their 'rightfully earned' winnings. Rouge stared expectantly at Boistrum, but he still didn't look up and she shrugged.

"Just ignore him. He's determined as hell to figure out that puzzle tonight," she chuckled as she pointed Eve to a barstool at the opposite end of the long counter. "You hungry? Thirsty?" she asked as she took a dingy rag from beneath the counter and wrung it out before cleaning off a suspicious stain. "It's on the house since we're closed; you're my guest tonight, not a customer."

"N-no, I—" Eve looked around self-consciously, hands twisting in her lap. "What's all this about?" she asked, trying to sound professional and hurried. Rouge eyed her thoughtfully and she wilted, clearing her throat. "I mean, what did you want to tell me?"

"I heard about what happened at the bridge. That was pretty good of you and Zacharias both, helping out that poor kid." The rag continued to make small circles on the counter until the stain was gone. "Besides, I hear you've got your eye on our good Inquisitor Barnham."

"W-what makes you say that?!" She glanced quickly at Boistrum, satisfied that he still wasn't paying attention to their hushed conversation. "A-and he's not an Inquisitor anymore, you know. Neither am I," she added in a whisper.

"Oh, I hear things. You can't run a tavern without hearing things," Rouge remarked casually, putting the rag away and getting another, cleaner cloth to polish chalices with. "And I've seen the way you two look at each other. He's head over heels in love with you, you know."

"What?!" Oh, great. Now she was blushing. Rouge only grinned and shrugged one shoulder.

"Yeah. I can tell. He's such a big dork, for a knight of the inquisition. But he's loveable and pretty damn respectable, isn't he? You can't help but like him; it's no wonder half the women in town want him." She was speaking girl-to-girl now, leaning against the counter and holding the chalice to the light. It sparkled faintly and she nodded, satisfied. "I mean, I'm not saying that I want him: he's really not my type."

"Just listen," she continued seriously as she grabbed another chalice. "If you decide to break his heart, I'm going to aim a dagger right between those pretty eyes of yours," she warned with the utmost solemnity. "You got that? Don't go stringing him along; he might act like a really tough guy, but he's sensitive. I've seen enough to figure that much out for myself."

"I wasn't planning on it!" she protested, arms crossed. "I mean—"

"Do you love him?" She was hit with the full force of the woman's stare and she felt her face burning. Moaning softly, she buried her head in her arms; how much more humiliation could she take!? Did the entire town see it as clearly as Rouge? "I see," she heard her say, and pushed her face further down until her nose hit the splintered wood. "Espella's right; you really are shy, aren't you?"

"Got it!" There was a clamor and she raised her head to see Boistrum standing, pointing triumphantly at the daggers. "This is how they should go!"

"You got it then, B?" Rouge laughed as she abandoned Eve to her mortification and went to look down at the daggers. "Well, let's try it." She took the chalice from him and filled it from a barrel of ale. Eve watched in fasciation as she slung it with an expert flick of the wrist. The chalice dinged against the daggers, following a pattern until it slowed to a stop right in front of Boistrum's chair without a single drop of ale spilling onto the counter. He leaped in the air, armor clanking as he celebrated. Rouge laughed again and took one of the daggers out, twirling it around between her fingers.

"Good job. I'm impressed." Boistrum crossed his arms and nodded, looking pleased with himself. "You know… if you come back tomorrow night, I'll make up a new one that'll stump you for sure."

"You only wish that you could stump a brain as sharp as mine!" He retorted. "Your puzzles will never overpower me, Rouge." He paused. "Still, I'll come back tomorrow to see what you can come up with." He then seemed to notice Eve for the first time, hopping to attention. "High Inquisitor! I didn't hear you come in."

"Hello," Eve greeted him quietly. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing.

"Are you alright? You look as though you might have a fever."

"I-I'm fine!" she replied, too quickly. "I'm fine," she repeated a moment later, her voice the calm silk of her High Inquisitor persona. "Rouge and I have just been chatting."

"Ah." He paused again, looking between the two women. "Then I shan't keep you waiting any longer. It grows late, after all." He saluted Eve, and then held his hand out to Rouge. The woman hesitated before putting her hand in his and shaking it quickly. He caught it before she could pull it back, kissing the knuckles lightly before releasing her and nodding amiably. "Until tomorrow then. I'll let myself out." They both watched him leave silently, the door shutting behind him with a final squeak.

"It seems to me that someone has their eyes on you," Eve said without thinking. Immediately she bit her lip, wondering if that was going too far with someone she really didn't know all that well. But if Rouge was offended she didn't show it, walking back over and wiping her hands on the towel with a vacant, but pleased expression.

"Yeah… I know." She looked at the door again. "It's not the first time it's happened, and I don't know what all the guys will say about me and a Vigilante, but I'm really considering it." Her smiled turned into something more secretive and personal as she put away the towel and draped herself over the counter, head in her hand as she arched a brow at the former High Inquisitor. "But I didn't call you in here to talk about my love life. I want to help you with yours."

"I don't need help! I don't have a love life!"

"That's precisely why I want to help you. Don't you want one?" Eve considered the woman's words. She opened her mouth to say no, but something deep down stopped her. She thought of the fun she had yesterday, running around the fields and fighting like children. She thought of the panic that had fluttered in her stomach when he'd went beneath the ice, the relief she'd felt when he'd come back, the taste of his lips, the feel of his hands running up her body, the soft growl of his voice when he begged her to stay and keep him warm….

"I—I don't know." She rubbed a hand over her forehead, brushing back her hair. "I just don't know."

"You do too know," Rouge snapped. "I can tell you do, just by standing her and looking at you. Just think—how would you feel if tomorrow he ran off and got together with…oh, let's say Foxy?" She wanted to say that she wouldn't care one bit, but the very thought of him even touching that armor-clad broad had a dark emotion unfurling in her chest and scraping the insides of her body, filling her with irrational anger. "You'd be jealous, wouldn't you?"

"Psh. Fine, so maybe I'd be a little annoyed if he kissed me and then ran off to be with some woman." Something dropped to the ground and she jumped on the stool. Rouge was staring wide-eyed at her.

"He's kissed you!?" she shouted incredulously. There was a muffled thump from upstairs and they both paused, but heard nothing more. "Really?!" she laughed, in a quieter voice. She reached over and punched Eve's arm lightly, looking surprisingly like Barnham as she beamed foolishly. "Hot damn! I didn't think he had it in him."

"Shh!" Eve could barely stand the urge to get up and run out of the tavern. She just wasn't used to having her personal life spoken about in such a fashion! Even Espella would have been too much in a scenario like this; much less an older, worldlier woman who'd probably had scores of lovers if she wanted it. Rouge might have her own trail of broken hearts somewhere, but Eve wasn't about to find out.

"Anyway…" Rouge pushed one side of her hair back behind her shoulder, eyeing Eve almost lazily. "So you'd be jealous after all, Lady Darklaw. Now, why is it that you're not out there seizing up his heart like you used to seize your so-called criminals? Why haven't you secured his affections for good?"

"How am I supposed to do that?" Eve asked, confused. Rouge straightened up and sneered, a wide Grinch-sneer that spread from ear to ear and made her look like something formidable.

"I thought you'd never ask."


"SIR!" Barnham nearly leapt from his seat when the loud voice echoed through the bakery. Patty threw down her rolling pin in surprise and Espella squealed in alarm, but the courier didn't seem to notice as she tugged her scarf down below her mouth and smiled amicably at them all. "Mail run!"

"Hello, Lettie," Espella managed to greet weakly, a pale hand pressed over her heart. "You certainly know how to wake a sleeping village."

"A mailperson much deliver a cheerful smile along with the letters," she quoted as she sat a large box down on the family table. The trio looked curiously at it, and then at the tiny note Ms. Mailer placed on top of it. "This is all for you, Sir Barham." Lettie patted the side of the box gently. "This is from the confectioner as thanks for rescuing his son the other day. He said to please take it as a small token from him for the holidays. And the top one…"

"This is Eve's handwriting," Espella noted as she turned the note over in her hands. Lettie smacked if from her hand, her usually pleasant face scowling.

"Don't read other people's mail!" she shouted. Espella's eyes widened, but she didn't move to pick up the note again as she rubbed her smarting hand. "Yes, it's from Lady Darklaw. She handed it to me yesterday evening with the instructions to deliver it to Sir Barnham this morning."

Barnham managed to get the lid off the box, and they all peered into it. Espella clapped her hands together, eyes twinkling as the innards of the box proved to be a large assortment of holiday candy in all shapes and sizes. Lettie's smile returned and she adjusted her hat.

"Well, you'll get fat if you eat all that in one go!" she joked. "In any case, before I leave I'd like to purchase that gingerbread post office, Mrs. Eclaire. I've been admiring it in the window for three days now and I want to eat it before it gets too stale." Espella reached in around Barnham and took piece of saltwater taffy, unwrapping it and moaning in delight as she bit off a piece of the soft, chewy candy.

"If you like them, you can have them all," Barnham told her. "I prefer chocolates to taffy." He took a truffle from the box and chewed it with a smile as he offered the box to Patty, then to Lettie. The courier refused, already having eaten the roof off the post office while she paid for it. Patty took a butterscotch and fingered the crackly wrapper as she sucked on it.

"Read the note," Espella managed to say around her mouthful of taffy. She turned her cloak into a makeshift bag and began picking out all the taffy from the box, the cloth sagging with each handful she stuffed into it. "Eve could have just come to tell you herself, really."

"Child, don't take all that taffy in one go!" Patty chastised, putting handfuls back in the box as fast as Espella could get them out. "You'll rot your teeth and have to go to the tooth-puller like you did when you were younger. Don't you remember that?" The girl paused and then dumped most of the taffy back into the box, a hand rubbing her cheek as she winced in remembrance. "And leave Zacharias's notes alone. They're private."

He opened the note while the two argued over whether Espella had a right to all the taffy in the box just because he told her she could have it, since Patty might want some on occasion and the girl didn't need to invite bugs into the home by hoarding candies in her room. It was just a few lines written in her neat, swirling hand:

Zacharias:

I hope the cold the other day didn't make you ill. If it's convenient, would you come to my home this afternoon around 1:00? Please let me know if you cannot make it.

Yours,

Eve B.

P.S.: Don't bring Espella. I'd rather it just be us.

He read the note three times, each time garnering no more meaning from it than the last. What did she want? Why could Espella not come? The girl would want to come, but why would Eve rather it be 'just them'? His eyes flitted towards the clock—11:45. That gave him just enough time to get changed; a walk to her house took nearly an hour from the bakery.

"Ahem… Mrs. Eclaire? I've been invited to—" For some reason, he felt uncomfortable telling the woman and stopped himself. There wasn't anything improper about two people meeting at one's home, so why was he so embarrassed? The baker stopped arguing with Espella and looked at him sharply.

"Yes, child? What is it?"

"Eve asked me to meet her at one o'clock at her home. Will I be needed here?" Patty looked surprised before breaking into chuckles.

"Go ahead, go ahead," she waved him on. "Enjoy your youth, I suppose." Espella wrinkled her brow and frowned at her guardian.

"Can I go too, then?" she asked, discreetly pulling what she had left of the taffy towards her and flipping the edge of her hood over the candies.

"Actually," Barnham interjected, but faltered. How could he say this without hurting the girl's feelings? Patty arched a brow and leaned around him, her mittened hand ruffling his hair affectionately as the read the note.

"Espella, I need you to stay and help me with custards today," she said decisively. Espella's mouth opened and she made to protest, but the baker cut her off. "No arguing. Take your taffy upstairs and get your apron. Zacharias, you go get ready; if you don't hurry you'll be late. It'd be a nice gesture to take Eve some candy, too. After all, I heard she's the one that pulled you out and kept you from dying of the chill while Espella got you something to wear."

Espella huffed and then sighed, unable to stay mad for long. She trudged up the stairs ahead of him and down the hall to her room. He followed, his face turning red as the baker's words played over in his mind. She kept me warm, indeed. He shook his head, pushing the thoughts from his mind. I can't think of that, not when I'm about to leave. I'll be walking down a public road in a few minutes!

He hurried to change out of his floury armor, glancing out the window at the sun. He really didn't have time to polish the armor—normal clothing would have to suffice. He pulled on a pair of grey pants and a dark blue shirt. Looking at the fog on the edges of the windowpane, he sighed and pulled out a long sleeved shirt to throw over the other one, not bothering to button it up. I'll be so happy when spring comes along. There was a knock at the door, and then it opened and Patty stepped in with a basket.

"I went ahead and packed some of the candy. There's gingerbread for Eve down in here too, and some iced buns and a scone or two…" she trailed off, looking awkwardly down at the floor before meeting his eyes with a smile. She shut the door behind her, looking over her shoulder. "Zacharias, child… you know I love you as my son, just like I love Espella as my daughter. I always wanted to have children, and I just can't imagine my life without the two of you in it."

"I know." He did know; he felt the same way. There was a shadowy, half-remembered void where a parent should have been, and she filled it easily with her scolding and worrying and gentle pats that always seemed to come right when he needed them the most. He tried to return her affections with hard work and the rare embrace, but somehow it never seemed to measure up to her warm-hearted actions.

"And that's why I'm telling you now—" She turned her head, her lips turning down as the apples of her cheeks stained a light pink. "I'm not the first one to tell you this, I'm sure, and… well, I know that you're more than old enough to know about women and men and children by now. Goodness knows it was hard enough having to explain all that to Espella, and I'd hate to have to do it again. So I just want you to promise me that you'll be careful. You and Eve both." The real meaning of her words set in suddenly and he sputtered, waving his hands in denial.

"I-I-I don't think that's what we'll be doing! Honestly!" he managed to say. He'd never felt so embarrassed in his life! "She probably only wishes to speak about something work-related, and we've only ever kissed, so—" He stopped, utterly mortified. Yes, surely this is what it would feel like having that sort of conversation with one's real mother. "Don't worry about me," he finished, cringing.

"You're good children," Patty noted with pride. "You'll take good care of each other, nevertheless. And don't be so red-faced," she laughed. "I still remember how it was. Of course, back then, we waited until we got married to make—well, to do grown-up things with each other. But we could still kiss, and my father hated it when I would sneak off with that boy, as he called him." She pulled off her mittens and tucked them under her arm, fluffing her hair as she continued her story.

"In any case, no matter what Daddy would say, I'd still run off and hide in the alley with my Jerry; we'd sit on a packing crate and look up at the clothes strung between the buildings, talking about how we'd be married one day. I still remember him holding my hand, covered in soot from his factory job and saying "One day you and I'll have a deli, Patricia. You mark my words; I'll save up the money and we'll get us a real swell deli right on the corner next to the laundry." Of course, it took longer than we thought, but we scrimped and saved every penny and we bought that little deli like we said we would."

Barnham had heard enough about Patty's strange stories to know that her memories weren't from Labyrinthia. The Storyteller had explained to him that a 'deli' was a sort of bakery that sold sandwiches instead of just bread, and also had meats and cheeses to buy by the pound. Maybe it was only his imagination, but a part of him thought that he remembered delis, and had actually been to one himself. If he sat quietly and concentrated hard enough, he could remember a shiny tiled floor and a clear case full of sandwiches wrapped up with some sort of strange, clear paper that shone in the light and stuck together when you peeled it off the bread. Still, he often wondered…

"What happened to Mr. Eclaire?" He felt like it might be a personal question, but she might not even know. Was Mr. Eclaire one of the ones she left behind when she chose Labyrinthia over the modern world? He looked up from the basket and immediately felt bad; there were tears swimming in the older woman's eyes.

"He's gone." She tugged the mittens back on, sniffling in a way that sounded as though she were trying to hide it. "There was an accident, and he's gone." She paused, frowning. "It was a carriage that hit him, but I couldn't even tell you where in the city he was struck." She shook her head. "I want to say…Chinatown. But what in the world is a China town?" she chuckled, wiping her eyes on her apron. "What is a China town?" she repeated quietly, no longer speaking to him as she turned and left. When she reached the door, she came back to herself and clicked her tongue.

"Goodness sakes! Are you planning to keep that poor girl waiting all afternoon?"


He really couldn't wait for spring. He slogged through the murky, damp forest, pulling his coat tighter around his body and shivering. It was so cold! Of course, it was warm compared to the way he felt plunging into the icy depths to get that child. The water had been so cold that he hadn't felt it for a moment or two, his body shocked into numbness. He honestly hadn't thought about the ice not holding his weight; from the moment they said 'child', his mind had been on autopilot as he worked to rescue the little boy that had gotten trapped beneath the ice.

He'd barely been able to see him in the water, and had finally managed to grab onto the child's mitten and tug him close. Then it was a fight to get to the surface, making sure that he could get out of the hole he'd fallen through in. If Eve hadn't have been there, he had no idea how he would've surfaced fully; the clothes and the child had been weighing him down, and the severe cold of the water had made it too hard to move. His lungs had been fighting for air, his mind panicked as he saw the child's lifeless, unconscious face. One hand had been able to break through the water, and he'd felt it being grasped in a tight hold. He'd managed to make it so that the child came up first and someone had taken the body from him, and then he'd been heaved out of the water.

The only thing he'd been able to focus on was how cold he was. HE hadn't been able to stop shivering, his body numb and yet somehow on fire as all the nerves screamed at him for facing the half-frozen river. He'd heard people shouting his name, but his mind had refused to let him understand what they were saying. He'd nearly blacked out, coming to himself again and finding that he was in a house, and Eve was closing the curtains and telling him to get undressed. He had pulled off his wet outerwear as she lit a fire, and the warmth coming from it had made him pause, as well as the sight of her on her knees before it. Her pants had been made taunt by her posture, outlining the shape of her thighs and he found himself staring at her before he could think better of it.

She hadn't seemed to notice, only chiding him for not stripping fast enough. He knew that he had to get out of the wet clothes, but the thought of her seeing his body made him feel strangely ill at ease. It wasn't as if she had never seen him without clothes before—she'd been there many times when they wrestled and trained shirtless at the garrison. After all, it had been her job to make sure all the knights were up to par. He'd always pushed himself on those days, telling himself it was because he wanted to give her no room to mock him as she so loved to do. But now that he thought about it, had he just been showing out to keep her eyes on him? Of course not! his mind protested angrily, but he wasn't so sure.

She'd brought him a sheet to wrap around himself and blankets to keep in the warmth, sitting him before the blazing fire and even making him a steaming hot cup of tea. She'd taken care of him, eliciting those strange emotions that kept popping up more and more, giving him ideas for gifts and making him think about whether her skin was as soft as it looked (it was) and how she'd react if he provoked her.

Lately it had made him want to tease her, watching in glee as she got flustered at the thought of him putting snow down her shirt like he had Espella. It had led to a rather enjoyable fight in the snow and somehow they'd both ended up on the ground, laughing together. He'd been so…glad, and had almost wished that Espella would stay wherever she'd gone the rest of the day so that he could spend all his time basking in her presence with all her attention on him. He'd never had such selfish thoughts before, but now he was getting them more and more often, and always they were related to her.

He'd been meaning to use that moment, when they were both content, to tell her about his weird feelings and see if she understood what he was trying to say. But she'd looked at him in a strange way that sent his heart racing, and when he leaned close she hadn't pulled away. All words left his mind when she blushed and her eyes closed; if that little boy hadn't have had that horrible accident he'd have kissed her right in front of everyone without a second thought.

And then again, he tried to tell her what it was that he felt, but she was just so damn cute with her hair down around her face, eyes glittering as she leaned in and accused him of wanting to kiss her. It had been true, no doubt, but the way she'd said it made him sound like some sort of pervert and he had his honor to think about. Of course, honor flew right out the window when she let him kiss her again, her warm little body feeling nice against his chilled skin. She'd tasted like the teacake she'd eaten, and his hands seemed to have a mind of their own as he felt her curves through the sweater.

But in the end she didn't let him stay, allowing Espella to wrap him up a new set of clothes and cart him back home where Mrs. Eclaire made him go to bed and drink hot soup, alternately praising his bravery and fussing about how careless he'd been. And he hadn't seen her since, for the next day Patty hadn't let him leave the bakery and every day since had been filled with work from morning till night.

The sounds of the lake and river filled his ears and he knew he was getting close. He picked up speed and sure enough the end of the path was there, the spires of her house just visible above the first rise. He climbed up the hill, stopping at the top to catch his breath. The frigid air was like stabbing knives in his lungs and he shook himself, adjusting the basket on his arm so that he could rub his hands together. He'd forgotten his gloves at home, and the tips of his fingers were numb.

Almost there. He forced himself to walk down the hill towards her house, reminding himself that a warm fire awaited him there. A warm fire, and a lovely woman with sugary kisses and a soft, pliant body. Get ahold of yourself, Zacharias. You can't kiss her if she's trying to tell you about construction costs for road repairs…well, you could kiss her and make her stop telling you, but she'd just get mad. He shook his head, grumbling to himself. Stop that! If you keep thinking about it, by the time you get there you'll be liable to attack her the minute she opens the door! You let Mrs. Eclaire believe you'd behave yourself, remember?

He knocked on the door, unsure of what he was going to say when she opened it. Now would be a good time to think of something. The basket shifted on his arm as if to remind him that it was still there and he grinned. Of course, he'd offer her the basket and say something like "Hello, Miss Eve. I brought you these from the bakery." That would be nice, neutral, and a perfect way to say hello. The door opened and he held out the basket before him like a peace offering.

"Hello, Miss Eve! I brought you th—" The words died on his lips when he saw her, shocked to the core. This was… Eve? He stared, unable (and unwilling) to look away as she stood before him on the other side of the threshold. She was wearing white pants, similar the black ones she had on the day it snowed, and a snugly-fitting black shirt that accented her chest to the point that he found it hard to look away.

But even that wasn't entirely mind-blowing—after all, her armor was rather form-fitted, and she did wear those ridiculously long boots that made him wonder what it would be like to take them off of her. It wasn't that her hair was down again today, lying in long, soft waves across her shoulders without the static electricity that had frizzled it when she'd worn the hat and scarf. It was that she...for the first time that he could remember…was wearing makeup.

Not many women in the city wore cosmetics, and even then they didn't wear a lot. Ms. Primstone had her crimson lipstick, and Foxy wore an entire face's worth (though you couldn't see it unless she took off the helmet). And Rouge as well…though to be fair Rouge didn't register as a woman on his radar half the time, due to her loud, forceful tendencies and her ability to beat any patron at arm wrestling. Rouge was just one of the guys— until she had to adjust her top so that her breasts wouldn't fall out in front of everyone.

But he'd never seen her wearing any before. She really didn't need it, he supposed. She looked just fine—better than fine—without it. Yet now she stood before him, the blue of her eyes enhanced further with mascara and a dark, mulberry color staining her lips. He stood on the step, basket still stretched out as he remembered he was supposed to have said something. How far into his sentence did he get along? Oh, well, no matter now.

"B-bakery," he stuttered. Her brow furrowed and she took the basket from him; he forced his arms down, crossing them over his chest. He was unable to keep his eyes off her mouth; he had no clue why, though. It was only a different color; it wasn't as if it had changed in some strange way.

"Thank you; that's very thoughtful. Candy?" She shifted the contents of the basket curiously. "Gingerbread…oh, iced buns too?" She smiled. "You're trying to spoil me, aren't you?" she teased as she held the door and motioned for him to enter. "Come in, Zacharias." Oh, there went his heart, flipping around in his chest like a landed fish. He hurried in before more cold air could seep into her house, unwinding the scarf from his neck as she placed the basket to the side and took his coat.

"I was—er, surprised when I got your note in the mail earlier," he admitted as she stored his coat and scarf on a rack. "I mean, I wasn't expecting…I've been so busy lately that it came at a most opportune time," he finally said, sticking with what was easiest to talk about. He was torn between bringing up the events of the other day and pretending that they never happened, especially since she'd thrown him for a loop.

"Yes, I thought since we didn't have work today that we could just relax. After all, we're…we're friends, aren't we?" She looked shyly at his coat, giving it a final pat before picking up the basket again.

"Of course we are! Why wouldn't we be?" He followed her once again to the sitting room, where this time a fire already crackled merrily in the grate. She left him alone for a moment and then returned with more tea, placing the tray on the coffee table the same way she had the other day. She sat down on the loveseat, pulling one of the iced buns from the basket with an eager expression. He dug around and settled on a piece of gingerbread. "So, what do we talk about now?" he asked between bites. There was a pause, and then:

"Has the bakery been busy these last few days?"

"Aye, we had an order for eighty loaves of cheddar bread for Mr. Punchenbaug yesterday, to be finished by sundown, no less."

"Eighty?" She looked astonished. "Why so many?" He shrugged.

"I don't know. He seemed happy, though." She hummed and they ate in silence, the only sounds being the crackle of the logs in the grate and the chime of the clock as it hit the half-hour mark with a soft little melody. He finished off the gingerbread and licked his fingers before speaking.

"The candy is more…gratitude. The confectioner gave me some for saving his son, but I wanted to give you some for saving my life. If you hadn't grabbed my hand and helped pull me out, I don't know how much longer I would have lasted either." He looked up at her. "So, I thank you."

"I'm flattered, but you don't have to thank me. I was only thinking of helping in whatever way I could. After all, you couldn't reach the bridge on your own, even under normal circumstances." She shrugged and took a sip of her tea before reaching out to pat his hand. "And besides, I—your hands!" she exclaimed, pulling hers away quickly. "They're like ice!"

"Yes, I forgot my gloves before I left the bakery," he explained apologetically. "And holding the basket, I had no way of sticking them in my jacket without spilling the food, so I simply had to endure it." It wasn't as if he couldn't endure something as silly as a little cold weather; after all, he was a knight of the Inquisition! More than that, he was a leader of the knights of the Inquisition! Or he was, anyway. There were still knights, even if there was no longer an Inquisition. And they still looked to him as a leader, though he didn't do more than reconstruction and the occasional ceremonial training exercise with them.

"How can you forget your gloves during the coldest days of the year?" she scolded, grabbing the hand nearest hers and chafing it with a frown. "You're lucky to not get frostbite; then you'd have to work the bread with nine fingers instead of ten." She sounded like her old, strict self again, berating him for not filing his reports in the proper place. "I suppose you just thought that I'd warm them for you."

He knew that she meant it as a barb, that she had to do everything for him if it were to be done right, but his mind automatically jumped to the other things that had happened on these cushions. Her mind seemed to go there as well, her fingers faltering in their work as she slowly turned red.

"I didn't mean that," she said quickly, as if that would erase the words from his memory. However, she didn't let go of his hand, her fingers moving over him again in a softer motion, almost petting.

"Didn't you?" She looked up at him sternly, but that weird need to tease her was in his blood again. He took his other hand and pressed it up against her neck, watching her shiver with satisfaction. Her skin was always softer than he remembered; each time he touched it he was pleasantly surprised. And it was still warm, warm as the bakery ovens, as fresh bread, as a roaring fire….

"O-of course not!" she protested, pushing her shoulders towards her neck and shying away from him. "What sort of woman do you take me for?!" He leaned in and she moved away, putting an entire expanse of cushion between them.

"I meant no offense," he chuckled, scooting across the cushions as well until he was closer to her than before. "After all, aren't we friends?" She muttered something under her breath, looking irritated. "You didn't do my other hand. It's still cold."

"I'm not touching your other hand!" She moved even farther away, pressing herself into the corner of the loveseat as she crossed her arms. "B-besides," she continued, her voice wavering a little as he shuffled a little closer. "What you're suggesting right now isn't what friends do."

"What am I suggesting?" As if he didn't know. She was so cute when she was flustered, her face varying shades of red as her eyes flitted from him to the door, then down to her lap before repeating the triangle again. "Maybe you just have a perverse mind," he teased.

"I do not!" she screeched crossly, her anger winning out over her coyness as she gave him one of her best glowers. His brows rose, waiting for her to continue, but she seemed content to keep herself from walking into another trap by staying silent. So it was just time to bait her again.

"Tis so! I haven't been suggesting anything," he pointed out. "You're the one who's reading too deeply into my actions." He dipped his head, mouth resting inches from her neck. "Even now, I haven't done anything. You were the one who voiced the offer to warm me up, Miss Eve."

"I-I didn't!" she protested feebly, unable to press any further into the corner where the cushion met the armrest. She seemed to freeze under him, but her aura was one of anticipation, not fear. She was playing the game well, even if she wasn't thinking about it. The clothes, the cosmetics, the thoughtless comments, the arguing…. There was a tension between them that had been keeping him on the edge of his seat almost since the day he met her.

"Didn't you?" he repeated in the same tone as earlier. Her head jerked the tiniest bit, bringing a gentle, wafting fragrance to his nose. He breathed in, his heart speeding up in response. "You smell very nice, you know." She gave another tiny jerk, and there was a quick pause before she answered.

"W-what do I smell like?" He leaned in closer, lips nearly brushing over her pulse as he breathed deeper. "Z-Zacharias…" She shivered, even though he hadn't touched her at all this time.

"Those red flowers, and soap, and tea." He kissed her beneath the ear, tasting the sensitive skin there and hearing her gasp sharply. "You should have known that merely being friends wouldn't have suited me at all, Lady Darklaw," he growled. He bent to kiss her again, but a hand on his chest firmly pushed him away. Confused, he wondered if he'd overstepped his boundaries when her head turned. He was stunned at the cool, distant look she threw at him, eyes both scrutinizing and unforgiving.

"You want Lady Darklaw, do you?" she purred in a tone he'd heard so many times before as she dealt him orders and censure in equal amounts throughout the day. "You can most certainly have her, too. Wait here." With that order, full of warning should he dare disobey, she stood and walked to the threshold, hips sashaying in a way that was almost too natural. She turned and regarded him once more, lips twitching. "Don't move, or else."

"Or else what?" She didn't answer, only humphing as she moved out of the room and down the hall. He sat still, looking after her long past being able to see her from the loveseat, heart thumping wildly against his ribs. She was—how could she do that? Go from one persona to the next so seamlessly, without ever breaking stride as she buried her shy nature and took on the mantle of the High Inquisitor that had once been his superior? Magnificent, his mind piped up, finally settling on a proper adjective for her.

He heard her stomping about upstairs, and then the sound of furniture being moved. Was she barricading herself in or something? He turned one ear towards the ceiling, trying to hear better, but as soon as he thought he was going to get an answer all movement ceased. He frowned, but then a door opened.

"Come upstairs," she called imperiously. He stood, poking his head out the door to look in the direction that she'd gone. He didn't see any stairs… He took off his long sleeves and hung them quickly with his coat before going farther down the hallway. A room branched off to what looked like a workshop, but no stairs. He turned the other way, and after walking past the kitchen he found them hidden in a small nook. They were spiral stairs, pushed against the wall and hiding any view of the murky floor above.

He paused when he could see the upper floor, looking down the hall warily. Most of the doors were shut to keep the warmth where it needed to be in the lived-in rooms, but the one on the farthest end stood open. The hallway was dark, only a few candles in their sconces providing any sort of rudimentary light. He took a deep breath and climbed up to the landing, walking towards the open room with his head held high. Whatever surprise she had waiting for him on the other side, he would be ready for it.

He entered the room, peering into the darkness with a frown. There was the shape of furniture, but he couldn't quite see…. The door closed behind him and he turned on his heel, backing up a pace in his surprise as his hand jumped for the weapon that wasn't there.

"Sir Barnham, how good of you to finally join me. You always seem to take your time, even when people are waiting." She stepped past him, placing the lantern she held on the boudoir and motioning to a chair waiting alone in the middle of the room. "Have a seat."

"Eve?" He blinked at her, sinking down to sit on the edge of the chair. The lantern threw the room into more shadow than light, and she constantly stepped to where part of her was always in the darkness that the lantern just couldn't permeate. She was wearing her High Inquisitor uniform, high boots and all. She even had her golden gauntlet, and hadn't taken off any of the makeup. The only thing she hadn't fixed was her hair, though it was pushed behind her shoulders—perhaps she felt she hadn't had time to do the intricate hairstyle?

"That's Inquisitor Darklaw to you, Sir Barnham." She turned, the shadows playing off her grin and making her look almost malicious. "You wanted me, and here I am." She stepped forward, the blade at her side swaying in time with her movements. "We're about to start the interrogation. Are you prepared?"

"I—am?" Was he? He couldn't decide. Maybe he should ask for some water; his throat felt awfully dry right now, but that may have been because of the way her uniform hugged her body; he hadn't noticed it before, but now he was far more appreciative of the view. She tilted his head, the claws of her gauntlet scraping the skin gently and sending shivers down his spine.

"You sound concerned, Sir Knight. Don't tell me you're already ready to make a confession before we begin? Or are you afraid of me uncovering some unsavory secrets about your character?"

"What exactly am I guilty of?" he asked genteelly, trying to ignore the tingling sensation left behind by the claws when she took her hand off of his chin. "I was never read my charges."

"Slander, for one." The S rolled off her tongue smoothly, and she began her slow circle around the chair again. "Lack of decorum in public, immoral thoughts…" This time the claw wrapped over his shoulder, fingers plucking at the edge of his shirt. "I could add lack of proper dress during interrogation, but there's not much either of us can do about that."

"Lack of decorum?" She hummed in agreement, waiting until she was in front of him again before answering his question.

"You tried to kiss me in a public field, surrounded by people on all sides and in full view. You, a 'man of knightly honor'." She pointed at him. "Do you deny it?"

"No." He straightened up. "But to be fair, you didn't try to stop me." She shrugged, the smug smirk that he loved to hate playing across her lips.

"This isn't about me, Zacharias. It's about you." Her smirk widened. "Anything else before I start the questioning?"

"Not at all," he replied just as smugly. He settled back in the chair, crossing his arms. "Proceed."

"Tell me: you denied a lack of decorum, but not that you had immoral thoughts. Care to explain?"

"Everyone has immoral thoughts from time to time, unless they're a eunuch." He arched a brow. "Even you, High Inquisitor."

"I don't." Her mouth tightened into a thin line.

"You're a liar." He stared at her intently. "What sort of thoughts have you had about me? Have you imagined doing this before?" He motioned to the space between them. Her face twitched in a spasm, gritting her teeth as she hissed and looked away. "Ah, so I've hit a nerve?" he chuckled. "I'm an Inquisitor too, if you don't remember. I know all the telling signs, milady."

"Be quiet!" she demanded, eyes narrowing. "I said this was about you, not me!" He fell silent, watching as she took a deep breath and regained some of her control. "Now… I admit that I was looking forward to questioning you after the witch trials, but nothing went as I planned," she admitted. "I never got the chance to see you in that dungeon, angry beyond words at how your lack of resolve had been your downfall." She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "What made you think that I was a witch, back then? Even if you had followed me, how could you know for certain that I was behind that mask?"

"You are a witch," he amended. "You're the Great Witch. You admitted it." She walked slowly to him, bending over him.

"Where's your proof?" she asked calmly. "Did you get a written confession from me? The only thing I saw you do was voice your concerns to your beloved mutt."

"Proof? You're looking at it," he replied. "You've bewitched me, haven't you?" He couldn't help but laugh when he saw her face break out of character, the frown less cold and more exasperated.

"Zacharias, that was awful," she sighed, but he saw her lips twisting back up in a smile as he continued to laugh. He yanked her onto his lap while her guard was down, pressing up against her and ignoring her indignant protests. "Let me go! You wouldn't treat the High Inquisitor this way!"

"I would," he retorted, wrapping her hair around his hand. It was long enough that he could get a good handful of it without pulling her hair, but he still tugged gently when she tried to detangle herself from his arms. "Interrogations are over. I confess: guilty on all charges." He put on a mock-repentant face. "Send me to the fires if you must."

"Fires?" she sneered. "No, I have something far different planned for you."


Afterword: How did this become a three-parter? Ask my brain, and you shall have no answers. (shrug)