Wednesday, 10 May 1882

She did not meet me on Sunday, as I had allowed myself to imagine she might. I waited for her until the stationmaster called us aboard. I decided to go anyway, hoping perhaps she had taken an earlier train to preserve her notion of my honor. Seeking out the oyster-monger, I bought and ate a handful of oysters from his cheerful wife and lingered there for a bit. When it became clear I would not see her, I walked along the line of stalls and curios. The sound of the gulls and the waves over the din of people was comforting, as was the salt air. I had planned on visiting a ladies boutique, a shop that sold hats and gloves. Instead I found an older woman who was making and selling leather goods. She had been perched on a stack of wooden crates, intently boring needle holes in a leather strip. I have always enjoyed observing craftspeople engrossed in their work and so I watched her. Then she looked at me with eyes like the night sky, deep black and unending. Her smile held more spaces than teeth. Her cheekbones were round and strong, and the skin stretched over them was wrinkled and weathered; the rich color of caramelized sugar. She was perhaps one of the most beautiful souls I have ever seen. I remember thinking that, and how soft and sentimental I have gone.

She spoke no English and I, no Spanish. We had an extended and animated exchange of gestures, smiles, and grimaces in which I described my needs and she showed me her wares. It was easy enough to get to gloves, but to find a size and style that were appropriate was a bit more challenging. In the end I chose a sensible pair. They are pliant and strong, soft as butter and the color of sand. They should serve Annie well on her trips into town. I hope I have purchased an appropriate size. They seem so very small, but then, so are her hands. I do not like to think of her out without gloves to warm those hands; they were so very cold when they were in mine.

I fear that she will not accept them, for she is as proud as I.

I brought a book with me as well. I assumed she would at the very least be amenable to the loan of another book. After all, it was not a gift. Nothing had prepared me for the way she shone when I handed her that Mark Twain novel. As of late it seems that her smiles are the source of most of my joy. The ones I have caused are all the more precious.

I hope I did not push too far to see those smiles during our train-ride up from Santa Cruz last week. In my mind's eye, I can picture the ways she regarded me. I felt her gaze then most viscerally and I am ashamed of how it affects me even now, especially now in the solitude of this cabin where there is so little to distract my thoughts. I dared not delude myself that she could look on me with the same depths of desire and affection that I feel for her. But the way her gaze lingered on me when she thought I was paying no mind, the way she holds me at arms' length; I am beginning to suspect (though I am afraid to hope) that her behavior is not entirely because of her concern for me and my reputation.

It's odd. But the more I think of Annie Lark, the more I long to hear the cadence of my mother's voice. I feel foolish committing these words to paper, for the one does not at all remind me of the other. Except perhaps in their stubbornness and determination. And the patient way they each have of regarding me when I have said something foolish.

Tonight she opened her throat like her feathered namesake and sang. She is so very lovely, my sweet, little lark.

His pen had scratched over the paper and it helped a little. He wasn't quite used to this fountain pen. Nights like this he missed the dipping and tapping; the bursts of rich, saturated letters followed by brittle dry scratch marks, the need to stop and catch another droplet of ink in the nib and retrace the pen's path. Not every modernization was necessarily a complete improvement. It nearly comforted him. The slivers under his fingernails smarted. His ankle hurt. It always hurt, but it hurt more lately. He felt old. More so when he remembered how his desire grew as he watched her. She had been shining in the lamplight, painfully beautiful, and as always just out of his reach.

The week had been dragging slowly past. Since their morning together, nearly two weeks prior, Annie Lark seemed to be making herself decidedly scarce during the times that he was usually passing through town. He satisfied himself with the sound of her laughter floating out into the darkness as he passed by the Garden. He could pick her voice out of the din easily. Riding along, earlier that night he had wondered at how quiet the Garden seemed until her sweet soprano rang out through the cool air. He reined in Pharaoh and eased the cherry bay gelding over so that he could watch from the street. It was a ballad, an old song that he recognized from his childhood. It told a story about a clever cabin boy who was nearly betrayed and drowned by his own captain. His aunt used to sing it for him. He couldn't think of the title, at first. Then recalled that it was the ship's name. The Sweet Kumadee. He'd forgotten how pleased the twist at the end had made him when he was a young. The cabin boy outsmarted the captain and claimed his reward; the captain's daughter, amongst other things. It wasn't a sad song, but she was stood solemn on the bar, her hands at her sides, her eyes closed, sounding mournful. Most everyone in the Garden had their heads bowed; some had removed their hats.

Gossip had gone the rounds about a rail worker who had been crushed that day when a load of railroad ties toppled onto him. The song must be for him. John took off his own hat and held it to his chest out of respect.

When Annie was done, he heard Vi call out, "He loved that damn song! Half-price shots for the next fifteen minutes in honor of good old Half-Assed Sam!"

A cheer erupted and business returned to normal. With the help of the two nearest patrons, Annie hopped off of the bar and disappeared into the crowd. He waited for a moment, willing her to come outside for air, knowing all the while that she wouldn't.

The song followed him and Pharaoh up the mountain. He was still singing it softly to himself even after he wrote in his journal, after he wrote to his mother, when he settled down on his modest bed. The bed was far too short for his comfort, yet he had not gotten around to making a new frame. The simple rope and wood construction was not beyond his limited skills, but he only ever thought of it when he was lying down and trying to rest.

Sleep would not come that night. Even after two shots too many. He had been using less and less laudanum and was at the bottom limit of his tolerance. Any less and he shook and sweated and felt sick. It meant he was drinking a bit more whiskey, but he was trying to limit that, too. His elixir at the moment, the only thing that pulled him out of his aches and frustrations enough to relax into the arms of sleep were thoughts of her. Tonight it was the memory of the lamplight shadowing her collar bone, the sweet purity of her singing and the swell of her breasts when she inhaled sharply at the interval between verses.

Thursday morning came early and with it the not so distant sounds of dynamite and shattering rock. Closer by he could hear men shouting and arguing and the woodpecker sounds of the jacks that worked at the split stuff installation that fed the cooperage and kilns. He had written to his mother about how close he was to the piles of split stuff; that the axes splitting kiln kindling and boards for barrels tended to lull him to sleep at night and wake him in the mornings. He couldn't readily tell her what really lulled him to sleep.

The nights were still chilly and the early morning air tended to be damp and cold. He groaned when he sat up. His head pounded and his entire right leg ached; the way he walked to favor his ankle was wrecking havoc with his knee and hip. He stretched and quickly built a fire in his small stone fireplace; pushed water over it for tea. While the tea water was boiling he went out and round to the small enclosed stall he had built against the side of the cabin. It was just enough protection from the elements, with just enough room for one of the horses. He tried to ride them equally, but found he favored Pharaoh. Isis was young and both over-zealous and over-sensitive. She needed a slightly more patient hand than he gave her. He would leave Pharaoh in the cool dark of the livery tonight and ride Isis up to his cabin. If he was being honest, it was getting harder and harder to mount the horse. He had to lower the stirrup before he mounted, then cinch it back up once he was in the saddle. Especially on the taller bay. He freshened his and Pharaoh's water buckets from the creek twenty paces away, and went in to take the kettle off the fire. He poured a bit of water into his small ceramic tea pot. He had purchased it and a tiny cup without a handle from a shop in Santa Cruz's chinatown. It was very inexpensive, only thirty cents, and served his meager needs. He liked the grain of the cup and the dark glaze. He also liked the tea he bought there. Oolong. Richly flavored. Strong.

He brought the kettle out to Pharaoh and poured a bit of hot water over the horse's morning grains to make a mash. He gave him some hay from the pile next to the stall and limped back inside to wash and enjoy his tea.

He was coordinating falls the next morning, so today he was set to ride around to the sites and plot out the direction the tree needed to be felled. It was best for the behemoths to fall uphill and onto a stand of smaller trees so as to not shatter their massive trunks under their own weight and momentum. He enjoyed days like this, strategizing and admiring the landscape, it was a very pleasant part of the job, and relatively painless. Coop had decided he was perfectly capable of doing it himself and left him to it.

It had struck him on more than one occasion how the mountains were being stripped of the trees that made them unique in the world. The very stone itself was cooked and carted away. He wondered what would happen when they came to the end of the supply of trees. Wondered how long they could keep blowing up the mountainside for the lime works.

At half past ten, when he was satisfied that he had calculated out the angles and trajectories of the trees in question, he reined the richly colored gelding down the mountainside to tend the Earl. In the stately quiet of Downton the man was an early riser, but with carousing happening until the wee hours of the morning, he tended to sleep until well into the day.

Mr. Bates guided the bay horse down along Fall Creek and when he found the road he only rode for a few minutes before he happened upon Miss Minnie. She was trudging downhill next to a ancient looking sorrel horse that pulled her equally ancient looking though brightly painted cart. She looked him over and grinned. He touched his hat and bade her a good day.

"You are the Duke's man; Mr. Bates?" she asked. It was a statement more than a question, though.

"Yes, the Earl is my employer."

"I have something for you." Miss Minnie didn't stop walking but wiped her hands on her apron and pulled a pale-blue glass jar with a cork stopper from her apron pocket. She raised it up to him and he leaned over slightly to accept it.

"I think you must be mistaken. I haven't placed an order or purchased anything. Did the Earl…?"

"Oh, it's from Annie. She was telling me that your limp has been getting a touch worse lately and thought you might benefit from some of my arnica rub."

He furrowed his brow. "She hadn't mentioned it. How much do I owe you?"

"Annie took care of that end of things." She smiled, then raised her eyebrows. "You'll want to massage it into the ankle, knee, and hip in the morning and before going to bed. Anywhere else you have pains. Personally I like to wrap it with a warm rag after I use it on my elbow and wrists. Helps with arthritis too."

John's frown deepened. "Thank you, but…"

"If your ankle or leg is troubling you," Miss Minnie interrupted, "you should come by my place sometime and let me give you a proper once over. I may be able to help a bit."

He began to stutter in embarrassment, which she spoke over.

"Does no good to anyone to be stubborn and proud around such things." She lowered her voice. "That damn town doctor will only look at you if you can pay and will likely just feed you laudanum at that, no matter their ailment. Besides, it'll do Annie good knowing you're being tended to; she's been fretting over it. She is fond of you, you know."

The way she said it brooked no misinterpretation. He held her gaze and nodded. "I am fond of her," he responded truthfully and without hesitation.

"She is a good girl, our Annie. She deserves to have someone looking out for her in this world."

The so-called witch-woman's words made his neck and cheeks burn, made him deliriously happy. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the tissue and brown paper wrapped gloves. (He had known that a box would have been too much. Instead he had stopped at the mercantile and bought a length of blue ribbon. An extra nickel convinced the shop girl to bundle the gloves in a paper parcel and bind it all with the ribbon. The blue looked fine against the crisp brown paper. He hoped she could use the ribbon in her hair or on her hat.)

"Might I ask a similar favor? And I am happy to pay you for your time. You see, I am afraid Annie will not accept this. It is a small token of my … my fondness and appreciation; a pair of gloves. I've noticed she doesn't have any. Would you perhaps convince her to take them?"

He held the small parcel out to the dark haired woman. Miss Minnie had shockingly pale blue eyes, made all the more pale by her dark lashes, but she regarded him warmly, searching his face for something before nodding to herself, seemingly satisfied with what she found there. She took the wrapped gloves and chuckled. "You may not have known her long, Mr. Bates, but you know Annie well, indeed. I will tell her that the only way you would accept the salve was if I made sure she accepted the gloves. Does that sound agreeable to you?"

He smiled broadly. "Yes. Perfectly agreeable. Thank you. What can I pay you for doing so?"

"I'll tell you what: I'm at my property all day Mondays and Wednesdays and mornings all week. You give me your word that you'll come by and let me look at your leg and we will call it even."

He furrowed his brow. "How is that payment?"

She grinned, showing off surprisingly straight, white teeth. "I didn't say I wouldn't charge you for the examination and services rendered. Besides, it will make Annie happy knowing that your limp is being looked after. That'll help me convince her to take the gloves."

He didn't know what to think. Beyond the fact that he was growing fonder of Miss Minnie by the minute. He held his hand out and shook hers firmly. "You have yourself a deal, ma'am."

"Oh please, Minn or Minnie is just fine. Mrs. Ballard if you must be proper, but I am definitly no ma'am."

He chuckled, and nodded. "Well, regardless, I give you my thanks, Mrs. Ballard."

His body fairly hummed with hope as he rode Pharaoh on to the Central Hotel.

Annie Lark lived on egg shells, was accustomed to watching her words, her expressions, and the stories that the set and stance of her body told. She rarely let anything rattle her; was able to maintain her focus and the care with which she placed her feet, literally and figuratively. Not so since their train ride together. Memories of the brutality visited so senselessly on poor Eunice didn't help. She was clumsy and startling easier than usual. The only time she seemed to settle into herself were when she was immersed in her garden, working the floor, or reading. When Vi questioned her about the books previous owner, she nipped back, "Do you want to hear it or not?"

That settled the matter, because Vi enjoyed Annie's reading as much as any of her whores. Even the reading evoked strange feelings, though. The book, The Prince and The Pauper, was good but hit a bit too close to home. She wasn't sure which boy made her more uneasy, the prince trapped in the pauper's life or the pauper trapped in the prince's.

She felt decidedly guilty. For she had not agreed to ride down with him again this last Sunday. But she also had not said she wouldn't. She had watched him from the trees to the west of the depot, hoping he would realize she was not coming, and give up his wait. When the station master called them to board, he frowned and looked around once again. He shoulders slumped a bit when he finally relinquished his spot and walked unevenly to the nearest car. She hated herself for being cruel to him. She wanted nothing more than to clamber into the train car and join him. It would be so simple to rush in, and sit and chat and laugh with him. They got on so very well. She wanted to ask him about his life. To hear stories of his mother, of his youth. She wanted to know how he came to be employed by Lord Grantham. She wanted so very much. It wasn't right though, to allow him to hope, or worse yet, to give in and saddle him with the mistakes and missteps of her life. He was too good a man for that. She had walked away from the depot feeling defeated and selfish.

Stumbling through her week, she was so distracted she didn't even realize Thursday had rolled around. At least, not until Heinrich Kant, the elected fire marshal clomped through the doors of the Garden in his freshly shined boots. It was no challenge to slip into a shadowed corner and disappear. She settled into a chair near Salmon Joe, who opened his mouth with a sloppy, soused-looking smile. He snapped it audibly shut again at the pointed glare she shot at him. The other few patrons in the place were quiet and solitary. It was the unspoken rule.

Thursdays at 4:00pm you made scarce and pretended not to notice that Vi was wearing her best dress. You certainly pretended that her hair was no more full, gleaming, or freshly braided and pinned than usual. She wore rouge and eye black, but only the slightest amounts, enough to liven her face, but not anywhere near the garish amount the girls painted on for nights in the lamplight.

Heinrich went by Hank or Henry, but most of the more unmannered of the town and surrounding industry referred to him as Herr Cunt. The fullness of his walrus mustache and the way the center of his upper lip peeked out of it only encouraged the moniker. He wasn't an unkind man, he just took his job seriously. Which didn't make him many friends. And his wife, Verdeline Kant, was a piece of work the likes of which Annie had never encountered. She was much younger than he, which was to say her late thirties to his mid to late fifties. She was a very vocal member of the local temperance league, and a bit of a zealot besides. She was decidedly vocal in her opinion of the local prostitutes, saloons, and dance halls. This did not help to earn him supporters amongst the lower born in the camp. Not that it really mattered, he likely won the election based on the votes of her proper church going acquaintances alone. He was true to her though, despite his affection for Vi, which, based solely on his tone was considerable.

Annie was curious about the story of the Kants' union, for they always seemed ... not indifferent to one another exactly, but decidedly unaffectionate. She didn't know either of them, not really, but she was curious. The Heinrich Kant she saw walk stiffly arm in arm with his wife was very different from the Fire Marshall Kant she knew from his visits to the Garden.

He always walked up to the bar, took his hat off, ran his boney fingers through his hair and set his hat on the stool next to the one on which he sat. This Thursday was no different. He placed a coin on the gleaming wooden surface that separated them, as was part of the ritual.

When Vi spoke, it was in a register she reserved for him. She took out two shot glasses and filled first one, then the other.

"You know I don't want your money," she said with un-characteristic softness.

"Take it anyways," he rasped. Annie had always liked his voice. It was gravel-rough voice, though laced through with honey when he was in the Garden. "Business good?"

"Lifting spirits is always good business. Selling them doesn't hurt either."

"No trouble then?" he asked. His tone was warm. Like the tone Mr. Bates took when he spoke to her when the were alone.

Vi laughed, dark velvet and throaty. Annie smiled to herself. Vi's laughs were as varied as the woman herself and all of them memorable.

"None as I can't sweet talk or apply a well aimed knee towards convincing to settle the hell down." She clinked her glass against hers and tipped her head back.

He chuckled. Stretched his drink out into three small draughts. Looked around the room, to the cast iron stove that warmed a corner during the colder months, and the fireplace that adorned the wall opposite the entrance. It was the only time they spent together, this weekly inspection visit, and he never neglected his duties. He pushed away from the bar and walked round and checked the lamps. Then she and Séam led him around the upstairs, through the whores' rooms and her office which doubled as her bedroom.

She never took him on his rounds unaccompanied. Not once. Annie hadn't thought on it much, but she realized with a start, that it was Vi's way of protecting him. Annie supposed that she could have Kant and Séamus inspect the upstairs alone, but her boss didn't seem to be able to let the lanky official out of arms' reach while he was in her realm.

When they were out of sight Salmon Joe tried his luck again. Annie stood and eyed him. "Rosie and Myrtle are working right now, but they are occupied. You can wait until they are finished, until I start working the floor in a couple of hours, or I can go get Blossie or Daphne for you now. Either way you know the rule, you'll need to visit the bath house; I can smell you from here." He pulled a face but stood and ambled off; presumably towards the bath house. There were times when she stomped around not caring if she crushed a few eggshells.

Fern appeared from her hiding place in the kitchen, looked around, and sat behind the bar. She threw a questioning look in Annie's direction.

"You know the routine, they'll be back down in a few. I'm making myself scarce so I don't get an earful for not making myself scarce sooner. Going up to Miss Minnie's for a bit. Need anything from her?"

"No but Dawn was just bitching that she is low on garlic and that herbed salt rub."

Annie grinned. "Can't have Dawnie unhappy. Sounds like I have a shopping list then, because we need more tea fixings, we're out of chamomile and rose hips and that soothing balm. Myrt used the last of it. See you in a few hours, love."

Minnerva Jane Ballard unhitched and wiped down the old nag inside the age silvered redwood barn. She had been young when her uncle and father had built it, still too small to help with much besides running about to find nails that had been dropped. That was long ago, before the War Between the States. Now her uncle was dead and her father was an old man, busy tending to other parts of the family in other parts of the country, leaving her to care for the property as she pleased, which suited her just fine. She swatted the horse hard when the sour sorrel mare nipped at her. "Quit it you; I know! You'll get your feed when you get it. Give me your other goddamned hoof and just stop." She squawked and elbowed the animal sharply when it found the fleshy part of her hip while she bent to clean it's frog. "I'm not like to improve your digestion, you ungrateful shit!"

When the cantankerous old mare was muzzle deep in her feedbag, Minn scratched her neck under her pale mane, slapped her rump and closed up the barn. She hadn't seen an adult grizzly in years, but there was no need to temp fate.

She scrubbed the back of her hand across her forehead and sighed. She was having a hard time shaking the lingering feeling of melancholy that she had had since Eunice's brutal death. (It was still strange thinking of her as Eunice and not Petunia.) Really, she had been murdered. She was sick to begin with, but after the beating she took, Minnerva was surprised the woman had lingered as long as she had. Teeth had been knocked from her mouth, her belly was distended and black from internal bleeding. Her ribs were broken; she could barely breath. It had taken her far to long to die. Minnerva closed her eyes against images that came anyway.

She had lived in these mountains for years. She had been visiting with her father when he and her uncle built the main house and barn. She moved to the property when her uncle died. Her father bade her see to the it shortly after she left Boston and the medical hospital. Her thoughts lingered on another broken, battered body. It hadn't been long after she helped Iana that she had had to leave Boston. She missed the darker-skinned, freckled ex-slave. Missed her with an ache that never went away. It had been nearly twenty years, just after the end of the war. She could still see those strangely pale green-gold eyes when she closed her own. She prayed that the woman was still alive somewhere - strong and stubborn as she was, there was real possibility.

She was grateful that she didn't know who had done it to Petunia ... to Eunice, for she likely would have found him and done something terrible, and then where would she be? Not helping any more of the girls in the camps or the jacks either. And Lord knew the town doc was of no real use to them.

There were some jacks and coopers and lime-workers that she would be happy to never have to see or treat again, but she worried about her boys, the ones who came to her with injuries or illnesses and then kept returning for her cooking and company. The ones that came and did odd jobs in exchange for dinner or a new pair of socks. Some days she felt like she mothered the whole of the mountain. She heard the crunch of footfalls and looked up to see Annie striding up the road.

"Annie-belle!" she called, putting her hands on her hips, the paper wrapped gloves in her pocket painting a broad smile on her face. "Just the girl I was hoping to see. How are you, my sweetling?"

She opened her arms to the slight young woman when she was near enough, and pulled Annie into a fierce hug. Snugged the pale head under her chin and rubbed her narrow back with slightly arthritic knuckles. Annie held on to her tightly and for a long time.

"Why you here?" Minnerva smiled. "You piss off Vi?"

The pale haired girl laughed out loud. "You know me too well, Miss Minn." She smirked and rolled her eyes. "Probably. I didn't stay around to find out. I've been a bit distracted lately. Forgot it was Thursday."

Minnerva snorted. "Vi still getting visits from the fire marshal on a Thursday? Didn't realize she was still smitten with Herr Cunt."

"Miss Minnie! You shouldn't call him that! It's not his fault his last name is Kant."

"Well, when the shoe fits," Minnerva shrugged. "He makes it too easy what with that ridiculous soup strainer of his. And he is a pain in the ass, always nosing around. Last time he came up here I gave him hell; threatened to shoot him if he made himself a nuisance. He didn't appreciate that I wouldn't allow him to inspect my bedroom. Told him only man ever to be let in that room is my husband, which isn't likely, seeing as I ain't seen hide nor hair of him since I was seventeen."

"Henry Kant's not a bad man." Annie nudged Minnerva with her hip as they stood together. "He just takes his job seriously; he is looking out for all of us. And rightfully so. Remember how bad the fire was down at Early's Trading Post? Three buildings burnt to the ground. We're lucky it wasn't worse. Lucky it was the rainy season and everything was wet."

"Yeah, yeah. That's what he said. And you know I don't really mind him marshaling around. It's just that the way he goes about it rubs me wrong. Beside, anyone as gonna fall for that boss of your's ain't got all their gears aligned and oiled properly. Lord knows what Vi sees in him, boney as he is; beak nosed and mustachioed as all get out."

"No accounting for what a body wants, is there?" Annie smiled softly, her thoughts obviously not on Herr Cunt.

"Isn't that the damned truth?" Pale, gold-green eyes came to mind. She sighed. Felt older than the trees her jacks were felling. Those were eyes that she would likely never see again. "Come on - I need some coffee and food. There are leftover fried potatoes and onions from breakfast. You want some?"

"Wouldn't say no," Annie answered with a grin. Minnerva looped her arm in the younger woman's and walked with her towards the main house. It was silvered redwood like the barn, and unremarkable save for the massive old-growth stump that rose into the air behind it. The house was built around the stump, butted up against it for protection from the wind. Or at least that's what she told people. No one ever seemed to notice that the wind blew towards the front of the house not the rear.

She left Annie to build up the fire and warm the food while she disappeared into her bedroom and to wash and change. The dark blue calico with pink roses and green leaves scattered over it was her going to town dress: pretty, but a bit too fitted to be able to accomplish much while wearing it. The green calico, the one printed with little brown birds was stained and worn, but soft and loose enough to be comfortable mucking about the property. Annie's gift weighted the apron, and make a crinkling sound when she tied it back on. The food was plated and the coffee was just boiling in the pot when she emerged, feeling decidedly refreshed. Annie was more than accustomed to making herself both useful and at home on her visits, and Minn liked that about her.

"Now, my sweetling," Minnerva piped up when she and Annie had eaten their fill. "What can I get for you today?"

"Not much. Just some of that herbed salt rub that Dawn likes and some tea fixings, and garlic." Annie's eyes went distant as she mentally checked off her list. "Oh, and your soothing balm and a little bottle of that sweet almond oil. The one Vi likes for her hair."

"An easy enough request to fill. You want me to put it on Vi's tab?"

"Yeah, well, everything but the almond oil."

"You want me to take the cash out of your tin or you want to trade?" As if she would take any money out of that girl's savings. She had yet to ever "take money out of the tin," though from time to time Annie requested it. As it was, she had been sneaking cash into the tin whenever she could. Minnerva thought herself a sorry person to be the only one in Annie's life she felt she could trust. She had been saving for as long as she had been with Vi; as much as she could when she could. Minn had been the holder of her savings for nearly as long.

"Wait, why are you buying Vi's hair oil for her?"

"I'm not. It's for me. My hair's been so dry lately." Annie looked sheepish. "I'll take trade if you don't mind."

It sounded like half an answer to Minnerva, who suspected it had more than a little to do with a certain tall englishman.

"You know I don't mind, sweetling. I'd enjoy some company whilst I take down and fold the morning wash. Then we'll get you fixed up with supplies and have you back to the Garden in time to keep Vi from bursting a blood vessel."

She had a sweet giggle, her Annie-belle, especially when it was genuine.

"You are just as bad as she is," the younger woman chirped, smiling. "Only in different ways, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Minnerva winked at her and grinned broadly. "But when you get to be of an age you stop giving a shit. At least if you are me or Vi."

The laundry line was strung between a fence post and the massive twenty foot tall redwood stump against which the main house was built. Annie set to work immediately, folding the half a hundred rags that Minn went through on any given day. Together they worked their way down the clothesline, folding sheets in unspoken unison.

"How you been, my Annie-belle? You ain't seemed right since our poor little Petunia got taken." Calling the girl by her given name proved troublesome as Minnerva had only ever known her by her Garden name. (The girl had told them on her deathbed, not wanting it to be forgotten. Eunice Clara Brewer. The child of Elias and Clara Brewer, parents who died of influenza and were in an unmarked grave somewhere in Kansas had wanted her name, their name to be remembered. Annie had asked Minnerva for money from her savings to buy the girl a headstone, but Minn wouldn't hear of it. Besides, the stonemason, Timothy Robertson, owed her a favor. He was agreeable enough to ensure that Eunice's grave was not unmarked. Minnerva had bade him carve the poor girl's parents' names on it too.)

A heavy sigh answered. "How am I supposed to be right after that? I hate knowing that whoever beat her is roaming the valley, free to do it to another of us whenever he wants. And Lit wasn't at the wharf Sunday before last when I went down; you know how I fret when I don't see him."

Minnerva smiled fondly. "Go down this Sunday. He will probably be back with a glorious story to tell you."

"I know, but it bothers me that his family is so far away. I mean I know Monterey isn't that far, but still. He has no one looking after him. I wonder if I shouldn't have gone to his rooming house to check on him."

"Sweetling, if you have thought about it in such detail it is obviously concerning you. Why don't you go pay him call? Take the early train down tomorrow; Petunia's ... Eunice's death is weight enough to be carrying with you."

"How are you faring?" Annie asked the question so gently, Minn could not mistake her meaning.

"If you tell anyone I said so, I'll profess you a liar, but I am poorly indeed. I've been patching up and tending folks for too long. Seen the cogs of this valley grind up so many girls and spit them out in so much pulpy mess. Shit, it grinds up the jacks and spits them out too. And then I'm left to stitch together the bloody pieces." She inhaled deeply, and sighed, opening her eyes, to find herself fixed in Annie's empathetic gaze. And then she was reminded of the contents of her apron pocket and a sly smile slipped over her face. "I passed the arnica off to your Mr. Bates."

"He's not my Mr. Bates." Annie rolled her eyes. Minnerva could see the way she turned a rosy shade of pink. "Thank you for your help, though."

Minn snorted and raised an eyebrow at the younger woman. "He's your Mr. Bates," she stated in a tone that brooked no argument. She looked the girl in the eye and with a smirk continued. "And don't thank me yet. He had a condition upon accepting it; that I would ensure that you accepted this." She pulled the sweetly wrapped package from her apron pocket.

Annie's face fell so quickly it made Minn want to weep. The girl held her hands away from the beribboned parcel as though it would burn her. "I can't. Whatever it is, I can't. He's done too much for me already."

"And why is that such a terrible thing, my sweetling?"

Annie's brow furrowed. "There isn't any way for me to repay him in kind. The only way I do have he has made clear he doesn't want."

Minn smiled gently. "I doubt very much that he doesn't want it, honey-girl, just that he doesn't want it to be payment." She thrust the small package forward. "Here. Open it. See what it is. You know I'm not letting up on you until you do."

Annie scowled, but took the package from Minn's hands. She fingered the ribbon gently, her expression growing wistful. "I don't know why he has to insist on doing things like this."

Minnerva snorted at her but held her tongue, enjoying watching the fair haired woman slowly and gently pulling open the bow and unfolding the paper. Her brow creased as she uncovered a layer of pale blue tissue paper. The crease deepened when she found the gloves themselves. Her chin trembled and she blinked rapidly, pressing her lips into a thin line. She brushed a single fingertip over the pretty leather and shook her head.

Minnerva couldn't keep the maternal smile from her face. "You're keeping those, Annie Lark," she snapped. "And you're wearing them. Don't you look at me like that. You need gloves and you won't buy them for yourself. Sweetling, it is alright to accept kindness from people. Not everyone expects something in return. Not everyone is kind because they want something."

"But he does, and what he wants, I have no business giving him."

"That so? And what is that?"

Annie looked away.

"No, you tell me. What is it? What is it that he wants?" She smiled, knowing the answer full well, and let her voice turn gentle. "He's sweet on you, honey-girl. I've known you for a long time and you are definitly sweet on him. More than sweet on him, I'd wager. I've never seen you act this way around any man. Or any woman, for that matter. And you know what? Sometimes the only repayment people need is for you to accept their damn kindnesses."

Annie opened her mouth to argue. Minnerva interrupted her. "No. You hush up, honey-girl. There's nothing wrong in the world with two people loving each other. Life's too short to fight with it, no matter what the rest of the world says. Take a lesson from an old woman; when you find someone you feel this strongly for and they feel the same, you sure as shit hold the hell onto that."

Annie sighed, but she carefully folded the tissue and wrapping paper and slipped them into the waist of her skirt. One by one she pulled on the gloves.

"He has a good eye, your Mr. Bates." Minnerva watched Annie open and close her gloved hands. "They look like they fit near perfect."

A slight smile tugged at Annie's lips. "They do."

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