A/N: Thanks to all my reviewers and fans. I really appreciate the positive feedback.
The library was quiet. Too quiet. Every creak of the carpeted floor, every whir of the antiquated heating system, every rustle of turning pages made Téa want to jump out of her skin.
She tried to focus on the words on the page in front of her, but she kept glancing up to look all around her, as if to make sure she really was alone. She shook her head. She was being ridiculous, she knew that. But the silence was making her flesh crawl.
She dragged her eyes back to the book. If she was going to be stuck here all Friday—or even longer, an inner voice groaned—then she'd better get her paper done. It wasn't like she had anything better to do, after all. Her eyes skimmed over the lines.
PUTNAM: It is a providence the thing is out now! It is a providence.
PARRIS: What's out, sir, what's…?
PUTNAM: (Looking down at Betty.) Why, her eyes is closed! Look you, Ann.
GOODY PUTNAM: Why, that's strange. Ours is open.
The words seemed flat and boring as she read them silently to herself. She thought wistfully of how she and Bakura had read the lines aloud together. It had made the story so much more alive and understandable. Experimentally, she read the next words aloud, Parris' line. "Your Ruth is sick?"
"I'd not call it sick," a voice came from behind her. "The Devil's touch is heavier than sick."
Téa whirled. "B-Bakura!" Heat rushed to her face. "You came in so quietly," she said in a rush. "I didn't hear you."
"It is death, you know," he said softly, his eyes burning like embers. For a moment, Téa was almost afraid—afraid of Bakura, his strange words, and the strange light in his eyes. "It's death driving into them, forked and hoofed." He paused, as if waiting for her to say something.
The lines, Téa realized suddenly, and she let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding. He's saying the lines. Her eyes dropped to the page and she read, haltingly, "Oh, pray not! Why, how does Ruth fare?"
"She ails as she must," Bakura replied, not missing a beat. "She never waked this morning, but her eyes open and she walks, and hears naught, see naught, and cannot eat." Though he quoted the lines perfectly, his tone wasn't the hysterical whine Téa imaged Goody Putnam using. It was quiet instead, smooth as molasses, yet dripping intensity. "Her soul is taken, surely."
A shiver ran down Téa's spine. With an effort, she turned it into a laugh. "I didn't know you were so familiar with The Crucible, Bakura," she said, her voice a little artificially bright.
He chuckled, but somehow it wasn't a pleasant sound. "It's a very fascinating play," he said, stepping closer, "about the human capacity for evil."
Téa suppressed a shudder. "I don't think that's the only thing it's about." She closed the book and laid it down, suddenly grateful for the barrier of the desk between them. "Are you all right, Bakura? You seem a little… odd."
"Never better."
"So, we're okay, right?" Téa edged as close as she dared to the elephant in the room. She watched his reaction closely.
"Why wouldn't we be?" He smiled. Was it her imagination or was that smile slightly predatory?
She bit her lip. "No reason. It's just, when you left so suddenly, I thought maybe you were upset." She was being paranoid. The silence and solitude had been creeping her out since they'd discovered they were snowed it. That was no reason to let her imagination run away with her.
Still, she couldn't quite help but flinch when he took another step towards her. "No, I'm not upset, my dear. Not upset at all."
She frowned. "Don't call me that." Alarm bells clanged in her head and this time she didn't try to shut them up. The way he was regarding her was downright unsettling. One kiss had turned him into some kind of crazed stalker? No, that wasn't reasonable. But ever since he'd walked into the room, he'd seem like….
…a whole different person.
Téa couldn't stop the gasp that ripped from her throat. A half-remembered memory rushed over her: Bakura's face, twisted in an evil sneer, looming over her, the other Yugi's glaring back at him, she and her friends dressed as Duel Monsters… There were other memories too, more insubstantial and confused… shadows and firelight… someone—Pegasus?—chanting… Bakura… a flash of light… nothing but darkness…. Her head spun, and she shook it to clear it. It couldn't be…
She stared up at Bakura, her eyes automatically going to his chest. Nothing. No Millennium Ring, not even a suspicious outline under his uniform jacket or a telltale glint of gold. Of course not. It was gone. Tristan had gotten tossed it away back in Duelist Kingdom. A weight dropped from her chest and she began to breathe regularly.
"Is something wrong?" Bakura asked.
Téa shook her head. "I was just being silly." She hugged her arms to her chest. "I think all this isolation is starting to mess with my head. Like Cast Away."
"We've been alone for less than an hour," Bakura pointed out, amused. "Insanity generally takes a little longer than that to develop. Still, maybe I shouldn't leave you alone anymore."
A tiny chill shivered down Téa's spine, but she dismissed it. She was done indulging her childish fears and daydreams—nightmares? daymares? She grinned at her own idiocy. "We could keep going through the play," she suggested. "I'm not even halfway through Scene One."
"If you like." He moved beside her, reaching for the book. "Mind if I share? I'm afraid I don't have all of it memorized."
It wasn't sharing the book with him that Téa minded. It was his proximity and the way it set her spine tingling and her mind racing in a dozen directions at once. But she couldn't very well say that, so she simply nodded. It was next to impossible to keep her mind on the lines she was reading when one part of her mind was remembering the kiss they had shared not long ago, while another part tried to block it out, and yet another part was still trying to figure out what it was that seemed so vaguely threatening about him. She managed to muddle through somehow, although her grasp on the play's events was tenuous at best. She'd probably have to go back and finish watching the movie after all.
She sighed and didn't quite manage to stifle it. Bakura looked at her. "Bored?" he asked, raising a snowy eyebrow.
"I'm just a little lost, I guess," she admitted. "They're still arguing about the witchcraft, right? What to do about it?"
"More or less."
"Is it going to be like for the whole play?" She knew she sounded whiny and not at all like the straight A student who blazed her way through half the library's classics section over summer vacation. It was just too hard to follow the play's plot and the ramblings of her own unruly thoughts.
"It will pick up soon," he assured her. "Let's keep reading, shall we? If she starts for the window, cry for me at once."
The abrupt transition back into the play made her smile. "Yes, Uncle."
They fell back into the rhythm of the script, Bakura reading for all the characters except Abigail. No more was his tone dark and detached from the characters. He was arrogant and almost giggly for Mercy—Téa could almost recognize the voices of some of the local popular girls—, soft-spoken and cowed for Mary Warren, warbling and hysterical for Betty. His acting challenged her to better with her own, so she pushed aside her confusing and conflicting thoughts and focused on delivering the lines with all the emotion she could muster. They were ugly lines sometimes, and she disliked hearing her own voice say them.
"You did! You did!" Bakura chirruped in Betty's crazed, childish voice. "You drank a charm to kill John Proctor's wife! You drank a charm to kill Goody Proctor!"
"Shut it! Shut it now!" Téa screamed. She was half-terrified to feel how deeply she meant the words.
"Mama! Mama!" cried Bakura, but the words were not so convincing. His attention seemed to be focused on Téa now. He was smiling.
"Now look you. All of you. We danced. And Tituba conjured Ruth Putnam's dead sisters. And that is all." Her voice was harsh and pitiless. "And mark this—let either of you breathe a word, or the edge of a word about the other things, and I will come to you in the black of some terrible night and I will bring a pointy reckoning that will shudder you. She drew a deep, shuddering breath and let her voice grow low and threatening. "And you know I can do it. I saw Indians smash my dear parents' heads on the pillow next to mine, and I have seen some reddish work done at night, and I can make you wish you had never seen the sun go down!"
"Bravo." Bakura clapped his hands. His smile had widened into a grin. It was an unsettling expression, somehow, and not cheerful at all.
Téa hugged her arms to her chest. "I'm not sure I like Abigail anymore." Bakura frowned at this, but she went on. "She's so… violent. There's something evil about her. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I'm starting to feel it." She shivered. "Maybe we should take a break."
"Hold on." He smiled suddenly. "Things are about to get interesting." With a long, pale finger, he traced the next words. "Enter John Proctor."
What are you doing? Ryou hissed. He railed impotently against the spirit that had taken over his body against his will.
An amused chuckle echoed through the shadowy recesses of his mind. What does it look like? Aloud, he said, "Go ahead, Téa. It's your line."
Téa's expression was hard to read, not because it was empty but because it was full. Her cheeks flushed, her mouth puckered uncertainly, her eyebrows arched, and her eyes were wide. Trying to pick out the specific emotions flitting across her face was like trying to pick out the individual threads of a tapestry.
Her eyes fell to the page as she read, slowly and softly, "Gah, I'd almost forgot how strong you are, John Proctor."
Ryou could feel the annoyance flash through his mind, but the spirit betrayed none of it as he spoke, in a passable imitation of Ryou's own voice, "Try to get into the lines, Téa." His voice deepened and roughened. "What's this mischief here?"
"Oh, she's only gone silly some-how." Téa squirmed uncomfortably. Ryou could see her eyes travel down the page, skimming ahead. Her cheeks flushed a brighter shade of red.
He flung himself against the mental barriers.. The spirit merely laughed as Ryou collapsed in a heap. Get out of my head, Ryou screamed at him. Get out of my body.
No. He leaned in closer to Téa. "The road past my house is a pilgrimage to Salem all morning," he read. His eyes flicked up to hers. "The town's mumbling witchcraft."
"Oh, posh." The stage directions called for a confident, knowing tone, but Téa's voice trembled almost imperceptibly. "We were dancin' in the woods last night, and my uncle leaped in on us. She took fright, is all."
The spirit chuckled, not just in Ryou's mind, but out loud. He bent close to Téa. His voice was low, smooth as melted butter. "Ah, you're wicked yet, aren't you!"
Ryou saw the tremor go through her, the red mount in her cheeks, and the look in her eyes shift. Leave Téa alone.
This is what you want, little one.
No.
But it is. You can't lie to me.
No! Leave her alone. Ryou put every ounce of strength into one last desperate struggle.
And was rebuffed, as easily as if he were made of paper.
Dark laughter floated over his consciousness. The last thing he was aware of, before the last vestiges of strength ebbed from his mind and the shadows overtook him, was his body—but his no longer—leaning in and claiming Téa's lips.