"Like as not he saw sense, Em," said Joane as she laboured over the dough she was rolling.

It had been a few days since Arnyd's sudden apology, but Emmeline was still confused by it. The anger she had seen in the clearing... It had looked so raw, so fresh... And then that night he'd sought her out and he'd apologised, forgiven her. It had scared her when he appeared so suddenly in the stables, but he had kept his distance and spoken quickly and quietly.

"I'm sorry," he'd said. "I shouldn't have— you didn't deserve it. I was wrong."

There had been something sort of... sincere in it, at least. Something different to the long-ago apologies she'd been given as the bruises started to form. But it hadn't made sense. She'd asked him to leave and he'd complied without argument. That wasn't Arnyd. Joane, who had heard plenty of tavern tales about Arnyd and as such had always respected Emmeline's decision, thought he'd simply come to his senses.

"It doesn't add up though, Joane," Emmeline insisted. "He was always so stubborn."

"Was," said the cook lightly, dusting flour from her hands.

"What?"

"Was," she repeated. "You were gone five years, remember. People change."

Emmeline nodded, though the explanation did not sit easy with her. Do people change in an afternoon? She did not think so. Joane handed her a bowl and a ladle, instructing her to stir the mixture.

"Anyhow," continued Joane, "He might've just been shocked to see you that day."

"I wondered about that," admitted Emmeline, whipping furiously. "I'm not sure if he knew I was back before then."

Joane did not look up from her rolling. "He knew."

"How do you know?"

Joane turned from the table and regarded the young woman with an odd look. There was pity in her face, and something else, something hidden that made Emmeline frown. Joane had never hidden anything from her before.

"A few nights before you arrived, he went to see your father. One of the lads had told him you'd be comin' back. Truth be told, I think he wanted your father's blessin' to try win you back."

Her father had said nothing of this. "And?"

Joane turned back to her rolling. "And what do you think? Your father told him you'd said no 'cause you'd meant no."

He'd said no? But all this time, treating her like a child... Emmeline put the bowl down and walked round to where Joane was. The woman looked wary.

"My father loved him like his own son, Joane. You know I never told him what Arnyd was. What he did. Why would he say no?"

"People change," the cook repeated, though Emmeline did not know whom she was referring to. She thanked Joane for her words and bid her goodbye soon after that, still thinking over what had been said and, perhaps more, what had not been said.


"I sometimes regret giving you advice, you know," said Septimus, hands on his knees to regain his breath. He watched her as she pulled herself to her feet and bent to snatch up her sword. Two days after her talk with Joane, she had come out to the clearing to find Septimus waiting. After cordial greetings, they had drawn their swords: their last meeting was not mentioned. They had settled easily into their usual fighting routines, interspersing their attacks with tips and advice. And apparently Septimus was not pleased with something he'd taught her.

She looked up to see him rubbing his forearm, where the black shirt showed a darker spot. He pushed his sleeve up to reveal a red cut where she'd caught him earlier. It was not badly deep, but it was still sluggishly leaking blood.

I should feel awful about that, thought Emmeline. I should be punished for harming a prince. I should be... No. He was her opponent. Injuries were part of the training, and she had never bothered before about her opponents' ranks. Now was not the time to start.

Nonetheless, Emmeline smiled apologetically as she sat down heavily on the warm ground beside where she'd tossed her bag earlier. She lifted the flap of her bag and withdrew a clean cloth and the small tub of ointment, something she took to all of their sessions, while gesturing Septimus to sit with her. He knelt next to where she sat.

"When did I do this?" she asked as she gently dribbled water on the cut and cleaned the pale skin around it.

Septimus screwed up his eyes as if thinking. "It might have been after you kicked me in the gut and took advantage of my surprise to lash out desperately in the hopes of hitting me." There was laughter in his face; he so often forgot, or did not feel the need, to school his emotions even after their fights.

It was still slightly strange to see him so open, so different from the stories that made their rounds. Though she was rapidly forming her own opinions on this mysterious man, she could not quite put the stories out of reach. They lingered in her head, making her want to govern her tongue or run. It was only through focusing on him as a swordsman, a man who had comforted her, that she could continue with a verbal spar.

"That was a considered attack, I'll have you know," she defended. In all actuality, she herself had been surprised at the opening and had indeed taken the opportunity to attempt to gain the upper hand. Her anger at Arnyd had probably contributed in some way to her desperation, allowing her to break through Septimus's usually excellent defences.

"Of course it was," he placated her as she took his wrist in one hand and used the other to rub in the ointment into the clean wound with the cloth. "I myself considered it quite frantic."

She pressed the cloth harder on purpose and he hissed, before laughing as he caught the intent on her face.

"A physician and a fighter," Septimus mused as he stared tiredly into the darkening sky. "I still say it's a strange combination."

She looked closely at him then, his eyes half-closed as he gazed upwards. The tension usually in his face was gone, leaving an odd sort of relaxation. He was a handsome man, Emmeline found herself thinking suddenly. With his strong features and dark eyes, there had to be more than a few ladies of court interested despite the stories. Hell, maybe even because of the stories. When he turned, sensing he was being watched, Emmeline let go of his wrist and turned back to her bag for a bandage, hiding the blush that had risen to her cheeks.

"Not really," she shrugged in answer, rooting through the bag distractedly. "People are always going to fight. People are always going to get hurt. Seems foolish not to be skilled at both."

He regarded her oddly for a moment, a small half-smile lingering at the corner of his lips as she wrapped the bandage without meeting his gaze. Finally he shook his head.

"It's a strange sort of logic, but I can't argue with it." She patted his arm to show him he had finished and he glanced down at the neat bandage before getting to his feet.

She smiled back at him, and something clicked. None of the stories mattered. As she'd told her father, the monsters in stories were not always real. Monsters were formed from deeds, not words. Arnyd was a monster, he was something to fear. But Septimus was not the man the stories claimed, not here. Here, she had someone else — here he was not a prince, not a villain. Here Septimus was a fighter, a teacher, and maybe even a friend. Here she had a man the people of Stormhold did not know and would probably never know. And she liked him. Emmeline nodded and pulled herself to her feet.

"Keep that bandage on tonight. If you come here tomorrow I'll look at it again."

He bowed sarcastically at her order. "Yes, ma'am." He was turning to leave when she spoke again.

"Arnyd came to see me a few nights ago."

She kept her expression carefully blank, and saw Septimus's eyes rove over it when he turned to her. He tilted his head questioningly.

"The day he met us in the clearing. He came by in the evening — he forgave me, and apologised."

Septimus raised an eyebrow. "I see. And does it quieten your conscience?"

Emmeline tried to read his face, but it was now as sealed off as her own. Tentatively, she let down her guard and he saw the guilt, the pain, the worry, the fear, still so clear on her face. "Not really," she admitted. "I can't help but think he did it for some reason I can't quite figure out."

"You have the mind of a cynic," he commented lightly. "But the conscience of a priest. The apology was well-deserved."

"Then why do I still feel guilty?" she pressed, moving closer to him. He looked down at her, his eyes careful.

"I would not let a fool's indecision weigh so heavily on your mind. Dall has forgiven you, you must forgive yourself."

Emmeline shook her head. "I was afraid you'd say something like that."

"Something like what?"

She smiled crookedly. "Something so reasonable that I couldn't argue with it."

"You surprise me," he said with a small answering smile. "I have no doubt you could argue with the stars themselves if the fancy took you." Chuckling, he left, throwing a lazy wave over his shoulder.

She smiled to herself as she settled down to wait for Neal's return. As she mulled over Septimus's words, a thought rose unbidden in her mind: a memory, clear and welcome, of her fingers against his warm skin as she cleaned his wound.


"Pass that brush will you?"

Emmeline stooped and grasped the brush her father had pointed at. She handed it to him and folded her arms across her chest. Geord began to brush Briar's coat, but paused as he saw how preoccupied his daughter was.

"What's on your mind, Em?"

His voice was concerned: she'd been quiet these last few days and it had worried him. Emmeline met her father's gaze.

"Do you still hear from Arnyd Dall?" she asked with feigned casualness.

Geord turned and sighed, setting down the brush and beginning again with a larger one. "You've been speaking to Joane, haven't you?"

Emmeline frowned and leaned back against the stall gate. "How'd you know?"

"I hear all," grinned her father, tapping the side of his nose. His face grew serious. "No, Em. Arnyd's not the man you left behind five years ago."

Maybe this was what Joane had been hinting at. She leaned closer.

Geord sighed, seeing her avid expression, and put down his brush. "You always were one for a story, weren't you?" He seemed to remember their recent disagreement and hastily continued. "Couple of days before you got back, Arnyd came to see me. He was drunk, and he'd heard you were coming back. I was in my bed, feverish, so I don't remember the half of it. He was so drunk I doubt he does either. But he kept asking for his dowry." Geord shook his head regretfully. "He went through the drawers, everywhere, shouting for his dowry."

That was an Arnyd that Emmeline could recognise. That was the Arnyd she'd left behind, the one her father had never known. Yes, she could certainly put those actions to the angry-eyed man she'd seen in the clearing. "Joane said he asked for my hand."

Geord nodded sadly. "He told me he'd win you back and he'd take his dowry. 'Course, I told him he'd do no such thing. One of the men down here heard the shouting and took him back to the barracks." He paused, sighed again. "No, Em, he's not your Arnyd Dall no more."

"He never was, father," Emmeline said softly. "He was weak for drink when we were courting."

Geord rubbed a hand across his face, and again Emmeline saw the tired old man she'd returned to. No wonder he tried so hard to protect her. Arnyd had scared him so. It made sense now, how he'd been so protective when he saw Septimus speaking to her. The stories of the prince were well known, he was simply trying to protect her from further hurt.

"I'm sorry, Em." He smiled sadly and took her hands. "I never saw it then. I think I was blinded by the son I wanted to the daughter I already had."

She let him draw her into an embrace and she felt a little of her guilt over Arnyd leave her. She thought of Septimus, how he'd said she must forgive herself. That was certainly easier when she heard of Arnyd's treatment of her father. She was angry at him now, for his no doubt guilt-driven apology that should have gone to her father rather than her. Geord felt her tense against him and pulled away. He smiled kindly at her, his hands still wrapped around hers.

"I hope you don't think me too much of a fool, Emmy."

Emmy. When she was barely thirteen she'd told him she was too old for that, but now she welcomed the feeling behind it.

"Nor you, I, father," she said, squeezing his hands. They stood for a moment in companionable silence before her father dropped her hands and chided her animatedly, returning a little normalcy to their situation.

"Come on then, grab a brush. Briar's coat won't unknot itself."

She grinned, skirting around the horse and handing her father the brush he'd set down. As she ran her hands over the rich coat, she found herself thinking of another horse, and its owner whom she thought she might just be able to fathom.


A/N: Thank you again for the reviews, favourites and alerts.

Also, anyone notice "Septimus's strong features"? Or should I say... "Strong features"? Well, it gave me a giggle.