William only pretended that he didn't condone the rivalry between Mabel and Bordon. He'd shush them occasionally, when their butting heads meant a loss of focus in routine training or combat; but seeing conflict that didn't involve himself for once was an absolute treasure. Mutiny was always a concern of William's. He was terribly unpopular and not only amongst his own men. Why, his sour reputation was a regular topic of discussion for King George himself! But as long as he remained feared and above all, victorious, he was untouchable and continued to bend the rules as far as they would go.

Employing Mabel should have been the breaking point and it wasn't long before Bordon brought the issue to Cornwallis' attention. The reprimands flew, as always, right over William's head.

"If you keep the girl on," the chronically displeased Lord told William in council, "she will perish. Women are weak! It's inevitable. And her blood will be on your hands. Will you be able to live with yourself when that day comes?"

"I will, my Lord," William stated, blankly. He watched as the older man repositioned himself, uncomfortably, in his large chair. "The dragoons are my own. Mine. I am accountable for each and every one of them."

"The dragoons are a joke," Cornwallis hissed. "And you are the one who has labeled them as such. Hiring a woman?! You've been out of your damned mind from day one, Colonel. You consistently disappoint me and it's becoming clearer every day that you will never change."

"Neither will our rapport, my Lord. I provide you with flawless victories in exchange for ridicule-"

"Which you have earned!" Cornwallis interrupted. "Because, Colonel Tavington, your victories aren't flawless in the slightest. They are disorderly and grotesque."

William barely managed to shake this comment off. If there was anyone who could successfully get under his skin and undermine his confidence, it was Lord Cornwallis. He had humiliated William many times before. But since they were speaking in his private quarters, far away from the eager ears of that terrible O'Hara (to give just one example), William granted his commander a charming grin. "I get the job done, do I not?"

"By the skin of your teeth. The call is yours, but do you truly believe that you can handle the extra weight?"

"Women are weak, to use your words exactly" William pondered aloud, "and if there is anything that I have learned from years on the battlefield it is that weak soldiers are excellent buffers. The more the merrier."

"That is disgusting," his lip curled, "have you made it known to her that those are your intentions?"

"It is a bitter truth that every young recruit must come to terms with. But a lamb usually learns that it has been led to slaughter towards the end. My conscience is clear." It wasn't. For a long time thereafter, William's own words crouched behind his shoulders, ready to pounce at any minute. He had expected to dismiss Mabel that day and instead was the one to present her with her poorly tailored coat in the most unceremonial swearing in military history. She was an afterthought, a parenthesis, barely a soldier and yet, she was his responsibility. Her safety and fate were in his hands.

Mabel followed him everywhere he went, eager to impress and even more eager to learn. If she was disturbed by the carnage that she produced in combat, Mabel withheld her emotions with grace. William was open to educating her, most days, until his pursuit of the "Ghost" stole his attention away. Several days into her "employment", William noticed a new silence among his dragoons. He suspected at first that his youngest charge had faded into the crowd, just as he had asked her to do. But it didn't take long for her absence to wear on him.

"Bordon. Where the hell is Mabel?" William asked after weaving his way through the mass of weary riders. Bordon shrugged, naturally. "When did you see her last, you fool?"

"That would be… last night, Colonel." The clearly uninterested soldier droned, not even bothering to slow his horse's canter. "It's nice and quiet, too. Perhaps we can get some real work done now."

"Last night? Are you absolutely sure?"

"Look, she's the flea. You're the host. I'm just a disgusted onlooker, waiting for you to flick her away. It was just a matter of time-"

"-Enough!" William shouted, checking the crowd again only to confirm for a second time that Mabel was nowhere to be found.

…

It started in the night as nothing more than a dull pain. Mabel had willed herself to sleep, despite her discomfort. She was usually the first to rise in the morning, but the other soldiers had departed at dawn and left their sleeping comrade behind without notice. It was high noon before she awoke, covered in sweat and shivering violently against the damp ground. She traced her abnormally numb limb from the tips of her fingers to the deep crater in her shoulder that had become infected due to her negligence.

"Don't panic," she reminded herself, searching aimlessly for the strength to sit upright and finding none. "Don't you dare panic…" after taking in as much air as her lungs could hold, she called for her father and, as her desperation grew, for Annabelle and even Giselle. Nobody answered.

Her vision grew distorted and the formation of heavy tears didn't help matters. She could feel their warmth as the rolled along the edges of her cold face. She had been so preoccupied with learning the exact art of taking lives that she didn't even bother to ensure her own by seeking medical attention when she needed it.

The space surrounding her tent was quiet from what she could tell, peaceful. There were no immediate threats to her life, at least none that were coming in from the outside world. Mabel continued to tell herself to relax and that she would be able to seek help once her body regained strength. In the back of her mind, of course, she knew that this was not true. But if she was going to die, she'd rather go with a heart full of hope rather than despair. She meditated on cheerful, comforting thoughts as best she could and another name passed through her lips as effortlessly as a sigh, "Thomas."

She recalled his smile, his laugh, the way that his face lit up whenever she would appear for one of their "secret" meetings in the cornfields.

"You were the one with good intentions," she said into the silence, "you wanted to fight and be brave like your brother. I just wanted to earn my father's approval."

The traces of sunlight peeking in from the afternoon sky grew abrasive on Mabel's eyes. She closed herself off from the light and continued to imagine that Thomas was there. "I need you," she would whisper, "I need you with me right now." When she was growing up on the farm with her father, she would hear him at night, begging his late wife to haunt his dreams but to no avail. Even at a young age, she would speculate that her mother had abandoned him. Had Thomas- the ghost who promised to always watch over her, abandoned Mabel, too?

A sharp glare punctured her eyelids from the right and she turned to check its source. A dirty handheld mirror lay on its side in her semi-obsessively stacked collection of belongings. She took another deep breath of air, inhaling into the pain and "releasing" it through her lips- then, she reached. That simple stretch to obtain the mirror with her one good hand was excruciating and although it took several tries, she didn't stop until it was in her possession. She held the mirror roughly a foot away from her upper torso, slanted it upright and checked the damage on her shoulder.

It was worse than she had feared. The wound, no bigger than a buffalo nickel was ringed with shiny crimson flesh. The infection at its center was an even greater insult on the eyes. It had entered into her bloodstream like a plague and, judging by the protruding veins and sickly color of her flesh, her entire arm was likely to have been compromised. She'd have to move quickly if she wanted to save it. The only problem was, she could hardly move at all!

"Sit up, dammit," she demanded. Every attempt that followed failed. She remembered what Giselle had told her, when she was just barely old enough to handle the story of her mother's passing. Surely, Marigold Tavington hadn't brought her breeched daughter into the world without any medication or a single complaint only to have her perish like a coward in the woods. "You can do better than that. Sit the hell up."

Inch by inch, she bent her spine and pushed her weight upwards. The voices in the back of her head mocked her the entire time and perhaps, they were right to do so. After all, if the simple task of sitting was so extraneous on her, riding into town would be impossible, correct? She closed her eyes again, fat tears blended effortlessly with the sweat on her face. She was barely there, just a few more inches to go- it was then that Mabel heard a voice.

"Lay back down, Soldier." The rich, deep tone resounded in her ears. "That's an order."

Mabel knew immediately who it was and yet, she disobeyed. She kept trying to sit up on her own, despite her father's request. He laughed, only for a second before pulling her in and holding her with all of his might.

"Heavens, you are stubborn!" William grinned, against his will. He tried his best to remain as cold and calculating as ever, but the relief that he felt by simply holding her close was overwhelming. In his mind, he was merely assisting a dragoon who had fallen behind- an act that he would rarely, if ever, undergo. But there was something else at play here, too- something that he couldn't comprehend, but could surely feel- he was holding his daughter. "I've got you now. I'm going to get you the help that you need. Let go. Trust me. And let go." Mabel obliged and grew limp in his arms.

…

William wasn't there when she woke up. He had vanished with his men, without a trace. At first, she thought that it had been a dream or that her time in the 1770's had come to an end at last. One look around the quarters that she had been placed in for recovery, however, proved otherwise. It was a simple room and yet, significantly more ornate that anything she remembered from the 21st century. Velvet curtains the color of sage masked the outside world. Glistening furnishings made of real wood rather than particle board lined most of the perimeter.

The desire to explore pulled Mabel out of bed and she found that sitting, although it was still a challenge, was easier than before. She moved her hand down her shoulder and touched her fingertips, sighing in relief to discover that she hadn't lost her arm to the infection after all. As she tugged the curtains open and flinched only slightly at the incoming light, she realized that her room was looking out on a dusty yard with large gate composed of thick pieces of wood. Just above the fort's wall, a Union Jack was waving proudly in the breeze.

To the left, she could see what appeared to be stables. She grew eager to dress and report for duty straight away. But as she searched the room for her helmet and coat, Mabel found that no such items were waiting for her. Instead, a modest servant's gown had been folded on the nightstand accompanied by an apron and a pair of shiny leather shoes. Her career as a dragoon had ended before it began.