None of this could be allowed to touch Marmee. Jo pushed away all other thoughts but that one, told herself that nothing else was of any importance. She felt tired and sore all over, and it took almost more energy than she had to keep from panicking, but she kept her face carefully set, and allowed herself to be led up to bed, not even pausing to glance back down the stairs at Laurie.

Marmee lit a candle without Jo having to tell her that she needed it, and sat down next to her on the bed, holding the little light carefully between them. For all that Jo felt she had lived out a nightmare in the course of the last few hours, Marmee's tired and lined face made Jo wonder if her mother hadn't been going through something just as bad for months all ready, as she watched one daughter after another sicken and die.

"Nothing will happen to me," Jo said, when she'd gathered up enough strength and presence of mind to speak.

"I think that something has been happening to you for quite some time now," Marmee replied. The words would have sounded accusing, if Marmee chosen that moment to take her hand, and hold it tightly.

"I--" Jo thought again of what she had seen that night. All she could comprehend of it was that it had looked like Amy. The memory of it was enough to take her breath away , and she could not say any more, even knowing how necessary it was that she speak. She thought of the girl at the window, and Amy's teeth, and the way that Laurie's arms had closed around her… and she held on to that last thought, taking from it the inspiration she so badly needed.

"It's Laurie," She spat out. She sounded terrified, but there was nothing to be done about that. "I promise, Marmee, that we weren't doing anything… well, anything terribly wrong." Jo flushed at what she was saying, but if she could make Marmee think that the problem was something other than bites and madness, perhaps it would be worth it.

This strange declaration only made Marmee look confused. She set the candle down on the bedside table, and then turned back to Jo.

"We only meant to take a walk together," Jo continued. Her mouth felt dry. She instinctively looked away from Marmee, but her glance fell first on the window, then her own scratched and dirty feet, and she couldn't suppress the shudder that ran through her. She didn't want to lie to her mother, and moreover she didn't like the lie that she was in the midst of telling. "It was a stupid thing to do, and you mustn't blame him, because it was I that suggested he stay at his grandfather's and meet me outside tonight. He's been so lonely and… I thought maybe… just maybe we would be good for each other this once."

Marmee put a finger on Jo's lips to silence her, but Jo only went on faster.

"But we aren't. I'm thoughtless, and cruel, and I -- teased him! And frightened him with ghost stories. I…"

"Jo, stop."

Jo could hear the disappointment and the concern in Marmee's voice, and realized belatedly hat she had been staring at the ceiling through most of her speech. Marmee smoothed the edge of Jo's nightgown, which fell just below her knees, and Jo knew that her scratches and scrapes were evidence enough that she had not planned to go out, or been in her right mind when leaving the house. She felt suddenly as if she might cry, and though her first instinct was to hide her face in her hands so that Marmee wouldn't see, she somehow merely found herself gazing dry-eyed ahead of her.

"Stand up now, and let me look at you," Marmee ordered, her mouth set in a certain way that Jo understood very well. Once Jo was standing, Marmee began by pushing her hair off of her neck, and searching once again for any marks, though she'd looked only an hour before. Her examination continued from there, and though Marmee's movements were quick and gentle, and Jo felt too dazed to pay proper attention to any of it, she had no doubts as to why this had had to be put off until they were away from Laurie. After she had finished, Marmee sat down on the bed with a disturbed and thoughtful expression, and seemed unable to muster the resolve to speak.

Jo turned away from Marmee and lay down, but she reached out for her hand and held it close to her chest even as she did so, half in apology, and half to ease the shaky, shocked part of her wasn't at all ready to be alone.

"Tell me one thing honestly, and I'll let you sleep for the night," Marmee said, leaning over Jo, stroking her shoulder as though she could not possibly touch her enough.

"I'll try."

Marmee did not continue right away, and when she did, her voice was urgent enough to make Jo feel that she was the wickedest daughter who had ever lived, for worrying her family so.

"Do you remember, fully, whatever has gone on this night? Were you awake or were you dreaming?"

Marmee's hand stilled upon her, no longer stroking, but merely clasping her tightly. Jo remembered Amy, and how much she hadn't known at the end, and was rendered speechless in wondering if it really had been Amy she had seen this night, and whether or not Amy now knew all the mysteries that had brought them to this point.

"Jo?"

"I could retrace my every step, if you needed me to." Jo said, and Marmee's grip loosened just a bit.

Jo did not remember falling asleep, but she remembered waking several times during the night and early morning, and being greeted not by the chilling gaze of demon eyes at the window, but by soft words and motherly warmth.

When Jo finally opened her eyes to find the room filled with cheerful sunlight, Marmee was fast asleep beside her. Jo sat up carefully, both because she wished not to disturb, and because she was genuinely surprised to find that night was over, and she was safe, and in one piece. Tentatively, she spread her blanket over her Marmee's thin shoulders, hoping all the while that this tender gesture wouldn't wake her.

Marmee had stayed with her through the night, and it seemed right to Jo that she should remain in bed to be there when Marmee awakened. After a few minutes, however, of lying against her pillow and trying not to think, she found her mind fixed most intently on Laurie. He had spent the night alone downstairs, with no one in particular to protect him from the world outside, or from himself. She stood, willing her footsteps to be soundless. Marmee would understand. Marmee always wanted her to do what was right, and entirely abandoning her dearest friend wasn't.

Laurie wasn't in the living room. Jo even lifted up the blanket, which he'd left in a discarded heap on the couch, as if she might find some sign of him lying under it. Laurie wasn't in the kitchen either, but Jo's father was sitting at the table, and he appeared quite as grim as Marmee had earlier.

"Six people were found dead last night," He said, in a toneless voice that Jo hardly recognized, "all of them within four miles of here. There could be more yet."

Jo's mouth fell open at that.

"Six?" She croaked, when her throat had loosened enough to let her speak.

Her father nodded.

"Christopher Columbus," She whispered, quietly enough that perhaps he might not have heard. She looked off to the side, away from both her father and the window, but the idea of all the bodies had fixed itself in her mind so that she half expected to see them piled up tidily besides Hannah's stove.

"I spoke with Laurie this morning. He told me what happened last night, or what he thought happened."

Jo had to swallow a groan at this, near dizzy as she was with the knowledge of what madness Laurie may have introduced into her family all ready, and with the reality of the even worse fate they had avoided.

"The boy's a wreck," Her father said, watching her intently, most likely trying to judge whether or not she was as well.

"It's my fault!" Jo said quickly, but try as she might, she couldn't make herself continue on with the same story she had told Marmee the night before. "Oh, what has he been going on about?" She asked instead.

Apparently it had been the right thing to say, for a look of tentative relief passed over her father's features.

"Do you not know?" He asked, and from the caution in his voice, Jo could have no doubt as to what her answer must be.

Unfortunately, that didn't mean she could properly form it, or do anything other than shake her head, and try to look as if she weren't still tangled up in the previous night's dread.

Just like that, all traces of relief vanished.

"Don't lose time placing fault," her father said, "something horrible is happening, and I don't want to see you, or Laurie, or any other member of this family become a part of it."

"I don't believe we truly saw anything last night," Jo mumbled to the table, for she had found that it did not look back at her as sharply as her father did presently.

"Jo," he said, and his voice was incongruously soft, "Your mother is the strongest woman -- nay, the strongest person I've ever known, but for everyone there comes a point that is beyond all endurance. You must keep yourself safe for her sake -- for mine and Meg's as well."

Jo felt she ought to say something, be it a promise of care or an assertion of her current well-being, but she remained quiet, for her father's words gave her too much to think of to allow for a hasty reply. She wondered how many good men her father had seen pass that breaking point of which he spoke, if he had ever stood on that that threshold, and if she herself wasn't approaching dangerously close to it.

"Whether you saw something or not, you were out there, and you may well have been killed," he continued. "There are times for bravery and recklessness… and if whatever is causing all of this death was something I thought you could fight against with a chance of winning, I would be the first to encourage you to go out and do it. But Jo, this is an animal, or a disease, if not something worse. Keep close to those who need you now, and don't go chasing after darkness that you don't understand."

And though Jo was quick to nod her assent, she found that she still couldn't look her father in the eye as she did so. She would do her best not to court danger, and bring more pain down upon her family. Yet, Jo knew that one could lie as surely through silence as through the most carefully crafted words. She would not chase after darkness, not at all. It was the darkness that was after her, and she had just committed the greatest dishonesty of her life by not saying so.

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