A/N: Okay guys, I'm updating, AND I have my computer back. Also, I should probably point out that the "It was raining." dealio is a spinoff of the "It's Raining." in My Sister's Keeper.

Disclaimer: Not mine.


It was raining. Raining in the drizzly, pattery sort of way that renders you useless, persuades you to curl up with a book and pretend like all problems disappear with the rain. Today, the clouds were too gray for even to most fun-loving of children to come out and play.

Nor loved everything about days like this one. The woody scent of the air, so different from the normal smells of the city, brought back her days at Kiamo Ko, when she would skip joyously through the puddle that gathered in the uneven cobblestones of the courtyard at home, like a present just for her, a bow of rainbowed light. The rain was her excuse to remember days when life was fair and her biggest worry was whether or not she'd get to sit next to daddy at dinner that night.

'Just wait 'till the rain lets up,' Binh had pleaded with her. But she'd known more than ever that now was the time to go. As she reached the end of the alleyway, certain that, by now, Raine and the others would be gone, she looked over her shoulder. Framed in the doorway, framed by the morning mist, were Raine, Merra, and Binh. An unfairly beautiful portrait of a family, one member short.

She turned away and rounded the corner, trying to pretend that she hadn't noticed, even from a distance, how tired Raine looked, how tall Merra was next to her mother, or the fresh certainty lacing Binh's features. She tried to pretend she didn't realize that, even though her loved ones remained the same in her mind, at home they were growing up without her.

The weather of the morning reminded her of her first conscious trip down this alleyway, her first renewed attempt at life.

Having become fully accustomed to waking up in odd positions and places, the first thing she noticed was the warmth of the bed. In the last blissful moments that are the companion to sleep, the moments right before the present comes tumbling down on you like an icy waterfall, she told herself it was a dream. A nightmare.

Disappointment washed over her as she opened her eyes. She could see a little thatch roof over her head and pliable bamboo poles from which hung an assortment of dangly little herbs and drying towels. Slowly, she turned her face to gather her surroundings. As if on cue, she spurted blood all over the floor, on the side of the bed, felt warm chills spread to her fingers and toes.

"Oh, dear, dear." And she'd seen Raine for the first time, short and dark with dark eyes that sort of creased at the edges, as though she never stopped laughing.

In the beginning Raine had taken care of Nor, though she was burdened with the weight of an unborn child. Nor recalled lots of sleeping, and blood, and smelly, steamy tea that burned uncomfortably on the way down, but even more so on the way up. Plague, she'd been told.

Nor shivered at the recollection and paused beneath an underhang on the pretense of gazing at some horribly gaudy red-and-gold thing in the shop window, though she'd never look the part to buy it. After wiping the rainwater from her cheeks, she glanced about.

How to get my way into Southstairs, she thought, inexplicably amused. Hm, well, that's easy. Paint myself green and parade around town.

Hell, she thought. I could probably say that I'm green within a hundred yards of Shell's precious palace and get chucked back into that place.

She remembered, then, how Liir had gotten in. Glinda could be her saving grace. She had started on her way already to the estate of the late Sir Chuffrey, along the canal, before she realized that Glinda was gone. She'd be in Munchkinland.

Maybe I can send word, she thought desperately, knowing that such a thing would take entirely too long.

This gave her an idea, and she continued on with renewed vigor, smirking in a disconcerting way. After all, she hadn't anything to lose save her freedom. Which is exactly what she wanted.

• • • • •

It was raining. Liir hated everything about days like this. Outside of the walls of Southstairs, he'd never felt any particular way about the rain. It was just weather.

In the prison, in his damp hole in the earth, he could feel the thick, wet air, hanging up near the corners of his cell like cobwebs of water spun into silk. He could smell it in the air, in the rough dirt of the floor. He despised the way it made him long to venture outside.

The soft tapping at the door caused him to jump slightly against the gravelly stone wall. He quickly raked his eyes across the cell for some means of hiding. A small, three-legged stool, a pile of his own waste. Nothing. Many visits started this way, with Liir closing his eyes and collapsing against the wall, hoping that, perhaps this time, he'd sink through.

Another soft tap. "Liir?"

In his time at Southstairs, he was referred to as Liir only by Shell. The others, the guards, the jeering prisoners along the halls, settled on "Ghost." Lately, he'd felt so invisible, merely a shadow of a person, that it was difficult to tell where Liir ended and Ghost began.

The soft sound of keys, like dull clinks of glass, sounded from the door. The light in the hallway was dim, but showed Liir the velvet, scarlet back of a man as he pulled the door closed behind him with a soft thud.

"Liir?" the man said, turning to face him.

Liir nearly shouted, his mouth falling open in shock and surprise. He attempted to speak, but could only stare at the hard line of Trism's chin, the unruly brown hair collapsing around his shoulders.

"Oh, sweet Lurline," Trism said as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He was on his knees beside Liir, brushing back matted blond locks and wiping away grime. "What the hell did they do to you?" he snarled.

Liir was caught up in the warmth of the fingers brushing across his cheek, the overwhelming scent of wood and drink and man. "I… they…"

"Shh, come on. Let's get you up." And Trism hoisted Liir's limp body from the floor and wrapped a solid arm around his back, holding him steady.

"Are we… going?" Liir asked, gripping at his ribs.

"I'm getting you out of here."

Liir felt grateful—hopeful, even—for the first time since he'd managed to get into the prison. He glanced over his shoulder for what he hoped to be one last look. There, on the floor, was the little drawing of Lena. For a fleeting moment, he debated retrieving it. Exhaustion won out and he turned away.

• • • • •

"I'd like to meet with Lady Chuffery," she announced for the twelfth time to the closed shutters.

"Have you an appointment?" The voice was so infuriatingly high and coquettish it gave Nor a strong urge to chuck something against the window.

"No! I have not got an appointment. I want in, now, and I don't care what it takes."

The shrill voice continued on, unperturbed. "Miss, that's all well and good," she laughed as though such a thing really was quite well and quite good, "but you're going to have to leave or else you'll be removed from the estate. I'm certain you've got no appointment."

Nor kicked the sole of her foot against the door, attempting to make a commotion without causing too much harm to her toes. The woman squealed. "Don't do that! Do you understand what you're kicking? That's genuine—"

Nor turned away from the door to see the blue and silver mass of the Troupe as they came about the corner, creating a big to-do and flashing their silver bayonets. She plastered a grimace on her face, screaming about the audacity of the system.

They fell into formation before the gates. Twelve men? It took an entire troop—she laughed, a troop of the Troupe—to bring in one pesky girl?

She glanced about and noticed the white strips at the dark shutters around the courtyard that were the neighbors' faces. Ever the Peacekeeper, Shell was making a scene of keeping the streets of his city safe.

May as well give them a show while I'm at it, Nor thought, screaming loudly that without citizen access to public officials, Clause Twelve of the Dewizardization Act was being blatantly disregarded.

"Child, keep your mouth closed." The head of the group, a man with cropped blond hair and clear, icy blue eyes, clasped his hand over her mouth. He could hardly have been four years older than she.

She bit his finger and snarled. "Don't touch me."

He dropped his hand from her mouth but kept her arms pinned tightly behind her back. The group of soldiers gathered around her and marched her down the street, some warped version of the Praetorian Guard.

As the palace rose before them, Nor began thinking quickly. She'd gotten the Troupe to take hold of her—that much had succeeded. But you didn't get thrown into Southstairs for holding a couple of screaming matches with the shutters of the wealthy.

The idea shaping itself in her mind was utterly ridiculous. The steps to the palace came into view around a corner. It would get her killed. She could see the emeralds inlaid in the palace doors. She had no choice.

She muttered furiously under her breath, screwing her eyes up in concentration. Her arms felt warm, hot, as if her body had taken suddenly to fever.

The group made its way into the dimly lit entrance hall of the palace as yellow beams of light erupted from the ends of Nor's fingers.

The two guards grasping Nor by each arm released her and jumped back as though burned. Indeed, they probably had been.

"Sir!" one of the guards cried desperately. The head turned to find that his men had stopped some ten feet behind him. Nor could see the yellow beams of light reflected in his widened blue eyes.

She felt as though liquid fire were coursing through her veins, as though hot coils were pressed against the backs of her eyes. Blackness overcame the pain and she fell to the ground, a limp little heap of gray in the gloom.