The scent of fresh flowers gently pulled Imogen into wakefulness. It was a slow rise from deep, strange dreams. One moment she was safe in the arms of a large, motherly woman who loved her, but it wasn't her real mother, and Imogen couldn't recall her name. Then she was flipping pancakes while two stout, dark desert-dwellers laughed and cheered when she caught the pancakes with skill straight out of Cirque de Soleil.

Then someone whose name she remembered: Travis. Travis kicking her, punching her, dragging her, his hot breath in her mouth, and she wanted to run but her body wouldn't move.

Last, Travis' nasty sneer resolved into Leon's face.

But he wasn't smiling. Imogen couldn't remember the last time she'd seen Leon without at least a wry smile on his face.

This Leon was clutching her; she lay with her arms at her sides, unable to speak or move, helpless as a corpse, and he rocked her upper body back and forth while her legs stuck out in front of her, still as fallen tree trunks.

"Imogen," Leon whispered, eyes brimming, mouth trembling. "Baby, I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. I didn't think he'd do it. Forgive me. Tell me you forgive me, Christ, Imogen, I can't live with this. Oh, god, wake up, wake up, wake up," and he melted into the delicious flower scent, and she was awake.

Warm. Comfortable. Thirsty, though; it was time to get up.

But she moved, and instead of eight-hundred thread-count Egyptian cotton, her fingers met twigs and dirt. She opened her eyes…

"Argh!"

And she batted the magenta insects out of her eyes. They turned out, once she had calmed down, to be flowers. And she was covered in more flowers, wild, feathery orange-red ones on long black twigs, twined around her body.

She lay on beige dirt in the middle of a circle of crooked, leafless trees. Through the trees, she could see an unfamiliar landscape stretching for miles. Dry flatlands broken by scrub brush and more of the crooked, finger-like trees. Above her head were flat, rolling clouds that blocked the sun. What time was it? Sunrise or sunset, since only half the clouds were lit.

Panic washed over her. Where was she? How had she gotten here? Her memories were a jumble. She remembered running from the palace with Hector, but that had only been a dream, hadn't it? She tried to grasp the specific details of the escape, and they swirled away from her, twisting free of coherence like ink drops in water.

She sat straight up, and the flowers fell away from her, and all her fears vanished as a new horror overtook her.

Beside her, there lay a headless body.

In a California Army uniform.

Leon, her mind cried, but it couldn't be Leon. There was a reason… he wasn't here, he hadn't come with her… They'd had a fight?

She shook her head.

Her extremities weren't working properly; she found she could rise onto her knees, but couldn't walk, and she crawled, petrified, to the body.

Memories came back to her, somewhat in order, as she did so. She was sure, now, that she'd run from the palace with Hector. She remembered standing with him, alone, in the Carson City ruins, while he played for her the horrible vlog recording of Leon ordering her death.

She remembered being on her own, wandering. Approaching a store. Friendly faces. That was all. How long ago had that been? She'd cut her hair off; now it was hanging in her eyes; it must have been months ago.

Leon had been in her dream. Apologizing to her.

That must be real. They must have reunited. But where was he?

That horrible dead trunk with its oozy, gaping neck seemed to loom over her, a mountain in the distance, but now she was at the body, pawing it, and it was human-sized again.

His size. Muscled, like he had been, but oh god, not only headless – damaged and torn, missing a hand and a foot, burned with acid, and smaller holes that had been made by bullets or nails.

She grasped the corpse's remaining hand. It looked like Leon's, but it was so damaged, oh god, how could she be sure…

The tattoo.

Gasping, trembling, she tried to pull the corpse's collar down. It had been soaked in blood, and the blood had congealed, melding itself to skin, turning the cloth collar into a hard, sticky mass that couldn't be moved by her numb fingers.

Crying out, she cast around her until her hand caught on one of the long flower-twigs, and she managed to lift it like a knife. To dig it into the bloody mess and divide cloth from skin, to pull the collar away like a sticky banana peel.

And reveal the middle of a long zark tattoo, one she knew too well. If she continued peeling away the cloth, she'd find its tail pooling on the body's stomach; if the neck hadn't been sliced, the tattoo would continue up, ending in a spiky, toothy, tribal profile on the cheek of the handsomest man in California.

Leon. The headless body was Leon.

In that moment, confused and disoriented as she was, the image of Leon she'd had for weeks and weeks in her head, of him dark-eyed and seething, whispering assassination orders to Hector, calling her a whore in as disgusting a tone as Travis had ever used… vanished.

All she could see was the tall, smiling boy on the beach. The boy who'd given her her first kiss under the Crystal Pier, while cold waves slapped the air and he wrapped himself around her to protect her from the splash.

She felt his strong fingers combing through her hair, heard his whispered, "Marry me," and his breath on her shoulder after she'd said yes and he'd clutched her into a hug that was half giddy relief, half fear.

His hands on her body, strong and gentle. His fingers, spinning the clasp of the Joystone, dancing across her navel and raising goosebumps.

The broken tooth.

She'd never see his face again.

This couldn't be happening.

Turned out, it had been sunset; the haze behind the clouds was retreating toward the horizon, and despite her thirst and fear, Imogen didn't move for nearly an hour; she lay stretched across the body's chest, clutching at the golden uniform fabric, trying not to let despair snatch her up into the clouds.

Leon. Leon. Leon.

Her husband.

Time passed, and she remembered what he'd done to her.

But had he? She had only Hector's word, and the video, but videos could be doctored, couldn't they? It was clear to Imogen that she was suffering from amnesia; who knew what had happened in the intervening months to clear Leon's name?

After all, they'd ended up together. Left for dead in the desert. But why wasn't she wounded? Why was she covered in flowers, while Leon's headless trunk had been left open to the sky, leaking into the ground, a smelly, bloody beacon calling vermin to come and feast?

And why was she still wearing her "boy" disguise? She and Leon must have been on the run. They must have been caught.

Perhaps Imogen's amnesia had come on because she was blocking out the trauma of seeing Leon beheaded.

God, it didn't even look like a blade had done it. The head had been ripped off, as if by an animal.

The thought of the fear Leon must have felt in the seconds, minutes before it happened filled her up, threatened to spill out like vomit, but all that came was tears.

She cried herself empty, and it was now twilight, but a faint glow came from behind her, the opposite direction of the setting sun.

Gasping, empty and exhausted, Imogen turned, and found a sight that would have amazed her if she'd had the ability to be amazed any longer.

A tall, bald, glowing man stood staring down at her. A meteor crater native.

They tended to look alike, but Imogen had seen this one enough times to recognize him. A needle of relief penetrated her heart; this man wasn't dangerous.

It was General Lloyd.

Her father had always respected him, and she had too.

Behind the general stood a large, silent group of people even stranger-looking than himself.

They were all beautiful, but not in a human way. The word angels flashed through Imogen's mind.

They had sculpted faces with pointed, almost cartoonish cheekbones, jutting chins, and high foreheads. Their hair was long and curled, in pale, unnatural colors: lavender, sky-blue, pink. She couldn't tell whether they were male or female; they all wore sleeveless, knee-length golden robes clasped at the waists, and Imogen saw no sex characteristics.

And their eyes…

Eyes without irises or pupils, eyes which nevertheless were clearly fixed in Imogen's direction.

"Pardon," said the General. "We made camp a few miles away, and our scanners detected no human life. Then, an hour or so ago, a signal popped on out of nowhere, and we decided to check it out. Looks like the signal was you."

Were they going to attack? Imogen didn't think so. Neither the general nor his silent, angelic army looked more than curious. Still, it crossed her mind that they might want to touch Leon's body, and her fingers clenched in his shirt.

"I said…" the general's voice was patient, but loud, and Imogen realized he was repeating himself; she hadn't heard him the first time. "Is there anything we can do for you?"

Imogen licked her dry lips. "Water."

Immediately, one of the angel people stepped forward, producing a long, calf-skin canteen, and Imogen drank quietly, not caring that she was the center of attention. Stagefright was beyond her shattered emotional capabilities.

"Your name?" asked Lloyd. "And his? How'd you get out here all alone? Where are your supplies?"

He hadn't recognized her. If she'd been all herself, Imogen might have been insulted.

"My name," she said, "Is Dusty…Graham."

Why she chose the name, she had no idea. It had been sitting on the tip of her tongue, and she let it out, easily.

"This man was a Journeyman in the California army. I was his… his acolyte."

Acolytes were assistants to militiamen, treated as apprentices. It was a softer path to military service than the traditional boot-camp route, and was usually reserved for noblemen whose parents could buy their way into the position.

"He was a good master to you?" Lloyd said sympathetically. "I can't remember the last time I've seen a soldier cry that way over a commanding officer."

"The best," said Imogen. "He was the best man that ever lived. Outlaws captured us. They killed him and left me for dead."

"Yes, I can see."

Now one of the angels opened its mouth, and the noise that came out was enough to restart Imogen's heart. It was not a beautiful sound, as she might have anticipated, if she'd given the matter any thought.

It was a hard, birdlike noise, a loud series of jabbering clicks. The angels seemed even less human than before.

"I know," said the general. To Imogen, he said, "They want to return to camp. A wave of rolling lightning is headed this way. We'll be scorched if we stay… and you will, too. Will you come with us, Dusty Graham? We're on opposite sides of a war, but you strike me as a good man."

Leon's shirtfront was still clasped in Imogen's fingers. Would she? Go with these people?

"I can't leave him," she said. Her voice was still scratchy and harsh from sobbing.

"We can give him a proper burial at camp," said the general. "You gathered these flowers for him? We can bring them. Place them at his gravestone. Come with us, boy. We've come a long way to find you, the spontaneously generating lifesign in the desert. And I could use an assistant. Someone loyal and brave, as you obviously are, to stay with your master's body this way."

Imogen looked up at the general. Experience had taught her, time and again, not to trust a kind face. But she hadn't learned the lesson. General Lloyd's sad, understanding expression made her want to trust him. Her knowledge of his service history did the same. He reminded her of Hector.

But…

"Who are these people?" she asked, indicating the angels.

General Lloyd smiled. Night had fallen, and he lit up the area around him as if he were a green-tinted halogen bulb. Around him, the angels glowed slightly, too.

"Dusty," he said, "You may have heard of these people, but I doubt you've ever seen them, since this is the first time they've left their homeland since before your birth. They come from Xalt Lake City, and they're called Mormons. Come. They won't hurt you, and neither will I. Please – do me the honor."

His massive, glowing hand was extended, and what could Imogen do but take it? He pulled her to her feet and led her behind the crowd, to a waiting horse; she sat behind him in the saddle, and the position felt natural – like it had been waiting for her to fill it.

The Mormons didn't ride; they walked swiftly and silently, so much so that Imogen believed their feet weren't touching the ground, but hovering a centimeter or two above it. They skimmed along as if on an oil slick. The largest of them carried Leon's body like it was hollow. His face revealed nothing, but he cradled the body protectively, and never let it touch ground until, at a large military encampment, a deep grave was dug. Leon was placed there, in a simple, white coffin, and buried with military honors.

And the next day, General Lloyd told a thin and frightened, but saner, Imogen the story of the Mormons, and why they were planning to fight alongside the Arizona Minutemen in an attack on California.