"You guys," said Rane, pointing around Arthur's shoulder. "On your left."

Arthur, Dutch and Micah all looked up, following her finger. The four of them were riding toward a plain, the three horses' hoofbeats loud in the waning afternoon light, Rane clutching Arthur's waist.

"What d'you see, my girl?" said Dutch, squinting.

"Couple of dudes with guns," said Rane. "They're watching us."

"I don't see nothin'," said Dutch, shading his eyes with his hand.

"Nope. She's right, I see 'em too," said Micah, peering up the hill. "Two or three of 'em."

Arthur squinted toward where Rane had indicated and finally spotted the men, too. They were far, barely more than specks, but he could see what was clearly a rifle in one of their hands. Lookouts, no doubt about it.

"What d'you reckon, Morgan?" said Micah. "O'Driscolls?"

"Like as not," Arthur muttered, looking at Dutch. "I don't like havin' eyes on us. Makes me nervous."

"Well, pretty soon, we will have eyes on them too," said Dutch confidently.

"Pearson mention how many of these fellers are supposed to be turnin' up?" Arthur asked, still looking suspiciously at the men on the hill. They were following their progress pretty obviously, their weapons held across their chests.

"Nah, but Colm won't be comin' alone," said Micah. "He'd be a fool to, and we'd be worse to expect it. I'd guess maybe half a dozen tops. Nothin' we can't handle."

"Rane, are those sniper rifles?" Arthur asked Rane, turning halfway to look at her.

Rane snorted. "I wouldn't know a sniper rifle from a frag grenade, Arthur."

"There'll be a scope on top, or a sight. Sort of a long skinny thing. Lil' bit wider at the business end."

Rane squinted. "Then yeah, one of them does."

"Damn." Arthur kicked his horse into a brisk canter, pacing Dutch and Micah. "You sure about this, Dutch?"

"Arthur, it's gonna be fine," said Dutch. "Have a little goddamned faith, would you? I know what I'm doin'. Besides, we got more firepower behind us. If Colm tries doin' something foolish, we got a girl here could blow him right outta his shoes."

Rane felt a pang of dismay at this. "I thought you just wanted me to scare them?"

"Well, sure," said Dutch, looking back at her. "But if it comes to it, you can take a man down with that thing, can't you?"

"They got a spell for killin' folk?" Micah asked, looking curious in spite of himself.

"Yeah, but it's very, very illegal," said Rane uneasily. "And MACUSA already caught up to me once."

"Well, if you ride with Dutch Van der Linde, the law's gonna follow," said Micah, quite unsympathetic, turning from her. "If you ain't got the stomach for it -"

"Shut up, Micah," said Arthur roughly. "Quit antagonizin' everybody."

"You got us or not, Miss Roth?" said Dutch, looking back at her, his eyes dark and forbidding.

Rane nodded, a trifle dismayed by how eager she was to please him. No damn wonder all these people followed him. He was a presence to be reckoned with.

"If it comes to it, yeah."

"That thing can shoot all the way down to the valley?" said Micah skeptically.

"Further than that, if need be."

"Horseshit."

"Well, go stand down there real still and see for yourself."

"Hush, now," said Dutch before Micah could respond to this jest. "You got our backs, don't you, Miss Roth?"

"Yeah, I've got you guys."

"Good. See to it that you do." Dutch pulled his horse to a halt, and Micah and Arthur followed suit. "There, Arthur. You'll have a good vantage point. Keep low, don't let 'em see you. Either of you."

He was nodding toward an overhanging cliff not far from the trail. Arthur steered his horse toward the overlook, looking backwards with clear worry.

"You be careful, Dutch," he said. "I mean it, now. However this shakes out."

"My dear, trusted friend," said Dutch, and spread his arms expansively, the late afternoon sunlight catching on the gold at his lapels and the breeze ruffling his dark curls. For a moment he looked almost saintlike. "If you're lookin' out for me, I would gladly walk into hell itself."

"Come on, Dutch," said Micah, his horse pawing impatiently. "Let's get this over with."

The two of them turned and galloped off. Arthur watched them until they were out of sight, his face cramped, then turning steered the horse toward the cliff.

THE overlook was a perfect bird's nest if Arthur had ever seen one. He could see for miles, and the air was profoundly clear, the wind hard and cool and the sun shining overhead like a beacon. He peered over the westerly side, looking down warily. Far beneath them, he could see Dutch and Micah running their horses toward the meeting spot, scarcely more than specks among the grasslands. It was wide open, and there wasn't cover in sight. He could have killed Dutch himself for that alone.

"Couple of goddamn fools, out in the open like this," he muttered. "Used to be the man had a little bit more sense than all this."

"You don't think this Colm dude is gonna play it cool, do you?" Rane remarked. She was peering toward the north, and when she turned back to Arthur he felt his heart falter a little in his chest at the sight of her. She was painfully beautiful, slender and tall, both hands on her hips, her hair thrown back in the wind and the late sunlight casting her face into sharp resolution. It was all he could do not to fall to his knees and confess himself to her right then and there. Christ, but didn't he have it bad.

"No, I do not," said Arthur, tearing his eyes away from her with an effort. "The kind of crap between those two boys don't just go away. Dutch has been hangin' onto it with both hands for years now."

"Dudes riding up from yonderways. Look" Rane was pointing south.

"Shit. Get down, Rane." Arthur dropped to his hands and knees, army-crawling toward the edge of the rock. Rane followed suit, falling onto her belly at his side and peering down over the plains. "Stay low so they don't see us."

Rane did, folding her hands palms-down in the grass and resting her chin on them, watching Dutch and Micah far below. Arthur had pulled the rifle from his shoulder and was aiming it toward the plains, one eye squeezed shut and the other peering through the sights. Dutch and Micah sprang into lurid detail.

"So Colm killed someone Dutch cared about?"

"Mmhmm. His girl Annabelle."

"Why?"

"Retribution. Dutch broke truce and killed Colm's brother. Just bein' a hotheaded old fool like usual. Landed us in a world of shit, that did. We been feudin' with 'em ever since." Arthur adjusted the scope with one hand, his lips pulled back into a sneer against the sunlight. "He likes to talk like it's all Colm's fault, but he's just as bad. Worse, in some ways."

Rane, who knew a thing or two about retribution for a slain lover, said nothing, merely continuing to watch the tiny forms below them. Arthur, ever intuitive, glanced askance at her, a small smile on his face.

"Penny for 'em, ma'am."

"Nothing. Well . . ." Rane shook her head. "If I had a chance to parley with the woman who killed Sirius, I wouldn't have made it this far. I'd have killed her where she stood."

"And so you did."

"So I did. Dutch, though . . ." Rane gestured toward him, flagrantly discernible even from such a distance with his black and red vest and his gold chains twinkling in the sun. "He's down there doing it anyways. Makes me see why you guys like him so much, that's all. There's no way in hell I'd have the guts to forget what Bellatrix did and just saunter up to her like he's doing with Colm right now. He's doing it for you guys. For his family. And that seems pretty decent to me."

Arthur shook his head, peering down the sights again. "Yeah, well, Dutch ain't always all he's cracked up to be. He gets some damned idea like this into his head and the dogs of hell can't drag him away from it. Sometimes I think it ain't so much about us as it is about his goddamned ego. And I've known him since I was a boy not much younger than you."

"They're talking," said Rane softly. Arthur glanced at her, pulling the rifle away from his face.

"You can see 'em?" he asked, then shook his head. "'Course you can. Can ya hear any of it?"

"Little touch," said Rane. "Dutch is pissed. He's talking about Anabelle."

"Well, that's just great," said Arthur sighing roughly and sighting them through his scope again. "He's liable to start trouble."

"The guys behind him aren't armed," Rane remarked, looking longways at Arthur. "That's weird, right? I mean, they've got guns, but -"

"Well, none of this feels very good to me," Arthur told her honestly. "Keep your eye on -"

"Hey!" Rane gasped, and Arthur rolled around just in time to see the butt of a gun coming for his head. Then it was darkness.

THE next time Rane came to, she was trussed in a shed. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the candlelight, looking around her.

"Fuck," she muttered, wincing. Her head was thumping evilly. Whatever had happened to her to land her in this place, she'd gotten a good hard blow to the brain somewhere along the line, that was for sure. She could feel the crust of dried blood beneath her nose and sniffed roughly, wriggling it experimentally. Not broken, at least, but sore as hell. Her neck hurt from sitting here in this stupid position, too, with her shoulders hunched over and her head dangling between her knees. It was night outside; the crickets were loud, and beyond the door to her right she could see the glint of starlight through the trees. Out for a good few hours, then. Kidnapped, clearly. It was too like the night the Pinkertons had snatched her up for comfort, and Rane felt a little caress of panic.

Quit with that. The voice of her father, ever present in her most testing times, hard and cool and grimly amused. Don't you go to pieces, girl, you were raised better than that. You know what to do. Figure out where you're at, figure out how to get out, figure out how to lay out anybody in your way. You're one of the Eldar, for fuck's sake, so start acting like it.

She looked around her. It was a little place, anyways, dirt-floored and stacked floor to ceiling with hay bales near the entry. There was a dusty dresser nearby, and on top of it was a candle, burning lustily in the darkness. The air was redolent of sheep and horses. A barn, like as not, or some kind of storage shed. Her sword was hanging on the wall some four or five feet away, still sheathed, but it had been placed back into its holster inexpertly, with half the blade hanging out. Somebody had been into her shit.

"Fuckin' fuckers," Rane murmured, looking down at herself. Her hands were bound behind her, pulling her muscles tight, and her feet had been tied at the ankles, stretched out in front of her. She could feel the singing discomfort in her lower back and knew that if she got out of here she'd hurt for days from this little vacation. "Touching my goddamned stuff."

Think, girl. How'd you get here? How do you get back out?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember how this had happened. Arthur sprang to her mind at once, lying supine on the dirt, the sniper rifle clutched expertly in his hands as they scoped out the meeting. Dutch and Micah, far below them. And then she'd spun around at his side, sensing a third presence a beat too late, and the butt of a gun had been coming down on her.

"Set up. Fucking set up."

Great. Good work, Sherlock. The voice of her father, dry and amused. They took your sword. So what else you got to work with? Are you a witch or not?

Rane felt a little flicker of hope spring to life in her belly. With an effort she wriggled around, craning her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of her ass, fully aware of how ridiculous she must have looked with her long hair in disarray and her face crusted with blood, twisting herself around and grunting. After a moment she sighed with relief, relaxing. Her wand was still in her pocket. Whoever had taken her hostage - O'Driscolls, she presumed - had stripped her of her sword, but they hadn't thought to take her wand. They hadn't known any better. Woe unto them.

"Accio wand!"

It flew to her bound hand obediently enough. There was a bad moment in which she nearly dropped it, and had to dive sideways, knocking the cabinet with her shoulder and cursing, but in the end she caught it between her palms, her breath stirring up dust on the floor and scattering hay.

"Gotcha, you little bastard."

There was a flash of yellow and the ropes fell away from her. Rane got to her feet awkwardly, brushing herself off and looking toward the doorway. There were voices outside, and Rane crouched low, creeping toward the doorway, her eyes flicking back and forth. She could just see the two men guarding the shed; they were leaning against the doorway, guns lax, passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth. Neither seemed in the least bit aware that Rane had broken out of her binds, despite the noise. Employee of the month material right here, Rane thought with a smirk. Somebody get these boys a raise.

"I ain't signed up to watch a bunch of Van der Linde's goddamned fools all night -"

"Oh, hush. You're gettin' paid, ain't ye?"

"Barely."

"What ya think old Colm's sayin' to Arthur Morgan over yonderways?"

Rane felt a little cold swoop in her belly. So they'd gotten hands on Arthur, too. That was bad news indeed. Not exactly a masterminded plan, she thought, but it was pretty clear what the idea had been; distract old quixotic Dutch Van der Linde while he tried to make his manners, snatch up old guns-and-muscle Arthur Morgan and hang onto him for leverage. Only they'd gotten old unknown-quantity Rane Roth in the fray, and they'd crept right up on her like she was deaf, dumb and blind. She cursed herself for not reacting more quickly. Used to be God himself couldn't get the spring on her, and just look at her now. Taken hostage by a bunch of backwoods assholes, for the second time in a week. Losing your touch, she thought wryly. She aimed her wand.

"Petrificus totalis! Stupefy!"

Both the O'Driscolls fell to the ground with a thud. Rane snatched her sword from the door and buckled it at her belt, striding out of the shed and glaring down at the two men. The Petrified one looked up at her with clear horror, the bottle of whiskey overtured and gurgling its contents into the dirt.

"Always disarm your yardbirds," she said, and toed him with her boot. "Amateur."

There was a wail of pain up ahead, and Rane turned sharply, getting a lay of the land. There was a bunker, some ways off to the north, and light was streaming between the two doors. She hunkered down, keeping low.

" . . . they ain't the forgettin' sort," a voice came from within the bunker, faint, and Rane's stomach froze. It was Arthur, and he sounded bad.

She shrunk behind a patch of grass, hand on the hilt of her sword, watching warily as a pair of men staggered past. They came within grasping reach of her, but neither one noticed anything awry. They were laughing and clutching each other. Rane watched them stride off with vague amusement.

"If I was a snake, I woulda bit you," she murmured to herself, moving on. Christ, but these guys were idiots.

Once she was at the mouth of the little basement she crouched on the steps, looking in, and her heart seemed to clench inside her. Arthur hung by his ankles, stripped of all but his long Johns, his hands dangling and his face bloodied and pale. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair wavering beneath him and catching the low candlelight, and beneath his hanging head was a pool of blood, glistening black in the flicker. He had been shot, and it looked bad; the wound was on his shoulder, and it was deep and hellishly vivid. Blood pattered down from it steadily.

A tall, lanky man stood before him, wielding a cattleman's pistol and pacing back and forth, looking easy and amused. Rane had only seen him from a distance before this moment, but she knew who he was right away; she recognized the flyaway gray hair and the wide, grim mouth. Colm O'Driscoll. So Dutch's little social call had gone awry, after all.

"The girl," Arthur was saying, his voice strained. "What'd you do with the girl?"

"Shot her dead," said Colm with no trace of hesitation, still pacing before Arthur and looking terribly pleased with himself. "She ain't no use to me. Dutch ain't gonna come ridin' in to save her, now is he?"

Arthur moaned low in his throat at this, his eyes falling shut. It was a sound of genuine grief.

"Oh, Colm, you son of a bitch. You didn't."

"Come on now, Arthur, I never took you for the sensitive type," said Colm, grabbing a handful of Arthur's shirt and tipping his face sideways to look at him. "The world's full of nice ladies. Guess your man Dutch is just gonna have to find another one."

"The hell did she do to you?" Arthur said roughly, and even hung by the feet and bleeding onto the dirt his voice was rife with vitriol and his eyes were flashing. Colm released him, stepping back a pace, and Rane didn't blame him. If Arthur Morgan had ever looked more like the killer he was in that moment, Rane hadn't witnessed it yet. "She was just a young damn girl, Colm -!"

"Oh, I didn't realize I was 'spose to get your permission before decidin' what to do with my own boys, Arthur Morgan," said Colm, and without warning kicked him twice, hard, in the chest. Arthur flailed helplessly, writhing, crying out in agony, blood dashing from his wound and smattering on the ground.

Rane had planned to Stun Colm right up until that moment, but when she saw Arthur's face contorted with pain, a fury so sudden and fierce fell over her that she saw red. She straightened, striding down the stairway slowly. Her fingers strayed to the hilt of her sword, wishing badly to draw and run him through, and it was only the thought of Dutch catching heat that stayed her hand. Arthur caught sight of her around Colm, his eyes widening, and Colm turned as well, following his gaze. For a moment he simply gaped at her.

"How'd you -?" Colm began, but Rane had drawn her wand and pointed it at him in the space of a second.

"CRUCIO!"

Colm fell to the ground at once, the gun clattering from his grasp, his mouth turned down into a moue of anguish, trembling all over and clutching at his throat. Rane stood over him, wand still leveled, watching him with a combination of curiosity and satisfaction. She had never performed a Cruciatus curse in her life, had never even come close, and the easiness of it had surprised her a little. Looking down on Colm, writhing on the floor, his eyes leaking tears of agony, she felt not a single iota of pity. The image of the blood dashing from Arthur's wound kept recurring to her. She knelt beside him in the dirt, her boots grinding against the silt, and gazed at him squarely, unsmiling.

"If I let up and you call for your boys," she said coldly, "I'll snatch the breath right out of your chest, and then I'll kill all the rest of them for good measure. You look in my eyes and tell me I'm lying."

Colm did, his lips peeled back into a snarl of pain. Rane lifted her wand, letting its tip point at the ceiling. Colm collapsed into a heap on the ground, weeping with relief.

"What the hell are you?" Colm gasped, glaring at her.

"I'm nobody," said Rane, getting to her feet. "Incarcerous."

Colm fell back onto the dirt with a flump, bound in an instant with thick rope. Turning from him, Rane pulled her sword and swung it with a clang, and Arthur fell to the dirt, coughing hoarsely. She knelt beside him, slinging one of his arms around her neck. His skin was cold and clammy beneath Rane's touch.

"Well, if it ain't the magician." Arthur laughed hoarsely. "Just in the nick of time. Bet ol' Colm over there was wishin' he'd been a little bit nicer now . . ."

Colm, who was squirming on the dirt, looked between them over his gag, eyes wild.

"He said he'd shot ya," said Arthur, looking at Rane with naked relief. "I sure am glad he was bluffin', and I ain't afraid to say."

"The day I let some inbred rube like that shoot me is the day I hang up my sword," said Rane, low. "Keep your voice down, there are a bunch more outside."

"That son of a bitch," Arthur moaned, getting laboriously to his feet with Rane beneath one arm. "Goddamned setup. Dutch shoulda known better."

He groaned roughly as the fabric of his shirt pulled over the wound in his shoulder.

"You're hurt bad, sunny Jim," Rane remarked, looking at him worriedly. His face was as pale as milk and the dampness of the blood over the wound was spreading now that he was on his feet. His weight sagged against her, and his breath came in short little bursts. "You're gonna have to let me fix you up."

"How in the hell are we gonna get back to camp?" said Arthur. "I dunno that I can ride like this -"

Rane shook her head. "I'm gonna Apparate us."

"Your're gonna what, now?"

"Apparition. We're gonna go out of being and come back to where I want us to go. It's gonna make you sick, and it feels sort of weird, but it's fast."

"Sounds great," said Arthur grimly. "How's it work?"

"Never mind, just hush." Rane pulled him close to her. "Hold onto me, Arthur. I mean it, unless you want to come up short a leg."

He hugged her to him, and in the space of a second they had vanished in a flash of light from the O'Driscolls' camp, leaving Colm fishtailing on the dirt and wondering if he'd gone completely mad.

ARTHUR Morgan was halfway to death's doorstep when he and Rane appeared with a pop at the entrance to Clemens Point, but the nausea that overwhelmed him when they landed felt vital enough. He leaned over away from Rane, clutching his stomach, gagging hoarsely. Rane watched him with grim sympathy.

"It'll pass," she said, touching his back gently. "It's kinda weird, your first time."

"Christ, it's awful," Arthur gasped, shaking his head. "Like bein' squeezed through a keyhole or somethin'."

"You get used to it." Rane slung his arm around her neck again. "Grab onto me, Arthur, I wanna take a look at that hole in you."

"Ain't a very ladylike request," said Arthur wryly, but he allowed her to pull him to his feet nonetheless. She held up beneath his sagging weight easily enough, despite him outweighing her by a good forty pounds or so, and Arthur had a moment to reflect on the way she'd flung her sword around earlier that day. As strong as she was strange, that much was certain.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her, looking down at her. "Your face is all bloodied up, girl."

Rane looked up at him from beneath her brows, her hair pulled taut beneath his arm, and with her free hand wiped at the crust of blood beneath her nose a trifle self-consciously. "They just clocked me, I'm fine. I can't believe I didn't hear them coming up behind us."

"Yeah, well." He grunted, clutching at his shoulder, as they reached his bunk and Rane deposited him into it. "Seein' Colm O'Driscoll 'bout stupid scared made it all worth it. What was that you did to him? Before?"

Rane sat on the side of his bed, looking a little guilty as she twisted on the lantern that hung over them. The light fell over her face, and even bloodied up like a brawler Arthur felt his heart seize up at the sight of her. He thought of how he'd told the bartender in Rhodes that she was beautiful enough to knock you down, and doubted if the man had known how true those words were.

"Cruciatus curse. It's pain." She hesitated, then added, "it's illegal and pretty nasty, I shouldn't have done it, but seeing him kicking you around like that just . . . I got mad."

"I believe Miss Roth must have a heart after all," said Arthur, grimly amused. He glanced around them at the empty camp. "Quite the warm welcome, you can tell we were nothin' if not missed."

"It's the middle of the night. Everyone's asleep." Rane was unbottoning his shirt, examining his shoulder. "I bet they didn't even miss us yet. Christ, would you look at that."

The gunshot wound in Arthur's shoulder looked even worse in the light. Arthur glanced down and cringed sickly away, shaking his head.

"You're lucky they didn't blow the goddam thing off," Rane remarked, pulling her wand. "Looks like you got hit with a fucking cannonball or something."

"Yeah, well, double-barrel shotgun, might as goddam well have been. What are you gonna do with that?"

"Close the wound, kick off the healing. It's gonna feel weird. Vulnura sanentur."

The tip of her wand glowed a light blue for a moment, and then Arthur jolted, startled, as a bone-deep itch sprung to life in his shoulder. Rane snatched his hand back as he tried to go for it.

"Oh, fuck, I sure don't like that," he said, smirking a little.

"Give it a second. Quit trying to bother with it." Rane cast him a dire look, and he put his arm back down reluctantly. He looked down at the wound and was shocked to see that the gaping hole had shrunk considerably. It could have been a month old, despite the shining blood that drenched his shirt. The itching was slowly fading now, and so was the pain, for a wonder.

"I'l be double fucked sideways," he murmured.

"Don't get too excited, it's still got a ways to go," said Rane, stowing her wand. "Believe it or not, that's the second gunshot wound I've had to patch up this week. I'm starting to get good at it."

"Well, I reckon so." Arthur put his good arm behind his head, looking up at her critically. "You sure you're okay? They didn't pop ya around too bad?"

Rane smiled a little at the concern in his voice. "Were you worried about me or something? While you were hanging by your toes and getting slapped around?"

"'Course I was," said Arthur sincerely.

Rane eyed him for another moment, then shrugged and shook her head. "You know me. Take a lickin' and keep on tickin'."

"I tell you what, Dutch is gonna get the tongue-lashin' of his life tomorrow."

"Yeah, that was a bad call," Rane agreed grimly. "Like, a really bad call."

Arthur laughed, then winced at the pain it caused him. "Well, get used to it."

A silence passed between them. Rane sat at Arthur's bedside, her hands clasped in her lap, and Arthur looked up at her, his eyes blue and sharp, the blood on his shirt still fresh. The crickets were loud beyond them, and the stars were bright overhead. Across the bayou, the call of errant owls could be heard, low and lovely. Arthur marked the tilt of her mouth and the fall of her hair on her shoulders, then abruptly propped himself up onto his good elbow, looking into her eyes squarely.

"I gotta tell you somethin', Rane," said Arthur, his brow knitted. He spoke quick and low, as if he wanted to get the words out as fast as possible. "I ain't no good at lyin', and I'm about scared shitless to say it, but I'm in love with you. Stupid in love with you. I can't just pretend I don't feel nothin'. And I think you oughta know."

He fell silent, feeling hellishly vulnerable, trying to keep the anxiety from his face, but his traitorous heart was thumping hard in his chest, betraying him. He didn't know what he expected from her, but what he definitely didn't expect was the look of pure, devestated terror that rose in her eyes. The expression was so uncharacteristic of her that it made her almost unfamiliar. Her mouth downturned into a moue of fear, her brows contracted over her eyes and the hand on his bed curled into a fist.

"What did you say to me?" she said softly.

"I think you heard me just fine," Arthur replied, low.

Rane looked at him for another moment in silence, her mouth downturned. Arthur made an impatient noise in his throat, looking at her desperately.

"Well, say somethin', will you? My heart's about to beat outta my damn chest."

"I . . ." Rane shook her head, looking at him with that same weird, flat fear. "I dunno what to say."

"You look scared outta your wits."

Rane swallowed hard. "I am."

"Why?" Arthur sat up a little, wincing at the shooting pain in his shoulder. "What is it? Talk to me."

Rane shook her head, mouthing wordlessly. Arthur watched her, feeling a sinking in his chest.

"It's John."

"No." Rane shook her head at once.

"You don't want me." This was almost harder to say aloud than telling her he loved her had been, and Arthur felt another jolt of unhappiness surge up in his throat. If he needed any more testament to how hard he'd gone head over heels for the girl, here it was. "That's it."

"No, that's not it either," Rane replied, and upon hearing this she actually slapped one of her hands over her mouth, her eyes large and terrified. It was almost comedic.

"So you feel somethin' for me too?" Arthur reached out and touched her hand, his eyes skating over his face. "Tell me somethin', Rane, I'm dyin' over here."

Rane got abruptly to her feet, taking a step back, still looking like nothing so much as a cornered animal. Arthur sat up, staring up at her, his brow knitted.

"Where're you -?"

"I need to go," said Rane. Her voice was brusque, but the fear dancing in her eyes spoke far louder.

"Rane, hang on, now, you can't do me like that -"

"I can't -" Rane passed one hand over her face and lifted the other palm-out. "I can't do this right now, Arthur. We can talk tomorrow. But right now I just . . . I can't. Okay?"

Arthur looked up at her for a long moment, his expression unhappy, the low wind teasing the ends of his hair. He lifted one hand up the same way he might in the presence of a spooked horse, speaking slowly.

"Okay, okay," he said. "That's fine. We can talk tomorrow."

Rane turned on her heel, hair whirling, and strode off at this without another word. Arthur watched her go, unhappy and bewildered. He thought she looked like nothing so much as a woman fleeing.