Erik tried to remember the first time he ran away, but could not. If he squinted, he could sometimes picture his Old Master Madonna of a mother or the ancient Romani conjuror who had taught him so many of his original tricks. But what came in between that? It was a fearful void that Erik mentally shrunk away from, that made him want to wail a babyish Maman! and hope she could hear him across the ages. Or, rather, that she would hear and care.

Whatever it was, he knew it involved running. Running fast and running far and hardly stopping at all. He ran through Italy and the Austrian Empire before slowing down in Russia. He had almost found a place there, an unpleasant but livable niche. There was music and adventure in Russia, if little else. But he had left it behind for the pipe-dream promises of a man in an astrakhan hat—and it had been a wonderful dream, a beautiful nightmare.

And now, it was time to wake up.

He wondered what he would have done, where he would have gone, if Mojgan hadn't been with him. It occurred to Erik that he might have just turned back to his kingdom by the sea and taken up residence in the hidden halls and concealed rooms of his palace. Oh, he had shown the Shah some of them, but not all. He could have haunted the Shah, tormented his court, and dealt disaster out wholesale. But what sort of life was that? He starting to think it was the only sort of life he was suited for.

It was immaterial, at any rate. He did have Mojgan with him, and he had promised to get her home safely. What would happen after that was a question for another day.

"We need to stop."

Erik turned away from the business of rubbing down his horse to look at Mojgan. She was holding her hands out over the flames Erik had coaxed out of a meager supply of dry wood. "We are stopped," he said.

"I know there's a good-sized town just north of here," she continued on, as if she had not heard Erik, "we can get provisions—and maybe another horse?"

"I don't want to draw the sort of attention that would come from stealing a horse," Erik replied.

Mojgan blinked at him. "I meant to buy it."

"No." Though, in all truth, it seemed like a wonderful idea to Erik—sundry complications had arisen from leaving Mazandaran with a single mount. He had done his best to snag a big warmblood, but they could only rely on the animal so much. They were stuck at a plodding pace. There was also the technical difficulty of a very tall man and rather small woman sharing a seat. Though, Erik supposed it was easier than having two tall persons competing for space and burdening their horse further…

"…and we still need food."

The complication of provisions was probably the most pressing. Erik had no luggage beyond a lantern and a few rolls of leather to use in the construction of makeshift shelters. Mojgan took only her money case and a change of ladies' attire. Even so, they were still only able to take a small sack of foodstuffs. These had been consumed only when needed and with little appetite from either wayfarer, but they had run their course. Yesterday morning, Mojgan had passed Erik the last two dates, claiming she had already eaten. Her enthusiastic advocacy of a stop at the nearest village confirmed what Erik had suspected then—she had lied.

"It's too dangerous. Pretend it's Ramadan."

"Even if we stop zigzagging through the forest, go onto the main road now and stay there, and by some miracle that poor beast holds out, we're still at least four days away from Ghazvin," she said.

Erik's first thought was of the number of times he had gone four—or five, or six—days without food. His second thought was of how little he had enjoyed those particular occasions. He wandered over to the fire and found a fairly dry spot an arm's-length away from Mojgan. It was as close as he came to her when they weren't riding. He watched as his horse happily nosed out some roughage and felt profound jealousy.

"This weather has probably sent most of the merchants indoors," Erik said. "Which means it will be much more difficult to pilfer anything."

Again, Mojgan simply blinked at him. "I still meant to buy it, Erik. I'm carrying plenty of money."

Erik snorted. "Yes. Let's see how that would go. Oh, Baker Agha, might I please have a week's worth of bread, wrapped up nice and tight against the rain? …What? I don't know why on earth you would think I'm that condemned criminal that the runners from Nowshahr have been warning every local constable about. Many a man wears a mask! It's all the rage in Tehran this year!"

"You might be a little conspicuous," she admitted. "But I'm sure no one would give me a second look. All they will see is a somewhat bedraggled boy who got caught in the rain but must continue on to his destination straight away, lest his master take a rod to his back."

Erik stared at her. She was dressed in what Erik assumed to be Darius's old clothes, abandoned after the boy got a little height on him— trousers and tunic and two overcoats that hid any rogue hint of a feminine figure just as the neatly wrapped turban hid her long hair. The last remnant of kohl had been scrubbed from her face days ago, and though her obvious youth might have excused her smooth chin, Erik could not see her as anything but a woman. He let his bemusement color his tone. "Yes, because bedraggled boys with masters wear three rings on each hand and have pretty little pouts. You look no more a normal man in your turban than I would look a woman if I wore a veil."

It was Mojgan's turn to look bemused. She started twisting off her rings. "You do know that a woman wearing men's clothing is considered damned, don't you? And if it's discovered, the local lawmen or mullah could take great exception—one would be lucky to get away with a few dozen lashes."

"You are not making a very good case for letting you go," Erik pointed out.

"What I'm trying to say is that no sane woman would walk into town in men's clothing. It won't even occur to people to question me."

"I don't like it," Erik declared. "I told him that I would take care of you." At that moment, Erik's belly decided to rebel against him and rumble piteously.

Mojgan arose and dusted off her coat. She handed Erik her handful of rings for safekeeping. "You are."

By early evening, the whole escapade was done and over with. Erik had accompanied Mojgan as far as the outskirts of the town, given her the horse, and then secreted himself a little ways up the main road. He fretted, picturing how Mojgan's ghost would haunt him if trouble should befall her. And the Daroga's eventual ghost as well, he supposed.

I don't kill women. I don't let women be killed. Damn, did I just send a woman to her death?

That mantra beat in his head for three-quarters of an hour, until Mojgan rode up the rough lane. She grinned when Erik appeared at the roadside and the gesture nearly stopped his heart.

"I have all sorts of nonperishables," she said, "but I also have a couple of slices of tah-chin, and it's hot."

"Scoot forward," Erik said, "we need to move on."

Mojgan kept her seat and urged the horse a little out of Erik's reach. "I will agree to move on, if you agree to stop before dusk to have dinner."

Erik glanced at the sky, which was already showing the sun setting behind dark clouds. "Only if you let me on the horse right now. We'll ride fast."

"You are determined to lame this animal," she replied primly.

"I am determined not to get caught. I am determined not to die."

She had nothing to say to that and so they went on their way.

Later, they sat with their backs propped against a tree, Mojgan facing south and Erik on the other side facing north. The chicken and rice no longer qualified as hot, but it was warmer than anything else in the woods. Erik tried not to eat too quickly, but he loathed the fact that Mojgan could get up at any minute and catch him without his mask. But she seemed, mercifully, more interested in her dinner than anything else.

"I picked up some candied chickpeas," she said. "I know you have a sweet tooth."

"We should save them," Erik said.

"If you'd rather." Another few minutes passed. "Thank you, by the way."

"What for?"

"Letting me have my way, of course." She sounded wry.

Erik paused. "Are you teasing me again?"

"Not in the least!" She exclaimed. She started to rise, but sat back down when Erik tensed and scrambled to grab his mask. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "Today, I went out to the market— and it could well be the last decision I ever really make."

"The Daroga said you were going to stay with your brother-in-law. Surely you think you'll be welcomed."

"I suppose so. I don't know. Paniz was married after I left home. I don't know her husband at all. My younger sister lives with them and I'm not sure how keen he'll be on having another sister-in-law in the house." After a moment, she added: "I'm not as nice as Jaleh, either."

Erik thought that the appropriate response was one of reassurance—no, they'll be delighted to see you, you sweet girl. But he was not sure of the reality. "Do you have an escape plan, then?"

She laughed and Erik wondered if he had said something terribly wrong. "No, but perhaps I should. Do you have one?"

"Of course," Erik replied. "This, admittedly, has not been my best execution of such a plan."

"I somehow think I was an unexpected addition," she said.

"Yes." Erik thought on his other travelling companions. They had been few and far between. The Daroga, leading him like a wolf to the slaughter, had been the most genial. Erik had been awful to him. The memory made him smile.

"You didn't need to do this," she commented. Her tone was light but Erik could detect the cadence of deception in it. Acting the self-sacrificing heroine, perhaps? But no—she needn't playact either of those things. "You could have just gone on by yourself."

"No," Erik said.

"Nadir would have understood—he wanted you to save yourself," Mojgan pointed out.

It was true. The Daroga probably would have rather had Erik run off alone and dealt with Mojgan himself. But there was that niggling feeling that said that Mojgan was in danger because of him. Never mind that the Sultana hated Mojgan—Erik was the only reason the Sultana even knew Mojgan. My fault, as always. And then there was the question of the Daroga. God knew what fallout he would experience from Erik's disappearance. It was likely that he wouldn't have been a bit of help to his pretend-cousin in the coming weeks.

Still, Erik was accustomed to leaving destruction in his wake. Survive, was his first endeavor. Live and let live was much further down the list. And yet… yet, he was applying his full mastery of the art of escape in the interest of a slip of a girl, heading fully in the opposite direction of where he wanted to end.

"I owe the Daroga nothing," Erik lied. "I did this in spite of him."

Mojgan hummed in reply started repacking her satchel of food.

"You've never wronged me, even by apathy," Erik continued. "The idea of having your blood on my head is unbearable. I think the scraps of my soul would drown in it, and then where would I be?"

"I'm not the right person to talk to about souls," Mojgan said. "But I think—or rather, I hope I am right to think—that the human spirit can survive much more than we believe it can. I think it can even survive being torn to shreds and drowned."

"I don't want to find out," Erik said, firmly.

"I hope you never do, then. Press on or set up camp?"

Erik stared up at the dark sky, the occasional star that peeked through the clouds and treetops. It was one of the nicer nights they had had on the road. Dry, for a start, and clear enough for Erik's sharp night vision to be trusted. He was fatigued, but not exhausted, Mojgan seemed energized by supper. They could manage at least another two or three leagues, even if they spared the horse and walked. And hadn't he been complaining earlier of their miserably slow pace? And yet— no, he didn't want to finish that thought. He would take Mojgan home, as promised, and then take himself far away.

And yet—

"Camp. We can start again at dawn."

He sat a little closer to her that evening—her arm's length, instead of his—and then passed the hours with song. Ostensibly, it was to help keep the tigers away, but Erik knew how soothing his voice could be when he wanted it to be. This time, he wanted it to be. To his surprise, he found some comfort in the little folk songs Mojgan had to offer. It was a sweet voice, with no great power behind it, but a pretty tone. He missed it, when she fell asleep.

In the end, it had taken just over a week to get to Ghazvin. Mojgan had been unusually talkative for the last day. They were getting well into the territory of childhood. She pointed out the shortcuts to this little village and told silly stories of visiting them with her long-dead mother. She spoke of the mayhem of harvest time and the quiet of winter, of her father's accounts and sisters' beaux. And as early morning gave way to the afternoon, and afternoon to evening, she started showing Erik the specific trees she had climbed up and rocks she had sat on and the little hideaways she had found or made.

Erik listened to it all in silence, taking it in like any fairytale removed from the reality of life. He asked, only occasionally, if they were still going in the right direction or if they were getting close. And with each affirmation, his mood wilted. And, if he wasn't utterly mistaken, it seemed as though Mojgan's started to as well. Her commentary became less delighted and more anxious-sounding.

"There's a creek over there," she commented. "It's the edge of my father's—I mean, my brother-in-law's—property."

"So close?" Erik asked, though he knew the answer. They had been close for half a day, now.

"I—ah—I can't go home dressed like this," she said, looking meaningfully at her luggage.

"Night is coming fast—take the lantern. I'll wait here for you," Erik said. "Do you think anyone will come?"

"Oh, no," she replied. "And I won't be a minute."

Erik dismounted and helped Mojgan off, a bit of gallantry that had fallen away in the past few days. But time was short, and Erik loathed the idea that she would remember him as a monster and not a gentleman.

She took her change of clothing and the lantern, and in the end decided to lead their horse to the creek as well. Erik found himself pacing, examining the twilit trees and shadowed pebbles. He could hear the splash of water, the quiet huffing of the horse. In the distance, there was laughter. He thought, for a moment, of simply starting to walk away. Mojgan was as good as home, he thought. What harm would there be in simply melting into the shadows, continuing on his way—whichever way that was. But she returned before he could resolve to such a course. She looked even smaller now, in her simple gown and long chador. He wondered if her family would see her as any different from the girl that had left them years ago. Would they ever know how much she had seen? Would she ever tell them?

"These clothes are much too small for you," she commented, "and they are filthy. But we can wash them out and you can have a better pillow for the rest of your journey."

Erik pointedly ignored her strange use of the word we. "Which way?"

She pointed and they walked, still that arm's length away from one another and with Erik holding the horse's reins. The trees thinned and gave way to fields.

"You're very quiet," she commented. Ironically, he thought, for her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I have very little to say."

She stopped suddenly. "Didn't we agree to be friends? Can we not part as such?"

It was Erik's turn to pause. Would he ever understand the woman? She had given him every benefit of the doubt over the course of their entire acquaintance. From that first insistence she had made to Feridoon that that he can't be all bad to the simple defense she gave to Nadir of he says he did not do it. And what had she said, just before she placed her life in his hands and ran away with him? I trust him. No, he would never understand her, except to understand that she was mad. He supposed that the time for that understanding was passing, as well. "You will live your life," he said, "and you will forget Erik."

She sighed. "I think not."

"I hope so," Erik said, fervently. They remained silent until a large home, stately but not rich, came into view. "The house is still awake." It was a needless comment. Light, warm and welcoming, spilled from the windows. And laughter—laughter like Mojgan's laugh, sincere and without a single touch of mockery. "You'll get a proper welcome."

"I will get… many questions," she replied. "But I am prepared. Won't come with me? You must be as tired as I am."

Erik shook his head. "I will continue on."

"Where to? Will you tell me at last?"

What harm could there be in it? "Where I am not expected—back to Mazandaran."

Mojgan's eyes widened. "I will not insult you by asking if you've thought this through."

Erik chuckled. "A risk, I know. But I did not have the chance to grab my, ah, jewelry box as you did. I have a number of such things that will not be missed if I retrieve them."

"I see." She turned away from Erik to look at her childhood home. "And then where to?"

"Across the sea, I think. The Shah gave me the most marvelous tip before ordering me blinded—he thinks the Sultan of Constantinople would be interested in my work."

Was that a smile on her lips or a shadow of the early moonlight? "Of that I am sure. Be safe."

"I will be. You, as well."

"Be happy."

"That I cannot promise."

She turned to look at him pointedly. "But you can promise to try."

"Yes. I can promise that." Erik's hand tightened around the reins of his horse.

She looked down at her hands. Her nails were dirty, Erik noted, and the tips of her fingers badly chapped. Her rings were incongruous—the stylings of a noblewoman on the hands of a fugitive. She twisted one off now, a substantial gold piece set with rubies. She held it out.

"In case it is more difficult in Mazandaran than you expect. It should get you passage somewhere."

Erik stared at the ring stupidly. He shook his head. "You needn't pay for my escort, Mojgan."

"It's not payment; it is insurance," she said. When Erik made no move to take the piece, she snatched one of his hands and pushed the ring on. She had worn it on her middle finger. It barely fit on Erik's pinkie. "Then as a remembrance."

The rubies glinted blood red on his pale hands. Fittingly so, he supposed. "Yes."

"Good," she said. "Good. God keep you, Erik."

He placed his hand on her shoulder and, as gently as he could, turned her in the direction of her home. She nodded, picked up her single bag, and walked forward.

Were those tears in her eyes, or was it the moonlight again playing more tricks?

He waited, listening for the reception she would receive.

There was some small commotion that set him on edge for just a moment, before the tune altered and became… utterly joyful.

He blinked and remounted.

Much later, he reached into the saddlebag to get a flagon of weak wine. Instead, he found a sack of candied chickpeas and he ate them with pleasure. He found himself humming in the dark forest. The song burned and delighted him.