John groped for his boots in the dark. The windows were shuttered to the ungodly hour, and the room was dark. This was Will's fault. If the sullen little toad hadn't strayed, John wouldn't have been left wondering where he'd got to. And he'd be in Insham with Fanny, not tossing on a narrow cot at the Charing.

John found his boots by the door and pulled them on. He wasn't worried. Will had stormed off enough times for John to know his moods didn't last, and he'd come slinking back into camp late in the night, when only the nightwatch could witness his surrender. But—and here John hesitated—there was no camp. The Sheriff was gone and the roads were open. Will had always been restless, the kind of wariness that soured other's patience. He wouldn't leave, would he? John would have understood a bad temper—Will had drunk enough—but that couldn't be enough to keep him away.

John took his cloak from the peg and opened the door. It was raining. Of course it was raining. Why wouldn't it be? He'd neither slept nor eaten, so why should he have the privilege of a warm morning and good weather? The fog lay like cream over Nottingham, the streets wreathed in endless mists that swallowed sight and sound. Somewhere a hammer was ringing against an anvil, a strange bell in the still air, and voices, wordless murmurs, footsteps. A dog barked.

John wasn't worried. Will had always come back, even when John hadn't wanted him to, had come back even after Robin had put the arrow through his hand. It had happened so fast, the whistle of the arrow, the pulpy snap as the metal tip sank through the flesh, and Will had dropped, clutching his hand, surprised more than angry, running before anyone had said a word.

John had hoped then it'd be the last of him.

But Will had come back, and Robin had been blind to let him stay. Couldn't he see Will was only biding his time, waiting for another unguarded moment to strike? John had said as much to Robin that night by the fire. "You'll not sleep easy as long as he's here. Will Scarlet's a bloody fool to think he could go up against you. He deserved every bit of what he got."

"Probably," said Robin. "But I wouldn't want him to lose a hand on my account."

"There's no telling what he'll do now."

"He's been disarmed, John." Robin had gestured vaguely at the people gathered around the fire. "Everyone's seen him for what he is. I doubt he'd try again."

"I wouldn't leave an adder in the garden."

Robin had tossed a stick into the flames, not answering immediately. "How long have you known him?"

"Apparently not long enough." John had been purposely vague, suddenly loathe to admit he'd known Will longer than probably anyone else in camp. After all, John had been the one to dismiss Will's anger as nothing more than the usual surly resistance. "I mean, I've always known he's hated the nobles—any man in this camp could tell you that—but I didn't think he'd ever—he could have killed you, Robin."

"What would you have me do?" Robin had turned and looked at him. "Hunt him down? Take a knife to his throat?"

"No, of course not. I didn't mean…" John had been exasperated at not being able to make himself understood. "Just send him away."

"To what?"

"I don't know. Just away."

"Send him from something into nothing. Wouldn't that be the best way to make him turn traitor?"

"You and your bleeding heart. Mercy's not cured any traitor of his treason, nor any thief of his thieving."

"No," said Robin, "but a loaf of bread might still the hunger for stealing one."

"Full of proverbs, are we?" John had shaken his head. "My mother used to say there's no arguing with a mule. Just promise me one thing. Don't go wasting any more goodwill on that ruddy little piss-pot. And don't be forgetting it was your mercy that that put the arrow in his hand," John had paused, relenting, "not your anger. I'd have shot him in the heart."

Robin had laughed out loud at this. "Oh, really? I doubt even the great and powerful Little John would be so swift in judgement."

"Bah." John had stood up, shaking the stiffness out of his limbs, and walked away, back to his hut, away from Robin and his ideals, the bloody fool. Robin had only nicked the beast, not killed it, and there were few things more dangerous than a wounded animal. John hadn't felt sorry for Will then, not when he deserved every minute of disgrace that would follow, every suspicious glance in his direction. What else had he expected, pulling a knife on Robin?

John shut the door behind him, heading out into the rain. He wasn't worried.

Will always came back.