I know I haven't touched this in a while, but I was reading it tonight and I had some spare time on my hands and I'm going to start on chapter three. I know a lot of the stuff in this book wouldn't happen in real life, particularly some of what these people will do, but I'm taking artistic license and a chance and hoping that you all like this.

Reviewer Replies:

Xanny- I've been going to my local Faire for six years. I'm going to another in the Keys this weekend. Why?

Anita H.- Sorry. I've been a bit busy…

Forrest- When I find you, you're dead.

About a boy I'll sing this song sing rickety tickety tin
About a boy I'll sing this song who did not live for very long
Because he was stupid and wrong.
Hiron Otsuki did him in.
Them in. Hiron Otsuki did him in.

(Parody from here http:www. thebards. net /music /lyrics /IrishBallad.shtml)

Coral- I know you're Forrest. Stop.

Thanks to- wizard116, Akennea, and Mischa Kitsune.

Chapter Three: Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go?

"Reanna… Reanna…"

A voice called her slowly out of dreamland where she'd been locked in a room full of knives and beer bottles, and where blood was spattered on the brick walls in regular patterns, as if someone had been cut horribly and then tried to drag themself along the wall.

"Unh," she groaned.

"Ah!" A gasp excaped her mouth as the pain from her injuries made themselves known all at once. "Where- Saera?"

"Hey, kid." Saera was balanced on the ladder leading to the bunk. "How ya feeling?"

"Like I just got hit by three cars, an old man on a bike, two motorcycles and a semi truck."

"She's awake?" A man's voice said. Reanna peered over the edge of the bed. Brad and Chris were at the table, drinking coffee. Saera jumped off the ladder and went to the coffee machine on the counter and poured two more cups.

"You okay?" Brad called, peering up at her in concern. Chris just watched her over the rim of his mug, concern obvious in his blue eyes.

"Better than last night, but still pretty out." That was an understatement… she felt horrible, and all of the pain wasn't entirely physical. She'd sworn to herself when this started that she'd help Dad on her own. She couldn't accept help from anyone. They just wouldn't be able to see what she could see in Dad; that he could be helped, and that she was going to help him get better. Now if only she could get out and get home.

"We figured as much."

"Ah."

"Need help getting down?"

"No, thanks. I think I can- oomph!" She slid down the ladder and hit the floor hard, sending a jolt through her already-bruised body.

"Want some thing to eat?"

"I really don't want to impose," she said. "In fact, I think I need to-"

"Eat," Saera finished firmly. "You need to eat. And you need coffee, too, by the looks of it." She passed one of the fresh cups under Reanna's nose. "Mmm, smells good. You know you want coffee," she said teasingly.

"Alright," Reanna said, giving in. "Just the coffee, though." Then I'm leaving.

Chris pushed a plate of toast towards her and Brad slid a dish of jam over. "Eat," both men chorused.

"Just the coffee," Reanna repeated.

"Eat," Chris said more firmly.

"But-"

"Eat. The. Food. Now," he said, tone sounding like he would force-feed her if she didn't feed herself.

"Fine," she huffed, and started spreading some jam on the toast.

When she'd finished both the coffee and the toast, Saera slid into the booth beside her, effectively cutting off her escape route. Oh no.

"Reanna, what happened last night?" Saera said, cutting to the chase.

"Dad just got a little drunk, that's all," Reanna said. She was proud of the fact that her voice only quavered a little.

"A little drunk?" Chris asked in disbelief. "Being a little drunk doesn't make people go crazy and cut up their own kid with a beer bottle."

"Maybe he was more than a bit drunk," Reanna conceded warily, "but that's really just the first time he's gotten like this, I swear."

Chris just reached over the table and poked her bruised shoulder from a few days before and she winced at the pain and the sorrow in his eyes."

"Reanna," he said softly. "You have to let us help you."

"I don't need help!" she said defensively. "He needs help, and he's getting it. Can I go now?"

"No," Saera said. "You can't go back there."

"Only because you won't let me!" Reanna retorted.

"That's right," Chris said, eyes blazing. "We aren't going to let you go home because you will die if you do. It may not be today, or even tomorrow, or even in the next year, but eventually he's going to go over the edge! Or- or you may not be able to hold on for too long. I-" something in his eyes darkened. "I knew someone once- a girl, who was being abused… by her boyfriend." His eyes grew distant, as if he were seeing something far away. "She never told anyone, and she could barely take … she could barely take the pain, and when her family found out, she went over the edge, and she… she killed herself. She just couldn't take it, and she… she went to a bridge one night in the middle of winter… she took all of her clothes off, and slit her wrists with a knife that her younger brother had given her as a gift… and she threw herself off the bridge. The river was icy-cold and so fast… she was swept away so fast, and she was so cold… the body was lost… it wasn't found until the spring, when a fisherman spotted a possum gnawing… gnawing at the bracelet on her wrist…"

His eyes were icy, and devoid of emotion, and Reanna knew… she just knew that Chris had been the brother… and it had been his sister who had killed herself. And to be the one who had supplied the means of suicide… She suddenly felt a wave of pity for this young man who had lost his sister at such a young age and to such a situation. Following hard on its heels came another wave of guilt for making him tell the story at all.

Slowly, she reached a hand across the table and placed it over his own. "I'm sorry," she said, looking him straight in the eyes and trying to communicate her compassion.

"Forget it," he said gruffly, looking out the window.

She withdrew her hand quickly and placed it in her lap.

"Normally he hits me where it doesn't show," she said quietly, and the other three looked at her in surprise. "So no one ever notices. I have to angle my body, sometimes, to make sure he doesn't miss… but it's never been this bad before. When Mom died… he just got worse."

"Worse?"

"Well, he was drinking before that, and he'd slapped me around a few times," she said in a subdued voice. "But when she died… I guess he blamed me. She was always going to the concerts, and she never really had a very strong immune system. She lived a fast life, and then, a few years ago… she was infected with HIV." Saera gasped and Brad looked stunned. Only Chris looked unmoved. "She was in a car accident, and she needed a blood transfusion. I guess she got one of the few batches that slip by the tests, because she came down with HIV pretty fast, and then it developed into full-blown AIDS… because of me." She held up one hand to silence the protest she could see in Chris's eyes. "She always insisted on going out, and especially to my concerts. There were just too many.. The drugs were never really a help, and she knew that she could have lived longer if she'd been more careful. But you can never be sure who shows up at a concert. When she was in the hospital for the last time, Dad said that he saw at least five people with symptoms of the flu. It was almost impossible for her to not get sick."

Reanna closed her eyes against the light and saw her mother in the hospital, on that deathbed, wasted away and so frail… her beautiful dark cherry hair gone forever, but so strong… Then she opened her eyes to the concerned faces of her friends. "She said… on that last day that she never regretted any of it. She said that she only wished that she could have lived longer, and come see me when I was a world-famous violinist. She told Dad that she wished they could have grown old together, like couples should…" She blinked, and saw a flash of her father, sobbing at the side of the bed and holding his wife's hand.

"That was three years ago," she finished quietly. "Dad still hasn't gotten over her. I don't think he ever will, but we're trying. One day at a time."

Saera slipped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her gently, being careful of the bruises. "I'm sorry, hon. We really don't want to take you away from him, it's just… it's not healthy for him to take his anger out on you. If he never accepts that she's gone, and then inadvertently kills you one day… where will he be? You'll be dead, and he'll go to jail for murder."

That stopped Reanna cold. She'd never really taken into consideration the thought that Steven Wyr would go so far as that. What if he did? Then what?

After what seemed like hours of internally arguing with herself, she finally came to a decision.

"Fine," she said carefully. "I won't go back until I'm sure that he's gone, but I'm going back to clean up the house and try to make him something to eat for when he does get back."

"What does he do?" Brad asked.

"He's the foreman in a construction company that installs pools in people's backyards."

"Oh. So when does he usually go to work?"

Reanna looked at the clock on the wall. It ticked, and she blinked. Wow. It was already 10 in the morning. She was missing school, but it didn't matter. She could always make it up. She usually did after she came back from being 'sick.' Yeah, if bruises were the symptoms. I'm chronically sick from 'bruisenza.'

She pulled absently at the bandage covering the gash on her arm and winced as the bloody flesh stuck to the bandage. Bloody… flesh… She looked down at herself and groaned; she was still wearing the same shirt and jeans from the night before. Both were covered in blood and beer.

"Ugh. I knew I felt sticky when I woke up," she groaned, and then blushed when she realized how that sounded.

"Yeah… we weren't gonna mention it, but we did bring you something. And look! Not Faire clothes!" Saera said sarcastically, reminding Reanna of the one time that they'd met in the supermarket during the week and Reanna had exclaimed at seeing Saera in normal clothes. The woman reached around a corner and handed Reanna a plastic bag holding what looked like a pair of clean blue jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt. As Reanna took it from her, she felt what were apparently socks on the bottom.

Touched by Saera's thoughtfulness, she felt her throat close up. "Thanks," she whispered, hugging the older woman.

"Oh, hush," Saera answered, though her own voice sounded just slightly hoarse as she embraced Reanna.

"We're going to go now," Brad said after an emotional pause. "We'll be back in a few hours. That should give you enough time to clean up and get ready."

"Ready for what?" Reanna said nervously.

"Oh, you'll see," Brad said enigmatically. Great. Thanks, Mr. Mystery.

Saera hugged her again and then she and Brad left, leaving her alone in the trailer with Chris.

"So, uh." He coughed. "The shower's right behind that door around the corner behind you, and there are spare towels in that cabinet. Bang on the door if you need anything." He disappeared through the door past the kitchen that led (presumably) to the master bedroom, and she was the only one left in the main room of the cabin. After a pause, she grabbed the bag, opened the cabinet that Chris had indicated and pulled out a fluffy green towel, and entered the small bathroom, and pulled the curtain to halve the room. Then she stripped, being careful not to pull the bandages. She managed to get most of them off until she reached the one on her arm; it was stuck to her skin, and she gritted her teeth. With a few swift tugs, she pulled it off of her arm, and dropped it with the rest of the bandages on the lid of the toilet. She looked up into the mirror and had to hold back a small scream. She really hadn't noticed last night, but now everything was all too obvious. No wonder the others had looked so concerned. A small gash over her left eye was one of the most obvious, and she touched it carefully, groaning when it sent a stab of pain across her forehead. Her arms and face were covered in small cuts and bruises, and the cut on her arm was starting to bleed again, mixing with the dried iodine on her arm.

She pushed aside the curtain and examined the knob carefully, trying to see whether it was a pull knob or a turn knob. Once she was reasonably sure it was a pull type, she turned on the water to a lukewarm temperature, not wanting to waste the water. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and she jumped. Chris's voice sounded through the door. "Oh, and don't worry about wasting water. It's hooked up to a pump, but just don't spend all day in there, 'Kay?"

"Sure," she called back. "Thanks!"

"No prob." His voice was muffled by the hot spray of water and her hiss as the steaming water touched the stinging cuts. She had to hold back another small scream as the water touched her injured arm, but she held it under the stream and ran her fingers over it gently, trying to wash off some of the dried blood. Once it was reasonably clean she started on the rest of them, wincing when she pressed too hard on dried blood concealing a bruise. When that ordeal was over, she started using a small bar of soap she'd found in the bag along with a small amount of what was obviously Chris's shampoo. She rinsed off for one final time and then turned off the water, stepped out and grabbed the towel. A hasty scramble for the toilet paper ensued when her arm started bleeding again and she needed a makeshift bandage for it. When it was plastered in place by a mixture of blood and water, she dried herself off by rubbing herself vigorously with the towel, then quickly dressed and left the bathroom.

Before she could sit down at the table, however, Chris tossed her a comb and she realized with a blush that she'd forgotten to brush her hair. Back in the bathroom, she brushed it out and secured it back into a ponytail with an elastic thingie that she'd found in the now-empty bag. She put her bloodstained pants, shirt and socks back in the bag (she'd had to put her underwear and bra back on; there really wasn't any other choice) along with the bandages and left the small room, back in hand.

Now Chris gestured for her to sit at the table, and she handed him the comb as she sat down.

"Thanks. I feel so much better," she said quietly.

"You look a lot better, too," he said, then blanched. "Sorry- I didn't mean for it to come out that way-"

"It's alright," she said, forestalling what had the promise of being a lengthy apology. "I know I looked like hell warmed over. Especially that gash- oh! Your bandages are really bad now- I'm sorry, they're covered in blood!"

Now it was his turn to stop her from going into an apology.

"It's okay. They're disposable. I need to rewrap your arm." He hauled the orange bag up from the seat beside him. "Here, put your arm on the table."

She complied, and he pulled the toilet paper off the wound with a gentleness that matched that with which he touched his flute. He rewrapped it carefully and laid it gently back on the table.

"Thanks," she whispered, feeling that lump rise into her throat again.

"Don't worry about it." Compassion was warm in his voice, and he gently touched her fingertips. "Don't worry. It'll all be alright, I promise."

"I know. I'm going to help him, and then we can be a real family again. He cares, I know he does."

Now he covered her hand with his own. "I'm not so sure about that," he said quietly. "But I'll help you in any way I can."

"Thanks," she said again, not moving her hand. She swallowed thickly and averted her eyes, feeling his eyes burning on her face.

She remembered the events from the night before clearly, but there was something missing, something wrong.

"Only one thing bothers me," she said, still not looking at him. "When I woke up after he was done beating on me, he was on his back halfway down the hall, leaving a trail through the broken glass and blood droplets, and it looked like someone huge with bat and a grievance had gone after him. He was unconscious, but breathing, and I had this really bad sense of dread that was telling me to get out of the house. I don't know… it was really weird, but I was in a complete state of terror, and my head was killing me…. Thing is, he didn't even touch my head, and I never get headaches… except when I play the violin."

Yep. Rewriting to the max, but this flowed really well... I had a really easy time writing it, but maybe that was because I had something to go off of as a basis and setting. Anyway, so there's Chapter Three: Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go? I would have uploaded it last night except for that error that Ficcynet kept having. Oh, well. Please Review.