Chapter 13: Blue Rose

Speaking with Freya helped Merlin keep his patience and his temper, waiting alone in the tiny apprentice cell.

He slept as much as he could as the only way to pass the time without boredom. And pain. He paced, he thought, he wrote – wasting endless sheets and ink and more than one quill to write and re-write reports, crystallizing theories, updating and clarifying his lists of evidence – though the words sometimes swam and his head often pounded through another headache.

Anything to take his thoughts off his confinement, and Freya's agreement to help. He couldn't decide if it was quite clever or incredibly stupid of him to accept her offer.

Late that day, he had fallen asleep in his clothes, face down on his desk, but straightened alert as soon as a hand touched the latch of his door. He turned in the chair, laying his hand on the knife that rested on the desk beside his manuscript. No one had come to this room since his arrest except Freya and one of the kitchen maids with his meals. But the window was too small for escape – if they came for him, he'd have to fight.

He relaxed as Gwaine pushed the door open, glanced in to be sure Merlin was dressed. "She wants to see you."

Merlin stood and followed him down the hall, around the corner to the front wing of the third floor. "Did I thank you for helping to carry me up here?"

Gwaine grinned over his shoulder. "You mumbled something. I figured you were grateful I didn't drop you down the stairs."

Morgana was waiting for them in her private sitting room, reclined on a lounge chair, book in hand. She turned to the next page before she looked up, and Gwaine went to pour himself a cup of wine at a dark-wood sideboard.

"Howling yet, my caged wolf?" Morgana said, an amused smile on her face. "Or have you been tamed?"

"Why am I here?" he said quietly. There was very little chance Jordan would come to the third floor without invitation, so Merlin appreciated the chance to get out, though he wouldn't come to Morgana's chambers again without being asked. But he never enjoyed being baited.

"I thought you'd like to have an update on our investigation," Morgana said. "Agent Arthur sent word by messenger that he was being followed, and so will not come here again unless it becomes absolutely necessary."

"Does he know who is following him?" Merlin demanded. Gwaine set the wine pitcher down on the sideboard and looked at him.

Morgana straightened, set her feet down on the carpet. "He said it was a deputy – two deputies on shifts, evidently. What does it matter?"

Merlin considered not answering the question, then remembered she hadn't yet told him anything about her investigation – and didn't really have to. If she was extending such a courtesy, so should he. "We discussed the possibility that there were twelve names on the list of death-contracts," he said. "Two that were not made known to you with the other ten."

"You and Arthur, do you mean?" Morgana said. She exchanged a glance with Gwaine.

He asked Merlin, "You think Jordan used us to find an assassin?"

Merlin shrugged. "We admitted that possibility as well."

"We?" Morgana drew the one-word question out into a command for him to explain.

"Freya and I."

Her green eyes were sharp on him, her silence making his answer more significant. She was waiting for him to feel embarrassment, to start rationalizing, defending. Revealing. He said nothing.

She tapped a forefinger on her lips, considering. Then she said, "We have found nothing to justify a revenger's punishment on any of the council members. Petitions, yes. The judge, of course, is beyond anyone's ability to punish, and the reeve – has covered his tracks well. Too well for us to risk an inquest into his death, which would absolutely be done on the death of a reeve. Anything less than death would make of him an enemy I cannot afford."

It had begun to seem that Agravaine would have to be dealt with, and they'd only find support from Morgana's organization if odds were in their favor to arrest him, taking him to Camelot to answer charges, and above all, to guarantee sufficient sentence that he could never again hold a position of power in Turad.

"We will, of course, offer Jordan the benefit of a full week's inquiries," Morgana finished, "but we'll tell him that no action will be taken by us."

"Two more days before Jordan leaves here," Gwaine commented. "Possibly three, then it will be safe for you to move about the chalet again. As far as the rest of Turad goes, though, if you are recognized, you will be arrested for Judge Alined's murder."

"I'll be careful."

A half-smile flitted across Morgana's face, and she addressed Gwaine, "Did you ever think to hear Merlin of Ealdor say those words?"

Gwaine grinned at him to take some of the sting from her remark. Morgana sighed theatrically, perhaps at her failure to get a rise out of him; she leaned back, kicking one silk-slippered foot idly.

"You know, I expected sooner or later a girl of fire and beauty would catch your attention and your heart. But she is quiet and plain."

Before he even knew he intended to speak, Merlin opened his mouth and said, "Have you seen her smile?"

One eyebrow arched as Morgana studied him, but he hoped he kept all expression from his face. "She was quite put out with me," she said. "She seemed to think that I had done you a wrong, when I had Gwaine begin your training here."

Freya was very strong; she had been able to forgive the man who abused her so badly so often. For him, though…

"She is very protective of you," Morgana added. "She cares a great deal about you."

"Far cry from Emmett's Creek," he said.

"What?"

"You know who her family in Turad is," Merlin reminded her. "They will see to it that she marries well."

"And you? What do you want?" Morgana leaned forward. "You could see her marry another?"

He wanted to see her happy; he was not a man to bring happiness to anyone, especially a wife. But Morgana was probably asking with his future as a revenger in view – would he stay in Turad if she lived here as the wife of another man, or would he seek to forget her elsewhere? Could he forget her here in Turad, as the reeve of Emmett's Creek? Merlin shrugged.

"You are still chasing death, then?" Morgana said tartly, showing some temper.

Merlin turned and left the room.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya visited the Daved Cathedral the very next day, Vivian at her side for company and for propriety, since a young girl of their class was not allowed to wander the city alone.

But Vivian soon tired of walking about looking at paintings, sculptures, and architecture, and left Freya's side to sit and gossip with a young acquaintance in the back of the main chamber of the cathedral. If she noticed when Freya drifted out to the northeast portico, she didn't follow.

Freya found Taliesin just where Merlin had said he'd be, a bent man with short coarse white hair and beard, a crooked foot, a padded crutch, and a melodious voice. He was seated at the base of a statue in its shade, singing in the echoing portico. She found it easy to come quite close to him in the crowd that had gathered to listen. Then he finished his song, and began to thank folks for the few coins they dropped into the upside-down cap beside his crippled foot.

She stepped close to add another to his rather meager collection, and when he smiled serenely into her face, she said quietly, "Merlin sent me."

Quick as a wink he shot back, "Which side does he wear his scar on, right or left?"

Startled, Freya answered, "Which scar?"

"So he's gathered more than one?" The little man chuckled, slapping his thighs lightly. "The one that almost took his life."

Freya remembered Merlin climbing a tree, shirtless in the rain, the scar she'd noticed just before he turned. "The left side," she said, "just along the bottom rib."

The old man crooked a white eyebrow at her. "You're his lady, then?"

"No." She blushed at the implication of her knowledge, yet hurried on determinedly. "He asked me to ask if you would find out about three men." Taliesin began humming a slow, soulful tune as she described Jordan, Mordred, and the man from the reeve's holding cell, nodding as he absorbed the information.

"Well, Miss," Taliesin said, with a quick glance under his wrinkled brow that surprised her with its unexpected clever spark. "I may or I may not know who they are, or where to find them. Did Merlin say anything about pay?"

Freya looked at him blankly. "No, he – he didn't. But I – I have–" She reached for her wrist-purse again, but he stopped her with one bony hand.

"You have a good heart, Miss," Taliesin said softly, with a wink. "You keep your coin. I'll settle with Merlin some other day. Tell him joy to you both."

She didn't know when she'd see Merlin again, but she smiled at the crooked man anyway and assured him she'd pass on the message, cryptic as it was to her.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The morning was clear and cool – one of the last of such for the season, Merlin was afraid. He could have seen the twin domes of the cathedral well enough to count gold-leaf shingles if not for the thicket of trees that surrounded Morgana's stable on three sides.

He'd taken his breakfast here with the other stable boys – strong coffee, crusty brown bread and soft white goat-cheese – dressed in the same baggy brown trousers, heavy boots, and loose sleeveless tunic that the other attendants wore. He'd covered the scars on his wrists with wide leather bands which were far less memorable than the scars themselves, and the bruises that still showed from the fight in the holding cell weren't out of character for his dress. A floppy-brimmed farmer's hat completed his costume and helped shield face and hair.

Morgana's servants and hired men were nothing if not discreet, used to all sorts of oddities from visitors and apprentices alike. They were glad of Merlin's help for a couple of hours, and no one even blinked when he stepped out first to meet the hired coach that had been sent for.

Jordan was taking leave of Morgana and Gwaine on the doorstep - but dressed as a stable-hand and unshaven for almost a week, Merlin wasn't too worried about being recognized, at least by Jordan.

"Let me get this one?" he suggested quietly to the coach's attendant. "Make it worth your while?" The boy shrugged and disappeared into the stable, letting Merlin toss Jordan's two travel-bags to the luggage-rack atop the coach. The driver raised an eyebrow when Merlin ascended to the attendant's seat beside him, but the same offer kept him silent also.

"Blue Rose district, driver," Jordan said shortly, swinging himself up into the coach.

Merlin slouched and stared nonchalantly at the lowered brim of his floppy broad hat, no different from a thousand serving-men, and the driver started the horses moving down the hill. Blue Rose district? he thought. That was adjacent to Hillside, where Morgana lived, south and west toward the river. If Jordan's home was there, why had he stayed at the chalet? There was no toll between the two districts.

Before long, Jordan's voice rang out again from the driver's-side coach window, out of Merlin's sight, as he gave more specific instructions. "Number Fourteen Orange Leaf Road, driver."

The homes on Orange Leaf Road were built with connecting walls, all in a row, with a short weedy alley behind. They were two stories high, but much narrower than the homes on Sycamore Avenue, and if Merlin guessed right, the front door entered directly into a family kitchen, rather than a spacious hall off a comfortable sitting room. Merlin swung down from his perch before the wheels stopped turning, and came around the coach with one of Jordan's bags in each hand as the man stepped down.

Jordan didn't pause to study the building, but strode familiarly up the short walk and put out his hand to open the door without checking the lock first or knocking. It opened, which didn't seem to surprise Jordan in the least; he held it impatiently for Merlin to bring the luggage.

He ducked his head as he passed the man and entered, quick glances taking in much of the lower level. The stairs rose directly in front of the door; Jordan stood in the doorway of the kitchen to Merlin's immediate left – counter-space, a low table covered by an orange cloth, a glimpse of a blackened stove, the back of a woman bending over it – no fuss made over Jordan's entrance, so Merlin guessed her to be hired help, rather than family.
Merlin carried Jordan's bags down the hall passage to the right of the stairs, noting two closed doors on his right hand for a water-closet and a laundry-room, and a little broom-closet beneath the stairs, and came out into a sitting room a third the size of Freya's cousins'. Long sofa, with worn blue upholstery, large mustard-yellow armchair, bookshelves and writing-desk. Through an arched doorway he saw a table with six chairs and a wooden corner cabinet for the china, and another door that led, presumably, to the alley behind the home.

He set the bags down, tipping the brim of his floppy hat even further as Jordan impatiently held out two small coins between thumb and forefinger, dropping them into Merlin's palm without touching him.

And as Jordan closed the door behind him, Merlin heard the unmistakable creak of floorboards in the upper level – there was at least one other person in residence, someone Jordan had not called out to, nor had hailed him at his entrance, either.

Merlin leaped back up to the attendant's seat. "If it's not too much trouble, can we round a few corners?" he said to the driver. "And how much do I owe you for having to go back by the chalet for your boy?"

"How much did he give you for a tip?" the driver answered, as they rounded the first corner. Merlin opened his fist and the driver snorted as he glanced down. "I know better than to ask your business, considering where you came aboard, and I have to drive through Hillside on my next route, anyway. So if you'd give your tip to my boy for what he lost by not coming on this trip, that would do for us."

They rounded a second corner. Merlin dug into his pocket, came up with two more coins.

"Thanks for your trouble," he said, preparing to dismount the moving coach.

"No trouble," the driver assured him. "Thank you, too, from both of us!"

Merlin landed lightly on the cobblestones of the street, stepped back out of the way of further traffic, and started walking without so much as a nonchalant glance around. Folks wouldn't remember seeing him, dressed as he was, wouldn't think his behavior odd or suspicious unless he acted as though he was worried someone might be watching.

He circled the whole block three times, slowly, stopping occasionally but never in the same place twice, never retracing his route, crossing and re-crossing the street, just another ordinary workman. He didn't see anyone else twice, coming or going, and got a good feel for the lay of the neighborhood, the architecture, the possibilities. The roofs were steep, but the streets were narrow enough that he could lay flat and not be seen.

So, by the aid of an unattended cart in a back alley, and an obliging rain-gutter, he gained the roof of the house opposite Number Fourteen Orange Leaf Road, where he could see both front door and back alley, and in the shadow of the chimney he watched the place the rest of the day. He watched the housekeeper leave for the night, watched Jordan emerge to smoke a pipe in twilight gloom, completely oblivious.

Under cover of the darkness of early evening, Merlin descended and crossed the street to watch through each window for a time from the shadow, even climbing to peer carefully into the upstairs rooms. He then huddled down beside a dustbin across the street to nap lightly the rest of the night.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Freya? Is something wrong?" Emma's voice brought her back to the sitting room, the low couch before the window, the needle halted above her embroidery work. "Are you not feeling well?"

"No, I'm fine," Freya answered, and smiled to prove it. Vivian was watching her also, her fingers paused on the harp strings. "Just daydreaming, I guess."

She was trying to forget the memory of her visit to Merlin at Morgana's chalet, nearly a week ago. She couldn't believe she'd stood there with her hands on him, enjoying the smooth warmth of his skin, with him looking right at her, waiting for her to come back to her senses. And then he'd apologized!

"Maybe she's thinking about Philbert," Vivian suggested to her mother. Freya dropped her eyes to the cloth in her hands as they both looked back at her, smiles starting.

"Such a nice young man," Emma murmured, raising her own needle to draw the embroidery thread tight. Her voice sounded satisfied; Freya sighed. "According to Randall, he has a good head for business, and will soon be independently successful. Of course, it is always good to consider that he comes from a well-bred family as well."

"Not to mention wealthy," Vivian added, running her fingers along the harp strings aimlessly. "Handsome, charming…" She dimpled at Freya, but Freya suspected if Vivian had been a couple of years older, of marriageable age herself, Vivian would have been a jealous competitor.

Philbert was handsome, she had to admit, probably the most so, out of the suitors who'd come calling since her arrival. Almost beautiful, for a man. Quite different from the rough vitality of someone like Merlin.

She couldn't imagine Philbert dirty or sweaty, but he didn't make her feel safe the way Merlin did, didn't inspire her with the confidence that he would be ready for anything at a moment's notice, could react to any situation to protect her. He was handsome, and charming – and had bored her with incessant recitals of business deals. He had asked no questions about herself – which she was glad of, really – but she knew that what he was looking for in a wife was not something she could be content with, anymore.

Freya didn't want to make someone's bed, wash their clothes, fix their meals, and avoid contact as much as possible, as she'd done with Padlow. Emma didn't do laundry or work in the kitchen, but Freya didn't want to manage and organize and preside over a household for someone who wanted her only for that. She wanted to be loved, needed, treasured. She didn't mind working hard at household chores, and also knew she could accustom herself to Emma's way of life without much difficulty, busying herself with clothing and music and visiting, but none of that would fill a life or a heart unsatisfied with the husband of the household.

She had reconciled herself to Padlow's atrocious style of husbanding, had found peace and joy with her friends in Emmett's Creek in spite of his treatment of her, but now that she was free of him, she would be very careful what sort of man she pledged her life to in the future. She'd remain unwed before she married someone like Philbert.

Emma and Vivian were discussing their eligible-bachelor visitor – the articles of his clothing, now, immaculate and impeccable. Freya thought irrationally of Merlin turning from the window in his tailored trousers and vest, turning to face her from his fight with five deputies.

"I think I'll go for a little walk outside," Freya said, standing and moving to lay her hoop, fabric, and scissors in her sewing box.

"That's fine, dear, only stay on our street, will you please?" Emma replied, without looking up from a complicated knot. "Randall should be home soon, and Agent Arthur mentioned he'd try to be here tonight, also."

"Of course. I'll only go a short way." It still seemed odd to Freya that her freedom was more constricted here than in Emmett's Creek.

She left her cap and straw hat upstairs in her room, and passed through the front door with a feeling of escaping. No friends to go to; for all its rusticity and heartache, at least Emmett's Creek had Shasta, Gaius, Alice… even Percival would listen and try to understand without thinking the worst of her, though Gwen was gone from town now…

Had it been a mistake to come here?

Freya reached the huge sycamore tree on the corner, and seated herself on the uneven curb in the shade from the setting sun. There was plenty of traffic on the avenue and the cross-street, but no one seemed to pay any attention to Freya. It probably wasn't appropriate for her to be sitting on the curb, in the dust and the gutter, but she was weary from trying to behave as Turad society required of her.

And yet, if she hadn't come… she wouldn't have been there with Merlin as he faced his family's home, and all the memories. Then again, if she'd not asked him to travel with her, he might not have come to Turad at all – and likely wouldn't have fought the deputies in the jail, or faced arrest for murder. Unless Arthur had persuaded him to the agent's writ, back in Camelot after Merlin's emancipation. She sighed, rubbing at a smudge on her boot.

A shout brought her head up to see Arthur approaching Sycamore Avenue, about thirty paces away. He'd seen her, and raised a hand in greeting. She'd not spoken with him alone since their return from Morgana's chalet, though her cousins had discussed the vague rumors circulating the city concerning Agent Merlin, without giving them much credence. It hadn't changed their solicitous attitude toward Arthur, nor had they realized her involvement to question her more closely.

She stood to be able to greet Arthur, and because she was watching him, she witnessed something she'd never expected to see, nor did she think anyone else had noticed.

A man dressed in the rough, drab clothes of a laborer, with a shabby broad-brimmed hat, and bruising visible on his bare arms, bumped Arthur casually as he passed him, and his hand slid into Arthur's side coat-pocket.

Freya called to him, pointing and miming a hand in his pocket, but Arthur kept coming, puzzled over what she was trying to tell him. She searched the foot traffic and caught sight of the pickpocket as he stepped up to the opposite curb – glancing over his shoulder to see if he'd been discovered – and his eyes met hers.

The slow sideways smile that spread across his face set her heart jumping, before he disappeared down an alley.

"What is it?" Arthur asked as he came closer.

"I think you just had your pocket picked," she answered, pointing at his left-hand pocket. And I think Merlin did it…

He swore and reached for his pocket, paused, then withdrew his wallet, still tied shut. They both stared at it for a moment, then he turned it over. A small scrap of paper was tucked against the wallet in his grip; he returned the wallet to his pocket as he thumbed the paper unfolded.

"What is it?" it was her turn to ask, as he scanned the palm-sized sheet, and his brows drew darkly together.

"That - idiot!" he growled, crushing the paper in his fist and staring back the way he'd come.

She was right – it had been Merlin to reach into Arthur's pocket without his notice. But that meant he'd left the relative safety of Morgana's chalet. It was something important, then, or else he'd tired of waiting and was risking his freedom in spite of Arthur and Morgana's wishes.

Arthur swore again, slowly, thinking, then swung back around to stalk around the sycamore tree, heading for Number Five, re-reading the scrap. "He thinks since Jordan has left the chalet, it's safe for him to move around Turad," he grumbled sarcastically, half to himself. And swore again, as if he'd forgotten that she hurried along in his wake. "We can catch Mordred and prove he killed Judge Alined, but it won't do any good if Merlin gets himself caught and on trial for murder in Mordred's place."

"What are you going to do?" she said, trying to keep up without an unseemly show of haste.

He stopped abruptly and looked at her as if he didn't really see her. "He's going to tail Jordan a few days, see what he can find out. I need to get as many members of the council as I can to listen to me instead of Agravaine before any arrests are made, or it'll be the worst–" He swerved off into expletives again, so when he turned to head for the house, she didn't follow.

She looked back to where she'd last seen Merlin. Standing on Percival's porch in Emmett's Creek, one could see the length of the main street, and take in at a glance whatever action there was, and most action took place on that street, anyway. But here in Turad, she'd mostly been lucky to have tagged along with Arthur, to have seen and spoken to Merlin.

They didn't need her help, not really, any more than they'd needed her in Emmett's Creek. She didn't want to get in the way and put herself in danger as she'd done last fall, but it gave her a scared quiver in her stomach to think that Merlin could be hurt – badly, even – arrested tried sentenced – without her even knowing, or being able to be there for him.

"Good evening, Cousin Freya," a man's gruffly kind voice said beside her.

"Cousin Randall," she said, turning to smile up at him. "How was your day? Emma has been waiting for you to get home for dinner."

"Then by all means…" He offered his elbow to stroll her back home. "Am I right in assuming your thoughtful frown was in consideration of our visitor yestereve?"

Their visitor? Freya stared blankly before remembering. Oh yes – Philbert. She smiled politely to avoid answering, but Randall was occasionally as quick to read her as Gaius.

He smiled without looking at her directly. "I am happy to entertain any company that Emma is pleased to invite, for any reason whatsoever," he commented. "I greatly enjoyed discussing various business concerns with young Philbert. Emma's invitations allow you to meet likely young men here in Turad, but please don't feel this places you under any obligation to accept any proposals, or to encourage those visitors who don't happen to appeal to your fancy."

"Thank you for saying so," Freya said, hearing the relief in her own voice.

Randall only chuckled, leading her up the steps to the door.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was something of a surprise for Merlin, to see Freya at the corner of Sycamore Avenue.

He thought she saw him, recognized him, but didn't wait for her to point him out to Arthur. The agent, as he'd said to Freya, had his own theories and plans, and he was pretty sure they involved him, Merlin, laying low at Morgana's until Arthur cleaned things up in the political arena. But if it was only a matter of time til Agravaine insisted on searching Morgana's chalet for a hidden murderer, Merlin was not about to sit and wait to be re-arrested.

Were there risks in what he did? Of course. But there were risks in crossing the street, too.

So he left the note in Arthur's pocket in the manner of a petty thief. Anyone following Arthur would never notice him, and anyone watching Randall's house would never to able to intercept or question a messenger.

And Arthur would not be able to argue or issue commands against Merlin's chosen course.

He'd even added a line thanking Freya for her help – he hadn't been to see Taliesin at the Daved, but figured his lead at Jordan's residence on Orange Leaf Road was more urgent than anything Taliesin might have uncovered. If his quarry gave him the slip at Number Fourteen, he could follow up with the crippled singer. At least Merlin's presence in the city would relieve Freya of any responsibility to help.

The one thing he'd left out of his message to Arthur was his discovery of whose footsteps he'd heard on Jordan's second floor. If he revealed that, he figured Arthur would make a beeline for Orange Leaf Road to arrest the man, and their evidence would hang on hearsay rather than solid eyewitness testimony.

It was a risk to let the other roam Turad free to kill again, but as he himself intended to be a scant two steps behind him whenever he left Jordan's residence, the remaining council members would not be in serious danger. The reeve he couldn't care less about. And he didn't expect that Jordan would try to fulfill a contract himself, after the ruse of coming to Morgana to find someone else to do it. Leaving the Blue Rose district was also a calculated risk, but the odds that Mordred would leave Jordan's residence during this window of time were slim. It was daylight, and working hours for the council members during this time of crisis were not near over.

But it was only a matter of time til Arthur learned Merlin had left Morgana's, and he didn't want the agent to misunderstand his reason for that. Therefore, the clandestine note.

As Merlin paid the toll to enter the Blue Rose district, the collector met his eye, and shook his head wordlessly. No one matching Jordan or Mordred's description had passed this toll point; no one had been asking after someone of Merlin's description either. And Merlin doubled the fee he handed over.

He continued on to Orange Leaf Road, ducked into the back alley, and climbed to the roof of Number Twelve. He'd unhinged the front and rear vents of the attic, which allowed him to see and hear both entrances of Number Fourteen without exposing himself. This attic had the dust and silence of long years undisturbed; he didn't think there was much chance of the family below discovering him.

And so he waited and watched, once again stalking a murderer.

The coincidence wasn't lost on him. And after days of solitude and boredom in his third-floor cell at Morgana's, he couldn't distract himself from thinking. But it didn't seem to affect him as it used to, with nightmares and the feeling that his grip on sanity was slipping. He had expected that another quarry, another murderer to hunt, track down, bring to whatever justice he could manage, would bring back the hate and the rage, fill the empty hole inside him. Instead, he felt almost detached.

Maybe it was because he didn't know Judge Alined or his family, hadn't cared much for what he'd seen of the man. Maybe it was because he hadn't been the one to discover the body dead in its bloody sheets.

But he had a suspicion that this problem he could point his mind and his body at – like the cadet mission to Sage Springs – was a temporary reprieve.

Mordred caught and punished, the tolls and the council's issues smoothed out, maybe even Freya married to some gentleman. Would he still be thinking of finding some ditch to lie in, die in? There'd always be killers and thieves to track down, here in Turad or elsewhere, but did he want to be taking orders from Morgana or Arthur for years stretching into more years? Would being the reeve of a small town like Emmett's Creek bring enough opportunity to keep active, occupied, distracted?

What would be enough?