How huge the woods looked, when you were rolling down across the state of Maine, long stretches of dark wilderness stretching out for hundreds of miles on each side of you. It crossed Emma's mind that it should comfort her – you read that, in books. Persecuted heroes finding solace in the sublime landscape that surrounds them.

Emma herself was in a rather more pragmatic frame of mind.

"If they find us here, we're done in."

"Yes." Jones answered with an undefeated tone.

When they started rolling, around three in the morning, their vehicle was the only one on the road, which had filled Emma with a terrible sense of fatality. Looking behind her shoulder, casting quick glances in the rearview mirror, she had been unable to rest for even a minute, despite Jones's advice. They were like shooting ducks out there. Her heartbeat rocketing, Emma had been certain her husband's car would suddenly glide from out of the woods, and it would pass them by, slowly, very slowly, so she could see his face through the window and it would be grinning like a devil (Let's go home, dearie).

Funny, how easy, even natural it was for Emma to fear her husband.

Like nothing made more sense in the world. Almost like she'd been preparing herself for this – like this black pit of terror inside her chest had been sleeping for years, ready to open its mouth and swallow all the moments of joy and genuine affection she and her husband had shared over the years.

As dawn broke and the sun started rising, and especially as they moved on to the highway and became just one car among a hundred others, Emma was able to somewhat tame her anxiety.

"They've got no reason to be looking for this car," Jones said.

It was nice that, though he meant to reassure her, his tone didn't assume an overly gentle touch – he wouldn't infantilize her, treat her like expensive porcelain. After all, she had been married to Adam Gold for six years. In Jones's book, that probably meant she didn't scare easy.

"Really?" Emma said absentmindedly.

For most of the night, she and Jones had been making their way to the woods, and though he often pulled a compass out of his pocket to look at it, it hadn't really struck her he was looking for something in particular. Not until they reached the car, which he'd cautiously abandoned near the wood border before covering it in leaves and dirt. It'd taken them only half an hour to clean it – Jones had specified it should be shining like a penny. When he'd said this, he'd flashed a smile at her that was shinier than anything Emma could think of. "We don't want it to telltale on us," he said, "do we?"

It was near midday now, and with the sun beaming brightly above them, and Jones convincing her that the car hadn't been stolen, Emma nearly managed to gather a feeling of safety. But safety was a blanket full of holes, inexpertly patched together and allowing fear to sink in through every crack.

"Honest to God," Jones promised, but couldn't hold back a malicious smile as he said that word. It wasn't hard to tell that, from all the figures in the Bible, the one Jones would identify with most was the Lord's fallen angel. "Gold never saw me in that car. He's got no way of knowing what I'm driving – or whether I'm on foot, or riding a bloody bicycle."

Emma wanted to laugh – liked how laughing with Jones felt pleasant and dreamlike, but she didn't manage. Tiredness was too heavy, wearing her down. Half-consciously, she noticed Jones had stopped referring to the man they were both running from as her husband.

"Just do me a favor, Emma," Jones said, more earnest. "Relax and sleep for a couple of hours. I'll need you to take the next shift driving, right?" He sighed. "No stopping until we've left the state, I'm afraid. Gold will be checking every motel in Maine."

Emma pictured this, for a while. Her husband's long-fingered hands forming a globe in which she and Jones were running in circles. Black spiders trickling from his fingers – a fitting image for all of the people Adam Gold controlled.

Emma didn't realize she was going to speak until the words came out, unceremonious. "Do we stand a chance?"

Jones looked away from the road in time to meet her already-weary gaze. Really. You'd believe she'd been running from him for years.

"Emma Gold," he answered, very much serious, "you are riding next to one of the cleverest thieves in America." No trace of irony or smugness. "You ever watched a magic show, when the magician swirls his cape around the room and vanishes without a trace?" His blue eyes kept level with hers, willing her to mark his words. "I'm that magician. I've picked my way out of handcuffs, slipped through windows. My fingerprints never made it to a police department. Quite frankly, you're welcome to treat me like the Invisible Man – because that's what I am, in this country. Now, listen," he put on a smile, but that was for show, nothing to genuinely balance with the seriousness in his voice. "There's a hundred quid in the trunk, and I've pulled myself out of trouble with much fewer resources. So yes, love. We have a chance. Maybe not a fat one, but like I've said. They don't call me the Prince of Thieves for nothing."

For a moment, Emma wasn't sure what to answer. "Is that what they call you?" Speaking softly. If she did as he asked and gave in to sleep, she knew when she'd open her eyes, this situation – being on the run with a near-stranger, hunted by the man who'd shared her bed for the past six years – would take on a realer attire, would actually settle over what reality used to be like, until Emma discovered a man tied up in her basement.

Before he could answer, though, she heard herself ask instead. "What do they call my husband?"

The depths in Jones's eyes might betray compassion, but he didn't look overtly apologetic. Truly. She could believe him when he called himself a magician. Just like her husband… Jones appeared to Emma like a man of many faces.

"We'll get to that," he promised. "If you want to know all the stories running about him, Emma – I'll tell you. And when I say, stories, of course, I mean: truth. But first, love –"

"Sleep." She said. "I know."

Without adding a word or taking a few more seconds to drink in Killian's enigmatic face, Emma closed her eyes, rested her head on her palm, leaning into the window. Sleep came, not fraying itself a fast and sure way through her adrenalin-rushed brain, but it came, nonetheless, after long, exhausting efforts. She didn't do it to prove Killian what an obedient partner she could be (already, the thought of herself as Adam's wife filled her with shameful anger), but because she understood this was survival, and under such circumstances, you simply do what you have to do.

She had to admit, as she waited for rest, tiredness like a coat black-as-night and sticky as tar, she felt a little like a cursed princess – or like a fly in a spider web.

"Wake me up in a hundred years." The thought flashed her by with tame amusement. She might have spoken the words out loud.

…

Jones slept for two hours straight when Emma replaced him at the wheel. As he hadn't given her directions, and the only clear thing to Emma was they were trying to leave the state, she went forward, always forward. Seventy miles an hour down route 95. While Jones was out, they passed Augusta. The next big city was Portland. In two, maybe three hours, they'd be in New Hampshire.

Not nearly far enough, to Emma's taste. Jones had told her to relax, but she didn't think that'd be possible until they were at least halfway across the country – maybe halfway across the globe.

Sleep had been regenerating but agitated. Emma had dreamt it was her wedding day, and she was that twenty-something clueless girl, her happiness almost an act of defiance – there had been so many warnings, enough she wished that she could give that smiling young bride a harsh slap.

Concerned friends, good-intentioned acquaintances.

Adam's so old, honey, from her girlfriends and parents alike. And he's so serious. They'd been looking at her gravely as they said this – Emma had dismissed their worries, taken it they only meant that she'd be bored with him, that the age difference had made Adam nothing exciting to a young woman's eyes.

Adam Gold was serious. Most of the time, dead serious.

But hadn't there also been a few more hard-pressed warnings? Emma remembered a woman she barely knew grabbing her by the arm, as she was doing her shopping, a few weeks before the wedding. It had been the woman who owned Granny's diner; she'd never gotten such a close look at her before. The bags around her wrinkled eyes were very black, and her gaze was intense, smoldering, as if something in the pit of her soul was burning. Before Emma could wonder whether or not it was rude, she thought the old woman looked like a witch. Emma had tried to pull away, but the woman held her firmly by the forearm. And then, she said, "Don't you know who he is?" Simply. As if Emma would know who she was talking about immediately. "Who he really is?"

The past was so vivid, in Emma's head, as she was shooting through the highway, route 95 was a few seconds away from turning into memory lane.

The few hours of restless slumber Emma had put herself through did little to push back the black wave of exhaustion, looming over her. Sometimes, Emma started at the sudden sight of her husband, grinning at her from the side of the road. That shook her enough to keep her awake for the next few minutes. The mere thought of him, now, was like a jack-in-the-box, a grinning goblin staring at her, beckoning her with his crooked finger.

You made a deal with me, dearie. Until death do us part. And so it will.

The relief Emma felt when Killian started stirring beside her was beyond description. Emma had been too distracted for the last few hours to pay much attention to her sleeping companion. She was astonished by how quiet he looked – confident.

"How much did I get?" He simply asked.

"A couple of hours."

Emma's eyes darted sideways and caught a flash of his calm blue gaze. "Want me to take the wheel?"

"I can keep going."

He was silent for a second. "Your hands are shaking."

Emma was mortified to realize that was true. The wheel was slippery between her fingers, like touching a black snake that might uncoil at any moment.

"Just take the next exit," he suggested. "We can stop at a convenience store for a few minutes." If not for the slight smile at the edge of his lips, Emma would have been unable to tell he was joking, "I often find shopping helps take my mind off things."

…

Emma stayed in the car while Jones walked into the store. Why, she wanted to know – well, he explained, because it was better for their pursuers to know as little about them as they could. They didn't have to know Emma and Jones had stayed together.

"Besides," Jones had added, "soon enough, Gold is going to be on every television channel with a picture of you, playing the doleful husband, begging for anyone who's seen you to reach out to him."

"You think that's how it's going to play out?"

"Oh, yes." Jones's lips had shaped a perfectly devilish smile. "He'll play the bereft man in love, and I'll be the libidinous criminal who stole his helpless wife. I'm not happier about my part than you are," he added.

Emma hadn't answered. Something about his way of smiling told him that he was.

"Anyway," he went on. "My point is Gold must have a hundred pictures of you from your years of marriage. While I, myself, am proud to have never been caught on camera since I was twelve."

Emma blinked bemusedly at him. "You're kidding."

"Not." Jones laughed at her astonishment. "You'll believe that I can get away from robbing the most powerful men in the country, but not that I can escape selfies, Facebook and Instagram?"

That was a fair point. She allowed him to continue.

"Of course, Gold and his men could have done something about that when they had me strapped to a chair." His smirk became a less warm, a little more wicked. "But that would have meant taking precautions in case I escaped them – which they were too arrogant to consider."

"They can have a sketch artist draw you."

"They probably will." He drew a pair of sunglasses from the glove box. "But come on, how many tall, dark-haired men are there in the country? Just add a few significant details – glasses, a hat, a scarf – and the trick is done." He made it sound so simple; he almost made it sound fun. "True, it would help if I wasn't so ruggedly handsome."

Emma let out a scoff that was mostly surprise and only a little amusement. He seemed to find it satisfying enough. "Is that how you usually pick up girls?" She heard herself say – what would be the point in saying more sensible things? All sense had gone out of her life, anyway.

"You mean," he said, "taking them fresh from their homes and driving away with them?"

"I mean being so full of yourself."

That smile on his lips was radiant, unshakable. "Well, I'm not pulling out the big guns just yet. Still a few tricks up my sleeve."

"I'll bet."

When he got out of the car – they'd parked behind a convenience store that looked respectable enough for its kind – he said he'd be back in ten minutes, but those ten minutes felt rather long, to Emma.

Jones had left the keys in the car.

It flashed through her brain that she could drive away, with her husband's stolen money, and ditch her companion there if she wanted it.

Which she didn't – not really because she trusted him, or because she thought she needed his expertise to make it to safety.

"We have each other," she repeated the words he'd told her last night, in the woods.

The sky was bright and blue and the world looked remarkably cheerful – a mockery to Emma's situation. Trying to trick me into thinking today's a normal day, but it's not. There'd never be normal for Emma again.

She enjoyed the brief while of solitude she got. Kept her eyes open, because sleep was a slippery slope that might lead to hell.

Finally, she spotted the man Jones as he walked out of the convenience store, a bag of groceries in his hands. With his dark sunglasses masking his gaze – looking more unknowable than ever. How do you trust someone you can't know?

Not that it mattered.

Emma's window to escape Killian Jones had just expired.

…

End Notes: I know it's taken me a long time to post that third chapter but I was really caught up with other stories. Please share your thoughts and theories.