The young British soldier ran his finger over the coat of arms in contemplation. His light eyes bounced back up to Annabelle who hadn't taken a proper breath of air in nearly a minute.

"Turnbull?" He asked, still watching her closely. "Will you fetch Tavington for me?"

A portly soldier who Annabelle assumed to be Turnbull rode towards them.

"You cannot merely fetch Tavington," he said, "besides, he's still off hunting his ghost."

Several laughs shot back and forth throughout the encirclement of Green Dragoons.

"Why, did you find anything suspicious on one of our prisoners?" Turnbull asked, looking Annabelle over from behind a thin pair of spectacles.

"Rather."

The tiny notebook was then passed to Turnbull and the remnants of ammunition rolled out and tumbled to the ground.

"What exactly am I looking at here, Phipps?" He flipped through the pages, passively. "There's nothing more than a few crudely drawn landscapes and mediocre poems in this book…"

Phipps shook his head. "It's property of the Colonel. Turn it over if you don't believe me."

After investigating what was on the back, Turnbull gave his men a tiny nod and tucked the notebook into the innermost pocket of his coat. "Assuming we are situated," he began, turning his horse, "which we appear to be, let us head back to the fort and give these men the swift hanging they've earned."

Annabelle watched the wooded outskirts of the road. Tavington was due to appear with the rest of his men at any moment. Her mind began to race. In the terrible anticipation of her impending execution, she began to believe that the only thing that could spare her and, if she was lucky, her men, now would be words. She could talk herself into trouble, sure, but she'd talked herself out of trouble on numerous occasions as well. If the notebook was of no significance to Tavington, she would have only this tactic to rely upon.

Something began to stir several yards back and sure enough, it was Tavington and several others. As he approached, Annabelle could see a shadow of frustration and defeat had darkened his handsome features- his "Ghost" had slipped away from his clutches. He didn't speak a word to any of the other men although Turnbull and Phipps looked, on several occasions, as though they were about to engage him. Instead, he seemed to make his own path quite like Annabelle used to do. Her mind mused upon this parallel for the remainder of their ride.

When they arrived at the fort, the prisoners were ushered into a barred holding space in the yard. Annabelle was barely given a moment to bid adieu to poor little Rascal whose behavior with the other horses had been exemplary. She didn't know this, but Colonel Tavington witnessed the brief kiss that she had given Rascal on his fuzzy black nose and had chuckled slightly from his place across the yard. No more than five minutes after seeing this, he was approached by both Turnbull and Phipps.

Annabelle was leaning against the bars in the section of the crowded prison that she had proclaimed her own when she was summoned. It was not Tavington who called upon her, but a young woman who she assumed to work as a servant in the house. The woman slipped a sealed note to the gatekeeper.

After breaking the seal and taking a glance inside, the old guard spoke, "Will Arden." He looked through the bars at Annabelle before turning his eyes to the young woman. "Very well. Take the runt to his slaughter." Not a moment later, she was handed over to meet her unknown fate. She remained in her shackles and the large wooden gates at the mouth of the fort were shut, so Annabelle assumed that nobody expected foul play as she crossed the guard with her unusual escort.

They climbed the steps and entered. Despite the fort's rugged exterior, the inside was pristine with fine furnishings and wide windows overlooking the area's natural beauty. She led Annabelle into a small parlor with several armchairs and a fireplace and gestured for her to sit in the chair nearest to the window. Moments later, the sound of footfalls echoed in the hallway and Tavington's shadow filled the doorway.

"That will be all for now, Phoebe." He told the young woman upon entering the room. "Bring me the items we've discussed while I make our guest more comfortable."

One curtsy later, Phoebe left, leaving Annabelle and Tavington alone in the parlor. He watched her closely before speaking, his light eyes appeared to be alive with some emotion, but as always, it was almost impossible to decipher.

"Will Arden?" He asked, sitting in the chair adjacent to Annabelle. His thin lips moved into a partial grin. "And I half expected you'd choose something more along the lines of 'Ganymede*'."

Before Annabelle could speak, Phoebe entered and gave Tavington yet another uncomfortable curtsy. She appeared to have retrieved several garments of women's clothing. "You must think that I am terribly rude to not introduce you to my friend." Tavington continued, reclining slightly, "Phoebe, this is Annabelle Casey. And like you when you came to us, Annabelle's brain is teeming with information about the enemy. Why, it's a practical goldmine at that! And like you, we are about to offer her an appealing deal in exchange for that information."

Phoebe tensed. It was evident that Tavington terrified her. Even more so was the fact that Tavington enjoyed imposing terror on her. Annabelle decided to speak, for the first time in what seemed like years, if only to alleviate the poor woman's pain.

"You are offering me service in exchange for information?" She asked, moving very near to the edge of the armchair.

"Not exactly. But what I am offering you is a far better fate than the noose." Tavington examined his nails. "A clean cut in comparison to what the Continental Army will do to you once they learn your true identity, that's for certain."

Annabelle looked to Phoebe who handed her the stack of women's garments and, upon receiving a nod from Tavington, escaped through the doorway and down the hall.

"And what if I refuse?"

He reached for the pistol at his side and aimed it at her head. "Phoebe is a stupid girl, but she's smart enough to honor my requests. As far as everyone else out there is concerned, you are a mute pickpocket who goes by the name of Will Arden and it would cause us all very little grief if I were to spill the contents of your pretty head all over the window behind you."

Her eyes narrowed. "A pickpocket?"

Tavington holstered the pistol and pulled out the familiar leather notebook. "I must admit, I'm rather disappointed in you. Foxes and hummingbirds. That's nearly as trite fireflies."

She looked at the reflection of Tavington's shiny black boots on the polished wooden floor. Perhaps she truly was nothing more than an object of ridicule to him. "What kind of information are you seeking, Colonel Tavington?"

The footsteps of passing soldiers were heard from down the hall. Tavington rose and headed to the doorway, peeking out of it briefly. "Before proceeding, I think it would be wise for you to change into those garments. Don't worry, I'll leave you to your privacy. Oh, and don't even dream of escaping. I will have you shot. Do you understand?"

Annabelle moved her fingertips across the fabric, confused. "Tell me more about Phoebe." When he refused, she tried again. "Or at least... tell me why you are doing this for me."

"You help me, I help you. Dress. Give the door a little knock when you are done, I'll be just outside."

When the door was closed, Annabelle moved to the only place in the small parlor that could not be seen from outside and removed her boy's clothing. The gown was much too large and could scarcely be held in place by her narrow little shoulders. She unpinned her braid from the top of her head and unraveled her messy cornsilk waves. They were just long enough to protect her modesty from the gown's loose fit.

When she felt ready, she moved to the door and rapped on it carefully. The handle twisted and he moved back into the space. He looked her over briefly before crossing to the same chair that he claimed earlier, his face bore little emotion.

"You look ridiculous." He said, finally. "Sit."

Annabelle followed his command, feeling the edge of the gown's neckline slipping dangerously close to the top of her breasts. She quickly adjusted her hair for coverage before clasping her hands in her lap. She truly did look ridiculous with her dirt-smudged face and long tresses of hair that were practically fashioned into a shawl at this point. But as Tavington sat, contemplating the order of his questions, he found himself overwhelmed by the quiet and childlike beauty of the wayward girl in the chair across from him. Not to mention, impressed by how she was able to pull of her disguise and silence her beloved words for so long. He had taken away so much from her and longed to give something back.

In the silence before his first question, Tavington decided that once the "interrogation" was over, he would prepare a carriage for Annabelle. He would have her taken to Charlestown where a ship would carry her far away from this war-torn land; to a place where she might continue to grow wild and free the way that nature had intended. And perhaps- most importantly of all, to a place where she would never have to suffer the terrible wrath of the monster that lived inside of him again.

*Shameless "As You Like It" reference. Go Shakespeare.