A/N: OMIGOD a trip to town!! happyhappyjoyjoy

I'd like to point out that this chapter is not just about being shipper and saying 'they have to do this in every fic I write'--in Quaker times, society
actually thought this way about women. I'm also working it into the plot; by no means will this become just another shipper fic ;c) (hopefully)


( Volume: 1 Chapter: 8 )

Chapter 8: a trip to town


The next morning, Sarah took Laura aside again, having sent Julian to inspect the horses.

"Thou knows what I desire?" she asked her daughter.

Laura nodded. They had a list, in her mother's flowery handwriting.

"Good." Sarah paused. "My daughter, has it occurred to thee what the village also offers…in means of thy spirit and thy status in the eyes of the Lord?"

Laura looked confused. She raised an eyebrow and frowned.

"I speak of marriage," Sarah said softly. Laura's eyes widened and she stepped back, obviously quite overwhelmed by the idea.

" Laura, I'll not be here forever," Sarah admonished gently. "It is time to settle down with a life of your own. Thou are already old to not be married, dearest.
I'd like to see it in what is left of my lifetime. Do what thou can to secure this for thyself."

Laura looked down. She nodded, slightly; she understood…but how was she going to bring this about? Julian certainly didn't want her that way. She'd understood
that, at least, even if she didn't understand why he didn't. It must be that he thought she was ugly. She was so good at everything else…she could sew, and knit,
and clean, and cook, and handle cattle…she could even hunt. She had wide (but not unattractively so) hips, good for childbearing. It was true she couldn't speak…
and the other part, those times she blacked out, during her woman's cycle. Yes, that might be abnormal—her mother didn't do that. It was only once a month, though.

She was still confused—if she was ugly, why had he touched her like that, and looked at her in that way? She certainly didn't do that to ugly things.

" Good girl." Sarah stroked her daughter's hair, then embraced her, wishing that James was still alive, so she could hear Laura's voice again. It had died with him.

She touched her throat, finding a silver chain amidst the stiff collar of her dress; she pulled it out, and unfastened it, then placed it around her daughter's neck.

"Thy father gave this to me, as a keepsake," Sarah said. Laura examined the silver oval at the end. It opened to reveal two miniature paintings, one of her father,
one of her mother. "Thou shall have it."

Laura stared at her mother, uncertain. She couldn't accept this.

"Thy father would have wanted it so," Sarah said sadly. She smiled and patted her daughter's cheek. "Come, it is time for thou to leave."

"…" Julian stared at the horse, tied to the rail, that he was expected to mount. He'd only ridden once in his entire life. All he knew was he was supposed to be facing forwards,
so the horse's head was in front of him.

Laura rolled her eyes, and gestured for him to come. She took his wrists and guided his hands onto the pommel and the cantle of the saddle, the raised parts at either end. She
then held out the stirrup with one hand, tapping his left knee with the other, indicating he was to put his foot into it. He hesitated, and did as she 'asked'. She made a hopping
motion and mimed swinging her right leg over.

Julian took a deep breath—big, four-legged animals made him nervous—and copied her, standing on his left leg. He sank into the saddle with a leathery sound, and grinned in
achievement. He forgot his right leg and accidentally jabbed the horse in the rib; it shied to the side and nearly tossed him overboard.

" LAURA!" he said in panic. She rolled her eyes and grabbed the horse's bridle; she jerked the horse's head towards her and made a soft noise to it, like a nicker. It calmed down,
shaking its head with its ears back. Julian swallowed, hard. He felt so insecure with just a pair of reins to support him and control this beast.

Laura untied the reins; then she pushed on his stomach, forcing him backwards; a second later, she had scrambled on in the small space between him and the horn. He felt relieved—
he'd thought she would ride the smaller horse, although it was wearing an awfully difficult saddle. It had wooden spikes all over it. Maybe it was some sort of corporal mortification
practiced by Quakers?

They started off with a slight movement from Laura. Sarah waved at them from the yard where she was feeding the hens.

"Exactly how far is town?" Julian asked, that evening. They were sitting cross-legged on a spread woven mat, a campfire between them. Laura had noted that he seemed to want
to keep his distance from her—at the same time as his body response told her that he wanted to be much closer. It was confusing, and would make her mother's mission for her all
the more difficult. Yes, she considered it a mission; when her mother asked her to do something, Laura took it upon herself to make it happen—no matter what it was.

On closer thought—as they navigating through the woods and over empty meadows, the horse, Darley, picking his own way amongst the undergrowth (Laura had to give him a nudge
occasionally when he'd stop for a tasty patch of clover, as Julian found riding a grazing horse cause for fear)—Laura had decided she was not opposed to the idea, if it came about.
It was bred into her bones that an unmarried woman past the age of 20 was to be pitied; her earliest memories (from one year of age) were of women around her cradle criticizing
the old maids of the town. Of course, Laura didn't need anyone. She was different—she needed no one else to take care of her. But her mother was her last link with humanity—
and once she was gone…

Besides, Julian was interesting, in all sorts of ways. Her heart did a little extra beat every time she saw him, and she felt heated and flustered. She wished, for the first time, that
she could talk. She had many questions for him—where had he come from? Why was he so afraid of large animals? Did he have family?

She hadn't spoken a word since the horrible day, when her father's murderers had separated her from her mother and then hung her from the tree, too. It had been a strong,
dark-skinned woman restraining her; it was said she came from Barbados. Laura still had nightmares, of that experience, and the courthouse.

Laura struggled for a way to answer his question. She finally held up her hand, and curled two fingers against her palm so three were left standing.

"Three what? Hours? Days?"

Laura nodded to his second option. Julian stared at her.

"Holy fuck! I guess when you Quakers say out-of-the-way, you mean it, huh?"

Laura frowned. She didn't understand the explicative (having been only in her mother's company for the past 13 years), but she had been taught not to use sinful words, and never
to combine any word of the Lord with one.

"Sorry." Julian looked down; he seemed to understand her disturbance about his language. "I'm not used to this."

Laura tilted her head, examining his profile. It was usually smooth, but now in the light of the fire, he had a slight grainy shadow to his skin. Without thinking—she never thought
about things when she was curious—she reached around the small flame and ran her hand over his jaw. She knew what it was—her father had it, many years ago. She'd watched
him shave it off, some mornings; she'd played with the foam, and her father had found it amusing to watch her shape animals out of the thick suds. She hadn't forgotten—but it
had been ages since she'd seen anyone with stubble.

Julian closed his eyes, then opened them and drew away. "Laura…I…" he looked lost for words, so she smiled at him. He seemed relieved. She wondered what he was thinking—she
thought it might have something to do with why he didn't want her that way. Despite what they'd done. She wished she could ask him; her mother's mission was in jeopardy with
such an obstacle.

They shared supper—bread and pemmican, which Sarah had learned to make from the local natives, and then Laura banked the fire slightly, so it would last as long as possible.

She laid out the sleeping materials—a mat, some venison furs she'd preserved. She liked the one with the dapples the best.

Julian stretched out, making a slight face. Apparently his back was hurting him. Laura hesitated, then crept towards him. He looked up at her, his eyes wide.

"Laura…" he sounded uncertain. Her throat ached slightly; she didn't understand why, but she wanted to touch him. She stretched out her fingers and touched the hollow area where
his throat met his chest, exposed by his shirt. He swallowed.

"D-don't, please."

She pulled back her fingers and looked away. Why was he doing this? He'd said—that one time—that 'it wouldn't be fair to anyone'. What wouldn't?

Wherever he'd come from—he certainly hadn't been happy. She'd seen that—he dropped from the sky, suddenly popping into midair. She'd wondered, before, if he was from the heavens…
but time spent with Julian had proved this was hardly the case.

She thought he might be in some sort of military—he'd been wearing colors, with bars over his collar bones. Indicating rank. Laura had seen father's old military uniform, and he'd
explained to her how different ranks were recognized.

Julian was also different—like her, but in his own way. He'd been surrounded by some sort of green light—it had been coming from his eyes, too. He'd been flying the moment before the
pink light stopped. He'd nearly hit her favorite cow, Mary, coming down. Mary had poked him inquisitively, wondering if he had an apple, like Laura always brought her, from the root cellar.

Where had Julian come from then, Laura wondered. She wished—again—that she could talk. She curled up in her fur and drifted off to a fitful sleep, her fingers curled around the locket.

Five-year-old Laura and her father and mother were in the court room again, in the big, elegant town hall building. She was sitting in her Sunday best, her hair carefully combed back
(it pinched), holding her mother's trembling hand. There was a man she didn't like—Cotton Mather—he had a big white wig, and a superior yet humoring expression. He spoke in soft
voice of sweetness that didn't sound right from a man of his stature. Laura didn't understand his words yet but she knew it was wrong.

The other man, too. He had sandy blond hair and grey eyes. His voice was sharp. He was quick to emotions—to laugh, to anger. His fist hit the table a lot. Andrew Rice. His father,
John Rice, a wizened old corpse with his eyes—barely living yet—in the jury, his friends around him.

Andrew Rice's slave—Kimura. The dark skinned woman with a bright smile and cruel eyes. She was strong—built for a woman; Laura had never seen any female with defined muscles
(except herself later). And tall.

The girls, who had been mean to her before. Pulling her hair, stealing the ribbons in it. They tore her doll in half, giggling all the while. Now they were arching on their chairs, drooling,
their eyelids fluttering. One pointed at her father, who stared straight ahead. Betty Paris, and Abigail Williams, the daughter and the niece of Reverend Samuel Parris. Laura had seen
them—behind the barn—doing the very same thing—months prior.

"Pay them no mind, pumpkin," her father had told her then, when they'd hurt her. He often called her by the name of the odd round orange squash that the local natives had given them
seeds for. They'd planted them in the garden, and to their surprise, the orange globules had popped up in the autumn. "They're pumpkins," her father had told her mother. He was
well-educated, and travelled. Laura didn't know exactly where he was from. He didn't speak like a Quaker though.

The scene changed. There was a tree, a big tree. Choking noises.

"No!" Laura was saying, in her little girl's voice. "No, no no! Daddy!" Her mother put her hand on the side of her head, trying to turn her face away.

"Giv' heh' heah," the dark skinned woman hissed, in her thick accent. She pushed Sarah away, grabbed Laura by the jaw—her fingers were like talons—so strong—she forced her to turn,
and her other hand—the claw-like fingers pulled her eyelids back. She didn't want to look, she desperately did not want to see. This was far worse than watching her doll torn in half—her
father wasn't the right color, and she couldn't see his face beneath the sack. He was moving funny.

"No, no, no!" Laura fought. The hands kept grabbing her. There were more now—holding her arms, her feet, her neck. The hands changed to something scratchy; she was now on the tree,
strangling, while her mother watched.

"No, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO—"

"LAURA!"

Shaking her. Her eyes snapped open; Julian was shaking her, looking pale and worried. She sat up and touched her face. Oh. Had she…

Julian was worried. She'd been seizing and choking; and saying 'no' over and over again (rising to screams). He now knew why she didn't try to speak—it sounded like metal nails scraping
down a chalkboard, all strangulated. Her throat obviously hadn't repaired itself correctly from the damage of healing. She probably hadn't been old enough for her 'healing factor' (what
Julian thought she had) to be at full effect; her mutation had probably been jump-started by sheer terror. Normally (in most cases) they emerged at puberty; he'd heard of a few
trauma-cases though.

"You okay?" he asked, frowning. He was angry that Laura had undergone such an experience; these people were sick. He almost missed the mild-by-comparison flatscans of his time.

Laura nodded, her hand absently rubbing her throat as she shivered. She'd perspired, and now it was cooling in the night. She turned over, so her back faced him; he surprised her, taking
his fur and draping it over her form. And then he joined her, wrapping his front against her back and pulling her against him in comfort. She closed her eyes, relaxing slightly; she was
asleep in minutes.