((author blurt)): So, I broke my own rule again, and posted two parts together. But the second is really short, and they go together very closely. From now on, the pieces are sequential and should start to make more sense. Thank you so much for sticking with this Freya Sacksen, you're my only constant reviewer, and I want you to know that I really appreciate it. I haven't forgotten about your Shakespeare fic, and now that I've finished college apps (hooray!) hopefully I will now have more time to sit and read.

Part ix:

It's raining when he comes again, perching on Oliver's windowsill like a coiled panther. Oliver doesn't see him at first through the panes of glass streaming with storm water- it is only after the first brilliant streak of lightening rends the sky and outlines Ian's spindly form from behind with witch-light brilliance that Oliver notices him. Hesitantly, Oliver places one hand against the glass, and then the other, as Ian's hand rises to meet his palm. Oliver is still not entirely convinced that Ian is there at all; maybe he was born from the midnight- an extension of the humid air and the all-alone sound of the rain hitting the pavement. Or maybe he is a moon-child, with dying stars for eyes and the palest of comet trails for his slender arms.

But after Ian's breath fogs the glass so that Oliver can no longer see his solemn face, Oliver heaves a long sigh and decides that Ian is real after all – just a boy of flesh and blood and so many problems. Slowly, he pushes the windowpane up.

Ian smiles, and Oliver feels like his soul has just been signed away.

'The night was made for us' whispers Ian directly into Oliver's ear as he leans forward into Oliver's room. 'See how it turns and turns around us as we stand so still? See how the stars burn and burn just for you, and the moon crowns you with all the colors of her frigid halo?"

Water drips from the long strands of Ian's soaking hair and streams down Oliver's cheeks as Ian clings to Oliver's shoulders and swings himself off the ledge and onto the floor.

'Nothing, nothing, lasts for ever (except for you and me, love).' Ian murmurs and then laughs and laughs as Oliver shivers in his arms. And his laughter carries on the night wind (turned suddenly so cold) all the way from Oliver's ears to inside Charity's haphazard dreams, so that everything turns dark and wild.

When she wakes in the morning, her cheeks are wet.

Part x:

The morning after is fresh and clear and it smells like clouds and wind and the brilliant blue of the sky. Cass wades into it slowly, testing the air cautiously with the tip of his tongue.

'What do you taste?' Charity asks him.

'Cinnamon. And cold macadam'he says, and then: 'witch-craft.'

Instead of laughing at him, Charity reaches out and takes his hand tightly in hers, because Charity can feel it too.

((Ending blurt of useless info)) : When I was first writing this, it was at this point that I decided to work in pieces of all the literature we read in my Honors English class, so from here on there are some Hamlet references, and a lot of Crucible references (hence the witchcraft, which I found convenient because of the earlier description of the elementary kids calling Ian 'witch-boy'.)

Oh, and just for fun: the reason that I decided that Ian's nose is big and he gets called witch-boy is because my own brother has a definite roman nose (his name is Ian as well, which is actually just coincidence, because it was the name closest to Iago that I could find, and still liked.) I don't think that my mom would be amused to read this fic and find that I'd used my brother's name…..