Author's Notes: What will Sandor decide? What will Sansa do? When is this story over? When will I get out of Restoration Era England? So many questions, so few answers… Thank you for all who are still hanging on, despite the sad undertones of this story!

XVIII – "In what hole have you been hiding?"

He might as well replenish his stores, Sandor resolved halfway through the morning, since his peace of mind had been so profoundly disturbed once more leaving him unable to concentrate on his work.

Lilburne bouncing on his heels he set out towards the main hall and its kitchens. A large underground cellar next to it contained the common stores where people were allotted what they needed. His own requirements were modest; bread, grits, butter, eggs, potatoes, onions, cheese, ale, and meat or fish if they were on offer.

"It has been a long time not seeing you, Master Clegane! In what hole have you been hiding?" greeted Mistress Martha him with an easy smile, her cheeks plump and rosy.

She was a widow of a Royalist, her husband done to death at the early days of conflict in the battle of Winceby. She had been in awe of Sandor since the first time she had laid her eyes on him – had never seen such a big man before, she had said. It suited Sandor well, as she always added an extra helping of salted herring or a block of cheese into his allocation - luckily expecting nothing in return.

Brushing away her questions of why he hadn't been around lately with feeble excuses Sandor escaped as soon as he had filled his sack with the bounty, muttering something about a need to go and see Doctor Elder. People knew the two of them were close, and the regard the whole community held the good doctor in made Mistress Martha stop her questioning and let him go.

A half-full burlap sack hanging from his back he made his way to Doctor Elder's offices wondering if he could see him in private and perhaps find out something about the plans of Duchess of Norwich. Surely the boy's physician would know whether they were about to depart soon?

As he approached the humble wooden house where the doctor's rooms were, he saw Sansa emerging from it with a tall young boy. Her son, the one she named after her foolish brother who had gotten himself killed in the middle of the second uprising.

Sandor observed them from behind the shed, himself being unnoticed.

The boy had a look of Sansa about him; auburn hair, delicate features, tall and gangly in a way only boys in the middle of their growth spurt can be. Whichever way he looked, Sandor couldn't decipher much of the features of the man who was his father, the Little Bird's late husband.

She leant towards the boy and spoke to him in low voice, reached for his cheek and brushed it, smiling. The boy shrugged his shoulders and replied, a somewhat sullen expression on his face. Sandor couldn't make what they talked about, but then Sansa laughed and the boy smiled, and it was clear from the scene that the mother and the son were truly close.

Sandor's heart constricted.

A man in a fine livery approached them holding a cape, undoubtedly a footman or a man servant. Only then Sandor noticed how Sansa herself was dressed, in fineries like that first day when she had appeared on his doorstep; burgundy dress of rich fabric and fine laces decorating the collar and sleeves, her hair curled and ribboned.

She turned around for the cape to be lowered on her shoulders, never taking her eyes off her son, and the man stepped away as unobtrusively as he had appeared.

It was the way of nobility – servants were there to fulfil their needs and for nothing more, and nobody saw anything wrong with it, and yet Sandor winced.

He stared after them until the little party had disappeared over the hill toward the Quiet Isle Inn.

XIX – "Not that it is my business."

"Duchess of Norwich is leaving tomorrow."

Sandor looked at Doctor Elder from where he was sitting across the cluttered room. It was his office as well as the room where he saw his patients, and anywhere Sandor looked were signs of many interests this unusual man harboured; books, pamphlets, medical instruments, dried plants, stuffed animals, rock collections, jars filled with gruesome samples and many other oddities besides.

"Her boy getting better, then?"

Doctor Elder looked up from the letter he had been writing when Sandor had entered. He was a tall man even when hunched in his seat, with a large head, shrewd eyes and a veined red nose. He looked more like a soldier than a doctor and as a matter of fact had been one in his youth.

"He is, I am delighted to say. I have prescribed him cold baths, a light diet, gentle exercise and inhaling the smoke of a thorn-apple regularly. If he abstains from high emotions and strenuous exercise, he should be fine."

He resumed his writing, the scrape of his pen on paper monotonous and continuous.

Sandor shifted on his seat. He had what he had come for and yet it would seem odd if he left straight away.

"Her maiden name is Sansa Stark – but you knew that already, didn't you?" Doctor Elder didn't look up.

Sandor tried to remember what he might have told him about Sansa. He didn't think it to be much, she having been relegated firmly to his past life by the time he had started to live in the community. And yet… when Doctor Elder had first found him by the roadside and carted him back, he had been delirious with wound fever and drifted in and out of consciousness. Heavens knew what he had babbled on then.

Could he have talked about her?

"What of it?" Admitting or denying were both useless so Sandor didn't even try.

"Nothing. Just that she too has had a tragic past, the demise of her once powerful family when the King went down leaving her with scars. Not maybe as obvious as those in your face, but deeper, hidden."

Was he trying to tell him something? For a moment Sandor considered telling him all – but then abandoned the notion. It was too complicated. Too raw. It was his life – had been back then and was now – his mistakes, his penitence.

And hers.

"Many people have lived through tragedies. And survived. She doesn't seem to fare so badly, from the looks of it," he said instead.

"Sometimes all it takes is to face the past and let go of things we have held onto, rightly or wrongly, for us to move on." Having finally finished his writing the good doctor lifted the piece of paper and waved it in the air to dry the ink. He peered at Sandor over his glasses. "Why do you ask me of her?"

"No reason. I was just wondering, seeing such a fine lady coming out of here. Not often you have patients of that stature." It was weak, Sandor knew, but his old friend didn't seem to mind, only smiling at him.

"Well, now you know. They plan to start their journey around midday, I heard her instructing her manservant to get their carriage ready by then."

"Not that it is my business," Sandor muttered and clambered up, grabbing his sack from the floor. "I better get these back to my hut."

"My door is always open to you, Sandor, you know it."

Sandor's walk back was unhurried but his mind was buzzing.