Note: Do you want to know something? I think I'm creeping towards the story's turning point on my non-published chapters. This story is going to be my longest I've ever handled, so I'm just kind of…eep! Sorry, I'm excited. The second half will be different than the first, and I think you'll know when you've reached it…but you guys have a bit to go before I give it to you. So please enjoy this week's chapter. Or don't. Your call.

Chapter Eleven: Baby Steps

Skye the Phantom Thief would have crowned himself the king of bullshit over his latest little escape, if it weren't for one thing: it wasn't a complete fake-out. Gwen did unnerve him. Gwen did remind him of Claire. Yet lately, it was by her contrast, and not her similarity. Sometimes, when he saw Gwen waving at him in the hallway, he'd have flashbacks of Claire turning tail at the sight of him; Gwen would smile and blush at his flatteries, whereas Claire would frown. Both were challenges, in their own way. Yet…

"Steiner! I've got to go, one sec—" The blonde paused in the hallway to glance at the clock and cursed under her breath, running back to her room again. "Aargh, where is my hairbrush? I can never find anything when I need it."

"Where are you going, my beauty?" the thief inquired.

Some more mumbling reached his ears, followed by an ecstatic, "Found it!" and a few quick brush strokes. "Katie's hosting the weekly get-together this week," she called from her room. "If I don't even try to look nice, I'll look awful—and believe me, just standing next to Eve can make any woman look like a shrew." The cook rushed out, her fingers caught in a half-made ponytail, and she bit her lip. "Urgh, where's my—?"

Skye held forward a light, fuzzy piece of clothing in his hands. "Your coat, mademoiselle. The weather is supposed to be chilly this week."

"Is it?" Gwen commented. "Geez, I've lived here ever since the Inn opened, and yet you're the one who's already picked up on the nature signs. My perception skills officially suck."

"It wasn't too difficult to figure out," Skye laughed. "Winter starts this week. It's bound to get colder."

"Well, excuse me for ignoring the calendar for a day or two."

"Fine. You're excused," he teased. Gwen's eyes darted about again, and catching onto their panic, Skye walked up to the door and took her scarf off its hook. "And hanging on door number one…"

"Oh, thanks." She blushed a bit and wrapped the soft red fabric about her throat, a nice contrast to her cornsilk hair. "I'm just kinda disoriented today."

Skye raised an eyebrow. "Any reason?"

"Uh. Maybe." She shrugged and stuffed her hands in her coat pockets. "I guess, uh…well, I can't explain it. Does that make sense?"

"Not really."

"Darn." Gwen squinted at the clock again and sighed. "I'm going to be a little late, I think. Katie's going to freak; the pastries might get cold."

"Wouldn't want that."

"I don't mind that so much as the expression on Katie's face when I show up late. It's scary, Steiner. You have no idea." She caught his eye and grinned. "I'm kidding! Mostly."

"Well, I like Katie," Skye decided. "Your friends are quite amusing, fair maiden. Lovely company."

"So do you want to come?" The question was spoken casually, but Gwen's expression betrayed her where her words would not, her knees buckling beneath. "It'd be fun. Eve and Katie think you're the best thing that showed up here since Dan the Tan Man. And plus," she added conspiratorially, "there'll be cookies."

Skye frowned a bit. "See, I—" He, too, looked at the clock, and saw what Gwen had told him just ten minutes ago: his work hours had ended. Part of him, desperately, wanted to race to his bedroom and hold his little baby close, but Gwen…

"Claire can come, too. Bundle her up in a few blankets, and we're good to go," Gwen suggested. She cocked her head at his stunned expression and grinned. "What? You're easy to read."

Skye laughed, his smile wide. "Is that so, fair maiden?" And added, unspoken: You have no idea how wrong you are.

Claire had, as a rule, stopped going to her husband for doctor's visits right about when they'd married. "It'd be strange," she'd protested weakly. "I'd feel odd, being a patient instead of your wife." Or now, as his separated partner. Could you call yourself a wife, still?

Dr. Hardy wasn't exactly the kind of doctor she'd have chosen to replace him, but in Forget-Me-Not there weren't many options: Dr. Hardy, Dr. Trent, or Do-it-yourself. Still, her body wasn't something she'd been taking very good care of lately, and the good doctor had called occasionally to remind her of her very, very overdue visit.

Twenty-three calls later, here she was.

"Your body's immune system is a bit weaker." He straightened up and surveyed her with his bright red mechanical eye. "I suppose all the stress has certainly led to that. Have you been eating regularly?"

The blonde shrugged, averting his eye—just that one, anyway. She didn't like what replaced that line of vision, though: very obvious, very casual boxer shorts. "I nibble on a few things throughout the day."

"Like?"

"A crop. An herb. Whatever I'm holding, I suppose." She supported her chin upon her hand and smiled weakly. "That's not good, is it?"

"Not really," the man grunted. "I want three meals a day. All the main food groups. And please, please avoid drinking." She turned to protest, and he silenced her with a wave of his hand. "Now, now. I know it was only once. But someone in your mental state could easily become dependent on something like alcohol."

She stared at him. "My mental state?"

"Lots of things have been happening right now, Claire. Your child, your husband, it's—" Dr. Hardy caught onto the hardened look in her eyes and broke off. "Lots of stress has been present in your life, that's all I'm saying. It's hard to maintain homeostasis when things aren't consistent."

"So I'm crazy?"

"No, no. That's not what I mean to say."

"But you implied it." With a groan, Claire laid her head to rest on the counter; Kate had come by earlier and unintentionally prepared her for this blow: "I told Sam I was going to the farm, and she kept saying something about avoiding the crazy lady. You have a crazy lady living here? Since when?" She should have expected an accountant's wife and a doctor in boxers to think alike. Ha, if a man who worked in flip-flops and underwear thought she was insane, then who didn't?

"Listen. My job is not to label people," Dr. Hardy continued, level. "It is to make sure their bodies are functioning properly, and if they aren't, to fix them." He glanced down at a folder in his hands and pursed his lips. "Pretty outstanding record you have, save for some bumps and bruises in your childhood. As I remember, they were from sports, right?"

Claire colored. "Yes."

"But it was your jaw that broke once, correct?"

"Well, yes." She folded her arms in her lap. "A ball hit me. What of it?"

Dr. Hardy stared at her for a long, hard moment. "How do you get a jaw injury from a ball," he inquired softly, "while running cross-country?"

"I tripped," she whispered. Spots began to obscure her vision; there were five red eyes staring at her now, it seemed. All of them blinked, the mouth beneath them frowning.

"Tell me exactly how you tripped, then, Ms. Claire," he asked her, voice gentle and calm as he sat beside her. "Your medical history begs to know."

Trent could count the amount of times he'd answered the Clinic's phone on one hand. It had been part of Elli's job, traditionally, to attend to the social aspect of the Clinic; as much as the doctor loved his patients, he hadn't the skills of an extrovert, nor did he want them. There were enough problems on Trent's agenda to warrant his attention, the least of which not including—

"The phone's for you."

Immediately he paled at the words, and mouthed a female name (Claire?) questioningly to his dutiful nurse. Smiling, she shook her head, and worded another name back: Dr. Hardy. Relief coursed through him with its cleansing song, and Trent walked forward to take the speaker from Elli's hands. "Hello, Hardy?"

"Are you aware that your wife was mentally and physically abused as a child?"

He blinked, the words not registering; this was the wrong Dr. Trent's office, someone else's wife. "I—I don't understand."

"Well you should." There was a rustling of papers over the phone's static: "Her medical records as a child and adolescent seem innocent enough, until you look at the reasoning behind them. Just got the truth out of her a few hours ago. I don't think she even knew it was abuse, herself."

His breathing halted for a moment. "You mean, she was—?"

"No, not the kind you're thinking. It—well, it was mentally scarring, I will say that. Very stringent rules to follow growing up, and sometimes physical consequences for them. Sometimes as a punching bag, sometimes as a verbal target. It builds very shaky confidence for the victim, a very strong sense of dependency. And fear of rejection; whoo, let's not get started on that. Basically, it makes you emotionally fragile."

"And the baby…"

"That certainly doesn't help matters. And to be frank, Trent, neither does you leaving her. She's in a high state of depression—"

"If you're trying to bring me back there," Trent replied softly, "I'd rather you didn't. I've got my own…mental problems…I'm sorting through."

"Sure, sure. You mean postponing."

Trent's voice tightened. "Dr. Hardy, I—!"

"Calm down, Trent; I'm not making you do anything. I'm just saying is all. Actually, I'm calling to let you know of something I'm planning." A pause. "Would it bother you in the slightest if I called someone to visit with Claire? A psychiatrist, if you will."

A psychiatrist for his wife. Good Goddess. His fingers toyed with the phone's cord, and Trent cleared his throat, the idea sinking in slowly and painfully. "Well. She's not in, uh, that terrible of a state, is she?"

"Yes and no. She's recovering, I think, but I want her to have someone to speak with. Going alone to an empty house gives you ideas. We don't want those kinds of ideas going into your wife's head."

"My wife?"

"Well, she's still that, isn't she?"

Trent sometimes found himself hard-pressed to answer that question. Yes, changing a person didn't mean changing a marriage? No, changing made a marriage invalid? What about hiding the person underneath all these masks? What did that do?

"I trust your judgment, Dr. Hardy. Do what you think is best."

"Glad to hear it. I'm calling someone over from a city nearby, someone with experience in these kinds of problems. Things ought to go well, I think."

'Things ought to go well.' How many times had Trent thought that, only to be proven wrong? "I certainly hope so. Good luck." A little click ended the call, and Trent cradled his head in his arms, letting out a big heavy sigh.

Abuse, huh? Abuse, affairs, and kidnapping. When had his life spun so terribly out of control? When did these words begin to describe the life he and his wife had lived? Peaceful, tranquil, simple—those were the words Trent missed now. Warm summer nights punctuated by kisses; strolls along a moonlit river; coming home to a freshly cooked meal and a soft embrace: why were these memories so distant now? What was it about grief that made happiness so difficult to conjure?

"Doctor Trent, is everything all right at the Valley?" Elli inquired, cocking her head at him. "Doctor Hardy sounded—"

"Claire isn't feeling well," he dismissed it quietly. "That's all."

That's all. Nothing more.

The case, Nami hated to admit, was getting colder by the day. Cold as the bleak winter sky; cold as the water gushing from the river into the ocean; cold as the tea she'd ignored pointedly for the past ten minutes. Cold, cold, cold. "So. Do you have any warm food here?"

She was answered with a vague shrug, and Nami sighed, looking away. Things had gotten chilly between her and the innkeepers as well; Ruby didn't seem to be pleased with the little warning Nami had given her before leaving years ago. The woman busied herself at the oven, sniffing her soup and frowning at some wrong spice or another. Once, she'd have asked Nami's opinion on its taste. Now, Nami'd be lucky to be asked the time of day.

Kicking her chair away, the redhead stood up and stomped out the door to be greeted by the icy breath of winter. She allowed herself a brief smile; she'd never dressed appropriately for the weather, had she?

"Hey! You must be dying in that worn-out vest of yours." The voice was familiar, but cheerier than the one she'd been preparing for. A young man stood behind her, grinning ear-to-ear, and he shook his long blonde locks from his eyes. "Going for a walk?"

"Probably," Nami answered him. "And Rock, I'm guessing that you're doing—wait. Nothing, am I right?"

"Yup! Same thing I've been doing even before you left," Rock laughed. His eyes sparkled in delight, and he put his hands on his hips, giving the detective a long look. "Man, we haven't talked at all since then, huh? I mean, I know you've been staying here, but I sleep in so late and stay out so much we keep missing each other."

"I've noticed."

"And Mom says you spend all your time either at the farm or with Gustafa, so it's not like I'd follow you there. I mean, they say Claire is absolutely crazy with the baby thing. And Gustafa—well." Rock grinned and made kissy noises. "Gustafa and Nami, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S—"

A pale hand clamped onto his mouth with a grip like steel, and Nami answered, calmly, "You haven't a clue what you're talking about, do you?"

"Ow, that hurt," the blonde complained. He rubbed his jaw gingerly once Nami released it and added, "You're so defensive. Geez, it's not like someone couldn't have seen you two going at it if they wanted to."

She turned to the horizon and closed her eyes, her cheeks heating in shame. Her hands tightened into fists; Goddess, how often would she be reminded of that moment of weakness, anyway? "I'm here about the kidnapping case."

"Oh, how's that going?" he asked innocently.

Her shoulders sagged. "It's not. At all."

"Well, that sucks." Rock squinted at the sunlight, then added, "But maybe it's a good thing, you know?"

Stunned, the detective gazed at him, at a complete and total loss for words.

"No, no, let me explain that," he laughed. "It makes sense, really. Like, Claire is all weird now, right? And the doctor is all by himself at the Clinic to get away from the weirdness." Nami nodded slowly at this. "So even if you found the kid, where would she go?"

"There's always foster care," she replied evenly.

"Well, yeah," Rock replied, rolling his eyes, "but who wants to wind up there?"

She smiled before saying, just as cool as you please, "I was a foster child. So?"

Rock was too busy trying to remove his foot from his mouth to say anything as she walked down the opposite path, no regrets lingering behind her.

"Bet you can't."

"But I can."

"You won't do it, though."

Katie and Eve shrieked in delight as Steiner picked up the steaming hot cocoa and, in one gulp, downed it completely. He smiled at them charmingly, Claire watching from his lap. "There. Now one of you get me water before all my taste buds burn out."

Immediately, Gwen pushed her cup towards him, and he took it with a slight nod. She turned back to her friends and rose an eyebrow, plotting. "Alright, Katie, now you do something," the cook demanded. "Bet you can't eat a whole bucket of ice cream."

"Talk about a major brain freeze," the brunette sighed, but she grinned anyway. "Hey, Carl? Do we have an extra bucket of vanilla ice cream in the back?"

"Uh, I think so!" the pastry chef called, and soon the sandy-haired man bounded out with the goods, smiling brightly. "I brought a big wooden spoon to use. Figured that it'd be more appropriate for this."

"What about the toppings?" Eve added. "You can't just have plain ice cream."

"I thought of that," Carl replied, and he brought forward a bottle of chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and sprinkles. "Bon appétit, my little employee."

"He doesn't think I can do it," the waitress announced to her friends in a stage whisper.

"Katie, you've got a tiny stomach in that body of yours," he answered. "I don't think; I know."

"Shame that the whole carton will go to waste, then," Steiner commented. Katie shot him a dirty look, and the whole table erupted in a fit of laughter.

"Fine," Katie retorted sourly. "Then I forfeit. We'll just share the whole giant thing instead, okay?"

"Best suggestion I've heard all day," Gwen beamed, but Claire beat her to the dessert, little fingers grazing its white surface. Skye chuckled, and Carl dished out the spoons (this time metal, not wooden) for everyone to dig into the concoction. Even Eve, who'd been sticking to her diet, gave in to the creamy and chocolatey goodness. "Hey, Steiner." Gwen pointed at his face and laughed. "Got something on your nose." He brought a napkin to the whipped cream, and Gwen giggled again, reminded that the whole visit a complete and total success.

To be honest, she hadn't been looking forward to it. Katie and Eve would, undoubtedly, have pestered her about the race's conclusion if she'd come alone, and Gwen didn't feel too comfortable sharing Steiner's speech with them. Sometimes she didn't feel comfortable repeating it to herself.

"You remind me of her."

She stole a glance at him, and he grinned, tending to Claire's messy face. He hadn't said it was a bad thing, but there was something strange in being a reminder of someone's ex-love—could that qualify as the same thing as, "I like you"? Or maybe, more accurately, "You scare me"? Why was it that she'd been expecting something a little more after that confession—a better explanation, a more personal answer?

Stuffed, Gwen leaned back in her chair and watched Steiner dab at his child's chin, wiping away all the sugary residue. He hadn't retreated completely from this world, had he? Steiner still smiled, still laughed, still lived. He hadn't forgotten how to love; his treatment of baby Claire made that clear.

So maybe, instead, she was just over-thinking this. That wouldn't be anything new, would it? Maybe he just wasn't interested in her. It could be that simple.

Ice cream gone, Gwen and Steiner waved good-bye to their friends and parted for the Inn, silent. She studied him, the baby clinging to him with a content little smile on his shoulder, and for a moment wondered what laying her head there would be like. How his arms would feel wrapped about her in this winter chill, or even just the touch of his hand against hers. Shaking, her hand dared to move towards his, then pulled back only to venture forward once more. Closer, closer, their fingers were almost meeting—

"What is it?" he asked her, and she blinked, startled.

"Oh. Um. Nothing." Her hand curled into a fist by her side, and she blushed, knowing all too well what happened when you spoke your feelings aloud.