Note: Man, I was just getting more and more into this chapter, mostly because we're getting into the meaty climax soon. Like, really soon. As in, chapter-eighteen-is-gonna-be-really-juicy soon. And the good news? I actually wrote this yesterday and Monday, not today, which is great for you guys because I'm dizzy and tired and weak and sick right now. So, now it won't suck half as much as if I'd procrastinated. Whoo!

(PS: On chapter one, I predicted this was going to exceed fifty thousand words. It just occurred to me that it has. Haha.)

Chapter Seventeen: Entwined

"Honesty."

The answer came out easily; "Honesty?" Claire repeated. Gina nodded. Her pale hands wove in and out through the clothes on her bed; frocks and aprons were folded into neat squares and placed inside the suitcase with care.

"I'm a firm believer in the power of honesty in relationships. Lies are sharper than truths; they can cut much deeper, even if well-intentioned. So, my advice to you is honesty."

Claire sighed. "I wish you wouldn't go."

"But I am going."

"I know, I know. I'm just…worried."

"About?" Gina questioned. The farmer shuffled her feet in reply. "Hm. Well, if it's Willow, there's nothing you can do but hope. If it's Skye, you can certainly hate him, but hating isn't going to bring Willow back. And if it's Trent…then be honest with him, Claire. These three tenets are my counsel." The nurse glanced from the empty half of the room back to Claire and sighed. "This is off-topic, I suppose, but do you know where Nami is residing now?"

"W-well…" The blonde hesitated; Detective Nami Stone had been fired, she'd heard, but Claire didn't exactly participate in village gossip nowadays. Occasionally she'd seen the hard-boiled detective bickering with Gustafa, but it'd been in passing, and Claire didn't see any reason to bring it up. So when Rock burst in through the doorway, she felt more than a little relieved that the question had passed to him.

"Hey, I couldn't help but hear you're looking for Nami?" the boy piped up, grinning. "Lucky for you, I know exactly where she is." He belatedly noticed Claire in the corner and staggered back, stunned. "U-uh, and hi, Mrs.—no, wait, Miss—Ms., er…?"

"Claire. We haven't spoken often, I believe," she mumbled. He agreed with a swift nod of his head.

"No. Not really."

"But if you could tell me Nami's whereabouts, I'd be quite grateful," Gina interrupted smoothly. Rock scratched his mop of golden hair and frowned.

"Oh, yeah. That. Weeeeeeell, she's been getting a little cozy with Gustafa, y'know?" He winked. "I hear she's staying at his place."

Claire's jaw dropped; Gina just smiled. "Thank you, Rock. It's been a pleasure staying here with your family. I'll miss you all." A quick hug, and Gina shouldered her bag, starting for the door. "Claire? Are you still seeing me off?"

"Y-yes." She shook off the anxiety (Detective Nami Stone dating?!) and picked up the second suitcase, seconding Rock's curt nod. "So….why are we seeing Nami, again?"

"I have something that might pique her interest," was the clipped reply. Claire didn't ask any more.

Two seasons ago, Nami would have shot herself in the leg before she'd walk, hand-in-hand, with Gustafa in broad daylight. It felt rougher than she'd expected; the guitar had left calluses on his palms, but they completely covered her own ("Dainty lady hands," he'd teased her) in a motion that wasn't possessive, as Nami had anticipated, but gentle.

"So would you like to go to the waterfall?"

"I was considering the dig site."

"Good call, good call. Ores are always inspiring." He flashed a smile her way, and would you believe it, but Nami knew she was blushing. It almost felt like a parallel universe; suddenly she was the one with a soaring heart and a thousand poems on her lips. Some question nagging at her mind was being answered, but Nami didn't exactly know what that question could be.

Funnily enough, that night had gone wonderfully. She'd forgotten what it had been like to sit in the moonlight, watching the beach, while discussing poetry and music. Nami had forgotten, too, how easy it was to laugh when you were prying emotions from your heart and tucking them into prose. If you took yourself seriously, they remained locked. If you could breathe, they became honest.

Haikus. Limericks. Sonnets. Verse. Suddenly they replaced tedious talks about murder, kidnapping, and rape. Had she ever thought it'd be safe to slip up in front of a coworker until now? She and Gustafa made up twice as many bad songs and poems as they did good ones, and they freely admitted it. Mostly because they laughed too much not to.

"I want to write more with you," she'd said that night. But, more accurately, her voice had said this: "I want to be released. I want to forget that I'm not supposed to feel anything, just for a moment, and let go."

Well, Gustafa had always been a clever interpreter.

"Hey, Nami, there's another one here." Gustafa dusted off the stone in his hand, and Nami took it admiringly; half of the ore was cracked, but it had the most unusual color and shine. "How's that for inspiring?"

"It's unique," she breathed, and Gustafa could interpret that, too, as "it's beautiful."

Back when they'd first met, he'd discovered her love of ores by accident. On being prodded about her past, Nami had offhandedly mentioned childhood scavenger hunts—adventures, she'd no doubt thought them—of cave hunting, and of stealing the tarnished jewels hidden within. "Just silly pebbles that shone, of course," she'd dismissed them with a laugh, but Gustafa from then on had showered her with them.

Until she'd left, that is. But now…

"Hey, Gustafa?" Nami fingered the ore for a moment more, turning her eyes to face his. "Thank you."

The musician gave a mock bow. "My pleasure."

"No, really. Thank you…for everything." Her nails clinked against the stone's surface and she smiled. "Detectives aren't supposed to get emotionally attached, so I—I guess I'd forgotten how nice it is to feel. Isn't it funny, that I had to lose everything to gain that tiny truth? I'm, well, I'm almost glad it happened."

"Hey, I wouldn't go that far," he laughed, "but I'm happy to see you smiling again."

"And I'm happy you're happy." Shyly, her blue eyes flitted up to meet his once again, and Nami tiptoed closer—was that a blush on her cheeks?—to whisper, "I remember a lot now. I'd tried to forget, but…" The words slipped and tumbled on her tongue; speech was failing her now; spoken word had abandoned her. His gentle gaze waited as she tried to grasp her next sentence—she was supposed to say something else, but oh, what was it? "But I…I…"

It all seemed so clear now: that day she'd stumbled upon the guitarist in a clearing. His music called her, she'd rationalized; his voice drew her, nothing else. Yet, Naminè Stone knew these excuses to be lies. Every phrase, every lyric, had chained her to the ground with awe, not because of their beauty, but because of a trait far rarer they possessed.

Sincerity.

Pure instinct drew her pale lips to his cheek, brushing against his skin long enough to leave a startled flush on both their expressions. It couldn't have lasted longer than five seconds, but it felt like five hours, and Nami's heart beat like an offbeat drum in her chest. "I—I can't forget. Because I never gave you a chance, even though you gave me plenty. Deserving or no."

Gustafa remained silent as a dumbfounded hand felt where her lips had left him; a sweet grin swept across his countenance, and he held her in the gentlest of embraces. "There's no need to rush," he murmured into her ear. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a pretty patient guy. We can move along as slowly as you need to."

"As long as we're moving." Nami pulled away and cleared her throat, the blood still rushing to her cheeks. "Frankly, I'm a little tired of remaining where I am." And even if it's foolish to run blindly ahead, at the very least, it's sincere.

Gwen slammed the rolling pin, hard, against the dough. The wooden tool crushed the tough but soft material into a flat surface, and though she'd normally be pleased with the end result, right now she just wanted control over something.

"You're looking tense, beautiful."

"Not in the mood, Steiner. Not. In. The. Mood." She blew her hair from her face; this was his fault anyway, wasn't it? Stupid cryptic man. For all his charm, his beautiful looks, and his sweet demeanor, he could be a real idiot.

Like now. Especially now.

"I don't know what I've done exactly."

"Don't give that 'I'm oh so innocent' look. If you don't know what you did, then you deserve twice the attitude from me." The rolling pin rammed once again against the dough as she added, "And thanks to you and your stupidity, these poor rolls are going to turn out awful."

He eyed them and nodded in agreement. "You're being quite cruel to the carbs today. If it's weight, I must say you haven't visibly gained any."

"You think this is about my weight?"

"Well, now I don't."

"You—!"

Steiner neatly dodged her rolling pin and chuckled weakly. "Uh, new guess. I did something stupid."

"Good going, Sherlock."

"Did I forget your birthday?"

Gwen rolled her eyes. "This is impossible. You're impossible." Her hands twisted the dough before her into tiny shapes; her fingers squeezed until her knuckles turned white. "Tell me. Am I insane, Steiner? Am I crazy to think that you—?" A deep, deep breath.

"I what?" he asked.

"You don't trust me!" Gwen blurted out, fuming. He blinked his icy blue eyes, and she continued, "I am sick and tired of hearing the same stupid excuses. 'Oh, it's nothing, Gwen.' Or 'Just my past, Gwen.' For Goddess's sake, Steiner! I'm your girlfriend! Girlfriend. As in, if you can't trust me, you probably shouldn't be dating me."

"But of course I—"

"Don't say that unless you mean it," she warned. "I don't like getting jerked around, Steiner. Mean it or leave it." At that threat, Claire woke up from her highchair and began to let out a low wail. Gwen pointed to her and raised her eyebrows. "See? She's sick of your secrets, too."

He rushed to his baby's side, cooing into her ear and petting her soft blonde head. Then he glanced back, frowning. "This isn't the time nor place to be accusing me."

"I disagree. It's the perfect time and the perfect place. As far as I'm concerned, we could be on the bottom level of the mine at three in the morning and it'd still be the perfect time and place. So." Gwen crossed her arms. "What's eating at you?"

Steiner ducked his head; the answer seemed to be eluding him, but for what reasons, Gwen couldn't begin to fathom. "It's not you, exactly." He paused again. "It's me."

"Oh, come on. I ask you to trust me, and you hand me a cliché? Rip-off, Steiner. Rip. Off."

"Clichés sprout from a grain of truth, though." Gwen scoffed at that and turned away, but Steiner persisted, "What is it that you think I'm guilty of exactly?"

"It's not what I think. It's what you think that I think."

"Meaning?"

"Am I trustworthy to you, or am I just a lying cheat? Or worse, am I just a stupid fanciful girl?" Gwen shrugged her shoulders and slammed her slab of dough against the cutting board. "Theory one: you've got it in your head that I can't understand whatever it is that's bothering you, so you've resolved to get the notion out of my pretty little head."

Amusement flickered in his eyes; "And theory two?"

"You've decided I'm betraying you somehow, and therefore you don't see why you should trust me when I don't trust you." She blew her bangs from her face and frowned. "Theory two is shaky, though. I mean, I don't remember doing anything like that, so you're either insecure about me being friends with guys like Bob, or you've just got an overactive imagination."

"So that's—?"

"You're forgetting theory three: you're doing something that would betray my trust." The poor dough resembled something bizarre and asymmetrical now; her voice hardened as she continued, "Maybe you're cheating on me. I have no idea. You could be reconnecting with that bitchy ex of yours who walked out on you and your kid. For all I know, you're planning to run away again. It just…Steiner, I…" Her dusty hands wiped at moist eyes, and a white smear marked where they had laid. "Don't do this to me, please. I don't like games."

No one does. Especially the Games' Master himself.

She flinched as he drew near, but Steiner brushed away the flour with a caress of his thumb. Her face twisted into disgust, yet her eyes betrayed her, begging with that final unspoken "please." Steiner's secrets had destroyed him, fine. But Gwen, the one person in this world he'd tried to protect besides his Claire, was crumbling, too. No matter how he hated to admit it.

The thief averted his eyes. "I…I didn't want to hurt you."

"Well, too late for that one." The blonde swatted his hand away, but for some reason she couldn't let herself release her fist from his arm. Her fingers wrapped there as if grasping at a lifeline; "Steiner, I don't know what the hell your little speech was about when I first told you I loved you. It kind of scared me, a little bit. But I didn't think it'd be so…I don't know…terrifying, even now." Her lip trembled. "Why am I scared, Steiner?"

"I'm sorry." It wasn't original or reassuring at all; yet how could he word it to be either of the two? Steiner had already said the rest, and Gwen hadn't been satisfied with any of it. "I'm…not sure…how to say this to you."

Gwen laughed darkly. "No kidding."

"I'm not even sure if I can, Gwen. There's just—" He gestured widely; how could he convey the vastness of his confusion, his unease? "This whole thing. It's not going to be black and white. I'm going to do things you're not going to understand. But it's not another woman. It's not me being jealous of you. It's none of that."

"Which…leaves one theory." The cook straightened out her apron and cleared her throat; holding her head high with flushed red cheeks, she stated, "I'm just a silly girl who can't be bothered with that inner shell of yours. Well, let me tell you something, Steiner. I've done my time in that 'no one understands what I'm going through, pity me' phase. But unlike you, I've realized that I'm not the only one who's gone through shit. Wake up. There are people who care about you, and they're waiting to see if you care enough about them to let them listen."

"Gwen—"

"Loving you isn't the same thing as understanding you, Steiner. The second part requires your assistance." The kitchen shook with the shutting of the door on its hinges; Steiner remained frozen as Claire cried and cried, the dough on the counter hardening into something useless and forgotten.

The envelope had her name on it; there was no doubt about its receiver. Nami fingered the sharp crisp edge, and announced, "It's not from the local force, that much I can gauge. They type everything, including the address."

"Maybe opening it will give you a better idea," Gustafa remarked dryly. He plucked at his guitar strings from his chair; the pretty lyricist had gone into detective mode as soon as they'd discovered the mystery note upon arriving home. "I'm getting a little tired of hearing you talk investigatively again."

"Investigatively isn't a word."

"But superciliousness is."

"Which is irrelevant, thank you." Hesitantly, Nami brought a knife to its opening, peeling it open with the care of a police officer at a crime scene. "Why anyone would send me a letter is beyond me," she mumbled as the paper gave way. "I don't know a single person who would bother." Gustafa opened his mouth. "Besides you." Gustafa shut his mouth again.

The letter slipped out smoothly; the handwriting was curly, pristine, and tiny enough that Nami wished she had a microscope to decode it. "Can you make out a name at the bottom?" the guitarist inquired.

"I'm working on it." She squinted harder, and suddenly the letters began to take shape: that was a G, and then that could be an N, and—Nami blinked. "It's…from Gina."

"Gina? Really?"

The curiosity that had fueled her during all those past cases flared up again as Nami scanned the rest of the letter, the message becoming clearer and clearer the more she read. "Oh my God." The redhead laughed despite herself. "You're not going to believe me, Gustafa."

"Try me."

"Gina," Nami began slowly, "found me a job."

If Skye had anything, right then, it was time. How much, he didn't know. He never knew. Yet he could hear the tickticktick of the invisible timer every second of every day, waiting for it to blow up like a bomb in his face. And when it blew up, he'd have nothing left. Not Claire, not Gwen, and not even his new name.

"S-stupid damn man."

He froze at the sound of her voice; it sounded cracked, now, broken. Traces of anger still tainted the edges of her vibrato, and Skye didn't pretend it wasn't vindicated. Just because he didn't understand the intricacies of love didn't mean he couldn't hear the truth in her words.

Skye crouched in the shadows; it felt good to be on a mission of any kind now, after so long. Gwen's whimpers had died down, and the sobs of a past lover echoed in his ears, as if to say, "You caused all this pain. You're the catalyst here."

Why didn't his pain count for anything? Why were only they allowed to cry?

How did you know you were in love, exactly? Back when he'd romanced that farmer in Forget-Me-Not, Skye could've bet his life that he'd met the one. Perhaps she'd been begrudging; Skye didn't mind, for that had been what drew him to her in the first place. So hardhearted, and so vulnerable at the same time: it had been the paradox that had fascinated him, at the time. Claire had been a glass sculpture disguised as a diamond fortress, and to be able to see her deception deluded him into thinking, maybe, that she could see through his own.

But she hadn't, had she?

Skye had learned how to stand in a doorway while merging perfectly with the darkness long, long ago. In the sliver of light his vision allowed, he could make out Gwen's slight figure kneeling on her bed, a baggy T-shirt and pants her pajamas. "I—I'm not going to cry just because he's being stupid," she forced out through gritted teeth. "Gwen, stop crying, because this is all his—his stupid—"

Gwen had hidden parts of herself, too. Yet something about her facade hadn't been like the other woman's had been. This girl hadn't relied on transparent glass to reveal her heart; instead, each fragment of her jeweled tower was revealed piece by colored piece openly, and without fear. She'd trusted him with her heartaches, her past, her fears, her love. No, Gwen wasn't built of glass or diamonds at all; her heart was a prism, reflecting different lights depending on what beam you flashed upon her. And, if she trusted you enough, she revealed them all in a brilliant, dazzling rainbow of sincerity.

Yet he'd chosen to be an observer, instead of offering his own insecurities, too, to come to light.

"I need to give you something."

His voice startled her, and she immediately covered her face with a pillow, stuttering, "G-go away. I'm tired, and I want to sleep. So leave."

Instead, Skye fumbled about for the box in his pocket, all the while keeping his eyes upon her. She wasn't a pretty sight right now by any means, eyes red and face drained of all color. Her hair had been crumpled into a hasty bun, and the pajamas erased all figure she possessed from view. Still, Skye couldn't shake that feeling—you love her, you love her, and you'll only have her for so long. "You were right, today." A square shape materialized, and Skye held it forward in his hands, smiling uneasily. "I want to trust you, Gwen, I do. But apparently I'm not as good at this as you are, not yet."

"What's in the box?" she questioned instead. Gwen sniffled, but the pillow lowered in her hands and she crossed her arms. "If it's a blue feather, I swear, I'm throwing the pillow at your face, Steiner."

A wry grin tugged at his lips. "No such luck." The lid of the box pulled back to reveal two sparkling gems—shining in a way all too familiar to Gwen and her widened eyes.

"How did you—?"

"I found them on your dresser some time ago. I…well, I had planned to take them with me when I ran off, to remember you." Skye placed them delicately in her palm and lowered his head. "I don't mean to be moody, Gwen. I'm just not like you. I don't open up easily. It'd be easier if I did, and maybe I will, in time."

"Returning my mom's earrings and giving me a 'maybe' aren't guarantees of forgiveness."

"Then I'll erase the maybe." Skye paused and concentrated on Gwen's eyes; somehow saying what he did next felt easier this way, as if she had hypnotized him into speaking it aloud. "I can't tell you my problems now. But I can tell you them later. I promise that I will."

"When?" she replied with a sigh.

"New Year's." The date came of its own accord; Skye couldn't say how or why he'd felt prompted to blurt it aloud. "I'll tell you everything then. Just give me a chance, Gwen. Being scared of hurting you, and of hurting us, isn't the same as not loving you. You have to know that."

The blonde studied the earrings thoughtfully and nodded, biting her lip. "I guess that's fair." Gwen clutched the box to her heart and turned away, laughing to herself. "It's fair. Yeah, I guess I'm just…haha. Sorry." She dabbed her eyes. "I think I'm just afraid that I love you too much. That one day I'm going to wake up, and this is all going to be over."

"You're not the only one who's afraid of that."

"Steiner?" Gwen scratched at her head and averted his eyes; the tremor had crept into her tone again. "Is it…childish…that no matter what you tell me, or what you've done, I'm probably still going to love you as much as I do right now?"

Skye shook his head. "You don't know that you'll still feel that way."

"You don't know how I'll feel, either. I'm just dreading it." Gwen laughed again. "I'm dreading learning what you told me about that Full Moon Festival: understanding that kind of pain, that loneliness." She stared at the ground. "But I think I'd resent being in the dark even more. I love you too much to let you struggle alone."

And I love you too much to let you join the struggle.

Except, not for the first time, he was opening the doors to let her inside, knowing fully well they'd snap shut behind them both.