Day four of minding the well-behaved turnpike between Marlborough and Bath heightened the restlessness of Five's recruits like the chill of autumn cutting through the summer heat. Each time a coach politely stopped to pay the toll, the whispering became more intense. Grim looks became grimmer. It was as if the Marlborough Coaching Inn had issued a memo for all travelers on this stretch of the road to be on their best behavior. Subsequently, Blade and Bones traded uneasy looks with each other, suffering from an overdose of pent up adrenaline.

Five's suffering came from a different source, being made to listen to Daniel's repeated recitations of freshly penned compositions, using his downtime wisely (if constructing witty couplets could be considered wise) to wax poetic about Lady Burton and all of her (mostly intangible) assets. When Daniel wasn't devising rhyming schemes, he was talking through the acquisition of two properties (easily affordable after disentangling his family funds), one in London and one in Bath, because Matilda was keen on spending half the year in a smaller town… and did Sir Newman's estate contain a vacant cottage he would consider renting in the interim?

Certainly, Newman would entertain a profitable business deal with the London Knapps, or anyone, as long as they were honest, well-funded, and not a murderer. Five's latest discussions with Newman had clarified that any of Five's indiscretions prior to settling in Bath wouldn't count against him, as long as his current reputation was in good standing.

So far, so good.

He had his eye on an uninhabited cottage on the far edge of Newman's estate, and the old man had mentioned his willingness to rent… it wouldn't be entirely Five's, but it would give him everything he needed: a bed, a roof, and blessed solitude where he wouldn't have to worry over anyone digging up his past and burying him with it. But after recent events, would he be satisfied with a life which only granted basic needs and survival?

Would Saira consider an arrangement more substantial than impromptu meetings under a bridge?

At his side, Daniel continued to talk up a storm, as if they were on a jaunt through Perrymead instead of guarding a turnpike in the middle of the night.

"Tilda and I discussed it. All I need is to convince the Baron. If he grants the union, it doesn't matter a lick what our mothers think. Naturally, I'll need to present a spotless reputation with no marks on my name, easily produced, since 'Lord Knapp' hasn't dallied in London for ages."

It sounded as if Daniel's plans were finally coming together, but Five couldn't resist poking at his friend's inflated confidence.

"You and Lady Burton hatched that entire plan with your lips locked together?"

Daniel scoffed. "You're one to talk."

While Daniel continued to speak of agreements with the Baron and his plans to appease Matilda's mother by showing her how happy he could make her daughter, along with everything else that came with marrying into an established Barony, Five's mind launched into uncharted territory, suddenly contemplating his own options. If he were to entertain the thought of Saira Russell as… whatever that would be… he'd have to consider the whole package, wouldn't he? He guessed it would involve inserting himself into whatever social circles she belonged to, at the very least, a slew of Market Street connections and a pair of aunts, who he'd never even met. Also, the social demands of this society were as mind-boggling as they would be disruptive. He imagined hosting a dinner the way Newman might go about it, sending invitations to… people…

Five inwardly shuddered at the thought of issuing hospitality to the likes of Saira's acquaintances, such as Mrs. Lanchester with her sewing needles tucked inside her bun and a dessert brandy in hand (which seemed survivable), or Mr. Cogsworth issuing death glares over a roast and a carving knife within reach (which seemed… not so much).

But all of this was conjecture and wish fulfillment. Five knew better than to think about Saira as a long term prospect. They'd met less than a few weeks ago, not like Daniel and Matilda, who had apparently been at this clandestine meeting business for almost two years. Besides, Saira had said so herself, plainly, that she was not interested in a traditional lifestyle, or at least not one that tied her down to any man. Her kisses had said something else, but what did Five know about kissing, other than the rush of blood and the pounding pulse point inside his own head?

Ah, hell. Maybe Daniel's talk of when he could see Matilda again was getting Five all out of sorts. He should stick to his plan, and if time with Saira happened along the way, it would be a welcomed distraction.

Except when he thought about her, his insides twisted, remembering how she looked at him, remembering how it felt to be near her. He wanted to dig deeper into the nameless thing that seemed to tie them together, and closely examine the things that made her different from anyone else he had ever known. All of that, he assumed, would take the effort of a serious mission. A dedicated vocation…

Up ahead, coach lanterns glinted through the trees. Five tensed, causing Torchbearer to shift underneath him. Likewise, across the road, his recruits channeled their pent up energy into the quivering withers of their own horses.

"Here it comes. Get ready."

Unfortunately, his recruits were too ready. Belatedly, Five realized what they were up to, already spurring their horses to meet the coach well before it approached the turnpike.

Before he could blink, they surged off their mounts and grappled for balance on the sides of the coach. Bones tossed the rifle out of the hands of the shocked outrider in the back, engaging in a one-handed fistfight as they both clung to the side of the coach. The driver pulled a pistol, but Blade elbowed it out of his hand on his way up the perch. He drew a knife, grabbed the reins and halted the coach in the middle of the road. "Stand and deliver!" yelled the beefy knuckle-buster, the moonlight reflecting off his short blade.

"What is the meaning of this? I have your toll!" The driver yelped as Blades's knife hovered in front of his nose.

By the time Five pulled Torchbearer up to what was turning into a gross misunderstanding, Bones had knocked the outrider off the back of the coach and was rattling the trunk strapped to the boot. "We'll take this, then. If that's alright with you."

"Back off, this isn't what we are here for," Five warned.

Bones ignored the order and started undoing the luggage straps, while Blade relieved the driver of his coins. Five dismounted and drew his sword, holding it level with Blade's face.

"Stop."

Blade looked from the weaponless driver back to Five, a challenge in his beady eyes. "Make me."

Suddenly, the driver was hurtling head first directly at Five. Five quickly lunged to the side to avoid a collision. He pushed the driver behind him as Blade drew his rapier and leapt from the driver's perch to the ground into a gruff stance. Then Blade did a completely unsanctioned Fencing Club move and charged.

Meanwhile, Daniel disengaged Bones from the boot and toppled them both over the other side of the coach. In Five's periphery, a tangle of men and flying fists rolled towards the bottom of the ditch.

Five rushed the charge, blocking and spinning away from the sword. He thrust his weapon backwards and hit solid metal. Blade had thrown open the coach door between them. Rustling fabric and a muffled cry came from inside.

Of course. There had to be a passenger.

Five spun to face the open door, using his point to swing it closed and suddenly faced the worst fear he never, until this moment, knew he had.

Blade held Saira by her braid. A small bead of red appeared where his steel pressed against her throat. He sneered into her hair, as she struggled to keep her footing. Her satchel hung from her neck, giving her shaking hands space to move up and brace against his meaty arm.

Wary of Blade's sword, Five aimed his tip at the man's chest. "Let her go."

"I'll trade 'er for what's in the boot," Blade said, talking like he was haggling for a pig at the market. Five almost took the bargain until the man added, "and the satchel."

Saira's eyes widened with a fear that gripped Five's balls and squeezed. He knew exactly what was in that satchel. The man absolutely could not have it. Or any of Saira's belongings. Her hair. Her throat.

This. Was. Not. Happening.

Yeah, it was. It was happening now. Saira stomped on Blade's foot with all of her weight and shoved the sword away from her throat. On instinct, Five laser-focused on the man's pulse point and drove the tip of his sword through his opponent's neck.

Blade's back slammed into the coach. His sword flew from his hand and slid, spinning, between the legs of the carriage horses.

Hooves clattered dangerously towards the edge of the coachman dove forward and pulled the release to free the spooked animals from the tipping carriage. They galloped off into the darkness, but it was too late. Five and Saira both jumped back as the wheels swung upwards. The coach creaked in protest and toppled sideways, making a horrible crunch at the bottom of the ditch.

Five dropped to the side of the injured man. His sword had gone clean through, and blood was seeping out both sides of Blade's neck. He tore fabric, wrapping strips as tightly as possible without cutting off the man's windpipe. The situation was way worse than bad. Five couldn't stop the flow of blood if he had field tourniquets from the twenty-first century and a cauterizer. Okay, maybe a cauterizer would have done it, but in the middle of the night on a dark road in 1811, there were none to be had.

Five had fallen into the hellhole of all seven hells, converging into one specific hell, just for him. This man was going to die.

The coachman watched from a healthy distance, not offering to lift a finger as Five's sleeves became soaked red, attempting to do something… anything… but only succeeding in making a mess of himself in the middle of the road.

"That man looks done for. Why're you trying to save 'im?"

"Nothing in the contract said that anyone was supposed to die. We were here to enforce the tolls, not attack you." Five said, tightening the wraps in vain.

Blade was still grinning as Five tore the rest of the man's shirt to shreds and layered them around his bloody neck, which wasn't doing a damned thing, but he was going to keep trying until….

"Didn't think you had it in… you…" Blade said with the last of his air. His head lolled to the side, staring off into the darkness with unseeing eyes.

Well, that was it. Five knew a dead man when he saw one. A million scenarios flooded his mind where this could have gone differently. He could have gone for the ribs, the pressure point in his shoulder which would have caused him to release his sword. After Saira shoved his arm away, Five could have gone for the man's hamstrings.

Who was he kidding? There was only one option after seeing the blade dig into her neck.

"Don't know why you care so much," the coachman said, his words barely registering against the white noise in Five's head. "The Magistrate will certainly pardon you without question."

Five stood slowly. He gripped the remains of the dead man's torn shirt in his hands, his own blood running cold. "The Magistrate. Why?"

"That man's the Stage Bandit. He's got a scar right here from what I gave him after last time." The coachman pointed to the dead man's chin. "That man killed my partner last week, and a lot of other people before that. He's been at large for far too long. You're a right hero."

Hero. The word was a bitter pill on Five's tongue. He hadn't meant to save the coachman or deliver justice to whomever had died at Blade's hands in the past. All he cared about was stopping that man's sword from digging deeper into Saira's neck. If he had wanted to be a hero, he'd have chosen differently. Acted mindfully. Performed any number of other disarming moves that would have been just as effective, and nowhere near as deadly. After the fact, the possibilities always seemed endless.

But that's not what happened. He'd gone for the man's throat without hesitation. The only difference between Five and the man lying dead at his feet was the speed of his sword and the accuracy of his thrust. He'd tried to put his hero days from a lifetime ago behind him, but killing had been his first reflex. Too easy. Too quick.

And he didn't feel a damned bit sorry about it.

"I've got the other one," Daniel yelled, dragging the limp form of Blade's partner up to the road by his arms.

Bone's chest rose with shallow breaths, still recovering from a hard fall into the ditch. He had a pommel-sized bruise forming on the side of his face.

"You were right about these two. Completely untrustworthy. Had to knock this one out, what with the epic struggling… what in the bloody blazes…"

Daniel dropped the man's arms to the ground. "Where's the coach?" He looked from Saira to the coachman, and then to Five, assessing the blood and the body.

After finishing a long string of expletives, he took a long inhale and gave Five a stern, leveled look. "In the name of all things good and holy, what happened?"

.

...

.

Five's experiences over the years had taught him that blood didn't stain hands the way people thought. When wet, it wiped clean, and unless it crusted under the nails, it quickly washed away under running water. After the clothes (or the room… or sometimes, the entire building…) burned, there was usually no trace left behind.

Memories, though. No one talked about those.

He remembered the up-close-and-personal encounters the most. The fading light in the eyes of his marks haunted him with a persistence that spanned timelines. He'd lost count of exactly how many jobs he'd done, and yet, in the middle of the night when the air was still, he could see the faces of every one of them. It never stopped him from doing the next job, and the job after that. If he had been on a job now, he'd have cleaned himself up and blipped back to HQ for a debrief. And then, with no remorse, he'd do it all over again. But he could no longer blip, and he was no longer a gun for hire.

And this. This had been the exact opposite of the job he had been hired to do.

The emptiness inside him, though. It felt wrong to feel so much nothing. This was what he had been trying not to be… he'd thought that if he could just stop killing, he could forget about his singular focus blocking out all other thought, how he held a total disregard for the lives he had eliminated. Shouldn't he care that a man's future had been erased because of him?

Double-thinking, and rethinking would not change anything. His hands had thoroughly wrung out the white rags from Blade's shirt. There was nothing to be done about the stains on his sleeves. There was nothing else to be done here, period. It was over.

But something kept him from moving forward in time, like he was stuck in this moment while the world continued to turn around him. He watched the coachman clamber over the tipped carriage wheel and come back with a set of extra leads from under the seat. The man was saying things, and Five couldn't bring himself to care.

"Once we collect the horses, we can find lodgings for the night and fix up the carriage tomorrow. But first, I'll accompany you to the Constable as a witness. As long as you are who you say you are, it'll go as smooth as butter." The coachman said it as if he didn't give a lick that a man's life had ended, either.

As long as you are who you say you are…

The words echoed in Five's head, snapping his attention back to the present. That was the rub. Five knew it, and a glance at Daniel's cold expression told him that his friend knew it too. Daniel couldn't say who Five was any more than Five could.

"We're not going to the Constable," Daniel explained. "It'd be easy enough to dump him in the Kennet and let someone pull him out in the morning, while we go about our business. They'll say he had it coming."

Motionless, Five watched Daniel, a man with a plan, making arrangements on his behalf, elaborately concocting a story to circumvent whatever backwards Regency shit they called justice, while an arctic wind tore around inside of him, keeping him frozen in time, unable to commit to any action or thought of his own. It didn't matter. He would be screwed in any timeline.

"And what about this one?" the coachman argued, gesturing to the unconscious man on the road. "When he comes round, do you think he's gonna keep his gob shut about his friend being run through the neck? I won't deny that your man here did the world a favor, and I'll say anything you want me to say if it means keeping him out of trouble. But I can't allow this," he gestured to the overturned coach, the body, the unconscious man in the road, "to get swept downstream without an accounting. The Guild is already gonna fine me for damages and endangerment. If the magistrate doesn't sign an official statement of why my coach ended up in a ditch, they'll put me out of business."

"My man," Daniel said with emphasis, "cannot go before anyone. He's got circumstances."

"What sort of circumstances?"

"Hangable ones."

Five's mind re-engaged, grinding back into gear. He ticked off a silent list: forgery, stabbing, personation (if they ever found a real Mr. Quintus to come forward and cry deceit on him)... He had to stop himself there, because if he could name three off the top of his head out of the two hundred and fifteen hangable offenses on the Bloody Code, he'd likely find more. And so would any Magistrate who needed more than the simple excuse of "you don't belong here" and "let's empty your accounts into my coffer for waking me before sunrise, thank you much".

The coachman shook his head. "Heroes shouldn't hang. But I can't lose my license over this. It's got to be reported, and we have to deliver this prisoner proper-like."

Haggling between the two men faded to static, while the complications of Five's situation towered over him like prison bars. He knew his friend was trying to cover for him the best he could, but if Five had kept his anonymity intact, he could have disappeared out of the public eye for a few weeks, and finagled some other job with no one the wiser. Now, half of Bath knew his face. By association, Sir Newman would be at risk. Daniel and half of the Bath Fencing Club, too. Likewise, no one could vouch for a character they barely knew. It was like he was straddling two worlds, neither of which he had dug into deep enough to save him.

And Saira. She had backed away from the mess of blood and men in the road and was hugging herself in the chilled air. He couldn't see her face, shrouded in shadows, but then she'd just witnessed a murder, and she couldn't have missed the conversation taking place. For all he knew, she might have pigeon-holed him as some bumbling, genteel man who didn't know a dance card from a betting book. He'd just killed whatever stock he'd built up with her… along with… he didn't want to think about what the dead man lying in the road must look like. Or what she must think of him, being capable of such an act.

Before he could think about moving, or running (or screaming into the heartless void of the universe), Daniel snatched a lantern from the toppled coach and shoved him down the road, away from the coachman climbing down into the ditch to assess the damage. Finally, his feet were moving again, urged by Daniel's hand at his back. They passed the other driver, who was securing a lead to the runaway horses, talking in low, soothing tones.

When they rounded the bend of the road, Daniel stopped. "Right," he said, nodding towards the flickering lanterns in the distance. "The situation isn't ideal, but it could be a boon to both of us."

Five couldn't get any words out, even to contradict his friend. Moments ago, Daniel was talking about grand plans and a bright future. Five himself had entertained, even for the briefest second, that maybe he could have something like that for himself. But the dead man in the road had slammed the doors. Drowned those opportunities. Cracked the hourglass, leaking sand on all sides. He'd had years to worry about his endgame, but now this could be it. All his well-laid plans could be wrecked beyond repair.

"I have a solution," Daniel said.

"You can bring that man back to life?" Five asked, not meeting his eyes.

"Give me your sword." Daniel produced a handkerchief from somewhere and began wiping it down. Five didn't deem it necessary to mention his friend's shaking hands when he sheathed it into his own scabbard. "Listen closely, because we have little time. Take your horse and get off the road. I don't care where you say you were, in fact, I don't even want to know. The coachman says that if this wasn't a passenger transport, and he was carrying only goods, the Guild would be far more lenient." He rubbed a second handkerchief over his face, looking more like a tortured poet now than he ever had. "If anyone asks, these men and I will swear up and down on my mother's gilded tea caddy that you weren't here. "

"A lot of people saw us in that pub, Danny. We must have interviewed two dozen men."

"None of them know which way we went or what our business is. I'll claim to be the one in charge. You were at the pub for training, and I didn't take you on the job. Besides, there are at least two stages between Marlborough and London. Saira could have gotten off the coach any time between here and there." Daniel said, as if it was simple arithmetic.

"You'll mark yourself the face of the Turnpike Guard?"

"What, you don't think I could have pulled off that move you did?" Daniel asked, affronted.

"I've got more speed on my lunge, and you know it," Five gruffed.

Daniel thumbed at the dancing lanterns in the distance. "It's a good thing they don't know that. Listen to me. I've been taking care of you for a long time, and I don't want to see all my efforts wasted on a deed too good to go unpunished. You've helped me out in many scraps before. Let me do this one thing for you. You just gotta lie low for a few weeks while it's sorted. That's something you excel at, isn't it?"

Five shook his head. "You're so close to getting what you wanted. Won't this tarnish your clean record?"

"Uncertain." Daniel hummed thoughtfully. "Baron Burton might look favorably on the man who took down the Stage Bandit."

"But if he doesn't see it that way, this could ruin you."

"They could hang you, Five."

Daniel was right. Again. The knowledge Five had about these situations could barely fill a thimble. Bribery and bias aside, proving that he hadn't run someone through the neck with a sword with 'excessive force' would be a hard-sell. Even if they acquitted him for murder, it took very little to offend the authorities. They would drop-kick him into the nearest jail for having a false record at Harrow's, and label all his business ventures as one big, elaborate con. Yeah, he had plenty of funds to buy himself out. But a magistrate who took the risk of releasing a lying, scheming nobody to produce bribe money within a day was either infinitely stupid, or blind and deaf to the desperate nature of men. They'd just as soon slam on the shackles and answer his request to 'show his horse' with 'go to hell, gutter rat'.

And then there was Saira and her satchel, and the entirety of whatever mess that would turn into when they revealed her secret identity.

They were all so screwed.

"Despite my reluctance to play my family's games," Daniel continued, walking them back to the disaster of the evening, "Mother has my favorite pie ready every time I come 'round. She's not afraid to use her money on her prodigal son. I'll take the blame, and it will all work out."

"I don't like this. You shouldn't have to… not on account of me. I feel like this is my responsibility."

"There's your responsibility." Daniel pointed to Saira, and Five's heart shredded to pieces as she stood to the side of the midnight shit-show, pale-faced and silent, clinging to her satchel as if it contained her entire world.

Which, case in point, it did.

He wanted to go to her right now, examine every inch of her and make damned sure that the nick on her beautiful neck was the only injury she'd suffered. More than that, Five wished he could take back everything he ever said or did that led up to him killing a man in front of her.

No, he didn't. That would mean never speaking to her, never getting to know her. Never allowing his feelings to get in the way.

He had just fallen headfirst into a new level of double-edged hell.

"Danny, I can't just drop her at a Coaching Inn like that… I mean, look at her." If he felt nothing for the dead man in the road, he felt everything for the woman with the bloodied dress, shivering in the chilled night. It killed him, knowing that he had caused this.

He'd hired those men. He'd led them here. He'd…

"Take her home," Daniel said, interrupting Five from heaping more guilt onto his own head. He produced yet another handkerchief from some other unknown location and tucked it into Five's coat pocket. "I'll handle the rest."