Wayward

by LaLadyCavalier

She's definitely not in Boston anymore.

3. A Perfect Stranger

Waverly was very surprised when she woke up this time. She wasn't dead, and she wasn't cold either. She was, however, dreadfully hungry, not to mention sore. Every part of her body ached, from her head down to her toes—but at least she was warm. Even with all of the aches and pains, she was content to keep her eyes shut and linger in this temperate, inoffensive dream a little longer...although she would happily have exchanged the warmth for a belly full of food. She was so miserably tired of being hungry.

Her eyes flew open at a sound that was neither her rumbling stomach nor the gentle patter of rain on the...oh, a tent. She was lying inside of a dim, crude sort of tent, and she wasn't alone. A man sat beside her in the cramped space, his legs folded against his chest. A black and extremely bushy beard brushed the tops of his knees. The hair on his head was as black as his whiskers and certainly quite as wild. Out of that unkempt growth peered a white face, and out of that peered a pair of dark, deep-set eyes. Those eyes flickered to and away from her until the owner cleared his throat, and she realized that it was the sound which had startled her to begin with.

"Good morning," he said, as if it were perfectly natural to be sitting too close to a woman he didn't know—in a tent too small for two people—in a world too dark and strange for good mornings.

She was a great deal too astonished to say anything in return; all she did was give a little cough. The Axe Man fidgeted as if he was uncomfortable. Perhaps he was hoping for some sort of an answer from her, or perhaps he simply didn't like being the object of scrutiny. Waverly continued to stare regardless, placidly waiting for the moment when he would retrieve his axe and begin to chop her up. She coughed a little more.

"I suppose it isn't really," he went on after a long minute. She couldn't see his mouth, just his beard moving a tiny bit where a mouth ought to be. "Could be worse, though. It could've been raining frogs. It does that from time to time."

If he was hoping to supply her with a piece of salvageable conversation, that certainly wasn't it. The silence dragged on. She stared at him and wondered why she didn't feel alarmed or angry or anything else beyond vague surprise that she was still alive. The Axe Man, meanwhile, cleared his throat and brushed something or other off the threadbare trousers he was wearing. He did so with his left hand. The other hand, and the arm to which it belonged, was partially concealed by his beard; his right arm lay across his chest in a shoddy sling which looked as if it had been woven from grass. His fingers peeped out the end, and his arm showed through in many places. He'd had two good arms the last time she saw him...

The stranger held one pale fist up to his half-hidden face and coughed—a very civilized, reserved cough. It was also a very civilized voice which came from behind the beard when he spoke.

"May I ask your name?"

It was as though that one bit of social normality kicked her manners awake, but only just. They were sleep-walking manners at best, although a cannibal might not notice such things.

Waverly dragged herself upright in spite of the Axe Man's stammering protests. She extended her hand in spite of the risk that he might snatch it up and eat her fingers.

"My name is Waverly Lamb. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, mister...?"

"Oh. Yes." He reached out and shook her hand limply. His skin was rough and cold, and his long white fingers dwarfed her own.

"Wilson P. Higgsbury," he said. "A pleasure to meet you."

Goodness. There they were in the middle of the wilderness, shaking hands and exchanging social niceties as if it were a gala, and as if he were not intending to cook her for his supper. The bizarre, rather morbid humor of such a situation scarcely registered with Waverly, however; she noted it but felt nothing for it. Only numbness and that vague sense of surprise persisted.

She dropped his hand, and with it, apparently, her remaining manners.

"Where is your axe?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Your axe."

"Oh, the axe. It's outside, by the fire—close enough to hand. But you needn't worry. The hounds circle about once a month, but they retreat to the mounds after that. It isn't likely that we'll see any more of them."

The way he spoke was oddly cultivated for a cannibal. Her voice, in contrast, sounded oddly flat when she asked him, "Are you going to kill me?"

Her potential aggressor suddenly transformed into an oversized black and white owl. His dark eyes became wide as saucers and blinked rapidly for a few moments. She couldn't decide whether he was astonished or offended with the way that shrub of a beard hid his mouth.

"Why on earth would you think that?"

Waverly shrugged rudely. Her shoulders smarted with the motion.

"You look like the sort of person who would chop up young ladies and cook them in a pot."

He blinked at her again.

"I look like a witch?"

"So," she insisted, ignoring his question for her own far more pressing one, "you are not going to do that?"

"Of course not!"

Oh.

Without any warning, Waverly began to cry.

All of the feelings that hadn't been there suddenly appeared, as if she really had been feeling them all the time and simply hadn't noticed. Relief and fear and a strange, bitter sadness seemed to explode from somewhere inside of her. She was sobbing and sobbing without so much as even a handkerchief. She was frightened and hungry and battered all over with nothing but a flimsy dress and no stockings at all. There was only a thin, threadbare blanket covering her legs—and then, suddenly, there was an equally thin and threadbare square of cloth being held out in front of her. She looked up from her fingers to see the Axe Man offering her something rather like a rough tan handkerchief.

"It's deer skin," he said. His eyes had that anxious, owlish look in them again. They seemed much younger than the rest of his face. "I'm sorry, but it's the best I have. It is clean, though—comparatively speaking. As clean as anything out here can...uh... Ahem. Won't you please take it?"

She blinked in surprise at the worn out piece of skin and the kindness it represented. Then, without even muttering a thank you, she took the rag and used it to dry her eyes and nose. It had holes in it and a strange, musky smell, but at least she wasn't forced to use her arm when she began weeping again.

"Please don't cry," the stranger said. "It's going to be all right, really."

Waverly coughed an awful, snotty laugh.

"That is a ridiculous thing to say," she retorted without thinking. She was being abysmally rude, wasn't she? It was even worse now that she knew he wasn't a cannibal.

Either her companion didn't notice the lapse in good manners, or he was too polite to point it out. He simply chuckled and said, "I suppose it is. You are safe, though, at the very least. I won't hurt you."

She sniffled and looked up from the ragged faux-handkerchief.

"Did you save me from those wolves?"

"Oh, the hounds, yes—er, as best I could, that is. You do appear to have sustained a few injuries, but I wasn't sure if they—"

"Did you injure your arm while saving me?" She recalled the image of a man stepping out of the shadows, an axe in his hands, moonlight shining a dull silver on the blade.

"Well, um... That doesn't matter, honestly. I was being careless. ...Now, I know you don't trust me, of course, but if you will allow me—"

Waverly started sobbing again.

"What's wrong? Are you in pain?" The concern in his voice made her cry all the more.

She shook her head. It ached, and the rest of her ached too, but that didn't matter.

"I thought you were a—there was a piece in a magazine and—oh, I'm so...!" Waverly couldn't find a word for how foolish she had been. "All this time you were here—and you are perfectly decent after all, and if I hadn't run away..." Her voice broke. She gave up trying to speak and coughed instead.

"No, no—it's all right, really. It's very understandable. I know how I must look. I haven't...are you all right?"

She was still coughing. The air rumbled deep down in her lungs as though it was caught on something there. When she finished, the stranger was still staring at her, and his eyes looked wider and more anxious than ever. His dark eyebrows were drawn close together.

He pulled at his beard and asked, "Do you feel warm?"

What? What an odd question! But he had been so kind to her—and not a bit murderous—so she answered honestly, "Yes."

"Do you feel a rattle when you breathe?"

She answered yes again.

The Axe Man hummed. It was an anxious sound.

"If you'll allow me to take a look at your injuries, I can let you rest. You laid by the fire for a few hours, but your clothes were soaked through. I don't have anything, er, comfortable for you to change into, but there is—"

She began to cough again. When she finished this time, her headache was worse than ever.

"No, thank you. It isn't anything concerning," she said in regard to her injuries. "I did bump my forehead on the ground, and my arms and legs are a bit scratched up from the briars, but..." She felt her color rise. It seemed indecent to describe her injuries to a perfect stranger. With a foolish sort of hope, she asked him, "I don't suppose you are a...a doctor, are you?"

His laugh was a small, almost bitter thing.

"Well, yes, actually. Almost. Something like one, anyway."

What an odd answer! And what an odd, mysterious, shockingly un-murderous man.

"What good fortune," she went on after another cough. "Imagine finding a doctor out in the wilderness, of all places. That is very strange. Still, I do feel better speaking about such things to a doctor—or something like one, almost, or...whatever it is." She waved a hand; it felt rather difficult to do. Her arms were so heavy, and simply sitting up straight felt so tiring. Her back complained as loudly as her stomach and her head. There seemed to be no part of her body that was not in revolt.

"My head is very sore," she told him, "and my hands have blisters, and I've hurt my...my feet, and..." The flush on her face grew hotter. "My, ah...stomach hurts."

Speaking of such things in mixed company was highly improper—anyone but a doctor would surely have gaped to hear her talking of feet, let alone her belly—and so a stomach ache was as close to her hunger as Waverly dared tread. On second thought, though...wasn't all of this highly improper to begin with? She had no shoes or stockings. She was wearing nothing but a party dress and under things. The two of them were in a dark and very small tent, completely unaccompanied, and they had only just met. And he must have carried her there—while she was sleeping, too! Perhaps propriety was a lost cause at this point...

The not-quite-a-doctor man was saying something about food; Waverly was surprised that it hadn't caught her interest sooner. She was being terribly inattentive, but it was such a challenge to think clearly all of a sudden. Her head was throbbing and her throat was irritated, but no doubt they were weary from her desperate sprint to safety this last hour or so.

"I'm sorry," she managed as courteously as she could. "What did you say?"

"Oh, nothing important. We can talk about supper after you've slept a little more. Your face is very rosy, though. Forgive me, but...are you sweating?"

Thankful for having just decided that propriety was quite out of the question, Waverly replied, "As a matter of fact, I am perspiring a little, yes. But I did run quite a ways just now. There's no need to worry."

"Uh, well...it wasn't just now, in point of fact. You've slept well into the morning."

"What? It really is morning?" She now took notice of the dull light that penetrated the tent. Of course that wouldn't be moonlight or even the pale light of dawn, not with the rain. "But...it doesn't feel as if I've slept the night. Not at all."

He hummed again. "You do look heavily fatigued—which is perfectly understandable—but with that cough, and a fever, too..." For half a silent minute, he stared at his knees and pulled at the whiskers which hid his mouth. Another hum, and then he said, "Listen. I know you don't know me from Adam, but I promise you can trust me. ...Will you try?"

The man's beard was wild and frightening, and he was pale and gaunt, but his deep-set eyes were earnest, and his mellow voice was rather soothing and not the least bit unsophisticated. And, apart from the way he looked, there was the fact that he hadn't eaten her, that he had rescued her from the wolves at his own expense, and that the two of them had been all alone for hours and hours without him attempting anything untoward. Even so...

"I don't suppose I have much of a choice," she murmured, "do I?"

"Ah. No, not really. I'm sorry. Of course, you may leave any time you like, but—"

The coughing started up again as if in direct response to the notion.

"But I recommend against it," he went on, "at least for the time being. It's still raining, and I'm afraid you might be ill."

Waverly flopped back down without a care for propriety or anything like it.

"Definitely ill," the Axe Man amended anxiously, and then he insisted, "I won't hurt you. Please believe that."

Waverly looked at him—or she tried to, at least. Her eyes seemed to have suddenly grown somewhat hazy; she could still see enough to know that his were a dark color, perhaps brown or dark blue. She stared, trying to determine the exact shade, but the dark eyes turned anxious again when she had stared too long.

He lifted his one good hand and scrubbed at the back of his neck.

"I suppose that's not a very reasonable request, is it?"

She lifted both hands and rubbed her burning face, coughed laboriously for a long minute, and then rasped, "You seem to have nice eyes, at the least. Perhaps the rest of you is nice as well. ...What did you say your name was?"

"Higgsbury."

"That's a funny sort of thing to have as your Christian name."

"Oh, no, that's not—"

"Oh, I'm sorry, that was terribly rude—"

"No, no, not at all. It's Wilson P. Higgsbury, I meant to say. But if you prefer my surname—that is—I don't have much of a preference either way."

"Well...that's perfect, then," Waverly said through a cough. After a few more moments of useless coughing, she asked, "Is that what the P stands for?"

"What?"

"P for perfect. Or was it for preference? My middle name is just awful. It starts with an M. Please don't ask me what it is."

"Oh, uh—er...no, of course not. The P is for Percival. Would you like some water?"

"Yes, I would."

She coughed even more, and when she finished, he asked her to sit up for a moment so she could drink. She did, although the cup felt very strange indeed—a lumpy, sack-like object, but that couldn't be so. She must have been imagining it. The water, however, was perfectly wonderful.

"You may call me Waverly, if you like," she told him after she laid back down. She scarcely even cared that she was stretched out prone in front of a man—and a perfect stranger, at that! Highly indecent. But even so...

"If you aren't going to murder or molest me," she said, "then we may as well be friends."

On consideration, that sounded a little too optimistic and a great deal too forward, but her companion simply laughed.

"That's very decent of you, Miss Lamb. There aren't many people—any, really—well, apart from... That is to say, it would be nice to have some company, in spite of the circumstances. Er... Ahem. Now, please, just lie still and rest. I'll fetch something that will help you recover considerably—and some more water, too. It might be a little warm, though. I've only just finished boiling it this last hour."

She wanted to say something about not imposing, but everything was too bleary and heavy for her to do so. The world around her grew heavier and blearier as time went on, until she could scarcely think anymore...

And she began to dream.

She dreamt about parched deserts etched in black and white like pictures in a book. She walked across the dry, crinkling pages, chapter after chapter, but just when she was about to faint from thirst on the bleached sands, an oasis appeared.

It was only a simple pond, and the black water wasn't cold, but it refreshed her all the same. The water turned oddly solid after a few gulps—solid and spongy and dry—and suddenly she was chewing a piece of cake.

...Oh, for her birthday. Of course. She chewed and waited for the flavor to improve. It didn't. It was by far the worst cake she had ever eaten. It wasn't even sweet. But she was so hungry, she swallowed it down without so much as a gag. There was water again after that, thank goodness, although it was neither cool nor refreshing now. Where in the world could she find a proper drink?

For a long time after that, Waverly continued to wander the dry white wasteland, although she always came upon another pool of water before the thirst grew too terrible. Eventually, the landscape gave way to something more corporeal than the desert: a small, dim, musty space, and the bearded man hovering over her. When he tried to lift her, she groaned at him until he relented, but he wasn't done pestering her yet. She felt him prop something lumpy and exceedingly uncomfortable beneath her shoulders, and when she opened her eyes to see why, she saw the plate of food which he held beneath her nose.

But she wasn't at all hungry, and it was a very dismal plate indeed. It had only one piece of food on it, a blocky slice of something or other... More cake? No, it was...chicken? It didn't look appealing—it didn't even have sauce or garnish—and she thought the gray china on which it was presented looked very odd too, not at all elegant. Nevertheless, he obviously intended for her to eat the thing, so she reluctantly obliged him, if only because he was a doctor, or whatever he had called himself. He was certainly no chef; the cold, pale lump of meat had the strangest texture and the most unpleasant flavor, rubbery and musty, like an old boot. She felt far too queasy to finish such a distasteful meal, but the Axe Man held the plate in front of her no matter how she turned her face away and shook her head, until Waverly was compelled to eat it, if only to be rid of him. Once she had choked the rest of the morsel down, he left her alone.

The white-hot sky in her head became the glare of electric lights. She was at a party now, only it was dreadfully hot, and the band was terribly loud—far too much percussion and brass. Worst of all, no-one would tell her where the refreshments were. A waiter in a red jacket offered her champagne, but she refused it. What she wanted was a drink of ice-cold punch.

The band kept up their incessant thumping. It was so loud, nobody could seem to hear her. The guests chattered and whirled around her, each with a crystal glass of iced punch in hand. Time and again she asked for the players to quiet down—it was the band from her last birthday, and she felt no qualm about commanding them; and for the waiters to bring her something refreshing—they were all strangers, but she was accustomed to commanding those too; all to no avail.

Soon the playing became nothing but drums in a steady ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump, and the dancing guests became lines of marching soldiers. They were coming nearer and nearer, and she didn't know whether they were American or German. But then Bradford was there, wearing the uniform he had so badly wanted, and she felt relieved, if only for a moment. When she realized what the uniform signified, all relief was lost. She chased after him, shouting at him about his bad eye and that he might die if he flew an aeroplane, but he either ignored her or couldn't hear.

Soon she was shoving her way through ranks of men as thick as trees, trying to find him. All the while, a waiter in red hung at her elbow with a glass of something distasteful. She tried to wave him away, but her arms were full of heavy logs now. She needed to find her brother, and she needed to build a fire. The soldiers had turned into trees, and the trees were full of shadows, and the shadows were full of bloodthirsty beasts and a darkness which followed her always.

After that, there was no more water and no more food. There was nothing but a smoldering little fire. It filled her mouth with smoke and made her sweat, despite its malnourished size and the contradictory chill which had suddenly settled in her bones. She had to keep the fire burning, but it was raining, and the rain wanted to put her fire out. The rain soaked her clothes and made the fire smoke—she coughed and coughed. She could scarcely breathe, but she couldn't stop to rest.

For a long time, she raced around in search of kindling so that she could stoke the fire, but then the flames grew too large. Her skin was burning and her hair was damp with sweat. The fire was out of control, spreading and spreading! When the forest began to burn around her, Waverly fled. She felt terrible for acting so cowardly and knew she would have to hide her crime, if she possibly could. But it followed her like a symbol of her guilt: no matter how far away she ran from the blaze, Waverly could feel the heat all over her skin, and there was smoke in her lungs and ash on her tongue. The waiter was there even then—he seemed to have no trouble keeping up with her frantic pace—but he did nothing to help extinguish the flames which followed them. Instead, he held up a dish of...ugh, that disgusting, rubbery chicken again. Only now it was blue. No, that couldn't be right. She must be dreaming...

"Miss Lamb," the waiter said. "Please, you must eat. This is very good stuff for a fever. I know it tastes awful..."

Waverly moaned. "Why is it blue? Take it away."

"Yes, it is a rather unusual color. The fungi here take on some very interesting hues, but the qualities are incredibly restorative. Quite amazing, from a scientific standpoint."

"Well, I don't want it. And what was your name?"

"Higgsbury."

She squinted at the oddly bushy man and realized her mistake. How silly of her. No respectable waiter would ever have a beard like that. No servant in the Lamb household ought to, either. Who on earth had hired him?

"You really must shave. Only the head gardener is permitted to have whiskers. Hasn't anyone told you? ...Oh, goodness—bring me something cool to drink."

"Yes, I have some water here."

"Beards are such frightening things. I'm so glad Father—no, no, not that. Stop it. Bring me something cold."

"I'm afraid this is all I have."

Waverly moaned again and threw her arm over her red-hot face. "I want water with ice in it! Go to the kitchens and tell them at once. And take that chicken away, too. It's blue with mold. Absolutely disgraceful."

"Mold? Oh, yes, I can see how one might think—but it isn't—really—and it's all I have in the way of curing anything. It's wonderfully effective, though."

"I'm not hungry. It tastes like rubber."

"I know. I'm sorry. I have water for you to wash it down."

No matter what she said, he would not take his dish away, and so finally she submitted out of sheer irritation with the furry little man. Why was he here in the first place? Where was her maid? She would certainly speak to the butler about this!

The meat tasted worse than ever. She gagged and wept a little as she forced it down.

"Where is...my handkerchief?"

The man handed her a bedraggled yellow square of something decidedly unlike a handkerchief. She was insulted for a moment, but then it reminded her of something...

After managing not to cough the awful meat back up, and after blowing her nose quite loudly into the handkerchief—she didn't feel the need to apologize for such an indiscretion when the man was only a servant—she asked him, "Where is that man with the axe? This belongs to him, doesn't it?"

"Oh, er..."

"He's gone? Where is Bradford, then?"

"Who?"

"For heaven's sake," she snapped, "my brother!" Waverly had never felt so justifiably ill-tempered in all her life. Her throat hurt, and her body ached—especially with the awkward way she was propped up—and simply breathing through her nose was a terrible ordeal. Every time she did breathe, the bottom of her lungs tickled unpleasantly; perhaps they still had smoke inside of them, from the forest fire.

"Tell Bradford to send for a doctor," she commanded. "I feel so ill."

The man began to say something else, but Waverly coughed so loudly, she didn't hear him. She didn't regret that—he didn't seem to have anything to say that was worth hearing. She thought about how to bring his behavior to the butler's attention. While she was at it, she would ask the butler to bring something for her stomach, and to do something about her bed. It was hard as a rock...and then, suddenly, it was one. She was lying on a flat-ish boulder underneath a full-ish moon the color of blue mold, and she realized it was a different moon entirely. A strange moon in a strange world... The dreadful realization had Waverly weeping once again. She clutched the smelly yellow handkerchief close and wished desperately for her mother.

Someone was speaking to her in a gentle voice...or maybe it was just another dream. She was much too tired to listen either way. She did listen, however, when that person began to hum a lullaby, low and soft. It was very soothing...until the humming turned into a voice in the night, out beyond the light of her fire. Dark, disembodied hands crept closer and closer to the dying flames, and when she tried to block them, they became sharp black fingers digging into her skull—sinister laughter digging into her mind. She cried out in pain and clutched at her locket. The laughter continued until someone shook her awake.

"Don't touch me!"

The hand removed itself from her shoulder, and a voice began to stammer apologies. It was still apologizing when she had calmed enough to listen.

"It's just that I heard you cry out," said the dark shape beside her, "and I thought there might be something wrong—otherwise I would never have barged in unannounced—but you are ill, of course, so I... And I thought, well, that you might be having a nightmare, so, um..."

"Go away," she moaned at the stranger. He did, and she shut her eyes, the blood pounding behind them in time with her aching head. She clutched at her locket and had the oddest notion that it was quite hot to the touch. Or was it icy cold?

And then she was standing in a river, freezing. Someone laughed at her like a looming thunderstorm. She had to get away from that voice, but her legs moved so slowly through the icy water. Finally she pulled free of the river, but not of the voice. She was running through the forest to escape it, but sweat dripped into her eyes so that she could scarcely see where she was going, and her legs constantly threatened to give way beneath her. Someone's laughter plucked at her heels all the while, no matter how far she fled.

Waverly ran and ran—and then she fell. The cliff was taller than any building, and her fall was of such meteoric speed, she couldn't even scream. She felt sure the fall would kill her before the impact ever did. The dark voice followed after her even then, clinging like a spider's web. Webs were what she tumbled into, and she kicked and screamed as they tangled around her.

A more lucid portion of her mind realized that it was only the blanket wrapped around her legs, not spider webs...and yet she still couldn't be certain whether or not she was actually dreaming—not when so much of what had happened to her was a waking nightmare. She killed birds with her bare hands. She fled from monstrous creatures. She looked for someone, but she couldn't find a single soul in the whole world. Shadows and sinister laughter followed after her wherever she went; she begged to be left alone, and, against all odds, the wicked echo soon faded. In its place, at the furthest edge of her thoughts, there came a sweet, sad voice which murmured, "You poor dear. ...I'm so sorry. ...But at least you aren't alone. ...Poor girl." The quiet words didn't feel like her own, although the voice did remind her of something... But she was only dreaming, after all. There was nothing but darkness and silence for a long time after that.

At some point, Waverly surfaced from the mire well enough to realize that the man—the one she had mistaken for a waiter and then a servant—was lifting her into a seated position with his arm.

"I'm afraid the grass has flattened out," he was saying. "I'm sorry, but I don't have any more to spare at the moment. I'm sorry. I usually have a second pillow, but I used the sack for a sling, you see, and it's awfully difficult to do anything with just one arm, anyway. Er, not that that's any fault of yours, of course. I'll make you a new one for your own as soon as I can—a pillow, I mean, if you want it—but I don't want to leave you alone while you're still ill...so...do you think you might be able to sit up on your own for now?"

She had already half-dismissed his rambling words as nonsense and only recognized the question after he repeated it.

"I don't know," she rasped, and then she coughed and coughed and coughed until her throat felt ragged.

"Your fever has broken, at least, and that sort of cough means your lungs are working to clear themselves, which is good. Without something to prop you up, however..."

He trailed off with a hum. Waverly leaned against him. She was slowly sagging more and more against his chest—she didn't even have enough vigor to keep upright, much less to care about her indecent position. She stared down at the strange things balanced on one of the man's bony knees: there was a lump of pale blue meat on a flat gray stone, and a light brown, shapeless sort of thing that looked like a deflated ball.

"You see, this arm won't be healed for another few days, and I can't let you eat or drink when you're lying down, or you'll choke. Do you think you could manage it yourself for just a short time, while I hold you up like this?"

Something was tickling her arm and her cheek. Waverly opened her eyes again—she hadn't realized they had closed—and saw a long black beard hanging down the man's chest; the arm not behind her shoulders was partially concealed by that growth of bushy hair, along with a grassy-looking, triangular sleeve-thing. ...A sling.

"I remember now," she gasped. "Wait... What was your name?"

He laughed as though she had said something amusing.

"It's Wilson."

"Oh, yes. You're the Axe Man. Or did I dream that too?

"Um...no."

"And the wolves?"

"I'm afraid that wasn't a dream either."

She coughed up another storm, and then she said in a rough voice, "You injured your arm."

"Oh—well—no need to trouble yourself with that. It'll heal soon enough. Your condition is far more concerning—er, not that you ought to be concerned, of course. You'll be fine as soon as you've recovered a bit more, and then you can eat some real food. For now, though, you need to eat this. It...well, this kind of mushroom has incredible medicinal properties. Think of it as a cure-all. You might even have recovered fully by this time tomorrow, if you keep it up—or rather, down—I know it tastes more like ash than food, but... So, um, do you think you can eat without assistance? I'm afraid I don't have a knife or a fork."

Waverly looked but didn't see anything like a mushroom. Perhaps she was hearing nonsense again.

"Did you say mushrooms? I don't want anything like that. Do you have soup, or ice cream? My throat aches."

The man chuckled. "I wish I did. You might have a bit of stew later, but for now, please eat this."

He jiggled his knee significantly. She squinted at the unappealing blue meat.

"You mean that?"

"Yes."

"No, I won't." She mustered her strength and tried to sit up, away from the man; he really was holding her far too close, and she wanted to get away from that ugly looking bit of food anyway, even if it did hurt terribly to sit upright.

He sighed. "You really ought to. It isn't poisonous—see?" He picked it up and took a tiny bite of it.

It was the first time she had looked at his face clearly in what felt like a long, long while. His appearance was altogether unnerving, whether taken in parts or as a whole, and his face was no exception. His eyes were dark and deep-set, his skin looked too sallow against his black whiskers, and his hair was a grim, inky wilderness simply begging for the aid of a barber. Not to speak of that beard, which was an entity unto itself. If motion-picture exhibitions had taught her anything, it was to beware of dark-eyed men with dastardly beards...but at least he wasn't wearing a top hat.

He dropped her gaze and looked away uncomfortably. Waverly realized how long she had been staring, and she coughed to distract from the dreadful breach in her manners. The cough turned into yet another hacking fit. It felt as if she were trying to dislodge a piece of cloth from her lungs.

"This will help to treat your cough. I've tested it many times myself. The medicinal value is better than anything you'll find back...ahem." He cleared his throat, an irritating noise that made her own throat tickle all over again. "You'll feel better for it," he finished.

Waverly tried to huff; it came out as a wheeze.

"Very well," she consented as reluctantly as she could. Then she reached for the mushroom, still balancing on his knee, and forced down the unpleasant bit of food as quickly as she could without so much as a fork or a knife.

"There. You'll be fit as a fiddle in no time. Now, I have some water here as well. If you'll just pull the cork out—it's attached with a string, so there's—"

"That other thing there? That's water?"

"Yes, it's a waterskin. The stitching isn't very skillful—I'm much better with thread than rawhide—but it doesn't hold water for very long anyway. Don't worry if you spill."

Waverly noticed how heavy her arm felt this time when she reached out to take the waterskin from off his knee. Her head too was beginning to feel heavy. It was a challenge simply to lift the strange, rather squishy container, not to mention when she had to pull the cork out—it was attached with a piece of twine. When she brought it to her lips, so much water spilled out from the leathery pouch, she only took one or two gulps of the musty-tasting liquid before lowering it again. The front of her dress was soaked.

"Never mind. It's bound to give out soon. No great loss."

She blinked up at the man with bleary eyes, rather surprised by his lack of perturbation. Rather relieved, too. What was his name again? Wilmot? Winston?

He laid her back down before she could remember it. Then he pulled the covers back up to her chin, took the flat stone off his knee, and picked the sack off the ground with the same hand. Remembering once again why he couldn't use the other one softened her towards him even further. He was a far cry from the wildman she had first imagined.

"I'll be just outside this tent if you need anything," was all he said before rising and leaving her alone.

After that, Waverly had dreams of mostly commonplace misery rather than abject terror. She was walking through the house looking for the kitchens, but she had rarely ever gone there herself; it was difficult to find her way. The servants wouldn't stop or listen to her when she called for them. It made her angry. She resolved to find her mother and tell her that the staff was not behaving. Then she remembered that Mother was dead, and she woke up crying.

Someone was there by her bedside. She asked him for a doctor, and the servant went away, which meant that Dr. Leman would be there very soon. Perhaps he would bring her a bowl of ice cream...

Instead of anything so pleasant, the doctor walked in with his hands behind his back and tears in his old gray eyes. She knew it meant that Mother had just died, but she didn't weep this time. Bradford had said how important it was that she did not weep in front of Father. Bradford's eyes were red and swollen, though, and she could hear their father sobbing behind the door of his study. The enormous oak door was bigger than ever and so difficult to open. When she managed to do so, her father wasn't crying anymore. He stared at her with a face as apathetic as a dead man's. She slammed the heavy door and ran away.

"Miss Lamb?"

Dr. Leman stood in front of her. He was going to tell her not to strain herself, and to remember that women had a far more delicate constitution than men. He would say how grateful she should be that the influenza did not take her or her father, or very many of the servants. They could return to the city in a year, and that was a blessing indeed, Dr. Leman said. ...But why should she want to go back to the house when Mother was gone?

"Miss Lamb..."

The doctor loomed over her and held a cold hand to her brow. Everything was dark and cold. She was ill in her bed. ...Had she caught Mother's influenza after all? Dr. Leman's pale figure transformed into someone else—her mother. But it was Mother the way she was now, in her grave. Her bare bones felt like ice.

Waverly's frightened cry was the very thing to startle her out of the nightmare. She looked about herself urgently, half-afraid of what she would find in the dim surroundings.

A terribly ungroomed man sat beside her, looming above her as the doctor and the skeleton had done—but it looked as if he were trying to lean away from her, too, which gave him a rather comic, unbalanced look that immediately set her at ease. Although it was dark now, she could just make out the silhouette of his wild hair and thin shoulders.

"Oh, it's you again," she breathed with profound relief. "The Axe Man."

She heard him sigh. "Yes, I suppose that's me."

"Ah...Winslow, was it?"

"Wilson," he corrected her, and he sounded a bit tired.

"Oh, of course. I'm terribly sorry."

He laid his icy fingers against her forehead; this time it didn't frighten her.

"No need. ...Your fever's all but gone now. How's your chest?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Uh—your lungs. How are your lungs—how do they feel? Are they troubling you?"

"...They are well enough, I suppose. I'm not coughing now."

"Mm. All right. Take a deep breath in, hold it, and then release it slowly."

Waverly wondered why but did so anyway.

When she had finished breathing in and out, he asked, "Now, how did that feel?"

"Fine."

"No bubbling or squeaking?"

"No, not very much."

He hummed and then told her, "Well, if you'd like to, you can come sit by the fire, provided you keep the blanket around yourself. You must be starving. Do you need help getting up off the ground?"

She tried it for herself and found that rising to her knees was not as monumental an effort as she had expected it to be. Her head and chest and back ached terribly, though. She didn't mention it; sitting by a fire sounded very nice—not to mention the possibility of food, if he would offer it. She was afraid he might not if he thought she was still too ill. Waverly wasn't sure why he should be so concerned with her at all, actually, or why he had taken such pains to care for her despite the fuss she had put up. A few snatches of those delirious conversations floated around in her slightly foggy brain, and, if she had not been so fatigued, she would have felt the embarrassment keenly.

"Here." He straightened up a bit—he was kneeling—and reached a hand out to her.

Waverly took the cold hand and was carefully pulled to her feet. She wobbled a bit, and her stomach churned at the sudden change, but she still managed to hold her own. He quickly let go of her hand.

Light flooded the dim little tent when her companion pushed aside the flap with his good arm. She couldn't see the sling that hid the other arm, but she knew it was there.

"Thank you," she murmured, stepping gingerly out into the glow of a large, cheerful fire. She looked around. They weren't on the wide open plain anymore, but they weren't quite in a forest either. It reminded Waverly a little of the grounds at the summerhouse, just before one came to the deeper woods—clusters of oaks and fruit trees, little hills and streams, manicured hedges and wild swathes of tall grass and shrubbery... She couldn't see anything like that, of course, and maybe it was only the smell of the night-damp grass and the sight of stars over treetops which brought the memory back...but she suddenly felt a great pang of loss for those long-ago summers with her brother, camping in the thick woods of her family's summer estate.

She shook the ghostly images away and resigned herself to reality. A strange, bulbous half-moon was rising through the fir trees. Bright stars she had never seen before sparkled in the sky. This wasn't her woods, and it wasn't her world.

"Where am I?" she asked herself, hoping desperately that she was somehow mistaken.

"Ah. Well...I can attempt to explain that, if you would like."

Waverly turned around. Behind her stood a tall man in front of a tall tent—more of a tepee, really. Spindly and pointed, much like the man himself. His nose and cheeks were sharp, and his long black beard ended in diabolical curls and tapers like a pirate's, and his bony elbows and thin fingers were all points as well. He made an extremely intimidating figure, especially when the shadows of the fire leapt back and forth over his face and cast it in sharp relief.

The voice that said, "I apologize, but I only have a few logs to sit on—I really must make a chair, one of these days," was not a wildman's voice at all. It was mellow and cultured, and it made her blink in surprise. Dark eyes blinked back at her and then glanced away.

Of all the creatures she had encountered underneath this foreign moon, the man in front of her might have been the strangest—and certainly the most unexpected.

"I have a bit of stew cooking, if you're hungry," he said and gestured behind her without quite meeting her gaze.

Somehow she hadn't noticed the battered old pot suspended over the fire. It hung from a structure made of long straight poles which, upon closer inspection, were branches that appeared to have had their bumps sawn off. They reminded her keenly of the sort of thing Bradford had often fashioned in the woods when they were young—lean-to's and bows and even furniture, all with nothing but sturdy knives and pieces of string.

"Did you make this yourself?"

"The food, or the stewpot? Believe it or not, I found that pot in a...oh—er—or did you mean the hearth?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Well, it's nothing much, but it does save time when it comes to supper. It makes boiling water a great deal easier, too."

Waverly looked over her shoulder at the steepled tent. It was patched in countless places and rather threadbare in others.

"Did you make that as well?"

"Mm," he grunted, and then he walked past her to sit on one of the large round logs near the fire; a second one, which lay not-quite straight across from the first, was a darker, greenish color. She had a seat there. She was glad it faced more towards his tent—she wouldn't have known quite where to look or what to say, had she been facing him directly. Waverly did not often find herself all alone in the company of strange men. Come to think of it, had she ever been alone with a man who wasn't a servant, a doctor, or her father and brother? Tudors, maybe, but only a few, and usually her mother had a maid in the room with her. How strange, to think of all those parties and galas, and how little experience she had gained in spite of them. If only she'd listened to Mother and made more of an effort with the opposite sex, she might have known how to properly converse with the man in front of her now.

Her host sat with his knees jutting up towards his chest and one hand fidgeting on top of them. He stared into the blaze, which produced a very cozy warmth against the night air. He seemed rather uncomfortable.

"That's a lovely fire," Waverly said after a short silence.

"Thank you."

"I tried to make one, but it went out in the rain."

"Ah. Yes, they do that."

"The weather is quite pleasant now, though, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I hope it doesn't rain again for a long while."

"I'm afraid downpours tend to be frequent at this time of year—or rather, season."

"Oh, yes. I suppose they would be."

Waverly had thought she would be content with putting off the all-important question for a good while longer—she had a lifetime of reluctant expertise when it came to small talk, albeit a good deal less when it came to gentlemen—but thoughts of the Commonwealth climate and the similarity to the weather here made further delay impossible.

"It rains a good bit in Boston at this time of year."

He looked at her sharply, but didn't answer. All he did was hum under his breath. It looked like he was thinking—perhaps of a way to tell her she that could never go home.

But hope was a stubborn thing that defied an unfamiliar moon and every other peculiarity she had encountered, and it made her voice tilt upwards when she asked, "Are we...is this place very near to New England?"

His eyebrows scrunched together again. His hand stopped fidgeting. He looked angry, but his voice was soft, almost careful when he spoke.

"Where do you believe we are?"

Her heart fell, and yet a bit of it refused to sink all the way—rather like the colorful helium balloons her mother had ordered for her eighteenth birthday; she'd kept a number of them in her room afterwards, but they had quickly begun to lose that magical lift, hovering low over but not quite touching the floor.

One part of her heart suggested that he could be asking because he wasn't sure himself—that it didn't mean they weren't on one of the seven continents, but rather that he wasn't sure whether it was Africa, or perhaps...

"Russia?" she suggested.

His eyes were grim. They slowly rose to meet hers, and she saw that they were also sad. Resigned.

In a whisper, she practically begged, "Africa?" Waverly knew the answer in her heart before he gave it. She felt the cold solidity of the floor as the last balloon fell and lay still, never to rise again.

"I'm afraid not," he replied. Then, a few moments later, he stood up and walked back into the tent. A moment after that, he emerged with something in his hand—the thin, ragged square of hide she had used as a handkerchief. He held it out to her now, his dark eyes full of solemn sympathy. Her own, she realized, had brimmed over with tears. She hadn't cried so much in front of anyone since before Mother had died.

This was something quite similar, actually: a terrible, irrevocable catastrophe that changed not just life as she knew it, but the entire world—that made the world into a darker, stranger, lonelier place than she had ever seen before.

Waverly had the vaguest recollection of this man saying, at some point in their very brief acquaintanceship, that everything would turn out right. He did not offer any such platitude now. He let her cry, and she was grateful for it. Nobody had allowed her to cry in peace since Mother; Bradford showered her with chin-up encouragements which felt hollow when he looked so unhappy himself, and Father simply walked away to weep on his own.

After a long while, the man asked her, "How did you end up here?"

The words 'end up' seemed to acknowledge what she had already guessed. It wasn't "how did you get so lost" or "how did you arrive at such a distant but chartable location." She needed to have an answer for sure and certain, though, even if three quarters of herself knew the truth already.

"Where are we, exactly?"

His sigh was heavy and delayed.

"I'm not certain," he said slowly, following another few moments of apparent deliberation, "but I believe we are not...well...in a world known to mankind."

The words hurt to hear, and yet she laughed a little.

"Perhaps we are in the land of Oz," she murmured.

"What's that?"

"Nothing—nonsense—a book. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. My mother had it read to me when I was young. It's about a little girl whose house is swept up in a cyclone and transported to a strange new land where frightening things happen. At least I thought they were frightening. My maid didn't think so. It all seems very silly now—after everything that has happened to me here..."

She shivered.

"Your blanket has fallen," he said gently.

She reached down slowly and picked it off the ground, fixing it back around her shoulders without even shaking free the dust. There was silence for a little time after that while the tears continued to drip down the sides of her nose and off the end of her chin. She thought of how Dorothy was able to leave the magical land of Oz at the end of the book, safe and sound, back to the family she loved. Instead of giving her hope, it deepened Waverly's despair.

"How can I ever get home?" Her voice broke wretchedly on the very last word.

The deep-set eyes into which she looked for a single spark of hope were wearier and bleaker than ever.

"I don't know," he said in a similar voice. "I've been trying to find my own way ever since I woke up in this place. I'm afraid I haven't...made very much progress on that front. It's been a matter of simply surviving, for the most part."

Waverly shuddered again, and there was a long minute of silence. Then, without any warning, her companion's somber attitude turned inside out.

"But there's no need to think of such things tonight," he told her in a higher, more cheerful voice. "Here, have a little stew. It's not anything toothsome, but it's filling. It's important not to eat a great deal all at once after you've been hungry a long time. Um...how long have you been here, come to mention it?"

While he said all this, he leaned backward on the tree trunk and reached behind it. When he straightened up, there was a rough, round-ish thing in his hand which she thought at first to be a lump of wood. It was, in fact, a lump of wood, but when he walked over to the stewpot to remove the lid—which was also rough and fashioned from wood—and dipped the lump inside, she saw that it functioned as a shallow bowl. Goodness, what dreadful crockery. But it might have been a dish of solid gold for all she cared at that moment.

"Careful," he said as he handed it to her, "the stew is still rather hot. I'm sorry I don't have any spoons. I must make more, one of these days."

"You made this too?"

"Mm-hm. Don't eat too quickly—you shouldn't, I mean, if you don't want a stomach ache—or worse. The body reacts badly to the sudden introduction of food after long periods of, well, going without. But please, eat."

After finishing his sporadic warning, he marched back over to the other log and sat. She looked down into the bowl. Her stomach growled so sharply, it felt as if it was cramping. Without any regard for the manners she had so recently abandoned, Waverly slurped down the stew, scarcely even chewing the chunks of meat as she did so.

She felt a few more tears trail down her face. He didn't ask her why, and she was grateful once again.

After she had wiped her cheeks and eaten a little more, he blurted out, "It's rabbit. I hope the taste isn't too awful—I don't have any salt or—"

"It's wonderful," she interrupted him earnestly. "It's the best food I've ever eaten, truly. And it is certainly better than that awful thing you gave me before. ...Oh, ah..." Waverly felt her face heat up. "I apologize. Thank you for that. What was it, the, ah, blue...?"

"A special kind of fungus which fruits only under the full moon," he told her, and it almost sounded like he was smiling. "I know the color is quite strange, and the taste is something awful—no need to deny it—but it has myriad medicinal benefits and does wonders for illness—any illness at all. I've only just begun to truly explore the extraordinary scientific implications of such a diverse—" He stopped, appearing to demure suddenly, and then, after clearing his throat, continued, "So, how long have you, um, been here, Miss Lamb?"

It was a question he had already asked her and which she had failed to answer, she realized now. So little time in the wild, and even her most basic manners were suffering from disuse.

"I beg your pardon. It hasn't been more than a few days. A week, I suppose. Not long at all." An admirable lie; it had felt longer than a year to her, but Waverly sounded quite dignified as she dismissed the small eternity. "I believe the moon was full the first—or, rather, almost full—the first night."

"Hm, I see. Yes, that was very fortunate," he said with a nod. His voice sounded oddly ominous. "Well, fortunate in one way, at least. Not so much as for the hounds. They always go hunting a few days after the full moon."

She frowned at the memory. With food in her stomach, a blanket around her shoulders, and a fire at her feet, it felt distant...but still present, like a ghost lurking along the outskirts of the darkness. When she realized the implication of his words, her frown grew tenfold.

"They come out after every full moon? Are they...are they werewolves?" There had certainly been something unnatural about them. She remembered those terrible, dragon-like teeth, the enormous size—almost like small bears rather than overgrown canines, and then there were the otherworldly noises they had made...

"Oh, gracious no. It isn't only the full moon. They're always out and about, but rarely ever in such large numbers as when they hunt by the moon—we were extraordinarily lucky it was only two of them that found us—and usually not this far north of their mounds. That's where they live—a region of hills away to the south. Hound mounds, I call them. ...Uh, all that to say, it's only once a month when they really go at it like that."

"Once a month? Every month?" Her blood ran cold.

"Yes, but—agh, forgive me. This certainly isn't pleasant conversation for the nighttime. You needn't worry about them. There's...well, there is, er, strength in numbers, after all."

She smiled at him. It had to be a very weak expression, but even so, it felt like the first in so long. More comforting than having a fire or a blanket or even a bowl of delicious stew was having a companion—one who knew how to wield an axe against preternatural canines, it seemed.

But it couldn't last, of course, and that consideration turned every prematurely hopeful notion to dust.

"What's the matter?" he asked

Waverly shook her head.

"I am terribly, terribly sorry. I know that I've been a great imposition to you—"

"Oh, no, not at all."

She smiled at his polite disagreement but persisted, "It is my fault you were injured, after all."

"But that might have happened anyway. I should have been more prepared—I chose to go out without a spear, betting on the hope that I'd see them coming over the plains while I worked. That's their usual route, so one can see them coming from quite far off, climb a tree or beat a hasty retreat—you can hear the baying over a great distance. They came up through the forest this time with little noise at all, at least that I heard. I'm just growing too complacent, taking it for granted that I would have warning—and I ought to have simply waited until morning to gather more wood. It wasn't worth the risk for an extra load of kindling. I really am growing too complacent." He shook his head.

She shook hers too. "But...but then I took up so much of your time with my illness, and I spilled your water, and with your arm the way it is, surely you—and how...how did you even manage to carry me back with an injured arm?"

"Ah-ha," he said, and she could hear his smile quite plainly now. "No trouble, especially not with that bit. I'm not quite as devoid of help as it seems...but I'll show you what I mean in the morning." His eyes darted to her right, away from his tent and his fire, out into the darkness. She looked but saw nothing but the black, shaggy shapes of scattered trees; the moon was rising, outlining their silhouettes with silver feathers while leaving alone the deep shadows beneath their bows. It would have made a lovely painting, if one didn't know what unholy creatures lurked beyond the scenic view. Other than that deceptively pretty sight, though, she couldn't find anything warranting his conspiratorial tone.

"All the same..." she went on, and she was proud that her words held no hint of bitter resignation. She was tired of her bad luck and of people leaving her behind, but she bore it, as always, with grace and aplomb. "I know that I have imposed upon your hospitality to an inexcusable degree," she forged ahead, stolid as she could manage, "and I wouldn't dream of extending my stay any longer than necessary."

She hadn't been raised to accept charity. Bradford wouldn't like it at all, her relying on a stranger's kindness like this—especially in a situation where, by merit of her brother's teachings and every one of the wilderness-related pastimes she had ever entertained, Waverly should have been more than capable of surviving out of doors, even if she was only an heiress. A Lamb who could not take care of herself in any sort of circumstance was not worth her salt, regardless of any disadvantages which a genteel upbringing presented.

A quiet, equally genteel voice broke her reverie.

"You are free to stay as long as you wish to, Miss Lamb. Truly, I don't mind. Not in the least. There really is strength in numbers."

He said it so simply. It took her aback.

"But...I've been such an imposition!"

"No, not at all. Of course not—in a world like this. ...Honestly, you can't imagine how refreshing it is to have someone to speak to. Well, someone who speaks back—er, in proper English, that is. I never knew I could long for any sort of human company, but after you've gone without it long enough..." He kept his eyes firmly on the ground, and she was glad; she had no idea what he would see in her expression had he looked. Dismay, astonishment, or relief? Waverly scarcely knew herself.

Feebly, she protested, "But we are only strangers."

He shrugged. "Strangers in a strange land—that's rather like 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend.' Solidarity." His brow furrowed, and his voice became tight with anger. "Particularly when you consider that we may indeed have a very real, very mutual enemy. ...But that's only supposition, for now—a topic for tomorrow, if you're well enough."

"I can stay?" It was the one detail she latched onto, and by far the strangest one out of everything he had said.

His eyes softened when they flickered up to hers. "Yes, of course—for as long as you like. I know you can't possibly trust me yet, and I know it must frighten you to be all alone with an unkempt man in a wild place, but...well... Hm, I'm not really sure what I can offer you as a token of good faith, but there must be something. Let me think..."

She grinned at him and didn't try to hide it.

"I suppose you already have done that. You did save my life at the cost of personal injury, and you did give me food and water and shelter. And you have been exceedingly patient with me, even when I was such a fuss. Not at all like a wildman." Her smile shrunk but was no less sincere when she said, "You're so kind. I didn't expect you to be."

Perhaps she was letting her feelings of gratitude get the better of her. It was an overly sentimental and undeniably silly thing to say to a stranger, and it clearly made him uncomfortable. He brought a fist up to his mouth—or rather, the patch of whiskers just below his pointed nose—and coughed.

Then he asked, "It's the beard, isn't it?"

Waverly laughed a little when she realized he was joking—although maybe he wasn't, what with the way he blinked at her. She laughed all the same. Here she was in the most hostile and otherworldly place she could possibly have imagined, a place that made the magical land of Oz look as harmless as her family's garden, and yet she was laughing. But perhaps it was warranted. Perhaps her luck had finally taken a turn for the better, all things considered. What were the odds of being lost in such a terrible place and, as a matter of pure happenstance, stumbling across the kindest stranger she could possibly have met?

"Perhaps a little," she admitted, still smiling. "It does look something like a pirate's."

He grumbled a bit and slurped from his bowl. Even when he wiped his mouth on his arm, it didn't diminish her smile.

"I'm nothing like a pirate," he protested, staring into his bowl. "Sailing is much too difficult, and I hate parrots."

When she laughed again, it turned into a cough. Just a trifling cough, barely a rattle to be heard or felt, but it made her companion stand and take the bowl from her hands.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to keep you talking for so long. You haven't fully recovered. You need your rest."

She stood up too. With the bowl still in his one good hand, he waved her towards the tent.

"I'll be awake for the rest of the night, should you need anything."

"Oh dear. That isn't for my sake, I hope?"

"No, no, I always keep a vigil the few days after a hound hunt. Easier for me to doze in the day anyway, and sometimes the hounds do linger—but, of course, there's nothing for you to be afraid of. Well, I suppose that isn't entirely true, but, at any rate, I'll keep watch, so... Would you like some water?"

He set the bowl on the ground by the fire and retrieved the waterskin for her. She drank deeply, and it leaked down the front of her dress. Only then did she notice how cold the air had become.

"Ah, do you...you do have a blanket for yourself," she inquired anxiously, "don't you?"

"No need to worry about that. I'll be sitting by the fire, after all."

She was too thankful that she didn't have to give up the blanket around her shoulders to argue with him, but she hoped he did have some sort of covering to use.

"Well, I'll say goodnight then," she said and smiled once more. It had been such a long time since she had said that to anyone; Father never noticed when she retired at the end of the day. Her smile fell, however, when something else occurred to her—something shameful, which she was very reluctant to admit.

"I'm terribly sorry, but...I do have one more question, and I promise that I will not ask you again, after you answer it."

"Yes?"

"Well..."

To her surprise, he laughed heartily when she asked him. He had a pleasant laugh. It sounded strange in the midst of the enormous, silent darkness around them. Strange, but comforting.

"No, no, it's quite all right. Of course your memory would be hazy while you're ill—I wouldn't expect anyone to remember anything they'd heard during a fever like that."

"Thank you, but the truth is I'm simply terrible with names."

"Well, I don't mind repeating it. Nobody's asked for it in such a long time—even before I came to the Constant."

"The what?"

"Oh, er...that's what I've been calling this place. But I digress. It's Wilson. Wilson Percival Higgsbury."

"Thank you, and I'm sorry. I won't need to ask again, I promise."

"Don't worry—it'll still be there if you do forget."

"Thank you. Well...goodnight, Mr. Higgsbury."

He nodded to her, turned away, and resumed his seat by the fire.

Inside the tent, she saw that there wasn't a mattress at all, just a squished-down straw pillow sort of thing, and another large, furry piece of cloth spread out on the bare ground; on closer inspection, it appeared to be a worn-out animal pelt. That was what she'd been lying on all this time. The only other covering to be seen was around her shoulders. She peeked out of the tent and had a glimpse of Wilson Percival Higgsbury sitting by the fire with no sort of wrap whatsoever. He really had given her his only blanket.