taxes, death, trouble

To this day the modern calendar remains marked by festivals that have long since lost their distinction in shape, the substance of each nevertheless a tender message gifted them by those who came before. The meaning having been saturated by life in the city, suffocated beneath the encroach of mortar and gaslight in turn, lay buried in their subconscious in letters of half-familiar code. Like children displaced from the homeland, theirs is the generation that has forgotten its own tongue. How was it that so many people living so closely together could become so distinctly separated? Here, a small village unites in singular purpose.

Survival is, of course, that great leveller of all points in differentiation. There is comfort in convenience, but perhaps the more that comfort propagates the more distanced they become from being human.

Mycroft blinks himself back to reality upon suddenly recalling a weighted presence in his lap, glancing down and finding a tin plate brimming with food clutched between his broad hands. It appears that some time had passed since his attention had wandered, prompting him to fret as to whether he had remembered to say "Thank you." Lifting his head and looking around himself, Mycroft can see that whether he had or not was no longer anyone's concern: the hungry must eat, and empty stomachs cannot wait for permission. At once, then, the anguished agony of needing to clear his plate— to not waste what had been given to him. This meal had been prepared through means of unimaginable labour, far beyond that sliver which he had contributed towards the tail end of preparation.

He could not thus imagine a greater disrespect here than a plate left untouched or barely eaten. Perhaps it is fortunate, then, that his appetite has consented to partial emergence in the wake of an ease fostered by friendly conversation. Nevertheless Mycroft eats slowly, even more leisurely than he is wont to do otherwise; terrified of spooking his own gut like it was a nervous horse beneath him, he takes his time. Treats each tear of flat bread with the care he'd show a portioned fraction of fine Kashmiri silk, using it to soak the broth and savour the softness of the interior crumb. When anxious for the intermittent turn or twist of his own stomach, he pauses in preference for indulging in conversation: either continuing his own with Miss Dahlia or simply listening to the various causes for an ongoing, genial burble of laughter about the fire.

Bit by bit, he works through his frankly invigorating and sapid dinner, grateful to feel a strength returned to his body; too alert as he'd been to notice its prior absence. Though he is last to finish, it is not for want of enjoyment for the culinary work involved— indeed, he had turned to Jason several times throughout the meal to make invested comment or vibrant observation upon his process. To the extent that he finds himself compulsively recommending a dark brandy as digestif for this meal, letting slip that he has just the specimen tucked away in his valise, bottled in nearby Napa County. Ah, well. Perhaps he might have liked to withhold that information, having once imagined another purpose for it at a later date.

Committed to both his word and his vision for complement in palate however, Mycroft nevertheless musters the initiative following the handing over of his cleared plate, hoisting himself to his feet and taking his leave but momentarily. He emerges once more from his tent with a labelled, unopened bottle in one hand and a briar pipe loaded with crushed tobacco held aloft in the other one. After handing the fine beverage first to Miss Dahlia for her (and Mr Astaire's) elevated opinion, Mycroft contents himself with bringing flame to his pipe's chamber, puffing once then twice to get the leaves burning before taking his modest seat once more.

It's the appearance of this fine bottle of brandy that rouses them again, a boisterous wave of collective cheer circling the fire, wet teeth gleaming in the flickering light. "He wouldn't know good liquor from a stream of piss." Wallace jests as Mr Holmes comes to hand over the goods to the snuggling couple, making the devil the butt of his joke. So unusual this impulsive cheek coming from the elder, and so sudden, that the group barks with cheer, and even Thorne seems too content to mind it, snorting, a bring dumb grin on his gaunt face. He pulls out his guitar instead and settles between his lady's knees.

"This is kind of you." Dahlia accepts the brandy by freeing one of her hands from Thorne's locks, which she had begun to gingerly untangle. She reads the label carefully, lips pursed in sustained approval, then pours herself a shot after getting a good sniff of the bottle. Following the Englishman's suggestion, she takes a small, savouring sip, and immediately the grounding, dilating spices of the blend flood her mouth, velvet down the throat, perfectly settling. Wooden and citrusy notes remain long after that first taste, so much she can feel her feet rooting into the earth, frame losing some of its practised rigidity. About as dangerous as it was delightful. "I'm only sorry there won't be any left for you to take back." She admits with a toothy smile, splashing a bit more of the honeyed nectar into her cup to share with Thorne, some into Mycroft's own (after chucking out what was left of his wine), then passing the bottle around.

"An intrepid work on that perennial subject of inheritance." He remarks as to the premise of Guy Mannering while he takes care not to trip over a sack of unused potatoes, rather delicately stepping about the lain log acting as their bench to seat himself at Miss Dahlia's right-hand side. Though the soles of his fine leather shoes plant themselves firmly upon the grass beneath them, his knees fall at a comfortable, non-intrusive width where he otherwise clasps his hands neatly between. Engaged, his usually impeccable posture can't help but curve forward slightly, his gaze all the while affixed to the woman next to him.

"Our modern Lady Macbeth." He observes with a languid smile alongside the mention of Lady Audley's Secret in turn; perhaps somewhat sensational for his taste, but he could otherwise understand the appeal for a more diverse audience. Mycroft had been about to add more, even muse upon the opening lines to Jaques' famous monologue, until he had found himself distracted by Mr Astaire's wandering arm falling upon his mistress' hip with the comfort of a much-loved hand purse. Miss Dahlia's response had been quite charming, her ease as to this turn of physical expression such that Mycroft couldn't help but draw further conclusions as to their interpersonal history.

Again that canine-like devotion, presented with a flowering bouquet of intimacy.

Feeling as though he were acting the part of voyeur all of a sudden, Mycroft breaks his line of vision and becomes very interested in his own clasped hands again. Flexing his thick fingers within this interlocked cradle, he smiles quietly as he finds comfort of his own in the recollection of works much beloved in his own memory.

"It may seem self-evident, but I do also enjoy those penned by the Bard. More recently I had the pleasure of spectating several classics from Molière, performed in the original French." With key members of the cast visiting at the time from the Paris Opera no less, a most singular delight for the hungering state enthusiasts of London. Ever had the dailies featured a column on the latest theatrical news brought in from the French capital, English eyes habitually drawn to the continent for muse and creative impulse. Mycroft raises his head again, allowing for his pensive gaze to rest upon Miss Dahlia's curious mien as he arrives at the actual answer to her question.

"If you were to ask after personal preference, I would admit to a particular fondness for The Acharnians, as scribed by the Athenian playwright Aristophanes." His expression brightens at the memory, one that felt increasingly distant from him in years as well as geography. Mycroft expels a short breath through his nose, casting his line of vision down to his finely manicured fingernails once more, scraping them for dirt in a habit of subconscious compulsion. He continues to talk as he does this, his thoughts clearly drifting somewhere quite removed from his reality. "There was a performance in Oxford, where I had the pleasure of assisting in translation for the illustrated libretto."

Dropping his fingers again, Mycroft breathes in before fixing a smile to his fire-warmed features, his enthusiasm for their present conversation brimming to the surface as he watches the flames before them flicker and dance.

"A humble farmer, wearied by war and those who perpetuate it, secures a private treaty of peace with the enemies of his state. Though obstructed by corrupt politicians, the soldiering mob, and a half-convinced Chorus, nevertheless he carves for himself from the surrounding storm of chaos a single house of peace and earthly pleasures— where he lives out the rest of his days cradled in the comforts of friendship, abundance and material indulgence."

He punctuates the story with an implicating smile given in Miss Dahlia's direction, possessed with the knowledge that this recounting was so far the closest he had come to speaking of himself in the entire course of their discussion. Perhaps as if on cue, the sonorous clang of a ladle and pan being brought together in order to announce dinner seizes their group's collective attention.

As Jason determines the readiness of the stew, Thorne's hand steadies on Dahlia's hip, bracing. All around the fire faces turn to the food, hunger having reached its aching threshold, folding into slight despair. Sensing this imminent shift of focus, the lady delivers a comforting squeeze to Thorne's fingers; a thoughtless, gentle touch, marked by the unspoken familiarity between them. As their cook begins to ladle generous servings into tin plates, two halves of freshly baked flat bread on the side, Rayan hands these out, starting with Dahlia and Elena, then going down the rank of seniority. Dahlia thanks the young man and holds her portion like something sacred, head bowing and eyes softly closing in quiet gratitude for the meal she has received. Habits that hadn't quite shaken off – if anything, it is easier to feel thankful after you have known scarcity, or the labour that takes to nourish others.

She's heard of The Acharnians, but is admittedly not aware of the plot, and leans expectantly ever so slightly forward, prompting Mycroft to elaborate while she waits for everyone to be served, idly stirring her spoon around her plate. The endearing way he perks up at the memory of this beloved play is noted, a tranquil smile resting on freckled features from that contagious joy. A true connoisseur of the arts, his classical background continues to shine through in their exchange. What a fascinating, fragile little life he must lead back home.

The group collectively tucks into their meal with audible gusto and relief, humming around mouthfuls of praise and lines of lighthearted conversation, spirits instantly buoyed. Though her hunger is not to be underestimated, Dahlia cannot help but feel moderately self-conscious about her manners, having grown fairly relaxed around this lot. She nods and listens, smiling to herself and wielding her spoon delicately, scooping steaming broth up to her lips. "Hard to miss the irony of recognising works of fiction in scenarios life leads you to." How many times does one dream of escaping to worlds bound in pages? Swooping love stories that conquer space and time, endless wonders to be found in seafaring adventures. Fearing she might get carried away in a rapid of useless thoughts, she concludes:

He allows her the space to reflect, continuing to supply their young cook with the final round of ingredients for their stew— the vegetables chop well beneath his knife's edge, once more speaking to their appetising ripeness. At last, prompted by the rich and succulent scents emanating from that heated pot, his hunger has begun to stir from the depths of frozen slumber. If he could eat and keep down even a small plate of food tonight, he would consider it a substantial victory. Mind over body, he attempts to muster himself through mantra. Otherwise extended compliment for his conversational discretion, Mycroft brims with gratitude for the recognition; it was not often that this very consciously trained skill was noticed beyond the results or satisfaction it thus catalysed for those around him.

"I've made it my life's work." He embraces the observation made of him, much like he had before Mr Rodriguez down at the lake's shore. They had already seen him wield his words in both defense and diversion, paired with some rudimentary calculation it had been the sole means by which he had navigated this entire misfortune— perhaps crucially as to their trust in his bargaining position, Mycroft was not a man to extend a promise he could not deliver upon. Sincerity in the negotiation, prudence exercised otherwise. This was yet another service he could provide for the collective, if at any point on on their pilgrimage the need arose. Yet another card thus placed upon the table between them.

"If, therefore, there is use to be found in its application, I would be happy to oblige."

Mycroft allows the offer to stand as delivered, coupling pride in his communicative work with that in his recent exercise in culinary labour, when he is able to hand Jason his entire board of sliced vegetables for their timely addition. A satisfying splash of bubbling juices sees those carrots soon simmering upon the surface of their evening's stew, stirred and mixed with a lush range of herbs, game and accompanying spice. Resting his knife aside for the moment, Mycroft watches the pot boil upon the fire with grown investment, nurtured in part by his humble hand in its creation. Though his gaze rests upon the meal being prepared, in truth his attention is wholly absorbed by the answer soon given to him regarding the delay incurred at Truckee.

A quiet, satisfied smirk ticks gently into place.

"Genius." He remarks, quite simply.

Relieved of Miss Dahlia's gentle method of interrogation (and therefore encroaching presence), Mycroft straightens within his seat and heaves a sigh through his nose. Utilising unique environmental obstacles proffered by the nearby plains as directed by a local contact, a pincer maneuver in effect— trapping his train between their vanguard and the mountain range. The timing would have been excruciatingly close, meaning their gumption was about as impressive as the plan had been itself. A most American solution to the challenge, really. He chuckles to himself softly, flexing his wrist somewhat to alleviate the minor strain of his own kitchen assistance.

"Just one." He admits freely when prompted for another question, attentive to the fact that the rest of the camp had begun to stir in the knowledge that dinner would be served imminently. Indeed Jason had just scooped a sample from the communal pot by wooden ladle, testing the aromatic concoction with some visible satisfaction strafing his otherwise stoic countenance. Mr Burke seemed to be rousing from his nap, no doubt prompted by the gathering swell of cooking scents before them, while Mr Rodriguez seemed newly settled back into their gathered company. Though Mr Astaire's guitar continued to languidly strum, he imagined this latest meandering melody might soon be designated the last one.

"Is there a stage performance that you yourself have found particularly inspiring?"

"I shall keep that in mind." His offer's a kind one, though she cannot imagine an opportunity would present itself to use it, if they were to part within the next couple of days. She's pleased with the compliment he pays the plan, and for a split second there's a twinge of retroactive regret, hoping her men hadn't been too rough with this meek house-cat, now assisting them with dinner, a gentleman only in manners, only upon closer look. Finally just a few more minutes until their meal was served, which prompts Dahlia to invite Mr Holmes to come sit with them closer to the fire, where she takes Thorne's right and leaves ample room for their guest on the seat beside her.

"Inspiring might not be the right word, but I saw 'Guy Mannering' one late December and it was exceptional." Delighted to return to their previous topic regarding the world of theatre, the answers jump easily from her tongue. Thorne ultimately relinquishes his guitar to wrap his arm loosely around his lady, intent on listening, his hand resting comfortably on her hip. "I also enjoyed 'As You Like It', and– oh!" She jolts at the snap of fingers, as though suddenly remembering a long forgotten note in the archives of her mind. "I read that 'Lady Audley's Secret' had a showing in London. I was disheartened when nobody on this side of the ocean was interested in taking it to the stage."

"Didn't you get a copy of that in San Francisco?" The demon casually chips in, pinching and stroking the pleats of her dress between thumb and forefinger, his eye almost exclusively on her with a dreamy, enamoured air about him. Even when he had no idea what she was saying.

"Yes." He answers promptly as to the question of location, allowing a charmed smile to light his freshly groomed features with shared pleasure and fond reminiscence. It does not take much stretching of the imagination to place himself back there, in the balcony-lined box overlooking the grand stage from the theatre's second floor— how those tickets had even been procured in the first place at such short notice, he had not the inclination to delve into. "Despite my demanding schedule I was persuaded to attend a show at Booth's Theatre, where Mrs McVicker Booth made a most astonishing if fleeting return to the stage."

It was in that fair woman's fierce-eyed and sharp-tongued delivery that he had seen this haunting writ large, a grief that fed into her performance with visceral immediacy. Mycroft returns to Aspasia of Miletus, the documented history of women seizing survival by the strength of their conviction as performed before their audience, by their willingness and quickness to unsheathe the knife. Miss Dahlia hovers above him as an ode to this legacy, refuting the mold of her gender that she might thrive on her own merit, her own accomplishment by way of enterprising organisation. Infidelity, witchcraft and insanity— such were the traditional labels levied upon such women.

Envy has ever been a poor substitute for the opportunity to surveil and learn.

"I attend the services." Mycroft answers her faith-relating question with a humoured tick of curiosity in his voice, brushing a few stray curls from where they had slipped further down his forehead before they could threaten his vision. He tilts his head to regard her encroached figure with a sly smile of his own, interested in the segue made from what he may or may not have been implying into this particular line of enquiry. It was quite the personal question, and Miss Dahlia had so far struck him as quite the practical person. Perhaps on this point, they would find themselves once more aligned to some degree. He had begun to feel very much as though she were testing him.

"But I find my faith in knowledge. From what I observe, read and experience." In this realm however, his answer must be the honest one. As though to demonstrate this wisdom in practice, he widens his sleeve-rolled arms slightly to indicate himself, then looks about the campfire to refer to their present company before returning his gaze to Miss Dahlia. Pointedly, Mycroft lowers his voice with earnest implication— entirely deliberate, this time. "It was not God who determined my fate today."

Underscoring the weight of choices that had led to this very circumstances they now enjoyed, culminating in Miss Dahlia's own undisputed authority, Mycroft pulls a designated board for chopping over his knees and begins to slice the carrots into smaller samples suitable for the stew burbling over the camp's wood-smoked fire.

"Then I shall play my part to the utmost extent of satisfaction." He laughs a little along with her overtures of reassurance, his gaze darting up briefly to take note of Mr Rodriguez passing nearby before returning to his current occupation. The music seemed to have quietened, suggesting Mr Astaire was perhaps indulging in distraction. Speaking of which, it now occurs to Mycroft just how close Miss Dahlia had begun to linger, close enough for him to catch a waft of her current scent— spring-like, fresh. Before he can identify the finer notes and subsequent profile he promptly buries himself in his manual labour again. He ought to use this opportunity to finally ask the question that's been weighing on his mind since earlier in the day.

She collects herself with a drawing breath, at once returning to the dusty campsite where their dinner now vigorously bubbled, demanding the last batch of ingredients to feed grumbling bellies. How unusual and curious, for one to thrive so far from where they sprout in the world. Different climate and all.

On the verge of lightly chastising him for not answering her question, Dahlia angles her face down in Mycroft's direction, her countenance mirroring his levity, amused by the cheekiness of his delivery. He's quick to clarify his position as an empirical man instead, placing the human eye above God's. Indeed, they had more in common than initially presumed, and she does not conceal an uptick of approval when named as the day's Judge. "Knowing what to say and when to say it is a most valuable skill."

Satisfied by their exchange, Dahlia mercifully allows him more space, pacing aimlessly and getting in poor young Jason's way as he ferried items from the kitchen to the fire, and back. She had no problem indulging Mr Holmes' curiosity there, it had been a relatively simple trick. "We wired someone we know in the area asking to disrupt the line. One hundred and fifty heads of cattle grazing right across the tracks can cause a significant disruption – enough for the horses to catch up with the train, and the boys to sniff you out." Spotting a fallen twig of rosemary on the ground, she picks it up and twirls it delicately between her fingers, an easy smile settled upon her mouth.

"Oh yes. I find works of the stage most invigorating to watch." Mycroft takes the opportunity to lock eyes with Miss Dahlia, who had since taken up a more enduring position leant against the wagon hitched next to their makeshift kitchen. His tone takes upon a meandering cadence, recalling in turn an apt anecdote from the comfortable environs of recent memory. "Just last month I had the pleasure of witnessing quite the stirring performance from an especially impassioned Lady Macbeth."

He returns his gaze to his work, methodically stripping the vegetable in his hand of its skin by way of brisk and practiced routine. "Power, grief, delusion— the human spirit bares itself in art to depths otherwise furiously hidden in everyday life."

Mycroft sets the newly peeled carrot in his hand aside, adding to an organised pile rendered brighter and more vibrant now that he had whittled the majority of these specimens down to their core essence. He would therefore shift to chopping in short order, that he might correlate the task's completion with the ripening of their stew presently bubbling over the fire. Distracted momentarily by the sumptuous scents emerging from the pot before them all, his pewter eyes roamed its heated lid curiously— what a splendid blend of spices they had brought together for this broth, the addition of a splash of whiskey had been especially inspired in his speculative estimation.

To the compliment of his renewal beneath this foreign climate, Mycroft lowers his head and scrapes his final carrot with motions a little more focused and deliberate in nature. Miss Dahlia had not been the first person to remark as much, when presented with his more dressed down appearance. He's ultimately glad to hear it in this context as well, though it does invite a shyness as well as a queer sense of discord in him. Discord for her words implied a belonging, which was both reassuring to hear and dangerous for him to believe in. As he had recognised upon the lake's shore, fear continued to underpin his cognition in this company: either he would learn to unlearn this alertness in due course, or he must pass the rest of his journey in this overtly cautious state.

He'd quite prefer the former, if he had the choice of it— it truly felt terrible to be so very tense all the time.

"He's most considerate." Mycroft agrees quickly with Miss Dahlia's remark upon Mr Rodriguez's character, the returned smile evident in his voice. Though at once his mind races with speculation as to who he should rather be worried about. On instinct, his gaze roams towards Mr Roi and Mr Burke, whose tempers he most immediately feared in action given their otherwise so far demonstrated disposition: the quietest so often harboured the highest capacity for violence. Though he had already comforted himself with strategies of approach regarding these two men, allowing for him to rather continue indulging in this most pleasant exchange with Miss Dahlia.

"I would say a lady would warrant such a defense, certainly." Both his thick brows raise amid a roll of voiced humour, setting aside his last peeling job and leaning his elbow upon his knee that he might look back up to her fair mien with that same expression. His own tease, in turn.

"However, I heartily pledge not to seek service upon a plate. Irony of our relative proximity to the site of the Donner Party occasion notwithstanding, of course."

"Are you implying something, Mr Holmes?" Though she dons an innocent smile, there is a cunningness behind it that would be easily perceived even by firelight. Dahlia steps delicately closer, pretending to inspect the quality of his work with a knife, attentive to the slightest shifts in his demeanour following her proximity. It's a gentle, playful pressure, of one who tests the sturdiness of a man who had already begun to unravel, despite his best attempts to find grace and purchase in the fall. "Are you a man of faith?" It occurs her to ask, a fair brow elegantly cocked, peering down at the hunched gentleman.

Perceptive of this shift, the devil's melody quietens, ears straining to listen into a conversation he wasn't part of. The life she's led before the gang took over it stirs a strange feeling within him, that of wanting to read a book in a language you do not speak. There wasn't a single one of them that could sit with their lady and chat about this life of 'culture' reserved for the wealthy; they heeded her stories with a slight dullness to their faces, puzzled, swapping looks, scratching. That their Englishman could humour her was both a welcome diversion and a threat. The winds of the past often howled as a sirensong, calling you back. One must know to stand guard.

Dahlia covers her mouth at the Donner Party mention, part humour, part horror. A tragic event no less, but the timing of his anecdote amuses her. "I am flattered that you would open an exception for me. But fear not, the only service expected of you is to hold your end of the bargain." She lifts her eyes to watch Javier's quiet return to camp, his hair swept back, loosely buttoned up, towel swung over his shoulder. He walks straight into his shared tent with his brother to retrieve a woven serape in earthen forest tones, wrapping it about his frame to ward off the setting cold.

This observation breathes new oxygen into that question he had been holding onto ever since the announcement of the delay at Truckee, but for the moment Mycroft holds onto that point of query in favour of complimenting the scar-bearing cook as to his diligence in dinner preparation. The commendation seems to have an effect on the young man, as when an effort is latterly made to bridge the gap in introduction between them it comes through in a distracted half-mumble. Jason? Jason. Yes, he is certain that he had heard that correctly.

His gently charmed expression redirects to Miss Dahlia upon her timely interjection, a small chuckle rumbling within the column of his throat: too true.

"I'd hazard the difference in sunlight to be a factor, as well." Mycroft offers with a humoured perk of his brow, deeming it appropriate to provide additional context for those in the group who might not have heard much told of the home island's adverse climate. "Last I saw so much blue in the sky was in a stage production of Twelfth Night. It was painted on the backdrop, in a most exotic departure for the benefit of London's imagination."

With his shoulders buoying briefly at his turn of dry comedy, Mycroft returns to his work while keeping an eye on Miss Dahlia's business in his peripheral vision. Gathered laundry, going by the size and estimated weight of the bag— and the most handy glimpse of a dust-flecked cotton sleeve through the otherwise roped up opening, of course. His head dips a little further into his peeling at the remark made in allusion to his damp, recently hung articles of clothing: victims to a spur of the moment decision he was now having to regret latterly. Perhaps there was still a chance to add his shirt, at a more appropriate time after dinner or before the morning departure.

"I must imagine that is one contest he would have won quite handily." He safeguards his sanity by focusing himself upon Miss Dahlia's otherwise justified enquiry, his own thoughts likewise turning to Mr Rodriguez; wondering when the man he had left behind might feel stirred enough by hunger to at last join the rest of them. Mycroft stalls upon peeling yet another strip of carrot into his bucket, holding the knife aside as he twists at the waist to look up at at Miss Dahlia with a reassuring smile of his own.

First goes the meat, the spices, chunks of garlic and onion, bay leaves, a glug of whiskey. The smell of food being made is enough to stir Wallace awake, his whiskers parting in a yawn. Chillies pop in the hot oil, flesh begins to sear and fat breaks down, binding with the rest of the flavours. Salt is thrown in, and lastly ladles of water, followed by the lid, allowing the stew to simmer until it was ready for the vegetables, potatoes and beans.

Momentarily distracted by Jason's ongoing magic, Dahlia promptly readdresses their guest, watching him as he sat on the low stool, humbly bent over a bucket of peelings, his hair set free from comb and pomade and falling more naturally over his forehead, framing his amiable face. "I must say sunlight and blue skies agree with you." Considering what he had been through– what they had put him through not that long ago, Mycroft had settled quite readily into camp, even going out of his way to contribute however he could. It was the kind of initiative Dahlia had to imagine was more of a survival instinct kicking in than a habit, but it was noted all the same.

"Hmm, it's not him you should be worried about." She chuckles, intertwining her fingers behind her back. Javier was hard to anger, and more often than not awaited someone else's orders before employing forceful tactics. To have been running with Thorne for so long required a hefty amount of patience, after all. "My, a mountain lion? I should hope you'd offer to do the same for anyone else here, not just Mr Rodriguez." Naturally, she must tease, lighthearted and swaying gently back and forth on her shoulder and heel.

"It's my only defense, in the wilderness." His playful joke acts threefold: acknowledging that his self-preserving tactics had been made, poking a little fun at his own maladapted placement out here, and yes— confessing that a part of him was still scared. Would continue to be scared, to some extent of foreseeable future. For himself. For his brother, now travelling the continent alone. In the knowledge that other groups were hunting for him, or a man like him, out there somewhere. His comfort came in two things known for certain: he had allies, and he had a plan. Most immediate among these was the emerging solace of being able to count these hardy men and women as his friends in this ongoing venture.

"But thank you, for saying it again." Mycroft's tone of voice, while gentle, pushes with heartfelt emphasis on delivery. Implying thus that he'll be doing his best to acclimate from now on: a little less of London's delicate dance in etiquette, a little more of the frontier's preference for frankness and candour. Fear was best remedied by familiarity— with time, he will feel at ease. His body must forget the train, the gun's barrel pressed to his knee, the other people leaving the observation carriage and the thought of death swiftly coming upon him. It had been Mr Rodriguez who had first reassured him that he wasn't going to die back then, and it was Mr Rodriguez who even now continued to make him feel safe. He would always remember that much.

Nodding once to announce his imminent departure following his friend's encouragement, Mycroft spends a moment too long in directing his body back towards the distant gathering of tents further up the shore. Long enough to catch the hand strafing across the southerner's own strong inner thigh— all of a sudden Mycroft feels as though his sodden undergarments have become far too tight indeed, and is possessed with the need to change into something more decent. He turns his head away and, determined, makes his way back towards the bustling action of the main camp as appropriate.

Dinner preparation is still underway when he arrives, and he's grateful to see a bunch of wild carrots have been set aside by the young cook atop a rounded barrel for his attention. A quick flick of his gaze swiftly identifies Mr Astaire as the musician of the group, guitar propped upon his knee and fingers strumming a soulful little tune— he can see that it is a handsome, much loved instrument that has seen both travel and no small amount of use. The wood itself is warm in colouration, though pales in comparison to the brilliance of Miss Dahlia's hair, which now shimmers with newly groomed attention as she passes here and there; Mr Burke for his part seems to be content where he'd last been left before the crackling fire itself, unmoved and unbothered since.

All in all it seems that the group had settled in quite comfortably following their long hours on the road, longer still than that part of the journey he had shared with them; conscious however that there were eyes upon his rolled up, waterlogged trousers, he keeps his stride swift and steps mindful as he makes his way back towards his personal tent. Therein he promptly disappears to steal for himself as much privacy as he can for a brief interim, enough for him to change into a fresh pair of linen underpants and charcoal-hued trousers, find a place upon his tarp's propping post from which he can hang his wet clothes, then return refreshed for his assistance within the kitchen.

Mycroft greets the present gang members with a nod and smile each, before setting himself down upon a low-stool by the barrel and thanking the youthful chef as the latter promptly nudges an empty bucket for trimmings his way. Knife in hand, he enquires briefly after the cutting preference before beginning his work peeling the vegetables in question. At once it feels good to be at work, able to focus on an action that naturally casts his gaze down and fixes his attention on a repetitive, simple task that offers both greater use and contribution. Much like the reins clutched in his palms earlier in the day, the weight of a peeling knife's grip in his hand feels strange and rather distant to his memory— but not lost altogether, he can recall the technique.

"I do envy the quality of your produce here." He can't help but comment, somewhat conversationally. The carrot in his hand was remarkably firm and well-sized, and of a shade most vibrant to the naked eye— the greens were also crisp, springing gently beneath even the slightest touch. An altogether healthy and impressive specimen.

Jhin and Elena sit in comparative quietude side by side on one of the larger logs, settling into the routine of cleaning guns, sharpening knives and mending belts and clothes. As Wallace continues to doze on and off, Miss Denvers busies herself with random tasks around the area, replacing tapers in lamps, collecting laundry, updating her travel journal and jotting down some quick notes for the morning. She'd changed into a wrapper dress in tones of ochre and sage for nighttime comfort, and about her shoulders hung an ecru woollen shawl, which slipped easily down to her elbows once in a while, though she did not seem to mind.

"That's because nothing grows in the city, Mr Holmes." Dahlia comments, intercepting the conversation he'd been having with Jason during dinner prep as she stops by to load a bag of laundry into the wagon through the front. It was easier to pay to have it washed whenever they stopped at a town than it was to put someone on scrubbing duty. She hops back down and dusts off her hands, a healthy glow spread over her face from the effort. "I would ask if you needed anything cleaned tomorrow, but you seem to have taken care of it already." It's a discreet enough comment as she hovers by Mycroft's right shoulder, letting him know she had noticed his state upon returning from the lake. No judgement there, it could be how they conducted business in Europe, for all she knew. Didn't queens bathe wearing their intimates?

At the sound of a splash nearby, Mycroft jolts from his thoughts and lifts his head to find his new friend indulging in a leisurely swim about their shared stretch of shoreline. Relaxing again, a whisper of good-natured humour at his own expense flits through his expression: a hare in the company of wolves, he remained most evidently. Though he doesn't quite follow Mr Rodriguez's lead on this point, he does indulge in a partial swim into the deeper expanse of lakebed, so that he might submerge himself up to the jawline once more. Some buttons are then popped well beneath the water line, sodden fabric slipped just enough to lend some rinsing attention to thighs, rear and sack before swiftly (awkwardly) drawing his articles up again. All done.

With that Mycroft takes one final dip below the surface, at last feeling able to declare himself quite clean. Upon re-emerging and floating a little closer towards the lake's edge again, he's nevertheless caught off guard by the generous-minded offer put his way. Locking eyes with Mr Rodriguez on accident, Mycroft stares at him for a moment before subconsciously sinking somewhat into the water again, such that now only his mist-like eyes shimmered above the lake's surface— unwittingly taking on the appearance of some raven-coiled creature newly emerged from the black lagoon. He says nothing for a brief moment, perhaps an embarrassing amount of time.

It would be quite pleasant to bathe in complete privacy, but equally it seemed rude to send another man from his own routine on mere account of warming his sensibilities. He was well rinsed from head the toe, and he was growing conscious of his pledge to the cook of their group at the campfire. Least of all, he had no desire to give his friend the impression that his presence here invited any measure of offense. Thus, raising himself above the surface again and mustering some spirit, he at last offers Mr Rodriguez an appreciative smile of his own.

"A very mindful offer. But no, thank you."

As though to communicate conversely that he was quite content with his time in the water, he pulls himself towards the shallows before drawing into an upright stand with a shower of twinkling droplets and streaming rivers run down the length of his broad body. Rubbing his eyes and nose again, Mycroft sniffles and runs his hands through the water around him again. A last rinse.

"I am quite clean, and you've already made so many adjustments for the comfort of a stranger, I can hardly ask for another today." Mycroft's feet find dry land again in a slosh of clear water, navigating their way through a maze of uneven pebbles towards his towel and shirt again. Drying himself down from crown to toe, he dons his rolled up shirt again and slings his towel over his bare forearm, plucking his soap up into his hand as he turns to look back at Mr Rodriguez; still bobbing in the water with that boyish smile reaching right up to his glimmering eyes, evoking in his impression quite the appeal in charm.

"Besides, I rather enjoyed the company." He confesses candidly, his own smile warmed by the distant glow of their camp's fire. At this point Mycroft's brow furrows slightly, as though troubled by a thought: he'd had every intention of leaving Mr Rodriguez to his peace here, but was that either generally practiced or wise in this environment? He glanced along the extent of Lake Tahoe's shore either side of them, as though anticipating some manner of... creature to emerge spontaneously. He then looks back out to where Mr Rodriguez was floating, features still creased with tentative concern.

"Shall I stay while you finish, or...?"

He doesn't get far until the admission of pleasure stops him, and he laughs because that's the safe thing to do, because this is not someone he should play games with at the end of the night. He was not oblivious to the effect his presence had on the other, but could not determine it as pure academic fascination or animal in nature. Everyone gets curious, after all. "You don't have to say those things." Javier calmly explains, meeting Mycroft's gaze. He means to reassure. "Y'know, the sweet talk so we don't eat you. Already said we won't." But he has to imagine at least some part of the stranger had to remain scared, untrusting regardless of how the tides turned. Perhaps it would only truly know ease once they were all out of his sight again.

And then he lets himself look, because what else is there to do, and Mr Holmes is still standing there dripping, trapped in his wet trousers, and there aren't that many new faces they see sometimes for weeks on end. Just the same circle, which grew tighter and smaller around the whirlpool of whatever Jhin, Dahlia and the devil had going on.

Adjustments were still being made on both sides, and trust - true trust - was a slow-burning fuel requiring catalyst by way of evidence and reasonable foundation. He would have to begin opening up, eventually— even if it became evident that his story was simply that of a man wishing to wrap himself up and hide from the world surrounding them. A wistful smile tugs upon his features as he roams the skies above them with a thoughtful eye: though, the world had never been so accommodating to allow as much from him. He was subsequently forced to wonder whether facets of his life such as his schooling at Winchester, or his brief foray into legal practice on High Holborn Street, would really be all that interesting to the hard lived men and women out here.

"No, it was quite the spontaneous impulse." Mycroft confesses as he catches the sudden turn of Mr Rodriguez's head away from him upon the shoreline; a curious eye, perhaps? Speculation upon the reason why leads him towards territory he feels ill prepared to confront, so he (shyly) dismisses that observation and instead focuses upon righting himself within the water again. Finding the rock-strewn lake bed with his feet once more, he rests his weight only when certain that his soles have found rounded pebbles beneath them. At that point he brings himself to a stand, rubbing his hair from his face and wading back to shore once more.

The brown cotton of his trousers clings uncomfortably to the meat of his thighs, while his linen underwear now sticks to his intimates with distracting immediacy— he'll change within the privacy of his tent before dinner, hope that they dry overnight while hung on rope. Once again and most certainly not for the final time, he's made thankful that he was allowed to continue carrying his various changes in clothing as extracted from his luggage. Subsequently seating himself upon a squat and square rock likewise turned from Mr Rodriguez, it is his turn to methodically apply soap to the rest of his body, beginning with his hair-covered chest and arms in turn.

"That, and I'm rather embarrassed to show myself before a man whose figure rivals the athletes of Athens." Ah, well. He's not sure why his nerves had permitted that observation to slip through. Terrifying prospect. Best not make eye contact ever again. If he goes on to explain that he studied the Greats while at Oxford that might explain things more so. Or perhaps less so. Well the men here thought him queer enough already, readily dismissed as another quirk from the island or such. Time to douse his back in soap, and his lower legs, and feet— miraculous, done in such short order. Mycroft abruptly rises to his feet and thus wades out into the lake again possessed with yet unseen drive by way of apparent purpose.

"Ah, is that so." Taking it first as a compliment, Javier laughs it off, not one to be modest but neither one to brag. He jumps back into the water to lastly wash his hair, and it's from his stooped arch that he catches another peek of Mycroft about his business, his pants rolled up and bearing no secrets, offering up a most enticing jiggle of flesh as he frantically scrubbed his arms, his soft chest. Well, who knew he'd been hiding all that under the expensive linen. Narrowly avoiding getting suds in his eye, Javier sets the bar of soap aside to dry and disappears back beneath the surface, this time indulging in a proper swim, allowing the gentle current to finish cleansing body and mind.

Unprompted, the comment made by the other Rodriguez brother comes to mind and induces Mycroft to raise his head and look out to the sibling he's more familiar with. Though turned with his back to him, he can see the sculpt of the other man's freshly soaked shoulders and back muscles flexing beneath the brisk, dual-handed motion of cleaning his face— demonstrating enough fluctuation in anatomical symmetry to make the likes of both Polykleitos and Myron blush. A quiet warmth rises in his own cheeks and, perhaps a little self-conscious, he lowers his head again and focuses upon rolling his trousers up further upon his thighs; refreshing as it would feel, he was not yet so comfortable as to expose himself entirely for the sake of submergence.

With his hair newly frothing with the fresh application of soap, Mycroft wades back into the water and methodically rinses the last of the disgusting concoction from his hair; at last smoothing back a tumble of loose black curls back over the sculpt of his cranium. Relief at last, and he follows up with a routine of cupped splashes upon his lower legs, back and chest area in preparation for a broader clean. It keeps occurring to him how much nicer it would be to simply remove the extent of his clothes and mimic his friend by indulging in a full dive into the water, but his uncertainty dictates that he must continue to hang upon the question and otherwise find every reason to distract himself from the possibility.

Most immediately, his ears have pricked to the sound of a guitar being plucked somewhere near to the campfire behind them— twisting from the waist, he fails to sight the player from here and so begins to speculate upon the most likely candidate. As this meandering melody begins to build into a euphonious embrace, this is when Mr Rodriguez's remark comes to him. Mycroft's response takes shape as a memory first, what Grandfather used to name their grandmother's indulgence. The grand piano next to the bay window in the manor's parlour, ivory keys glinting beneath the morning sunlight peeking through parted curtains as the latter waft like strips of patterned ribbon in the breeze.

He can still smell the juice squeezed from the apples gathered from the orchard that morning, the plates of breads and cheeses laid out on white embroidered tablecloth. His fingers rest upon the keys, his body still remembers every note.

"I do." Mycroft answers, almost wistful as he continues to look back to the higher plateau of this shoreline. As night begins to fall, the warmth of their camp's fire begins to glow in beating promise of the hearth. He still remembers family and household friends gathered as audience, their surrounding composition shrinking incrementally over the years— he remembers the addition of Sherlock's violin, the honey-sweet laughter of their mother from the couch.

He had noticed when the keys had begun to gather dust, could remember watching the cloth being thrown over that aged mahogany frame. Another coffin laid beneath the earth. The music stops. He and Sherlock pass the train ride to London in silence.

"I find it's rather like telling a story."

Mycroft expresses at last, his gaze somewhat pensive as he lifts his head to regard Mr Rodriguez once more. With the man's back still turned to him, he contents himself with merely considering the weight of his own words with regard to music reigning in this gang's nomadic home, before returning himself to his present occupation. Tired of his own indecision, he strides further out into the tranquil waters and twists his figure upon the point of his ankle, allowing himself to plunge back-first into the lake with a resounding splash. As though allowing the dark waters to close in over his face might somehow banish the demons alive in his head, beckoning and braying from the recesses of distant memory.

In time, he floats to the surface— gasping in air once more, and drinking in the star-smattered heavens above him. Spreading his arms out either side of himself to aid with his now rather aimless suspension in the water, Mycroft leverages his recent rejuvenation by permitting himself to simply feel connected to those who still alive.

"You tell everyone's stories but your own." Javier concludes as an addendum to his own private train of thought, heel propped up while distractedly lathering soap between his toes. He turns to look just in time to watch Mr Holmes, now barely dressed, waddle forth with determination and collapse, resigned, into the lake. Sheer curiosity holds his gaze, waiting for the other's body to surface, soft and glistening, his trousers soaked through and past the point of rescue. He had noticed the reaction Rayan's malicious joke, but could neither bring himself to apologise for his brother nor to feel any sort of empathy.

A body is a body. Mycroft's carried his comforts, pleasures, status, and served the life he led seemingly just fine. It was a body like any other, drawing only interest in the sense that its suppleness was unsighted in a home with eight children, nine with Thorne, and the three others that didn't make it. Every time their mother's belly grew swollen, they would make do with less, and less, biting at each other's ankles for the bigger piece, eventually turning to the streets. There is no place hunger won't take you.

Even as Mycroft finally opens his eyes, Javier does not pretend he isn't looking, a pang of envy catching him off-guard, so much he has to tear his eyes away and focus on the other foot, the other leg.

An observation that rises in him, amid a tint of dark humour, is that he's grateful enough just to have so far avoided the grim fate of the Donner Party— speaking of famed stories and tales associated with this region. Perhaps he is stirring up something close to an appetite, to be thinking about food all of a sudden. Even in the guide of the most grisly possible variety. Though more likely, it's simply his sense of smell picking up on the unmistakable aroma of gathered sage and rosemary nearby. Sure enough as they emerge into the clearing where it seems they are to camp for the night, his attention is drawn to roadside kitchen, more specifically the hung game and preparation knife glinting beneath the campfire's flare.

Mycroft abruptly diverts his attention towards the vibrant bloom of fresh vegetables from an open sack's rim, the bunches of herbs he'd gathered prior awareness for hanging from a strung rope suspended in front of their wagon's canvas; the group evidently both supply and provide for themselves well, he's heartened to learn. Foremost in his focus of observation however are the newest additions to their party— a young man of a hard and weathered appearance, and a native woman of practical disposition. Neither of them strike him as talkative given the limited greetings exchanged, perhaps each falling into the bracket shared by Mr Roi and Mr Burke.

He commits therefore to making himself useful where possible as a maintained priority. He downright flushes with barely concealed relief, indeed a true happiness, at being offered a tent to himself; a luxury, he quickly understands in turn. Thus does he move to assist the local women and the lesser known Rodriguez brother in first erecting the spare tent, then shedding the hat on his head and his coat before moving his belongings inside. Upon setting his suitcase and Gladstone near the entrance alongside his folded coat, he then extends his waxed canvas bedroll within the tent's interior and suitably deploying both his padded blanket and plump cushion. There. Just like home.

He pushes a melancholic smile into his softened features before resisting the urge to simply collapse then and there; he was both sore and filthy, and other needs very much had demands upon him.

Excusing himself briefly from the camp's vicinity to attend nature's call, he returns to the sight of his friend Mr Rodriguez armed with soap and towel, thusly headed towards the lake. The thought of following suit appeals to him greatly, and after mounting an initial hesitation borne from an instinctive shyness with strangers combined with rigid notions of propriety, Mycroft convinces himself he would rather be embarrassed and clean than composed and dirty. Hence does he return to his tent, removing and folding his oak-patterned waistcoat before retrieving his own soap, towel and comb, then following on the heels of his first friend from the train.

He deftly rounds Mr Burke's spot at the fire in his trajectory, narrowly avoiding bumping into Mr Astaire on his way back form a kitchen-originating theft; another flustered apology, before he makes a stop before the scarred youth apparently running said kitchen. He sees a place for himself, and risks the boldness of offering as much.

"If you require any additional help with the peeling and chopping, I shall return in ten minutes." He indicates the sack of vegetables with a curt nod and awkward smile, bundling himself off towards the lakeside before the cook can muster any potential offense for his overtures of assistance. Following the pebble strewn path down to the shimmering shoreline of Lake Tahoe, Mycroft subsequently draws himself just short of the water's tranquil edge, granting Mr Rodriguez a healthy stretch of space before landing his hands upon his own hips and admiring the view stretched out before him. A glorious sunset painted in floral hues of fuchsia cooling into ink-like indigo, the first glimmers of both Venus and Vega winking into existence— the water line extends for miles, like a vast clear canvas thrown across the basin.

A small, sudden splash nearby makes him jump: trout perhaps? It strikes him that earlier during the day, this would have made quite the wonderful fishing spot. Perhaps a boat, out upon the surface; enveloped in the broad embrace of inclining cliffs and towering pine. Mycroft breathes in, closes his eyes, then exhales loosely. A grounding, re-centering measure of peace. He doesn't speak at first, only risking brief eye contact and a resulting shy smile with Mr Rodriguez before focusing himself on his own hygiene. The pomade in his hair had slowly melted over the course of their sunlit ride even with the cover of that hat, inducing the deeply unpleasant sensation of particularly slick sweat oozing down his nape and creeping down his spine. Best wash it out entirely.

Down by the lake, Javier had set his belongings atop a smooth, rounded rock and begun stripping. The sound of approaching company would not have stopped him if he'd not turned to look – and then he hesitates, thumb hooked into his waistband, idly scratching the black scruff on his chest with the opposite hand. Politely, the Englishman leaves enough space between them to indicate he isn't trying to start a conversation, though he smiles a timid, benign smile, and Javier wonders if he always did that out of habit. Full of strange quirks, this one. He acknowledges Mycroft with a curt nod, and then swiftly decides to remove the rest of his clothes, kicking out shorts and scuffed jeans, roughly folding them, adding them to the pile.

He wades into the cool relief of the water with a grunt and a sigh, the rocky lakebed digging into his soles and unsteadying his gait until he's deep enough to half-dive, half-fall forward with a satisfying splash. He stays under for a while, where Thorne's racket won't reach him, because while he can appreciate a tune sometimes quietude is in short supply around here. He emerges in a burst, water up to his waist, sputtering and rubbing his palms over his face, smoothing back loose, droopy ringlets of hair. Nothing better to prevent soreness than a reinvigorating dip before bed.

After a brief moment contemplating the changing skies and the birds circling overhead, watching the flying trout and schools of silvery whitefish, he turns to start heading back to shore, back to his rock, though he is incapable of not stealing a curious peek at the other man mid-wash. Pun intended – this was the most hair down he'd seen him so far, and it strangely comforted him to know that he felt safe enough near him to share a small stretch of their lakeshore.

Though Mycroft's answer comes swiftly to his tongue, it arrives with the slightest tint of regret; as though fearful of disappointing his new friend with a lacking experience that did not align with an otherwise worldly image. He had not had the luxury of indulging in the Grand Tour through Europe as so many of his peers from Oxford had, and while secure in his more sedentary habits he was not yet immune to accusations of dispassion and sloth. Drawing breath into his chest, he sits a little more upright and offers his compensation by way of further topical suggestion.

"Though I have read more widely than I have travelled by foot. I venture I could answer questions concerning several nations that could not even be answered by those that dwell within them." Though the contents of Mycroft's claim would suggest a boast, his delivery in fact remains absolutely sincere. This was his pistol trick, the demonstration he could give to impress his company; or otherwise entertain them with displays of knowledge increasingly esoteric and bizarre. As Mr Astaire defers from expressing an opinion on what composition the gang's future might take, Mycroft begins to consider how he might best supplement their conversation accordingly.

Subsequently, after a few minutes of silence offering a natural stall in their conversation, he inclines himself almost playfully from the seat of his saddle— towards the fly-swatting outlaw riding next to him, looking for a way in which he could hook his curiosity. By way of example as to his earlier claim, Mycroft suggests that if his company was so interested he could name and chart all the rivers of China, recount the proud dynasties of ancient Ethiopia, or recite the fiscal particulars of Dutch tax law in Java. None of these suggestions are altogether serious for topics of conversation, more a gateway into a potential game to pass the time with.

So follows a tentative foray into this bank of knowledge, in which Mr Astaire and Mr Rodriguez each take turns asking him a random question concerning a location heard of in their world to which he then answers to the best of his ability. He becomes story teller in part, supplementing encyclopedic information with anecdotes and accounts penned by travellers and local citizens wherever possible. He speaks on the ocean of dunes comprising the Sahara traversed in turn by caravans of camels, the many-coloured reefs off the coast of Australia shimmering beneath the surface of crystalline waters, the majesty of bamboo-rigged ships sprung like poppies in the harbours of southern China.

At some point the game escalates into questioning him on the superlative location for some imagined category. The hottest desert? The richest city? Best tobacco? He furnishes each query with an answer to the best of his current knowledge, only having to stall when the other Rodriguez brother at last chimes in from further up the line, asking him which country has the most beautiful women. The boys partaking in this game with him seem to take humour in his ensuing struggle to formulate a response, as he's forced to sift through more lurid details of the reference material he had stashed in the various cabinets of his brain's vast library.

"Brazil." Mycroft suddenly concludes with confidence. "The women there have been regularly noted for their most flattering complexion, luscious locks of hair and altogether radiant disposition."

A beat.

"There is also much written of their legs." His courage in relaying this information is rewarded with an appreciative whistle from the other Rodriguez, as well as a round of rollicking laughter from most of the other men in turn. Mycroft's cheeks warm regardless and he finds himself content enough to at last return to a lower profile of presence, sufficiently distracted from less rewarding ventures in mental exercise— such as imagining all the possible ways in which this unexpected detour to his journey might end for him.

Time passes regardless, and the sun soon threatens to dip beyond the tree-lined horizon. His thighs have grown terribly sore from the long ride thus far, each break taken having seemed mercilessly short to his sensibilities; their pace had felt relentless even as he could rationally see that it had ultimately been fair to the beasts, steady for the group in turn. The upside to this continuous pressure was that while his appetite had remained elusive beyond a brief craving for dried apricot, he had felt the threat of thirst soon after their departure and had been partaking regularly from a water skin since.

However, since Mycroft had read so extensively about the topography of China, then surely he could tell them about this Great Wall they've heard of. Over the course of the following hours, they learn about the breathtaking natural wonders of the Earth and the feats of humankind on it. From vast glaciers to underwater mazes, inhospitable deserts, impenetrable jungles with strange, majestic creatures, to modern inventions sweeping Europe and varied customs. With childlike impetus and curiosity they drill the Englishman with questions, some of them borderline absurd, all the while Wallace watches with a small, concealed smile, and even Dahlia and Jhin occasionally glance their way.

Only a matter of time before one of them wanted to know about the women, and the answer does not disappoint. Their neighbours to the south, of whom they'd met a handful over the years, and been able to conclude from personal experience that Mr Holmes spoke the indisputable truth. Thorne feels tempted to add that the men would claim the same podium, but abstains.

They arrive at camp just as the sun finishes setting, the sky splattered in powder purple and magenta, the temperature steadily cooling. Near the east rocky banks of Lake Tahoe, upon a clearing patchy with dry grass, their makeshift homestead for the week rises in a semi-circle of modest tents around a campfire. At least two more horses and two mules join a couple of workers to complete their travelling family, and off to the side there is a supply wagon-turned-kitchen, from which a selection of game hangs, the first promise of a feast. Jason placidly watches their arrival while rhythmically sharpening a cleaver, his head dipping in deference when Dahlia greets him, while Elena abandons the chopping of firewood to come help with the horses.

"We will have a guest for a couple of days. Please see that Mr Holmes has the extra tarp to himself." Dahlia requests as soon as her wobbly feet hit solid ground, Elena somehow beating Jhin to the task of helping her climb down from Nessie. No doubt they were all sore and in dire need of rest, a wash, and a meal, but there was much to be prepared still. She had no intention of disrupting their already delicate tent distribution – ladies naturally sharing a space, then the brothers, Jhin and Thorne, and lastly Wallace and their youngest – and she was sure Mycroft would favour a bit of privacy instead of being crammed in as a third.

The horses are promptly split between two rudimentary paddocks, luggage and tack removed, then brushed, led to water and hay. Wallace goes through the task of checking their shoes and picking them for any packed dirt and rocks, while Rayan volunteers to help Elena with the spare tent and Mr Holmes' belongings, which he may or may not use to opportunistically flex his brawn even after a long trek. The inexhaustible vigour of horny youth, blind to the total lack of interest from another.