Crushed By Wrecker’s Pecs

Blood graces the tips of your fingers.

A few fresh drops form hairline rivers, the rest is darkly dried and flaking, drifting to find a home on the back of your hand. Simon’s face is the worst of it. Bruising mars his upper jaw near the lobe of his ear. A large, stitched gash stands stark against his skin above his right brow, the edges of the wound inflamed and puffy from the needlework and initial blow.

“This will need ice.” Your thumb grazes over the mark. “The area is swelling.” Dropping your hand, you reach for the damp towel, removing the blood from your fingers. The fresh stuff wipes clean. The dry bits stick, forcing you to scrub. “What the hell hit you?”

“A food tray,” answers Simon, monotone.

“A food tray?” you repeat, disbelieving.

“Made of hard plastic.” Simon shrugs. “Cleans easy. Won’t break if used as a weapon.”

“Unbelievable,” you huff, checking under your nails.

Simon rolls his neck with an audible pop. “Had worse injuries.”

Perched on the edge of the coffee table in the living room, you stare dumbly at your husband. Simon sits on the floor, leaning against the edge of the couch. One leg bent, the other outstretched. A first aid kit lays open beside you, the contents spread out on the table.

Grasping Simon’s chin, you guide his face to the right. “I know.” The bruising will only deepen with time. “Still need to take care of it.” A bit of gauze and antiseptic will clean the area. “Should have this done at the hospital.”

As you add pressure to the afflicted spot, Simon inhales sharply. “I like your hands better.”

You snort, dabbing at the wound. “My hands aren’t meant for this.”

“Not meant for taking care of me?”

You drop your hand quickly. “This isn’t funny.”

Simon grasps your wrist, bringing your fingers back to his face. Palm upward, Simon rests his cheek against it, eyelids closing as he inhales deeply. “Didn’t say it was.” Those gorgeous brown eyes reappear, striking and sharp. “Should see Fields. That man needs the hospital.”

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, not drawing your hand away. It’s warm where his cheek rests, radiating into your arm. As strong as Simon is, this is the most vulnerable you’ve seen him, seeking comfort with a gentle touch.

“Don’t regret what I did,” he says, firmly. “Do it again given the chance.”

“Simon,” you sigh. “Are you not worried? About what will happen to you?”

His voice is firm. Nonnegotiable. “Nothing will happen.”

The finality in his voice gives you pause. You’re not ignorant of the roles and rules of a military force. Regardless of who, to strike another soldier, to strike one of your own, results in punishment.

“Nothing?” you exhale, wanting nothing more than to roll your eyes but thinking better of it. “They punish soldiers all the time for this. What makes you any different?”

Simon slowly draws your hand away from his cheek. Clutching your hand in his, he brings it down to his lap. “Captain Price decides what happens to us.”

“I doubt that very much.”

His hand squeezes, drawing you closer. “I’m not some grunt, dove.”

That you know. You’ve been victim to it firsthand. “Real convenient then. Sounds like you can do whatever you want.” You don’t mean to sound as snarky as you do. Frustration, and concern for Simon’s injuries, outweigh your neural processing.

Simon leans in, shortening the small sliver of distance between you. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”

Not a lecture, even if it feels like one. The delivery is gentle, like a brush of wind against the cheek.

“I know you nearly beat a man to death.” Try as you might, your voice cracks. The emotion isn’t for Fields, it’s for everything else, and how scared you were.

“Fields deserved it. Plenty of witnesses heard him. What he said. I had every right to do what I did to him.”

You shake your head. “I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he says, as if that makes it better.

Yanking your hand out of Simon’s grasp, you bolt up from the table, stepping over him. “You let yourself get carried away.”

Placing his hand on the sofa behind him, Simon pushes himself to standing. “I’ve killed enough men to know when they can’t take another hit. Fields had plenty left in him.”

That’s not the point. It was never the point.

Inside your chest is a twisted nest of vines, shredding your heart and ribcage, caving it in.

“You worried me.” You turn on him, voice rising slightly. “Receiving a call like that? I dropped everything and went to the hospital looking for you.” Your chest heaves, adrenaline spiking. “Jesus, Simon. Thought you were seriously injured.”

“Dove—”

“And then you weren’t at the hospital,” you continue right over him. “No one could tell me where you were. And I didn’t even find you. You just,” you gesture vaguely into the air, “appeared. After I searched everywhere you could possibly be.”

Simon’s shoulders soften, gentleness easing in. Rage would be preferable. Have a screaming match and fuck each other afterward.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmur, all the energy deflating like a slashed tire.

A slow saunter and he’s right there, on you, resting his hands on your hips, squeezing, drawing you in until you’re pressed against him. Simon’s arms slide up, and you melt, wrapping your arms around his middle as Simon encircles your shoulders.

“Don’t make me worry,” you say into his chest, eyes watery.

Simon kisses the crown of your head. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You still haven’t said what will happen to you.”

“Already told you,” he chuckles, “nothing.”

Leaning your head back, you stare into his face, searching for a hint of a lie. “That’s impossible.”

Simon releases your shoulders, cradling your face with both hands. “Not repeating what Fields said. But he said it loudly. Enough for everyone to hear. Left too many witnesses. Can’t defend himself.”

“What did he say?”

A pause blooms, and a muscle in Simon’s face twitches. Whatever Fields said, Simon is still angry over it.

“He said things about you. What he’d do to you if you were his. Couldn’t let that stand.”

Simon doesn’t just swing on anyone. His dislike for the Fields is thick like cooling tar, but Simon has never struck out at the man with his fists. What the fuck did Fields say about you? Enough for Simon to nearly beat him to death?

“I still don’t see how you won’t face consequences.”

Dipping his head, Simon comes in for a kiss. It’s slow and soft, more tender than he’s ever been.

“Price will drill me about it. Assign me grunt work for show. Keep me out of sight until we leave. But it’s Fields that’ll face a harsher consequence. To publicly say what he did, loud enough for me and everyone else to hear, that’s seen as disloyalty, and provoking conflict.” Simon rests his lips against your forehead before continuing. “He also has a record. It’s an embarrassment to Graves. He’ll want it swept under the rug and forgotten.”

You snuggle closer. “That’s not comforting.”

Simon seeks a few more kisses. These are deeper than the last and just as sweet.

“I was defending you. That’s how it’ll be seen. If Graves demanded punishment for bloodying one of his men, everyone would question his leadership. A drunken scuffle is one thing, but to not punish the soldier that talked about assaulting another’s wife?”

You jerk backward. “He said what?” Simon exhales through his nose. “That is not what you said a minute ago.”

“See why I couldn’t let it stand? Man deserved it.”

Burying your face in Simon’s chest, you breathe deep, lingering in his scent, filling your lungs with him. As much as you’re frustrated, having Simon here, holding you, is calming.

“I’m just happy you’re okay,” you whisper.

“I’m fine, dove. Promise.”

Tucking you against his chest, Simon sways, rubbing your back. Closing your eyes, you settle into him, silently counting your inhalations and exhalations, finding a place of calm, or a semblance of the concept.

“Still upset with me?” asks Simon.

“Only a little.”

“A little?”

You hold up one hand, bringing your thumb and forefinger close together but not touching. “Little bit.”

“Little bit,” repeats Simon, playfully kissing your fingers.

Laughing, you pull away, slipping out of his arms. Simon allows you to take a few steps before he’s on you again, grabbing, diving in for more kisses as you attempt to flee. This is a different side to Simon, a playfulness you didn’t think he possessed. Of all the times you’ve seen him smile, it’s never been with his whole mouth or even his teeth.

But this man is enraptured with you. Completely happy. It is soft and sweet and perfect enough to bottle. Let it be your perfume, or the honey in your tea.

“Simon,” you chastise, slapping at his hand. “Enough. You’re hurt.”

“Just my face,” he replies, a flirty drawl creeping in. “Not my dick.”

You burst out laughing, unable to contain yourself. Simon chases, herding you to the bedroom, dispelling you of clothes until you’re completely bare for him. Simon’s demeanor shifts from teasing to seductive, cradling your face in his hands, kissing you with a ferociousness that steals your breath.

“Want my mouth on your cunt.” Simon’s words are blunt. “Need your taste on my tongue. Need to hear you scream my name.”

A twinge seizes your thighs, pussy clenching like he’s inside you.

“Can I do what I want?” he asks, hushed.

Simon has controlled this entire relationship, but he’s seeking permission this time, laying it before you to take or reject. He’s asked you what you’ve wanted before, yet this is different, a desperateness that lingers beneath the surface.

The fight. The looming deployment. The idea of the two of you being separated for a month or more.

“Have your way with me,” and your voice is a whimper.

Simon seizes your mouth again, consuming until you’re clawing at him, needing to be within and without. His mouth descends, finding jaw and throat, shoulder and breast, stomach and thigh. Burying his face between your legs, he inhales, his hands supporting your ass as you fist his hair.

One minute you’re standing, and the next you’re on your back, the bed sinking beneath your weight. Simon is precise, turning you onto hands and knees, forcing your ass up and your legs wide.

You choke on your next inhalation as Simon tongues your pussy, using the tip of his tongue to trace lines that may very well be his name. A branding all its own.

“Fucking love your taste, dove,” groans Simon. He draws back, inserts a finger. It slides in easily. “And how your body takes me.”

A few strokes and then it’s gone, replaced with his tongue. You fist the bedding beneath you, squirming as Simon switches between fingering and tasting, coaxing your orgasm to the surface.

“Don’t fight it,” he says. “Don’t fight.”

Simon brings both into play, forcing the orgasm out. It’s harsh. Searing. You burst into a brief sob in the unrelenting pressure. Ceaseless, Simon continues to fuck you with his fingers, running his tongue over and around, sucking on your clit.

Another. Another.

The withdrawal is sudden. Suddenly full, then empty. Cool air and nothing, lasting but a moment. Lifting, pressed up against him, Simon slides his cock between your thighs, rocking back and forth in an easy motion. Not inside you, simply grinding, keeping you still as he coats himself in your slickness.

An urge crawls forth, of wanting to sink to your knees, to take him into your mouth, have him spill down your throat.

“Simon,” you gasp. “I want—”

Your words are stolen as Simon’s fingers slide into your mouth. His arms around you tighten, keep you aloft and on your knees at the edge of the bed, your legs pointed outward as he stands between them.

“You can suck my cock later,” he growls, knowing exactly what you desired.

His hips draw back, and the head of his cock finds its home. It’s a slow ease as he feeds you his dick, bringing more of him inside until there’s no more space between your bodies. Simon bites down on your neck, not hard enough to break skin, but the area will be tender. Might even leave little indents from his teeth.

Another slow move as he withdraws, leaving just the tip. Simon stays like that, the two of you simply breathing. His teeth are still on your skin, still pressing, causing a twinge of pain. A release, and an absence of teeth, followed by lips.

“Hold still, dove,” he murmurs.

Simon thrusts. It’s all fast, all rough, all primal need. You’re caged against him, the little sounds you make muffled by his fingers. Whatever this is, Simon needs it, desperately. To claim you, perhaps, to make them understand you’re his, even if no one is watching.

Your head falls back, resting against the top of his shoulder. There is no place for you to go to, no way to escape, not that you want to. His strokes are rough and deep, the penetration alone hitting somewhere that sparks with intensity, increasing with his thrusts.

Muscles relaxing, you remain weightless, eyelids fluttering as another orgasm rolls in, this one less intense but just as venomous. Behind you, Simon is all feral grunts and groans. It’s right in your ear, puffs of air that brush over your earlobe and across your skin.

All you can smell is sex and sweat. It mixes with your pathetic moans and Simon’s animalistic noises, and the slap of skin. Your thighs are wet and sticky, growing drenched by the second, likely to leave a small pool on the bed.

With a grunt, Simon’s arms shift. His fingers retreat and you gasp for air. The arms holding you grab your own, seizing your upper arms, drawing them back. Your top half is bent slightly, hanging over the bed. And Simon is still fucking you, rough and wanton.

He doesn’t cease, even when he fills your pussy with his cum. Your husband fucks it into you, only stopping to bring your bodies together, holding his dick inside you. The air is thick with breathing and sticky bodies.

Simon’s arms become a cradle, guiding you both down to the bed. Draping himself over you, still nestled in your cunt, he begins again.

“I’m out.”

Your stomach flips, threatening to spill your breakfast onto your feet. “I thought there was one left. What happened to it?”

Hannah frowns. “Didn’t you use it?”

You try to think, to roll back in time and recall when, or if, you used the last emergency contraceptive. The fact that they can make it at all is an accomplishment, which is why they’re rare and only ever given to women who have a history of complications or the potential for a difficult pregnancy. Hannah managed to snag what she could but that doesn’t mean the supply is endless. There are thousands of others that might need it.

“Maybe I did,” you laugh awkwardly, brushing it aside, even though the room is fucking tilting. “Can’t remember.”

Hannah quirks an eyebrow. “I can get you condoms. There are lots of those. Plenty to supply. They’re easier and cheaper to make.”

Simon might be hurt if you brought them home. He understands your reasons for wanting to delay, but he desires to be a father. He’d listen to you now, hear you out, even talk about it, but it would still cut.

“I’ll take a few,” you smile, accepting the box from Hannah. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Not like it’ll help now.

How many times did you and Simon fuck last night? You won’t even count this morning in bed, in the shower, and then in the kitchen because you’d need more fingers. Even now, as you stand here, you feel his cum leaking out of you to dampen your underwear. If you didn’t have that it would be all over your thighs.

Eloise bursts through the door, her hair windswept, arms full. She drops the mess onto her desk, muttering under her breath in French.

“No cart?” asks Hannah.

“No,” Elose emphasizes, digging through the loose papers like she’s desperately searching for something. “The bastards.”

As she digs, she sorts. Pushing her hair out of her face, Eloise holds out a small stack of envelopes to you. “Yours,” she says, clipped.

Rushing over, you take them before she can throw them at you. Not that you think she would, but Eloise appears irritated enough to do anything.

“Thank you,” you say brightly. The fakeness hurts.

Eloise is still muttering to herself as Hannah tries to calm her when you plop down into your office chair, staring down at the small letter from the family planner you haven’t seen since you first signed your marriage contract.

If you weren’t at work, you’d fucking scream, rip the letter apart into thousands of little pieces. Doubtful they’d send a letter to Simon. He’s not the one with a womb.

“Everything okay?”

Your head snaps up into Hannah’s concerned face.

“Course. Yeah,” you lie, folding up the piece of paper with the appointment time and sticking it into your bag.

The clock on the wall is two hours off.

You consider saying something, then think better of it. Claire’s face is serious despite her smile; her clothes ironed to smooth perfection. There isn’t even a single hair out of place.

“This is just a follow up,” she says, hands clasped and resting on top of her desk. “To check on our progress.”

Simon remains impassive, a solid wall. “Progress?”

To her credit, Claire’s smile doesn’t waiver. “On a baby.” Her tone gives her away, because why else would they be there?

That is Claire’s purpose. She’s not for the singles but the newlyweds, to play up all the joys and benefits of pregnancy. Contribute to the population, and all will be well. The first Pillar is the most important. Scratching the woman’s eyes out isn’t an option, so you settle with silence. Your opinion is not wanted, and Simon has enough presence for both of you.

“Already?” he questions. “Last we spoke, we discussed my job. Trying for a baby while I’m expected to be gone isn’t ideal. And it’s not good for her. I should be here.”

Claire sighs like she’s about to correct a child who confidently rattled off an answer. “Yes. I agree with you. It is important you’re here. But you don’t need to be here while she’s pregnant.” She smooths her hands over the wood, clasping them again.

“I’m right here,” you retort, because why won’t Claire look at you? Why is she only addressing Simon? “And I’d like my husband present.”

Claire’s gaze shifts to you and then reverts to Simon. “I’ve already spoken to a few of your superiors—”

“You spoke with Price?”

Claire cocks her head. “Who?” She quickly waves away the question. “No. It doesn’t matter. From what I can gather, you’ll only be gone, at max, two months.” She turns, finally addressing you. “You really won’t be showing then, and something might happen.”

You swallow, your tongue growing dry. “Like a miscarriage.”

Claire nods. “Exactly.” She turns to Simon. “There’s no reason for you to worry over that. Your wife is in good hands here. She’ll be looked after. Cared for.”

“That may be true, but I’d rather be here. Especially if she were to miscarry. A husband shouldn’t be away if that happens.”

Simon is without the balaclava, but you sense the Ghost you meet all those months ago. There is a dangerousness lurking under his skin, awaiting the trigger to burst forth and devour.

Claire is still dismissive. “Even so, there have been changes. The counsel overseeing the first Pillar are concerned about numbers. We sustained significant loses over the tragic fighting that happened at one of the Safe Zones.”

The same Zone Simon is leaving for in less than a week.

“They’ve raised the goal birth count to counteract the loss. I’m afraid I must insist on this. You’re also a new couple, without children. Eyes are on individuals like you.”

Without thinking, you reach out and place your hand on Simon’s thigh. He glances down and then covers your hand with his own.

“But he’s leaving,” you say. “You can’t expect this of us now.”

Claire’s expression is unmoving. This is not an argument. It’s an order. Not from her, but from people far above them. People at the top. People who have a say on what happens. The old fear, the one you thought you unburdened yourself with, seeps in, taking root in the folds of your brain. Choice is what you want, even veiled, even fake, you’ll take it. This is not choice. Funny to think you could circumvent the inevitable.

“As I said,” she sighs. “There have been some changes. For couples like yourselves,” and she opens her hands wide, “we’ll be closely monitoring your progress.”

Simon snorts, showing more emotion than he has this entire meeting. “By giving us a tracker? Keeping tabs on creampies?”

Claire’s left eyelid spasms. “Not in such crass terms. But yes. In a sense.”

“I’m not comfortable with it,” you state, loudly and with conviction. “Sex is private. That should stay between Simon and I.”

“We have no intention of being present for it. Whatever you do on your own time is between you two. But twice a week, starting today, and then resuming when Lieutenant Riley returns, you’ll come here. There are private rooms where you’ll copulate, and a doctor will discreetly confirm that Lieutenant Riley’s sperm—”

“No.”

Simon’s voice cuts through the air. It is cold, tinged with anger. Ghost is back, ready to emerge, to show fang and claw.

“I’m sorry?” coughs Claire, clearly startled.

Simon delivers each word slowly. “You heard me. No.”

Mouth open like a dead fish, Claire blinks rapidly. Always the professional but even she has her limits. “This isn’t negotiable.”

“I don’t care,” and Simon’s voice remains lethal. “Not happening.”

“We could track at home,” you offer. The safest route is compromise, and tracking at home means things can be faked.

Claire makes a sound of disgust. “I’m sorry but it’s out of the question. This is from top. There are no allowances.”

Simon stands abruptly. “We’re leaving.”

Claire rises, too. “Lieutenant Riley.”

“Piss off,” he snaps, and Claire’s face goes beet red. Reaching for your arm, you allow Simon to guide you out of the chair, and away from this mess.

“You can’t say that to her,” you say to Simon as you exit Claire’s office. “No matter how angry you are.”

“I did,” he growls. “Deserved it, too.”

You walk together, hand in hand, your mind spiraling. There’s no way the woman is serious, but why does she have any reason to lie. Family planners spin the truth all the time, but Claire was upfront about this. Confident, if you had to put a word to it.

“Simon.”

A grunt.

“Simon,” you hiss. “You’re squeezing too hard.”

His grip eases. “Sorry, dove.”

With your free hand, you gently grasp his bicep, squeezing with soft reassurance. “You’re angry.”

“How’d you guess?”

Before Simon can open the front door to the building, you come to a halt, stepping to the side. “Hey,” you murmur, tugging him along. “Listen to me.” He goes to you without hesitation, and you draw him close, placing one hand over his heart. “It’s fine. Okay? Everything is going to be fine.”

Simon’s knuckles brush against your cheekbone. “I promised you a year. Not walking back on that promise.”

“No. I know. I believe you.”

There had been little struggle when you had squirmed out of your mother’s grip and darted from the entrance of your kelku. At only 7 years old, you already knew where your priorities had laid and who you wanted to spend most of your time with.

It’s why you had gotten up so quickly in the morning, rushing through your chores and escaping your sa’nok before she could settle you down for her lesson.

In your haste to get to the Sully’s kelku, you had been weaving in and out of the crowds of Omatikaya faster than anticipated. You had come to a cross path in the village and had run smack into the legs of one of the returning scouts and hunters. The tall imposing Na’vi appeared silently on the path, so quickly you had no time to stop before you collided.

As you stumbled backwards you had fallen upon your backside, smacking both elbows upon the ground which had left stunned and temporarily frozen in place. Left staring up at a scout with eyes wide. These scouts and hunters, the ones who had gone out of the village for weeks at a time, navigating their tasks as a small and elite unit of Na’vi were almost legendary.

You had heard of them and their reputations through whispers of hunters to be—detailing how they wanted to be like them, to be among the few with necessary skills to be a scout.

They had learned to move through the trees without making a sound, to fly in such synchronization with their ikran’s that there was no end or beginning from ride to banshee. While you were laying awkward on the ground after running into his legs, the Na’vi turned his head and looked over his left shoulder.

He gazed down at you with a subtle twitch in the corner of his lips, an action that could have led to a smile, but it never rose.

“Nìtxan yawne lu, ma evi.” He had spoken with a smooth and measured voice, another practiced quirk that he had learned as a scout—to keep his voice as controlled as his feet were with every step he had taken.

It was yet another skill that made these Na’vi so deadly and impressive, heralding abilities that went beyond those required of regular warriors in your clan.

Watch where you are going girl – that is all he had spoken to you before he turned fluidly, moving like the leaves of a tree flowing naturally with the wind.

You observed, still astonished, as he moved with such natural precision toward the clan’s cooking stations to deposit the animal. He had crouched to the ground and slid the hexapede off his shoulder, lowering it to the ground by the preparation mat.

The women and men that were responsible for creating the communal feasts had descended upon the animal, thanking the scout for his contribution.

You are surveying intently as the knives make a precise slice in the animal before the hide is just as carefully started to be separated from the meat. You knew that the hide would be stripped off the carcass and would then end up with Na’vi like your mother, who would clean and tan the hide for use elsewhere.

You watch them working with the animal with intrigue and fascination, you had never seen anyone in the clan actually process an animal before.

Usually all you would see is the still fresh hide that would need to be prepared by people like your mother, and you would often help her go by grabbing her the specific knives she had used to scrape the hide, and then the herbs she used to tan it.

You watch the preparation for so long, you miss seeing the scout disappearing from the area without making a sound. That, just as before, stuns you until a familiar flash of blonde in the corner of your eyes has you focusing again.

“Skxawng! What are you doing?” Spider calls for you while he rests his hands on your blue striped arm and shakes you back to focus.

You shake your head and look at the human boy who, just like you, would rather spend his time with the Sully’s as opposed to the laboratory with the scientists. There is a familiarity between you and Spider that flourishes with the shared desire to be around the young Na’vi’s that you have crushes on.

For Spider it is Kiri; for you it is Neteyam. The two of you, with your childhood crushes, have more in common with each other than you had originally thought when Neteyam and Lo’ak introduced you to the human boy.

You know that some do not like the Sky-Person hanging around the village because he is not one of you, but his insistence of being around makes sense. He is a boy and there are very few children his age around here—at least those who are human like him.

“Skxawng! Hurry up!” Spider is calling back for you while you remain on the floor, his voice being the final push for you to rise to your feet.

You scramble forward and begin your tact of weaving in and out of the crowds of Na’vi to chase after him, following the flow of blonde dreadlocks that whip behind him. When you finally catch up to Spider you skid, successfully, to a stop outside the Sully’s kelku and raise your hand to push the privacy curtain back.

Once it is shifted and moved, you have a clear view into the Sully home and the natural rhythm of their family that you love to be apart of.

Jake, Toruk Makto and the Olo’eyktan, is by the rack of his and Neytiri’s weapons, taking account of what needs to be fixed and what is ready for hunting. You can see him standing proud and tall by the weapons with dreadlocks, that Spider admired enough to copy, gathered together in a single tie.

His hair hangs down his back, the very ends of which are only a few inches above his tail and are embellished with beads created by his mate and children.

Neytiri is sitting by the fire creating little clothes for their baby-to-be, a girl that they say will be named Tuktirey. You can see her resting upon her knees, with her baby belly protruding and getting rounder as she grows closer to the day of her birth.

She is wearing one of the shawls you have seen Mo’at wearing a time or two, and you know it bring Neytiri comfort because it smells like her mother, the tsahik.

Kiri and Lo’ak are both sitting on their hammocks looking bored but as you and Spider arrive, the two have very different reactions to you arriving. While Kiri’s face lights up at the sight of her “monkey boy” showing up, Lo’ak’s expression is one of relief. Boredom does not suit Lo’ak well, and it shows.

“Kaltxì!” You greet the family with a beaming smile, your voice and expression rooted in your excitement to see them all, but specifically to see Neteyam.

“Kaltxì, ma uksyìp.” Jake turns away from the weapons rack, greeting you with a hello and his usual nickname for you. By calling you “little shadow”, he is both teasing you about your fascination and crush with his eldest son.

You were a common presence here in the Sully family home, often arriving early in the morning and not leaving until it was almost eclipse. Sometimes you would arrive with some kind of gift, whether that was fruit or pieces of meat you had snuck from the communal kitchen.

And other times you would show upon with scraps of nature that you found along your hours spent in the forest when you weren’t here.

Jake and Neytiri teased you by claiming that you were practising for when it came time for you to court Neteyam when you were ready. Usually, those little quips and teases would have Neteyam’s cheeks flushing and his squeaky protest that you were not courting because you were too young.

“Mìpey lu Neteyam?” You ask the question that lingers on your mind when you don’t see the eldest of the Sully family around, hoping that he would be back soon.

“Po lu hu tsahik.” Neytiri answers with a softness that you know is delivered as a measurable way to soften the disappointment that falls upon your small shoulders.

“Oh.” You make the sound and your lips are drawn into a small frown as your hairless eyebrows furrow. The news makes your shoulder droop and your staggering excitement begins to falter, slowly being replaced by disappointment that feels far too raw.

“Nga tsun fìtsenge sìyawn txo nga zene.” Neytiri speaks again and offers you a place beside her, extending the invitation to stay regardless of Neteyam being gone to see his grandmother.

There is a moment of hesitation as you turn your head and look out toward the exit of their family home, and a debate begins in your mind. Whether you take the invitation to stay here with the Sully’s is being debated internally with the possibility of going to find Neteyam.

 Ultimately you decide to take the invitation and skip forward to come and sit by Neytiri’s side, wherein you reach for pieces of hide that you know your mother and you had worked on.

As you lay it against your lap and run a hand along the smooth tanned hide, you naturally lift your head and look for the boy whose presence you are missing.

“Aynga lu lekye'ung srak?” The accusation rises in the council room that is emptied aside from yourself and the Olo’eyktan, temporary as it is. You know that by asking Tarsem if he is out of his mind you are igniting a spark of disrespect however you also know that Tarsem understands the complicated nature of what he is asking.

Tarsem is sitting upon the floor instead of the throne that he is rightfully given as the leader of the clan. He is sitting with a chubby faced baby between his legs, chin shiny from the slobber that runs down the curve of her lips while one fist is shoved into her mouth to gnaw on.

You know that the little one is teething, and you know that she is hopelessly attached to her daddy, enough that Tarsem often has to bring her with him to the council room instead of leaving her with her sa’nok.

When you accuse him of being out of his mind, he raises his head and looks at you with the expression that is conducive of wanting to tease you and be empathetic with you.

He knows that you and Neteyam were incredibly close when you were growing up and he understands that there was a falling out when you had turned 14. That was the time when you had passed your iknimaya and had been chosen for one of the coveted spots of a scout.

That decision to choose to become an apprentice of the many great scouts had taken you away from the village for weeks at a time, another factor that had widened the growing cavern between you and the eldest Sully son.

Though not many had known why you had decided to pull away from Neteyam, it was obvious that something had happened. The little shadow that had used to be thick as thieves with Neteyam, had become less of a constant figure.

Although hadn’t stopped being friends with Lo’ak, Kiri or Tuk, things had inherently been more tense with Neteyam.

It was only after the Sully’s had left for Awa’atlu that you had told Tarsem the truth. And Tarsem had likewise informed you that Neteyam had confided in himself and Jake, before the Sully’s left, that he missed you, that he didn’t understand why you were distancing yourself. It was complicated and it wasn’t an easy of a fix as Tarsem would have believed.

You do not get over the boy you were in love with calling you “annoying” and claiming that he would “rather drink acid than court you”. There was no feasible way for you to forget the blatant purpose and truth in Neteyam’s voice as he insulted you in front of the older hunters who had teased him about you being his lover.

“There are other scouts—”

“—they are busy scouting the RDA’s movement on the edge of our territory. And you are the best.” Tarsem offers you a compliment as he negates the one defence you try to make, that he should send someone else.

And by sliding a compliment into his roundabout way of giving you an order as the Olo’eyktan, he is trying to smooth you over; butter you up to accept the order you had been given.

As if you would go against the Olo’eyktan who was giving you a task that you have completed willingly any other time. It was only because it now involved the Sully’s that you had been so hesitant, not necessarily unwilling but certainly questioning whether no one else could do this.

However, if your Olo’eyktan had insisted, you knew you would comply even if you would rather slam your own hand in a weaving loom.

“Scout ahead and make sure the approach back to the clan is clear” a directive for a Na’vi like you who had been trained for more than 4 years to move silently in the shadows.

Since you were 14 years old you had been an apprentice to the kinds of Na’vi that you had witnessed when you were 7, the Omatikaya who had moved in such intense silence that you wondered if his feet had even touched ground.

That was the calculated silence that you had learned through many trials and errors of your early training days. Weeks after you had completed your iknimaya at 14, you had gone into training to become a scout, and you had to essentially relearn all your skills with the directive to be inconceivably silent.

Move in the shadows without being seen, learning to track without disturbing the nature around you, hunting with bow and arrows without the sharp twang of the string as it was pulled.

You had the skills to pass your iknimaya but becoming one of the deadly silent scouts that amazed you when you were only 7 took more focus and concentration than you had used when you were earning your place among the clan.

Although it was the hardest task you had ever set out to complete, in the end it had been worth it. You had become an incredibly astute and capable scout who moved like a phantom across the forest floor, proficient in slipping in and out of RDA bases and facilities without a trace.

Your desperation to escape continuous training alongside Neteyam after he had broken your heart had given you the motivation, the drive to pursue the elitism of being an emissary. For weeks on end you would leave the village with the group of hunters you would be training under and learn to live within the forest; the safety of the village was long behind you.

Out in the density of the forest the Omatikaya had called home, you were instructed to be as indistinguishable from the forest as the flora and fauna.

Scout ahead – make the pathway clear – escort them home

It is the conversation you had with Tarsem before you had visited the tsahik, that echoes in your mind. Repetitive as the insctructions your Olo’eyktan had been to be the guide that would assist the Sully’s in returning to the forests most of them were born in.

It was this designative task that had you packing supplies in the event that you had to be grounded if there was an attack from the RDA. The words that act as a melodious song akin to something some in the clan would sing as they reminisce on their songcords.

Words, directions, instructions for this act of welcoming the Sully’s home to the clan they had left behind. You are a phantom figure, you and your ikran move as one in a flight that is both attentive to the world around you, and freeing in the moments before you would see them.

You depart from Hometree and fly over the floating mountains, connected to each other by thick vines that you had ran across. The memory of a younger you chasing after Neteyam, Lo’ak, Kiri and Spider is an unsettling stone that weighs down your heart and your stomach.

Everywhere you see them; him.

Every where you look there are stilled images that flash in your mind and dissipate as a fog slipping through your fingers. You had wholly settled yourself with the falsified hope that you would never have to see him again, you know that was never a valid reality.

Neytiri would never have stayed away from her forest forever, neither would her children, they would always want to be drawn back here.

However, you had aligned yourself with a vapid likelihood that he would stay in Awa’atlu amongst the reef people and you would not have to see the boy who called you annoying; who suggested at 14 years old, that he would rather drink acid than be your mate.

You could have lived a happy life without seeing the boy who had taken your acts of friendship, a childhood crush that turned to the beginning roots of real love and turned it into something ugly.

Neteyam had taken the openness of your heart and crushed it beneath his fingers while being entirely unaware that you had heard him. He had believed that you were avoiding him for some other reason, he had anticipated that your cold shoulder must have had to do with him passing his iknimaya before you—as if that was enough for you to treat him so indifferently.

After you had heard the words spewed from his mouth to impress older hunters, you had retained your friendship with Lo’ak, Kiri, Spider and Tuk without any change of personality. You were still the warm person you had been when you hadn’t experienced heartbreak but not to Neteyam—neteyam had the pleasure of receiving your neutrality.

You treated him like you would have any other member of the clan that you did not feel particularly close to; with respect that was pinched.

Your ikran reminds you to focus when your mind had strayed and your emotions begin to bleed through your connected kuru’s. Regardless of having the astute ability and training to scour the skies and the mountains below you while you fly, you are distracted enough that your ikran needs to recenter your focus.

It is with a soft hiss that your ikran makes your attention and emotions shift back to where they should be. Your mind needs to be sharp, and your emotions will alter your ikran’s ability to fly if they become too poignant.

You thank you ikran for the reminder by leaning forward and brushing your hand down it’s neck, a subtle and quick pet before it begins to shoot upward vertically. This is a tactic you are used to using when you are scouting, in order for you to get a greater look at what you are potentially flying into, you will rise higher in the sky.

As you reach the desires height, your ikran gracefully spins into a barrel roll as a measure of amusement and to break the clouds that are between you and a clear view.

As you come up on the other side, you lean to the left and glance at the area below you, forming a mental marker of where you are above the hallelujah mountains and where you expect to see them.

It does not take more than five minutes before you hear and see the first of the mountain banshee’s that are familiar to you. The first shrieks rise like a siren against the mostly clear sky rendering itself as an announcement that the ikran’s remember where they had come from.

Jake is in front, leading his family like he always has. His ikran, Bob, has colouring that stands out against Neytiri’s ikran to the left of him. With bright blue colouring that is the base, there are patterns of purple, brown, yellow and black that run around his wings and skin.

Jake looks back at his mate and though you cannot see his expression, you think he is smiling at the ease his mate feels to be returning home.

Neytiri is next, her ikran flies almost completely side by side with Bob. Sa’ata is similarly coloured to Seze, but Sa’ata has more blue compared to the yellow and green secondary markings. Her ikran is not as playful as Seze, or so you have heard from Mo’at, as the loss of her first had left Neytiri more guarded.

The Sully boys are flying next, side by side.

Neteyam’s ikran is the first you see, the green base colour of it’s skin is broken up by yellow and brown with hints of lighter green stripes that run along its wings. The colouring of Neteyam’s ikran is similar to Seze although there is greener.

You see Lo’ak’s ikran taking a dive and a spin, carelessly soaring through the sky with little care what could be out there. His ikran is sky blue like the horizon after the sunrise, with secondary markings of purple, yellow, brown and black.

Kiri is flying nearby Neteyam and takes Lo’ak’s place when Lo’ak takes the dive. Her ikran stands out as the most vibrant of them all, with striking turquoise, vibrant blue and purple markings— different from her first ikran.

You see them as they are flying in formation, unaware that you are here. You are high enough in the sky that they would miss you here, and even if they had suspected you were watching them, it is your practiced precision to not be seen.

You watch them all, observing the way they fly so different from the other. With Lo’ak and Neytiri are seemingly so relaxed and eased, Neteyam and Jake seem guardes. Though Jake is watching Neytiri with pride, there is still the natural edge and tension that sits on his shoulders—just like his son.

“Let’s make ourselves seen.” You lean forward and whisper to your ikran, the same decision and sense passing between you—an idea to have a little fun.

Your ikran begins diving sharply, wings tucked into the sides to gain speed. You lean forward until your belly almost touches your ikran’s neck, flying with speed toward the Sully’s. When your ikran shrieks as it approaches the family, it suddenly extends it’s wings and flies overtop Neteyam and Lo’ak, startling the boys.

When Lo’ak curses you out for scaring him, your head lolls back with a laugh as you follow through with the roll. You fly over their ikran’s and underneath, swooping back up in a rise that brings you to a hover above them.

“Consider that your welcome home, Lo’ak!” You call out to him from above and take another small dive back around the family, blatantly ignoring the set of golden eyes that follow you as you move.

As you look back at the boy who broke your heart, his lips rise into a smile that you do not return. That smile you once fell so heavily for, stirs the burning ashes of resentment that has you throwing a scowl back at him—an evident reminder that you are not as happy to see him as he is you.

You’d head back inside and get changed into one of your dresses. If you were quick enough, you could get dressed and start making biscuits and oatmeal before anyone else did.

“You know what I was thinking?” Wrecker asked, setting the buckets of milk on the table with enough force to make the silverware rattle, “We should take one more picnic up to the Falls! You know, before it gets too cold.” 

Megan squealed in delight, “That would be so much fun!”

Hunter shook his head, collecting the dirty dishes to put them in the washbasin, “The wagon won't make it all the way up there, and it's too far to walk. I'm not making her do that.” He nodded to you.

Megan hardly had a chance to frown before Crosshair’s head snapped up.

“Why not?”

Hunter froze. Only you and Phee noticed as he tried to come up with an answer that wouldn't give away your secret, but Crosshair pushed ahead--

"Is she too good to hike up the falls with us? 'Fraid she might rip her pretty little dresses?"

Something hot and angry flared in your chest. You pounded your fists into the dough you were kneading for tomorrow’s bread. You’d gotten pretty good at it after Phee showed you a few of her tricks. 

"It's too big a trip for her first mountain hike.”

“How about the orchard?” Poor sweet Wrecker asked innocently.

Crosshair snorted derisively, “Children hike the Falls just fine, you can handle it, can’t you, sweetheart?” 

“Children that have been making that hike with their families since the day they were born,” Hunter reminded Crosshair. 

Your face went hot as Crosshair looked you up and down, “So a child is better suited for this life than she is?”

“Crosshair,” Phee said firmly, placing her hand over yours, “That is enough.”

Crosshair sank back into his chair, arms folded across his chest. The toothpick moved up and down in his mouth as he chewed on the end. 

You took a deep breath and squared your shoulders, staring down at the dough so that no one could see how you were holding back the angry tears.

“If all of you would like to take a picnic up to the Falls, you should go,” You said, squeezing Phee’s hand, “I don’t mind staying home alone.”

“But you’re my Ma!” Megan ran around the table, latching her arms around yours, “You have to come! It’s so beautiful up there!” 

You pressed your lips together tightly, “I don’t know, Megan, I’ve never hiked like that before.” 

“Hunter can help you! He carries me all the time, I bet he could help you, too!”

Hunter clapped his hand on Megan’s shoulder, “C’mon, Megs, it’s time to get to school.”

Megan grabbed her sunbonnet, but didn’t bother to tie it on before she bounded outside. Hunter grabbed Crosshair by the collar of his shirt, practically dragging him out the door. 

Wrecker headed out to the cornfields, Phee was going with Tech to check on one of the women in the next town over who had broken her leg last month, and they would be dropping Echo off at the Chuchi Ranch on their way.

It was the first time you’d been left alone in the house all by yourself. 

Even though you knew how to perform all the necessary household chores, the brothers were all still used to doing their own cooking and cleaning, and often got to the tasks before you could. You felt utterly useless. But there was one task you could do when they were all out at their work, and that was the laundry. 

There wasn’t much of it to speak of. Each of the men had a couple work shirts and one nice shirt to wear on Sundays and special occasions. Getting their pants, however, would be harder, as most of them only had the one pair. You’d figure out that problem after you’d finished the first load.

You spent the whole day in the hot sun washing their shirts and Megan’s dresses, scrubbing at stubborn mystery stains and biting your lip as the lye soap stung your hands. You could feel a layer of it coating your hands, like dipping a candle in wax. Even scrubbing your hands with the plain water couldn’t completely get it off. 

Your grandmother would wail if she could see you now, sun-kissed, probably sprouting freckles. You couldn’t be mad at her, she didn’t have a say in your father’s decision to marry you off, other than to calm him down to finding a groom who seemed least likely to make you miserable. But you were here now, and married. There was no leaving, and you hated feeling useless. So you scrubbed out the milk that stained the front of Wrecker’s shirts and hoped you were cleaning them properly.

There wasn’t a clothesline, but there was the fence. You lay each article of clothing on the fence posts to let it dry in the wind, but the wind in the desert was harsher than the wind in the city. As it whipped up your skirts you turned back to the fence in horror to see two shirts already being carried away.

Batcher, the dog, barked like it was a bird, already chasing after them. You grabbed Megan’s dresses before they could follow, and hitched up your skirts, running after the wayward clothes.

Batcher had keener eyesight than you, so you followed the dog as the shirts flew over the fields of corn. They were nice and green, too green to be picked yet, but not too green as to stay on the stalk when you knocked them aside. 

You heard hoofbeats coming up the dirt road, and the wheels of the wagon. Megan was talking to someone, but you couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. You had to hurry and get the shirts before they came home, and before any other shirts tried to escape!

Tech’s orange striped shirt flew in low, and you jumped up, grabbing it by the sleeve before it could soar skyward again. You looked around frantically, hair flying from your neat braided bun, looking for the other shirt, Hunter’s red one. It was his nice Sunday shirt, the one he’d worn at your wedding. It was a good color on him and you really didn’t want to lose it. You burst out the other end of the field by the road just as the wind died down. 

“Batcher!” Megan called out to the dog, leaping out of the wagon before it could stop. Batcher stood on her hind legs, licking every bit of Megan she could reach. Hunter stared back at you from the driver’s seat of the wagon.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing out here?” 

You immediately caught sight of the red shirt, plummeting from the sky like a cannonball to land neatly on top of Hunter’s head.

Megan looked at him for a moment, then giggled. You were too humiliated to laugh. 

Slowly, almost deliberately, Hunter removed the shirt from his head and held it in his hands. He looked between it and the one you clutched in your arms 

“How’s laundry going?” He asked, rolling the shirt together and placing it on his lap.

“It’s…going,” You said slowly, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. It slipped out of place a moment later.

 “I was just hanging up the shirts to dry, and-” You turned back to look at the fence in front of the house. Another shirt and one of Megan’s dresses had been blown off, landing in the dirt at the front yard, and you groaned. 

“Here,” Hunter held out his hand, “Let’s get you back to the house.” He helped you up onto the bench, but Megan was already skipping along the road with Batcher, stopping by the creek to throw some rocks.

“She’ll come along soon enough,” Hunter assured you, urging Maudie forward. 

It wasn’t even a minute to get you to the front door, and you hopped down before Hunter could help you. He seemed surprised by that, and you weren’t sure why. You were pregnant, not dying. 

You gathered the shirts that hadn’t fallen into the bucket. They were mostly dry, but not fully. The shirts that had flown off had been dried by the wind, and the shirt that had fallen had landed in a patch of stiff desert grass that mostly kept it protected from the dirt, but Megan’s dress had turned the dirt that touched it into clay. You’d have to wash it again. 

“You know,” Hunter started slowly, like he knew it was a bad idea to suggest it, “We have a roll of twine in the barn. We usually string it up in the house and dry our things inside.

You marched over to the washbin, agitating the water to work up the suds again, “Is there room in the house for everyone and the laundry?” You tried not to sound snappy, but you’d spent the better part of the day scrubbing clothes, and now he wanted to offer advice?

”We can make it work,” He stood by the wagon, still holding Maudie’s bridle, “Admittedly, We usually take turns washing our own clothes.”

Usually, people had more than one change of clothes. You wanted to scream. 

“The wind and sun is supposed to help them dry faster,” 

Hunter shrugged and reached into the wagon to grab Megan’s pail and schoolbooks, “The fireplace has always worked just fine for me.”

Men.

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” You said. You didn’t care that your tone sounded sharp, you wanted the conversation over. 

As he walked off, taking Maudie to the pasture, you remembered that you still needed to wash his pants, but you’d bring that up later. 

You kept yourself busy scrubbing the mud off of Megan's dress until you saw Hunter going inside. Your arms were so heavy from use, you wished they would just fall off. Maybe Tech could make you something like Echo’s chair, arms that wouldn’t get tired when you scrubbed clothes or floors. 

The mud was cleaned from Megan’s dress, and you wrung it out over the grass with all the strength you had left. You took the damp laundry inside, draping the shirts and dresses over the chairs and kitchen table. Crosshair would complain, but you didn’t want to do the laundry again. Despite being in water all day, your hands felt cracked and dry, and you didn’t know how to make them feel better. 

Megan came in a few minutes later, her sunbonnet hanging around her neck like the world’s largest necklace, “Hi Ma!” She ran up and hugged you. 

Her hugs still caught you off guard, but you wouldn't trade them for the world. Megan and Phee were the only people who really treated you like family so far. Even if Megan's enthusiastic hugs knocked the wind out of you every time, you'd take them. 

“How was school?” you asked her, hanging her bonnet by the door. 

“It was fun. We learned about how to predict the appearances of pea plants and worked on our essays for the competition. I learned how to spell “reservation”!”

She spelled it out for you without hesitation. She almost said the letter “s” instead of the letter “t”, but quickly corrected herself.

“Pea plants?” you asked. 

“Oh yes, did you know when you cross-pollinate a pea plant with purple flowers and a pea plant with white flowers, you're more likely to get a white flower? Mister Kenobi says it's called genetics!”

“That sounds impressive,” you said, laying her dress across the back of her chair. Megan plopped down into it and took out her slate. Her letters were carefully written across the top for reference, and several mathematical equations took up the majority of the blackboard. She held the nub of a stick of chalk in a rag so that it wouldn’t get on her hands, tapping it against the wood frame of her slate as she worked out the problems in her mind. She jotted down the numbers with quick strokes in such a way that it was obvious that the careful penmanship across the top was not her own.

“Are you certain that your teacher will be able to read your answers?” You asked with the best of intentions.

Megan’s bottom lip jutted out in a pout as she glared at you, it was obvious that this was not the first time her sloppy handwriting had been pointed out.

“Does it really have to be neat?” She whined, “I’m the only one who has to understand what it means.”

You almost laughed at how dramatic she seemed, “But will you remember what you answered tonight in the morning?” 

Megan stared down at the white numbers, stark against the black slate, “Usually.” 

You poured her two cups of water. One to drink, and the other to be used to erase her letters.

“How are you supposed to win the essay contest if you cannot read your essay?” You asked with a chuckle. You ran your hands over one of Wrecker’s shirts to see if it was dry yet.

Megan didn’t say anything. In the time you’d known her, Megan had never been at a loss for words. When you turned back to her, she was staring down at her slate, cheeks flushed, “I…wasn’t being serious about that.”

“Oh?” You asked. 

Megan slumped in her chair with her chin in her hand, “I’m not a very good writer.”

“Says who?” You asked.

“No one does, I just know it. I do better at maths and sciences, because Tech can help me with those, but when it comes to my writing, I…” 

She trailed off, eyes on her half-finished maths assignment.

You slid into the seat next to her, placing your hand on her arm, “I could help you write.” 

Megan blinked up at you with her big brown eyes, “Really?”

You nodded, “I’ve had to write letters every day since I was twelve. My grandmother always said it meant more when you wrote something instead of saying it.”

Megan threw her arms around your neck, “Thank you, Ma! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

“Alright,” You smiled, patting her back gently, “I have to get started on supper now, but we can start on your essay after we eat. Finish your homework, then help me set the table.”

“Yes, Ma!” Megan was much more eager to help than you had ever been as a child. It was no wonder Phee and all the brothers adored the girl. Even if your relationship with Hunter never became anything more than marriage in name only, you could have a happy life with Megan and Phee in it.

Your loaf of bread hadn’t risen in the middle, but it was baked through. It was edible even if it didn’t look quite like the loaves of bread you could get from the bakery. Cooking the chicken was a bit easier, it didn’t take as long, so you could stand by the stove and keep an eye on it before you started thinking about all the other things you could be working on.  You carefully measured out the salt and the other seasonings to make the coating for fried chicken. It was one of Tech’s favorites, discovered by Phee on one of her treks out west, so you wanted to make it perfectly. 

Killing the chickens still made you squeamish, but you’d watched Phee and Crosshair do it enough that you could do it yourself without getting too much blood on your apron. You’d finish the laundry after dinner. 

Megan helped pluck the chickens as she talked about her friends at school and what dress she might like once she won the essay contest. You listened, but made no promises. Hunter hadn’t mentioned finances since your first day in town, but you knew that the money had to be one of the only saving graces for a mail-order bride. Your father had always refused to let you or your grandmother help with the finances at home. He was the banker, the man, he knew better. 

Your own clothes were getting tighter and tighter, you’d need new clothes of your own soon, not to mention everything you’d need for the baby. The sooner you could accumulate all of that, the better, but only after you’d reached an appropriate time to tell everyone about the baby, when Hunter could claim it as his own. 

The feathers from the dinner chickens were saved to be cleaned and used in the quilt the townswomen were making at their quilting bee next week. You were quite excited for that, you hadn’t had the chance to meet many of the other people in town yet, too busy getting used to life just on the farm with the Fetts. 

You mixed the batter for the coating, using the less appealing slices of bread for crumbs with the eggs and milk. Phee told you that the more lard you used, the better, so you kept adding lard to the skillet to make the satisfying sound of the chicken frying. Megan cooked the green beans in just as much lard, but even more fresh beans ended up in her mouth than in the frying pan. 

Hot and sweaty, you cut into the thickest breast for the moment of truth. No pink, cooked clean through. You sighed in relief.

Two by two, the others returned home. Echo mentioned how delicious dinner smelled as Crosshair wheeled him in, and everyone washed up in the tin basin that served as a sink, rinsing away the dirt of the day, before settling in their usual chairs around the table.

A few clothes still hung close to the stove to finish drying, but all the dry clothes were folded and stacked in a basket next to the stairs.

“Thank you so much for doing all the washing,” Phee said loudly, pointedly looking at her brothers-in-law. A murmur of gratitude rippled around the table. 

“I’d love to wash all your pants as well, so whenever you get the chance to change, I can take them,” You said, passing the beans to Hunter.

“Really? Thanks!” Wrecker said.

Crosshair frowned, “I can wash my own pants, thanks.”

“Crosshair,” Phee warned, “She’s only trying to help.”

“We don’t need her help,” Crosshair snapped, “We were doing just fine before she showed up.”

You bit your lip. You knew Crosshair didn’t like you. This wasn’t new. But it still hurt.

“Cross,” Hunter said sharply, “Shut it.” He placed his hand on the back of your chair.

“It’s always good to have more help,” Echo said evenly, taking another bite of chicken. 

“Of course you’d say that,” The words were out before Crosshair could stop himself, and the table went icily quiet. 

Echo’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. Megan’s eyes went wide as the rest of her brothers glared at Crosshair. 

“Apologize.” Hunter said. The tone of his voice reminded him of when he spoke to Cid, the Parlor owner.

Crosshair placed his hands on the table, “Sorry, Echo.”

Echo was staring at his plate like he was trying not to cry. He nodded, unable to speak, but no one else moved. He took his plate and set it on his lap, then backed away from the table in his wheelchair. 

“Thank you so much for dinner, it’s delicious,” His voice cracked as he spoke to you, then wheeled himself to his room to eat in peace. 

Wrecker was the first person to return to eating, his chewing magnified in the silence of the house. 

“It is very good,” Hunter said softly. He took a couple bites, and everyone else followed.

Crosshair stared at his plate for a long time before he finally picked up his knife and spoon and cut into his chicken. 

The raw pinkness stared back at him like an evil omen. A horrified gasp came out of you like a squeak. You were so certain that all the chicken was cooked, and everyone had taken their chicken at random, Crosshair had to know you weren’t trying to insult him. 

“H-here, Crosshair, you can have mine,” You said as your throat swelled with shame. You forced your plate–barely touched–into his hands as he protested. You ran over to the stove and scraped the chicken back into the skillet, maybe you could finish cooking it all the way. The flame had gone out already, and you tried to stoke it back to life, but it was no use. 

You took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried to calm yourself as you looked down at your apron. It was covered in flour and chicken grease and just looking at it made you feel dirty. 

Dirty. The look your father gave you when you told him you were in the family way. The way you felt when Edmon told you he was married. The way dirt made it into every crevice of your body even when you were shut up inside out here.

You could do something about this kind of dirty.

You left the cold stove and headed outside. The sun was setting, splattering red and pink and orange across the sky as you yanked on the pump handle, sending water gushing forth into the bucket. You dove in with your bare hands, scrubbing at the apron stains with your fingernails to try and get them out. It occurred to you that you needed the lye and a brush to properly clean the apron, but that meant going back into the house with everyone.

The water splashed up your arms and onto the front of your dress. It was cooling after the heat of the desert day, and the noise almost kept you from hearing the footsteps crossing the yard to stand behind you.

“You haven’t eaten yet.”

You kept your back to Hunter, hoping he couldn’t see the flush in your cheeks. You really didn’t want to go back to dinner, knowing his brothers were there judging your every move.

“I am so sorry. I didn't mean to-”

“I know. And so does Crosshair.“

Hunter rested one arm across your shoulders, tenderly massaging a sore spot on your arm, and pried the apron from your hand with the other.

“They’ll still be dirty after dinner. C’mon, let’s get something in your stomach.”

His fingers trailed down your rolled-up sleeve to the bare skin of your arm. The hairs on the back of your hand tickled as he hooked his fingers around yours, giving a little tug. 

You bit your lip and tried not to cry. You didn't deserve this kindness, this generosity, this patience, and you certainly didn't deserve it from him, but he was giving it to you anyway. 

Gently, he pulled you after him, and you followed him back into the house. 

Every step towards the table in the center of the house felt like walking down the aisle all over again, walking towards a fate you had no say in. You could try to make it the best fate you could, but it would only work if the Fetts worked with you.

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Blood graces the tips of your fingers.

A few fresh drops form hairline rivers, the rest is darkly dried and flaking, drifting to find a home on the back of your hand. Simon’s face is the worst of it. Bruising mars his upper jaw near the lobe of his ear. A large, stitched gash stands stark against his skin above his right brow, the edges of the wound inflamed and puffy from the needlework and initial blow.

“This will need ice.” Your thumb grazes over the mark. “The area is swelling.” Dropping your hand, you reach for the damp towel, removing the blood from your fingers. The fresh stuff wipes clean. The dry bits stick, forcing you to scrub. “What the hell hit you?”

“A food tray,” answers Simon, monotone.

“A food tray?” you repeat, disbelieving.

“Made of hard plastic.” Simon shrugs. “Cleans easy. Won’t break if used as a weapon.”

“Unbelievable,” you huff, checking under your nails.

Simon rolls his neck with an audible pop. “Had worse injuries.”

Perched on the edge of the coffee table in the living room, you stare dumbly at your husband. Simon sits on the floor, leaning against the edge of the couch. One leg bent, the other outstretched. A first aid kit lays open beside you, the contents spread out on the table.

Grasping Simon’s chin, you guide his face to the right. “I know.” The bruising will only deepen with time. “Still need to take care of it.” A bit of gauze and antiseptic will clean the area. “Should have this done at the hospital.”

As you add pressure to the afflicted spot, Simon inhales sharply. “I like your hands better.”

You snort, dabbing at the wound. “My hands aren’t meant for this.”

“Not meant for taking care of me?”

You drop your hand quickly. “This isn’t funny.”

Simon grasps your wrist, bringing your fingers back to his face. Palm upward, Simon rests his cheek against it, eyelids closing as he inhales deeply. “Didn’t say it was.” Those gorgeous brown eyes reappear, striking and sharp. “Should see Fields. That man needs the hospital.”

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, not drawing your hand away. It’s warm where his cheek rests, radiating into your arm. As strong as Simon is, this is the most vulnerable you’ve seen him, seeking comfort with a gentle touch.

“Don’t regret what I did,” he says, firmly. “Do it again given the chance.”

“Simon,” you sigh. “Are you not worried? About what will happen to you?”

His voice is firm. Nonnegotiable. “Nothing will happen.”

The finality in his voice gives you pause. You’re not ignorant of the roles and rules of a military force. Regardless of who, to strike another soldier, to strike one of your own, results in punishment.

“Nothing?” you exhale, wanting nothing more than to roll your eyes but thinking better of it. “They punish soldiers all the time for this. What makes you any different?”

Simon slowly draws your hand away from his cheek. Clutching your hand in his, he brings it down to his lap. “Captain Price decides what happens to us.”

“I doubt that very much.”

His hand squeezes, drawing you closer. “I’m not some grunt, dove.”

That you know. You’ve been victim to it firsthand. “Real convenient then. Sounds like you can do whatever you want.” You don’t mean to sound as snarky as you do. Frustration, and concern for Simon’s injuries, outweigh your neural processing.

Simon leans in, shortening the small sliver of distance between you. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”

Not a lecture, even if it feels like one. The delivery is gentle, like a brush of wind against the cheek.

“I know you nearly beat a man to death.” Try as you might, your voice cracks. The emotion isn’t for Fields, it’s for everything else, and how scared you were.

“Fields deserved it. Plenty of witnesses heard him. What he said. I had every right to do what I did to him.”

You shake your head. “I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he says, as if that makes it better.

Yanking your hand out of Simon’s grasp, you bolt up from the table, stepping over him. “You let yourself get carried away.”

Placing his hand on the sofa behind him, Simon pushes himself to standing. “I’ve killed enough men to know when they can’t take another hit. Fields had plenty left in him.”

That’s not the point. It was never the point.

Inside your chest is a twisted nest of vines, shredding your heart and ribcage, caving it in.

“You worried me.” You turn on him, voice rising slightly. “Receiving a call like that? I dropped everything and went to the hospital looking for you.” Your chest heaves, adrenaline spiking. “Jesus, Simon. Thought you were seriously injured.”

“Dove—”

“And then you weren’t at the hospital,” you continue right over him. “No one could tell me where you were. And I didn’t even find you. You just,” you gesture vaguely into the air, “appeared. After I searched everywhere you could possibly be.”

Simon’s shoulders soften, gentleness easing in. Rage would be preferable. Have a screaming match and fuck each other afterward.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmur, all the energy deflating like a slashed tire.

A slow saunter and he’s right there, on you, resting his hands on your hips, squeezing, drawing you in until you’re pressed against him. Simon’s arms slide up, and you melt, wrapping your arms around his middle as Simon encircles your shoulders.

“Don’t make me worry,” you say into his chest, eyes watery.

Simon kisses the crown of your head. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You still haven’t said what will happen to you.”

“Already told you,” he chuckles, “nothing.”

Leaning your head back, you stare into his face, searching for a hint of a lie. “That’s impossible.”

Simon releases your shoulders, cradling your face with both hands. “Not repeating what Fields said. But he said it loudly. Enough for everyone to hear. Left too many witnesses. Can’t defend himself.”

“What did he say?”

A pause blooms, and a muscle in Simon’s face twitches. Whatever Fields said, Simon is still angry over it.

“He said things about you. What he’d do to you if you were his. Couldn’t let that stand.”

Simon doesn’t just swing on anyone. His dislike for the Fields is thick like cooling tar, but Simon has never struck out at the man with his fists. What the fuck did Fields say about you? Enough for Simon to nearly beat him to death?

“I still don’t see how you won’t face consequences.”

Dipping his head, Simon comes in for a kiss. It’s slow and soft, more tender than he’s ever been.

“Price will drill me about it. Assign me grunt work for show. Keep me out of sight until we leave. But it’s Fields that’ll face a harsher consequence. To publicly say what he did, loud enough for me and everyone else to hear, that’s seen as disloyalty, and provoking conflict.” Simon rests his lips against your forehead before continuing. “He also has a record. It’s an embarrassment to Graves. He’ll want it swept under the rug and forgotten.”

You snuggle closer. “That’s not comforting.”

Simon seeks a few more kisses. These are deeper than the last and just as sweet.

“I was defending you. That’s how it’ll be seen. If Graves demanded punishment for bloodying one of his men, everyone would question his leadership. A drunken scuffle is one thing, but to not punish the soldier that talked about assaulting another’s wife?”

You jerk backward. “He said what?” Simon exhales through his nose. “That is not what you said a minute ago.”

“See why I couldn’t let it stand? Man deserved it.”

Burying your face in Simon’s chest, you breathe deep, lingering in his scent, filling your lungs with him. As much as you’re frustrated, having Simon here, holding you, is calming.

“I’m just happy you’re okay,” you whisper.

“I’m fine, dove. Promise.”

Tucking you against his chest, Simon sways, rubbing your back. Closing your eyes, you settle into him, silently counting your inhalations and exhalations, finding a place of calm, or a semblance of the concept.

“Still upset with me?” asks Simon.

“Only a little.”

“A little?”

You hold up one hand, bringing your thumb and forefinger close together but not touching. “Little bit.”

“Little bit,” repeats Simon, playfully kissing your fingers.

Laughing, you pull away, slipping out of his arms. Simon allows you to take a few steps before he’s on you again, grabbing, diving in for more kisses as you attempt to flee. This is a different side to Simon, a playfulness you didn’t think he possessed. Of all the times you’ve seen him smile, it’s never been with his whole mouth or even his teeth.

But this man is enraptured with you. Completely happy. It is soft and sweet and perfect enough to bottle. Let it be your perfume, or the honey in your tea.

“Simon,” you chastise, slapping at his hand. “Enough. You’re hurt.”

“Just my face,” he replies, a flirty drawl creeping in. “Not my dick.”

You burst out laughing, unable to contain yourself. Simon chases, herding you to the bedroom, dispelling you of clothes until you’re completely bare for him. Simon’s demeanor shifts from teasing to seductive, cradling your face in his hands, kissing you with a ferociousness that steals your breath.

“Want my mouth on your cunt.” Simon’s words are blunt. “Need your taste on my tongue. Need to hear you scream my name.”

A twinge seizes your thighs, pussy clenching like he’s inside you.

“Can I do what I want?” he asks, hushed.

Simon has controlled this entire relationship, but he’s seeking permission this time, laying it before you to take or reject. He’s asked you what you’ve wanted before, yet this is different, a desperateness that lingers beneath the surface.

The fight. The looming deployment. The idea of the two of you being separated for a month or more.

“Have your way with me,” and your voice is a whimper.

Simon seizes your mouth again, consuming until you’re clawing at him, needing to be within and without. His mouth descends, finding jaw and throat, shoulder and breast, stomach and thigh. Burying his face between your legs, he inhales, his hands supporting your ass as you fist his hair.

One minute you’re standing, and the next you’re on your back, the bed sinking beneath your weight. Simon is precise, turning you onto hands and knees, forcing your ass up and your legs wide.

You choke on your next inhalation as Simon tongues your pussy, using the tip of his tongue to trace lines that may very well be his name. A branding all its own.

“Fucking love your taste, dove,” groans Simon. He draws back, inserts a finger. It slides in easily. “And how your body takes me.”

A few strokes and then it’s gone, replaced with his tongue. You fist the bedding beneath you, squirming as Simon switches between fingering and tasting, coaxing your orgasm to the surface.

“Don’t fight it,” he says. “Don’t fight.”

Simon brings both into play, forcing the orgasm out. It’s harsh. Searing. You burst into a brief sob in the unrelenting pressure. Ceaseless, Simon continues to fuck you with his fingers, running his tongue over and around, sucking on your clit.

Another. Another.

The withdrawal is sudden. Suddenly full, then empty. Cool air and nothing, lasting but a moment. Lifting, pressed up against him, Simon slides his cock between your thighs, rocking back and forth in an easy motion. Not inside you, simply grinding, keeping you still as he coats himself in your slickness.

An urge crawls forth, of wanting to sink to your knees, to take him into your mouth, have him spill down your throat.

“Simon,” you gasp. “I want—”

Your words are stolen as Simon’s fingers slide into your mouth. His arms around you tighten, keep you aloft and on your knees at the edge of the bed, your legs pointed outward as he stands between them.

“You can suck my cock later,” he growls, knowing exactly what you desired.

His hips draw back, and the head of his cock finds its home. It’s a slow ease as he feeds you his dick, bringing more of him inside until there’s no more space between your bodies. Simon bites down on your neck, not hard enough to break skin, but the area will be tender. Might even leave little indents from his teeth.

Another slow move as he withdraws, leaving just the tip. Simon stays like that, the two of you simply breathing. His teeth are still on your skin, still pressing, causing a twinge of pain. A release, and an absence of teeth, followed by lips.

“Hold still, dove,” he murmurs.

Simon thrusts. It’s all fast, all rough, all primal need. You’re caged against him, the little sounds you make muffled by his fingers. Whatever this is, Simon needs it, desperately. To claim you, perhaps, to make them understand you’re his, even if no one is watching.

Your head falls back, resting against the top of his shoulder. There is no place for you to go to, no way to escape, not that you want to. His strokes are rough and deep, the penetration alone hitting somewhere that sparks with intensity, increasing with his thrusts.

Muscles relaxing, you remain weightless, eyelids fluttering as another orgasm rolls in, this one less intense but just as venomous. Behind you, Simon is all feral grunts and groans. It’s right in your ear, puffs of air that brush over your earlobe and across your skin.

All you can smell is sex and sweat. It mixes with your pathetic moans and Simon’s animalistic noises, and the slap of skin. Your thighs are wet and sticky, growing drenched by the second, likely to leave a small pool on the bed.

With a grunt, Simon’s arms shift. His fingers retreat and you gasp for air. The arms holding you grab your own, seizing your upper arms, drawing them back. Your top half is bent slightly, hanging over the bed. And Simon is still fucking you, rough and wanton.

He doesn’t cease, even when he fills your pussy with his cum. Your husband fucks it into you, only stopping to bring your bodies together, holding his dick inside you. The air is thick with breathing and sticky bodies.

Simon’s arms become a cradle, guiding you both down to the bed. Draping himself over you, still nestled in your cunt, he begins again.

“I’m out.”

Your stomach flips, threatening to spill your breakfast onto your feet. “I thought there was one left. What happened to it?”

Hannah frowns. “Didn’t you use it?”

You try to think, to roll back in time and recall when, or if, you used the last emergency contraceptive. The fact that they can make it at all is an accomplishment, which is why they’re rare and only ever given to women who have a history of complications or the potential for a difficult pregnancy. Hannah managed to snag what she could but that doesn’t mean the supply is endless. There are thousands of others that might need it.

“Maybe I did,” you laugh awkwardly, brushing it aside, even though the room is fucking tilting. “Can’t remember.”

Hannah quirks an eyebrow. “I can get you condoms. There are lots of those. Plenty to supply. They’re easier and cheaper to make.”

Simon might be hurt if you brought them home. He understands your reasons for wanting to delay, but he desires to be a father. He’d listen to you now, hear you out, even talk about it, but it would still cut.

“I’ll take a few,” you smile, accepting the box from Hannah. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Not like it’ll help now.

How many times did you and Simon fuck last night? You won’t even count this morning in bed, in the shower, and then in the kitchen because you’d need more fingers. Even now, as you stand here, you feel his cum leaking out of you to dampen your underwear. If you didn’t have that it would be all over your thighs.

Eloise bursts through the door, her hair windswept, arms full. She drops the mess onto her desk, muttering under her breath in French.

“No cart?” asks Hannah.

“No,” Elose emphasizes, digging through the loose papers like she’s desperately searching for something. “The bastards.”

As she digs, she sorts. Pushing her hair out of her face, Eloise holds out a small stack of envelopes to you. “Yours,” she says, clipped.

Rushing over, you take them before she can throw them at you. Not that you think she would, but Eloise appears irritated enough to do anything.

“Thank you,” you say brightly. The fakeness hurts.

Eloise is still muttering to herself as Hannah tries to calm her when you plop down into your office chair, staring down at the small letter from the family planner you haven’t seen since you first signed your marriage contract.

If you weren’t at work, you’d fucking scream, rip the letter apart into thousands of little pieces. Doubtful they’d send a letter to Simon. He’s not the one with a womb.

“Everything okay?”

Your head snaps up into Hannah’s concerned face.

“Course. Yeah,” you lie, folding up the piece of paper with the appointment time and sticking it into your bag.

The clock on the wall is two hours off.

You consider saying something, then think better of it. Claire’s face is serious despite her smile; her clothes ironed to smooth perfection. There isn’t even a single hair out of place.

“This is just a follow up,” she says, hands clasped and resting on top of her desk. “To check on our progress.”

Simon remains impassive, a solid wall. “Progress?”

To her credit, Claire’s smile doesn’t waiver. “On a baby.” Her tone gives her away, because why else would they be there?

That is Claire’s purpose. She’s not for the singles but the newlyweds, to play up all the joys and benefits of pregnancy. Contribute to the population, and all will be well. The first Pillar is the most important. Scratching the woman’s eyes out isn’t an option, so you settle with silence. Your opinion is not wanted, and Simon has enough presence for both of you.

“Already?” he questions. “Last we spoke, we discussed my job. Trying for a baby while I’m expected to be gone isn’t ideal. And it’s not good for her. I should be here.”

Claire sighs like she’s about to correct a child who confidently rattled off an answer. “Yes. I agree with you. It is important you’re here. But you don’t need to be here while she’s pregnant.” She smooths her hands over the wood, clasping them again.

“I’m right here,” you retort, because why won’t Claire look at you? Why is she only addressing Simon? “And I’d like my husband present.”

Claire’s gaze shifts to you and then reverts to Simon. “I’ve already spoken to a few of your superiors—”

“You spoke with Price?”

Claire cocks her head. “Who?” She quickly waves away the question. “No. It doesn’t matter. From what I can gather, you’ll only be gone, at max, two months.” She turns, finally addressing you. “You really won’t be showing then, and something might happen.”

You swallow, your tongue growing dry. “Like a miscarriage.”

Claire nods. “Exactly.” She turns to Simon. “There’s no reason for you to worry over that. Your wife is in good hands here. She’ll be looked after. Cared for.”

“That may be true, but I’d rather be here. Especially if she were to miscarry. A husband shouldn’t be away if that happens.”

Simon is without the balaclava, but you sense the Ghost you meet all those months ago. There is a dangerousness lurking under his skin, awaiting the trigger to burst forth and devour.

Claire is still dismissive. “Even so, there have been changes. The counsel overseeing the first Pillar are concerned about numbers. We sustained significant loses over the tragic fighting that happened at one of the Safe Zones.”

The same Zone Simon is leaving for in less than a week.

“They’ve raised the goal birth count to counteract the loss. I’m afraid I must insist on this. You’re also a new couple, without children. Eyes are on individuals like you.”

Without thinking, you reach out and place your hand on Simon’s thigh. He glances down and then covers your hand with his own.

“But he’s leaving,” you say. “You can’t expect this of us now.”

Claire’s expression is unmoving. This is not an argument. It’s an order. Not from her, but from people far above them. People at the top. People who have a say on what happens. The old fear, the one you thought you unburdened yourself with, seeps in, taking root in the folds of your brain. Choice is what you want, even veiled, even fake, you’ll take it. This is not choice. Funny to think you could circumvent the inevitable.

“As I said,” she sighs. “There have been some changes. For couples like yourselves,” and she opens her hands wide, “we’ll be closely monitoring your progress.”

Simon snorts, showing more emotion than he has this entire meeting. “By giving us a tracker? Keeping tabs on creampies?”

Claire’s left eyelid spasms. “Not in such crass terms. But yes. In a sense.”

“I’m not comfortable with it,” you state, loudly and with conviction. “Sex is private. That should stay between Simon and I.”

“We have no intention of being present for it. Whatever you do on your own time is between you two. But twice a week, starting today, and then resuming when Lieutenant Riley returns, you’ll come here. There are private rooms where you’ll copulate, and a doctor will discreetly confirm that Lieutenant Riley’s sperm—”

“No.”

Simon’s voice cuts through the air. It is cold, tinged with anger. Ghost is back, ready to emerge, to show fang and claw.

“I’m sorry?” coughs Claire, clearly startled.

Simon delivers each word slowly. “You heard me. No.”

Mouth open like a dead fish, Claire blinks rapidly. Always the professional but even she has her limits. “This isn’t negotiable.”

“I don’t care,” and Simon’s voice remains lethal. “Not happening.”

“We could track at home,” you offer. The safest route is compromise, and tracking at home means things can be faked.

Claire makes a sound of disgust. “I’m sorry but it’s out of the question. This is from top. There are no allowances.”

Simon stands abruptly. “We’re leaving.”

Claire rises, too. “Lieutenant Riley.”

“Piss off,” he snaps, and Claire’s face goes beet red. Reaching for your arm, you allow Simon to guide you out of the chair, and away from this mess.

“You can’t say that to her,” you say to Simon as you exit Claire’s office. “No matter how angry you are.”

“I did,” he growls. “Deserved it, too.”

You walk together, hand in hand, your mind spiraling. There’s no way the woman is serious, but why does she have any reason to lie. Family planners spin the truth all the time, but Claire was upfront about this. Confident, if you had to put a word to it.

“Simon.”

A grunt.

“Simon,” you hiss. “You’re squeezing too hard.”

His grip eases. “Sorry, dove.”

With your free hand, you gently grasp his bicep, squeezing with soft reassurance. “You’re angry.”

“How’d you guess?”

Before Simon can open the front door to the building, you come to a halt, stepping to the side. “Hey,” you murmur, tugging him along. “Listen to me.” He goes to you without hesitation, and you draw him close, placing one hand over his heart. “It’s fine. Okay? Everything is going to be fine.”

Simon’s knuckles brush against your cheekbone. “I promised you a year. Not walking back on that promise.”

“No. I know. I believe you.”

Not simply dressed. Formed.

It was not enough to be clean and pretty and properly educated. Those were foundations. The true work, in Lady Henshaw's mind, was refinement. The small adjustments that turned a girl into something the world would admire without being able to name precisely why.

"Again," she said.

You sat in the small drawing room with your hands folded in your lap, your spine straight, your ankles crossed as neatly as if they had been stitched together. The fire snapped softly. The room smelled faintly of lavender polish and the roses your mother insisted upon even before the season began.

Across from you, Lady Henshaw held a teacup like a judge holding a gavel. Your eldest sister, Lady Bramwell, lounged with the self-satisfaction of a woman who had already survived the ordeal and now enjoyed watching it inflicted upon someone else. Your other sister, Lady Carlisle, sat in a chair near the window, her expression sympathetic, though her sympathy had the mild detachment of one who had escaped the battlefield.

"You were too bright," Lady Henshaw said.

"I smiled," you replied.

"You smiled as if you meant to befriend her."

Lady Bramwell took a sip of tea to hide her grin. "Mama does not wish you to collect friends, darling. Mama wishes you to collect husbands."

"Mama," you said to your mother without looking away, "I am not a butterfly."

Lady Henshaw's gaze did not flicker. "No. You are a young woman entering society, and you will learn to move through it gracefully. Now again."

Lady Carlisle, who had been quiet so far, spoke gently. "It is not cruel, love. It is simply how it is done. When you first enter a room, you must look as if you are pleased to be there, but not grateful."

"Why not grateful?" you asked.

"Because gratitude suggests you needed the invitation," Lady Bramwell said, as if this were obvious.

"And needing the invitation suggests you are not the sort of girl people invite automatically," Lady Henshaw finished.

You stared at them.

Your mother and sisters looked back with earnest authority.

You wanted to laugh. You wanted to cry. You wanted to tip the tea tray over and run barefoot into the garden until your lungs burned.

Instead, you said, "Yes, Mama."

Lady Henshaw set her cup down. "Lady Grafton arrives tomorrow. She will bring her nephew. He is newly come into his title. You will not stare at him as if he is a novelty. You will look pleasantly interested."

Lady Bramwell leaned forward with mock seriousness. "A young lord is always a novelty."

"Smile," your mother said sharply.

You smiled.

"Not like that."

You adjusted it, softening, lifting the corners more gently.

Lady Henshaw's eyes narrowed. "Now you look amused."

"I am amused."

"You will not be amused. You will be agreeable."

Lady Carlisle added, kindly, "Imagine your smile is an invitation to conversation, not to intimacy."

You blinked at her. "That is bleak."

"It is practical," Lady Bramwell corrected.

Your mother continued, "When he speaks, you will answer with enough warmth to encourage him, but not enough to suggest you have already chosen him."

"How," you asked, "does one encourage without inviting?"

Lady Henshaw's mouth tightened. "You will learn. The difference lies in your eyes. In your tone. In your restraint."

Lady Bramwell nodded gravely. "It is a performance, and you must become excellent at it."

"A performance," you repeated, tasting the word as if it were bitter.

Lady Carlisle reached for your hand. Her fingers were warm. "It does not mean you are false. It means you are careful."

"Careful," you murmured. "Careful of what?"

Lady Bramwell answered easily. "Careful of men."

Lady Henshaw's gaze hardened. "Careful of consequences."

The room fell quiet for a moment, the only sound the fire and the faint rattle of carriage wheels outside.

You looked down at your hands in your lap and saw, in your mind, the future your mother was constructing. A dance card. A procession of faces. The constant weighing. The constant watching. Your own expression no longer belonging entirely to you.

A young lady must be formed.

You felt suddenly, sharply, like cloth being pinned into place.

Lady Henshaw's voice softened just a fraction. "You may think this excessive. I assure you it is not. The ton is not kind to girls who blunder. You have the advantage of a good name and an excellent dowry. Do not waste it by appearing too eager or too cold or too sharp. You must be seen properly."

Seen properly.

As if being seen were a skill rather than an inevitability.

As if your personhood could be reduced to angles and smiles and tones.

You inhaled and let it out slowly. "Yes, Mama."

Lady Bramwell said, bright as cruelty, "Now, again. He says: Miss Henshaw, may I call tomorrow?"

You lifted your head and arranged your face.

"Yes, my lord," you said, gently. "I shall be pleased to receive you."

Lady Henshaw's eyes narrowed. "Your voice rose at the end. It sounded like a question."

"It was not a question."

"It sounded as if you doubted your own authority in your own home."

You bit the inside of your cheek. "Again."

Lady Bramwell changed her tone, lowering it into a man's imitation. "Miss Henshaw, you are looking particularly lovely this evening."

You smiled again. Not too bright. Not too amused. Not too eager.

"That is kind of you," you said smoothly. "You do me credit."

Lady Carlisle murmured, "Good."

Lady Henshaw said, "Less warmth."

You nearly choked. "Less warmth?"

"Warmth invites familiarity."

Lady Bramwell leaned back with satisfaction. "And familiarity invites ruin."

Your mother stood at last. "That is enough for today. Your mind will not absorb anything else if you are already bristling."

"I am not bristling," you replied.

Lady Henshaw's brow lifted. "Do not insult me by pretending you do not bristle. You have always bristled. It is one of your more charming faults."

You stared at her. "It is a fault?"

"It will become one if you allow it to be seen."

There it was again.

Seen.

Everything came back to that.

Lady Carlisle squeezed your hand once more before standing. "It will be all right. Truly."

Lady Bramwell kissed your cheek. "Try not to glare at anyone important."

"I have never glared in my life," you said sweetly.

Lady Bramwell laughed. "You see, that is exactly the sort of lie you must stop telling."

They swept away to their rooms, leaving you alone in the drawing room with the fire and the scent of roses and the echo of instructions still pressing against the inside of your skull.

Smile this way.

Answer this way.

Encourage without inviting.

You sat for a long time after they were gone, not reading, not sewing, not doing anything that could be called useful. Only staring at the flames and feeling, with a kind of quiet horror, how easily you could be turned into something rehearsed.

When at last you rose, the house had fallen into that deeper hush that came when even servants moved more softly.

Your room was only a corridor away.

You crossed the hall barefoot, your slippers carried in one hand, letting the coolness of the floor soothe you. The candles in the wall sconces had burned low. The corridor was dim, only faintly lit by what remained of the lamps.

Someone was there.

At first you thought it might be a maid.

Then you saw the height of the figure, the steady way he moved. A taper in his hand. A small snuffer poised like a tool of mercy.

Kyle Garrick stood halfway down the hall, extinguishing the lamps one by one.

He was not meant to be up here so late. Not without reason. Yet the house was yours. He belonged to it. He moved through it as if he could not help but keep it in order, even while it slept.

You paused in the shadow by the stair rail.

Kyle turned his head slightly, as if he had heard you breathe. His gaze lifted.

"Miss," he said quietly.

His voice in the dark was different than in the day. Softer. Less formal, though still proper.

"You are awake," you replied.

"I could say the same."

"Yes," you said, "but that would require admitting that neither of us has mastered the art of being sensible."

Kyle's mouth moved, not quite a smile, but something close. "It is late for you to be wandering."

"It is early for you to be extinguishing lamps," you countered.

He held the taper away from the nearest sconce, as if deciding whether to continue. "The oil was burning low. Mrs. Finch does not like waste."

"Mrs. Finch does not like anything," you said.

Kyle's gaze dropped politely, but the faintest amusement entered his eyes. "That is not entirely true, miss. She likes complaint."

You huffed a laugh before you could stop it.

The sound felt too loud in the corridor, as if laughter might wake the whole house and summon your mother's sharp gaze down upon you. Yet the house remained still.

Kyle stepped closer, only enough to keep the conversation from echoing. He did not invade your space. He never did. But the darkness made the distance between you feel narrower all the same.

"Were you reading?" he asked.

You lifted the slippers slightly. "I was escaping."

Kyle's eyes flicked to your bare feet, then away again with immediate propriety. Yet you saw the tiny tightening of his jaw, as if he had taken note of your tiredness without being able to say so directly.

"From what, miss?"

You could have lied.

You should have lied.

Instead, you said, "From myself."

Kyle's hand stilled on the snuffer.

The corridor was dim enough that you could not see his expression fully, only the shape of him and the faint light of the taper reflecting off the brass.

Then he said, quietly, "They are pressing you hard."

You stared.

It was not a question. Not a guess. A statement.

You had not told him. Not in so many words. Yet he had seen it anyway.

You swallowed and forced yourself into dryness because honesty felt too dangerous, even here. "I am being trained like a spaniel."

Kyle's voice held that same restrained humor. "A spaniel would receive more praise."

You laughed again, softer this time, and the laugh broke something in you.

You leaned your shoulder against the wall, the slippers dangling from your fingers. "Mama and my sisters have decided I require instruction on how to exist in a room without existing too much."

Kyle did not move. He only listened, the way he always did.

You went on, words tumbling now that they had begun. "Smile, but not brightly. Speak, but not too much. Encourage, but do not invite. Be witty, but never sharp. Be warm, but never familiar. Be pleased, but never grateful. Be seen properly."

Your voice caught on the last.

Kyle's gaze lifted fully then. In the dimness, his eyes looked darker. Steadier.

"Seen properly," he repeated softly.

"Yes," you said, a bitter laugh in your throat. "As if I am a portrait they must hang in the right light."

Kyle took a slow breath. You saw his hand tighten slightly around the taper, as if he wished to say something that he must choose carefully.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet and sure. "You are not a portrait, miss."

You looked at him, suddenly exhausted. "Then what am I?"

Kyle's answer came after a beat, deliberate. "You are yourself."

The simplicity of it nearly undid you.

You tried to scoff, but it sounded thin. "That is not sufficient for the ton."

"No," he agreed, and there was a strange gentleness in the single word. "It is not."

Silence settled between you, not empty, only heavy.

You realized, all at once, that Kyle stood in the dark extinguishing lamps like a man ensuring the house did not waste oil, yet he had been watching you closely enough to see strain beneath your composure. Not merely noticing your tiredness. Not merely hearing raised voices from a drawing room.

Seeing you.

Not properly. Not as your mother meant.

As you were.

Your throat tightened. You looked away quickly, as if the corridor itself might catch you growing soft.

You cleared your throat. "You are not meant to agree with me so easily. You are meant to say something reassuring and vague."

Kyle's mouth twitched. "I am not skilled at vagueness."

"You are skilled at everything else."

His gaze dropped. "That is generous."

"It is true," you insisted, then caught yourself, realizing how it sounded, too intimate in the dark with no one else awake.

Kyle did not take advantage of it. He never did. He simply said, quietly, "You are tired, miss."

You swallowed. "Yes."

He shifted, and for a heartbeat you thought he might step away, end the conversation, restore the proper distance that day demanded. Instead he lifted the snuffer and extinguished the lamp nearest you.

The corridor dimmed further.

In the softer dark, his voice sounded lower. "You should sleep."

"I cannot," you admitted.

Kyle's gaze held yours, steady. "Then breathe."

You stared at him.

He said it again, as if it were instruction as simple as tying a ribbon. "Breathe, miss. If you cannot sleep, then at least breathe properly."

It was absurd. It was practical. It was kind.

You inhaled, slow and deep, and let it out.

Something unclenched in your chest.

Kyle watched you do it, and there was no judgment in his face, only the calm attention of someone who had learned, perhaps long ago, how to survive heavy things by making them smaller.

When you spoke again, your voice was quieter. "You make everything sound manageable."

Kyle's eyes lowered. "Not everything."

"What not?"

His answer came slowly. "Some things are not meant to be managed. Only carried."

You did not know why the words struck you like a bell.

You said, softly, "What have you carried?"

Kyle's gaze lifted, met yours, and then stepped away. Not physically. Emotionally. The edge of propriety sliding back into place like a door closing.

"That is not a question for you to ask, miss," he said gently.

You flushed, ashamed of yourself. "I am sorry."

Kyle shook his head once, small. "You need not be."

You looked down at your slippers and forced dryness again because it was easier than softness. "Very well. I shall carry my own misery and breathe properly while doing so."

Kyle's mouth twitched. "That sounds like you."

You glanced up, startled by the familiarity of the phrase.

He realized it at the same moment. His shoulders shifted slightly, as if he had stepped too far forward and must correct himself.

"I meant," he added, more formal, "that it sounds sensible."

You smiled despite yourself. "You are a terrible liar."

Kyle bowed his head. "Good night, miss."

You lingered a heartbeat longer. "Good night, Mr. Garrick."

He moved on down the corridor, taper light flickering as he snuffed each lamp, leaving darkness behind him.

You watched until the last glimmer vanished around the corner.

Then you stood alone in the quiet hall, barefoot on the cold floor, the house sleeping around you, your season waiting like a storm at the edge of the sky.

For a moment, in the dark, you pressed your hand to your chest and felt your own breath.

Slow.

Steady.

As if you might survive simply by remembering you were still a person beneath the performance.

As if being seen, truly seen, even once, could make a girl feel less like an object and more like herself again.

And you went to your room and shut the door softly behind you, carrying the sound of Kyle's voice with you like a lantern you could not explain.

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The room allotted to the footmen was narrow and plain, made smaller still by the dark of the hour. A candle guttered beside the washstand, throwing a wavering strip of light across the white of his shirt and the careful lines of his folded coat. Everything he owned could be packed in little time. A spare neckcloth. A brush. A prayer book with a cracked leather spine. A watch that had not kept proper time in years and was never wound, only held.

Kyle stood before the small mirror hung crooked over the basin and tied his neckcloth with practiced fingers.

There was comfort in the ritual of it. In the order. In the certainty that if his hands moved as they ought, if each button sat neat, if each fold lay flat, then the day would begin as it must. He had learned long ago that there was mercy in routine. It kept a man from thinking overmuch in the dark.

He fastened his cuffs and reached, almost without thought, for the prayer book resting at the edge of the washstand. It was too worn to be handsome anymore. The corners had softened with age and handling, and one page near the front was loosening from the thread. His mother had once stitched that page back in by firelight after he had dropped the book in a puddle and cried as if the world had ended over it.

He ran his thumb over the cover once, then opened it.

Inside the front flap, written in a fine hand faded to brown, were the words:

Thomas Garrick, 1804

And for his son, that he may walk uprightly

Kyle looked at the inscription for no longer than a breath.

Then he shut the book and tucked it safely into the bottom drawer beneath his folded stockings, hidden from curious eyes and common handling alike.

A man is measured by his conduct.

He could hear his father say it still. Not sharply. Never sharply. It had been the sort of lesson Reverend Thomas Garrick gave with quiet certainty, as though truth needed no raised voice to make itself known.

Stand straight, my boy.

Speak clearly.

Do not mistake noise for strength.

Do not mistake softness for weakness.

And if fortune leaves you, let it leave only that.

Kyle drew in a breath and took up his coat.

Outside, the corridor was dim, the air cold enough to sharpen him properly awake. The house was still wrapped in that strange suspended silence that belonged only to great households before dawn. Not true quiet. Never that. Old houses were living things. Timber settled. Ash sighed in grates. Somewhere below, the faintest clang of iron told him the kitchen maids had begun.

He went down the back stairs with easy precision, one hand brushing the rail.

By the time he reached the lower passage, the world beneath stairs had started to stir in earnest. The scullery maid crossed with a stack of pans held against her apron. Someone in the kitchen laughed too loudly and was immediately shushed. The smell of yeast and smoke and yesterday's ashes rising to life met him at once, familiar as breath.

Mrs. Dalton, the cook, stood like a reigning queen at the center of her kingdom, sleeves already rolled and wooden spoon in hand. One of the younger maids was peeling apples beside the table with the doomed face of a woman expecting criticism at any moment. The housekeeper, Mrs. Finch, was conferring with a maid over linens in a tone that suggested a single missing napkin might bring about the collapse of civilization itself.

At the far end of the servants' hall, John Price was reading over a folded list by lamplight.

He did not look up at once, though Kyle knew perfectly well he had heard him. Nothing escaped Mr. Price. Not a loose thread. Not a tardy footman. Not a half-polished candlestick or a muttered complaint too near the wrong ears.

Kyle paused where he ought. "Good morning, sir."

Only then did Price lift his eyes. He was already fully dressed, immaculate as ever, his expression grave in the way it nearly always was, though time in the house had taught Kyle there was a good deal more kindness in him than first impressions allowed. "Morning, Garrick. You'll see to the library fire and the morning room after. Lady Henshaw asked last night that the blue vase from the small drawing room be moved to the front hall table. It seems she now dislikes where she herself placed it yesterday."

Kyle accepted the absurdity of this with suitable composure. "Very good, sir."

A chair scraped over stone. "And I suppose," came a broad Scots voice from somewhere behind him, "the vase shall be transformed by this noble relocation into an object of rare genius."

Kyle did not need to turn to know Johnny MacTavish had entered half awake and wholly insolent.

Soap, as every soul below stairs called him, came striding in with his dark hair only just tamed into order and the expression of a man grievously wronged by the existence of morning. He snatched a heel of bread from the edge of the table. Mrs. Dalton slapped at his hand with the spoon. He escaped with the bread anyway and a grin to show for it.

"Have you no fear of God, MacTavish?" Mrs. Finch demanded.

"Plenty," he said cheerfully. "It's Cook I mistrust."

Price folded the list once, neatly. "If you've enough wit at this hour to annoy half the household, you've enough strength to carry the coal scuttle to the front drawing room."

Soap put a hand over his heart. "Sir, I'm persecuted."

"You are employed," Price replied.

From the shadowed side of the passage, Simon Riley stepped forward soundlessly enough that one of the maids startled.

Ghost was taller than any of them, broad across the shoulders, black-haired, close-mouthed, and habitually so quiet he might have been mistaken for an apparition in poor light. There was little in the house that unnerved new servants more than discovering Mr. Riley was already standing three feet away, having heard every foolish thing they had said.

He glanced once at the bread in Soap's hand. "You're meant to eat with your mouth shut."

Soap scoffed. "I haven't eaten anything yet."

Ghost looked at him with bland contempt. "A tragedy."

That got the nearest maid to hide a smile. Even Price's mouth shifted by the slightest degree before settling again.

Kyle crossed to the sideboard for gloves. He had grown so used to the rhythm of their company that some mornings he forgot how strange it might appear to outsiders. Price with his grave fairness. Soap with his irrepressible tongue and easy laugh. Ghost all sharp edges and spare words. Men one might never have chosen for each other in any other life, yet somehow as fixed in his days as the staircases and the bells.

Price handed him the folded list. "The family has callers expected by noon. See that the front hall is in proper order before breakfast. Mr. Henshaw has letters to be sent out after."

"Yes, sir."

Price's gaze rested on him a moment longer, measuring as it always did. Not prying. Simply knowing. "And Garrick."

"Sir?"

"The silver stand in the library was left with fingerprints yesterday. Not yours, I think, though I should be grateful if they cease to appear by magic."

Kyle inclined his head. "I shall see to it."

"You may as well polish the whole room while you're there," Soap put in around a bite. "Might prevent Her Ladyship from changing her mind about the furniture before luncheon."

Mrs. Dalton made another attempt on him with the spoon. "Out."

Soap darted away at last, laughing under his breath.

Kyle took the coal scuttle from beside the hearth and made for the back stair again, the iron handle cold against his palm. By the second landing the warmth of the kitchen had left him. The upper floors still slept in a hush of curtained windows and expensive carpets. At this hour a great house seemed almost tender. Stripped of voices and visitors and expectation, it was only wood and silk and old walls holding their breath.

He crossed the corridor toward the library.

As always, the smell met him before the room itself did. Beeswax. Paper. Leather bindings. Ash. A gentleman's room, though not his own.

His father's study had never been half so grand. There had been no towering cases of gilt-edged volumes, no marble mantel, no carpet thick enough to swallow a footstep. The rectory study had been smaller than this by far, with shelves his father built himself and a desk permanently crowded by parish accounts, sermons in progress, and books borrowed from men wealthier than he was. But it had possessed the same stillness at dawn. The same faint sweetness of old paper and lamp oil. The same sense that quiet rooms were meant for thought.

Kyle set down the coal and knelt before the grate.

For one brief moment, as he brushed aside yesterday's ash, the years folded over themselves.

He was eight again, perched on a stool too tall for him, boots swinging as his father corrected his Latin with absurd patience. Morning light came through the narrow window in the rectory study, pale and clean, laying itself across the open page. His mother sat by the fire mending a cuff with small, quick stitches, glancing up every now and then to smile whenever he stumbled.

"No, not so fast," Reverend Garrick had said, tapping the line gently. "A thing worth saying is worth saying properly."

"I know it properly."

"You know it eagerly. There is a difference."

His mother laughed softly without looking up. "He gets that from you."

"Impossible," his father said with mock gravity. "I am the soul of measured restraint."

Kyle, indignant even then, had declared, "That is not true."

"No?" His father's eyes warmed over the top of the book. "Then I hope you shall improve upon me."

Such mornings had once seemed the natural shape of the world. Bread warming on the hob. Ink on his father's fingers. The scrape of a chair over floorboards. His mother humming a hymn while she worked. The certainty that he belonged exactly where he sat.

He struck flint. Sparks leapt. The tinder caught.

Smoke curled up in a thin blue thread before the flame took hold.

Kyle fed the fire and rose.

He had been eleven when his father first began to cough in earnest. Not the mild winter ailment they all pretended it to be, but the harsher thing beneath. The cough that bent him double at times. The cough that left bright color high in his cheeks and none elsewhere. His mother had gone quieter then, though never less gentle. She had smiled more and slept less. Kyle had understood enough to be afraid and not enough to know what prayer was meant to fix.

The illness did not have the decency to be swift.

It lingered. It wore them all down by inches. Visitors came with baskets and kind faces and helpless eyes. His father preached through more Sundays than any sensible man ought, because there were duties no fever could persuade him to abandon. When at last he took to bed for good, the house seemed to shrink around the fact of it.

Kyle remembered the smell of vinegar and rosemary. The folded cloth in his mother's hand. The awful quiet after the final breath, as though the whole world had waited for him to deny it and then gone on when he could not.

He had not cried then.

Not in the room. Not before his mother.

He had stood straight at the bedside because his father had taught him to stand straight, and because his mother was looking at him with eyes too old and too young all at once, and because if he moved perhaps the room itself would come apart around them.

It came apart anyway.

Not at once. That was the cruelty of it.

There were condolences. Covered dishes. Quiet voices. Men who spoke of duty and God's mysterious wisdom. A month passed. Then another. And the practical ruin of things began to show itself.

The living did not belong to them. Not truly. It had belonged to his father's office, not his widow. The stipend ended. The small kindnesses of neighbors continued for a time, then thinned as such kindnesses always did, not from malice but from the simple selfishness of ordinary life. Bills appeared from places Kyle had never before thought to imagine. The apothecary. The draper. The cooper. The grave.

His mother sold the silver first, save one spoon she kept for reasons she never said. Then the better carpet from the sitting room. Then his father's second-best coat. She packed away books with careful hands and no expression. A maid who had served them since before Kyle was born was dismissed with tears and thanks and half a month's wages his mother could not spare and would never have forgiven herself for withholding.

The village altered too.

Nothing so vulgar as open cruelty. No, that would have been easier to hate. It was only a gradual shift in the angle of people's regard. A kindness that had gone careful. An awareness of reduced circumstance entering every conversation like an uninvited guest. The women who still called did so less often. Men who had once greeted his father warmly in the lane bowed to his mother with a touch too much pity in their eyes.

Kyle learned then that want was not only a matter of hunger or cold. It was the humiliation of becoming visible in the wrong way.

Mrs. Finch had once remarked, years later, that certain families fell with scandal and others with silence. The Garricks had been a silence. No gaming debts. No mistress hidden in Bath. No grand disgrace fit for gossip. Only illness. Burial. Accounts. The dull honest ruin that inspired no romance and very little aid.

He crossed to the silver stand and took up the cloth.

His mother had lasted nearly two years in the shrinking shell of that life. Through force of will and needlework and economies no one should have asked of her. Through headaches she called nothing and nights he heard her weeping behind her closed bedchamber door. Through every effort to preserve him from what she could see approaching.

But there came a day when preserving him no longer meant keeping him at home.

He had been fourteen then. Taller. Quieter. Old enough to understand the sum of what was left and not old enough to bear it with grace.

He remembered the morning she told him.

Rain tapped against the little front window. The sitting room was colder than it ought to have been because they had become sparing with coal. His mother sat near the hearth with her sewing untouched in her lap, one finger resting between the pages of a letter.

"There is a place," she said.

He had known before she finished. He did not know how, only that the world had been leaning toward this for months and at last had arrived.

"For me," he said.

She nodded once.

His first feeling had not been fear but shame for the relief that came with certainty. Shame, then guilt for the shame. A place meant wages. Wages meant one less mouth, one less future hanging over her head like a debt.

"Where?"

"In London. In the household of an old acquaintance of your father's brother-in-law. A respectable house. Good references. It is not rough work." She said that last as if it mattered most, and perhaps to her it did.

He stared at the letter. "In service."

Her hand tightened over the pages. "Yes."

He had not meant the word to sound so sharp. Even now he hated himself a little for the memory of it. But he had been fourteen and frightened and full of the brittle pride boys cling to when they have nothing else left that feels like their own.

His mother looked at him for a very long moment.

Then she set the letter aside and said, softly, "Kyle, look at me."

He had.

"Work does not lessen you."

He said nothing.

"Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Mama."

"No one can take from you what your father gave you unless you hand it over yourself. Conduct is your inheritance now. Carry it properly."

He had tried. God, he had tried.

When the day came, she packed his shirts herself. Folded his stockings. Slipped his father's prayer book between two bundles of linen where no careless eye would mark it. At the door she straightened his collar with steady fingers and kissed his forehead as if he were still small enough to be held and sent nowhere at all.

"Write when you may," she told him.

"Yes, Mama."

"And do not let any man teach you to think poorly of yourself because fortune has thought poorly of us."

His throat had burned. "I won't."

She smiled then. He could still see the tremor of it. "That is my brave boy."

He had not cried until the cart rounded the lane and the rectory vanished from view.

The silver stand gleamed by the time he set the cloth aside.

The library had warmed some with the fire. Pale light had begun to creep at the seams of the curtains. Soon there would be bells and movement and the upstairs world would wake. He went to open the shutters one by one, morning entering in measured bands across the carpet.

His first sight of the Henshaw house had been in autumn rain.

Enormous. That was the word that lived in the memory before any other. It seemed impossible that so many windows could belong to one family, that so many steps could lead to one front door, that a house might require so many servants merely to keep it standing in proper dignity.

He had arrived not at the front, of course. Boys like him entered by the side passage. The porter had taken his small case and not unkindly directed him through a maze of corridors he was certain he should never remember. Everything smelled of soap and polish. The floors shone. Bells hung in rows like instruments of judgment. Voices echoed from rooms he could not yet place.

He had stood in the servants' hall with wet cuffs and a spine gone rigid from nerves, trying not to look as lost as he felt.

There had been hands to shake, names to repeat, rules to hear and hold. Mrs. Finch had inspected him as if purchasing a horse and seemed, if not disappointed, at least cautiously willing to be convinced. Mrs. Dalton asked if he could carry a tray without dropping it. He said he could. She looked as though she intended to test the claim to destruction.

And then Price had appeared.

Not Mr. Price then, not in Kyle's head. Simply the butler, grave and broad-shouldered and impossible to lie to. He had looked Kyle over in a glance that missed nothing. The too-careful posture. The accent not quite like the others. The hands reddened by worry and travel. The old coat brushed and mended within an inch of pride.

"You can read?" Price had asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Write?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good hand?"

"Yes, sir."

Price had studied him another moment. "Don't let it make you slow."

It had not been comfort exactly, but it had not been scorn either. At fourteen, that had felt like mercy.

The first weeks were miserable in all the ordinary ways. His feet ached. His shoulders burned. He forgot turns in passages and had to retrace them in embarrassment. He learned to carry coal without blacking his cuffs, to open a door without appearing eager, to stand without fidgeting, to hear his own name spoken as if it belonged to function and not to person.

He learned invisibility.

That was the hardest lesson. Not the labor. Labor could be mastered. Invisibility was stranger. To stand three feet from a conversation and not exist within it. To pour tea while men discussed Parliament and horses and marriages, never glancing at the hand that filled their cups. To be trusted with silver and letters and every private habit of a household while remaining, in some minds, scarcely human enough to notice what one carried.

Kyle had learned because he must.

And because there had been others below stairs who made the learning bearable.

Soap had arrived not long after him, all sharp grin and impossible nerve, with a tongue that should have got him dismissed six times over in the first fortnight and somehow never quite did. He had taken one look at Kyle's caution and decided, perhaps by instinct, that it was a challenge.

"You look as if they've hired a curate by mistake," he had said on the second day, flopping down beside him on a bench in the yard between errands. "Do you ever smile?"

"I don't know," Kyle answered. "Do you ever stop speaking?"

Soap had grinned wider. "There he is."

Ghost had been harder to know. He was older by some years and already established in the household, more shadow than man in those early days. Yet there had been a curious steadiness in him too. He showed Kyle, without comment, the quickest route from the hall to the upper east corridor after Kyle took the long way twice. Once, when a senior footman blamed him for a spill not his own, Ghost said from the doorway, "It wasn't him," and walked on. That was the whole of it. Kyle never forgot.

And Price, for all his severity, proved fair. He corrected without delighting in humiliation. Expected better when better was possible. Seemed to recognize, perhaps before Kyle himself did, that usefulness could become a kind of shelter if a man were diligent enough.

It was not home.

But in time, it became the place that kept him.

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It was almost comical how Wrecker tried to squeeze down the aisle, and not bump anyone on his way to the front row of the class and took a seat next to a girl with brown hair. She gave him a small smile as he tried to squeeze his bulk into the tiny seat. He was partially successful as one of his long legs stuck out past the first row, and the other hung out into the aisle. He set his backpack in the seat between him and the girl, nodding to the professor that he was ready to begin.

“As I was saying, this first semester we will discover a love for The Renaissance, poetry, medieval knights….” the professor droned on.

Wrecker sat with rapt attention, only sparing a glance at the girl beside him. He had to keep up his grades to keep his place on the power lifting team and his sports scholarship.

When class was over, he had half a page of notes he could barely read, a handout of books to read, and a sense of dread at accomplishing the work.

He heard a voice beside him. “Hey, don’t look so down. This is an easy class, I promise.” The girl held out her hand to him, introducing herself. “The names Remi Spencer. But my friends call me Spence.”

“Oh, hi. I’m Wreck- I mean,Hūmārie Fett [whoo -mar-ier], but most everyone calls me Wrecker. Because- you know…” He motioned to his scarred face and the rest of his body. He took her hand and gave it a light squeeze.

She was surprised when his hand completely engulfed hers and she kind of laughed to herself. “A few of my friends are personal friends with Professor Borowicz and he might seem a little intimidating, but he means well. He’d rather his students love English literature than run from it.”

Wrecker pulled his massive frame out from the cramped seat and gathered his backpack and his crumpled schedule. “Where ya headed next?” Wrecker asked. He avoided standing to his full height so as not to frighten Remi.

“I have Business Communications next with Professor Stallman,” Remi said.

He squinted at his crumpled schedule and that’s when Remi really noticed his scarring. It traveled from the left side of his face from behind his ear, across his cheek and nose, and part of his lips. There were some faint lines of scarring on his muscled left arm as well. She had a sudden surge of sympathy and compassion for him as she guessed it was a pretty traumatic accident that caused the scarring on someone so young.

“I have the same class!” Wrecker said with a smile. They started walking together back into the crowded hallways when his smile fell. He scratched behind his left ear, and said ,“Uh, I don’t want to impose on ya, but do you think you will be joining a study group? I’m gonna need all the help I can get this semester.” He looked down at her hopefully.

“Well, I don’t know of any yet, but I’m sure I’ll join one, too. Do you have a cell phone?” Remi asked.

“Ah…I don’t have one yet. My brother, Tech, is supposed to get one for all of us…”

“No worries. I’ll give you my phone number and email and we can stay connected that way. If you want,” Remi said. She didn’t want to be too pushy.

“That would be great! Like I said, I’m going to need all the help I can get.” He smiled at her as they continued walking to their next class. Despite his initial trepidation of the new school year, he was excited for a new beginning and new friends.

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