It didn’t look like anyone was here yet. While part of Tiffany was glad for that, given that meant she’d be alone with time to think, the rest of her knew why that was. And in the privacy of her own head she could admit that she wasn’t thrilled.

It really was too bad that the inn was the last project she had for the year. With winter moving in, she’d have nothing to do until spring came around and quite honestly, she wasn’t the sort of person who was happy with enforced idleness. Maybe I should take up a hobby. She thought. Learn to paint, or weave fabric, or grow plants. Or maybe she’d spend the winter months planning new public works buildings.

Something to keep her occupied. Because if she had to listen to Fiona lark on about anything much longer, she was going to kill her. And killing your king’s girlfriend was probably a bad idea.

Maybe I should spend the winter getting to know Gray. She snorted to herself as she pushed the gate open and stepped into the courtyard. Emanuel had done a really good job with the flowers outside. It was kind of riotously bright, but in a welcoming way. But Emanuel circled her back around the same old problem.

Because Emanuel had proposed to Kennedy, probably in counter to her “scandalous” idea of cohabitation. While it certainly wouldn’t bother Kennedy if people talked about her living with Emanuel without putting a ring on it, it would probably bother other people. And the stress of it bothering other people might put Emanuel back on the bottle.

But Kennedy’d be moving into her new house just after the wedding and that was going to leave her in the barn with Jennica and the idiots. Stupid was all over young like white on rice. She could live with the fact that Zahrah and Fiona still had some growing up to do. At least she hoped that at some point they’d grow up.

She just didn’t know how well she’d do with being cooped up in a house with the two of them all winter. Which she would be. Unless she wanted to subject all of her friends to old third wheel Tiffany–one or the other of them got married. She sighed and ran her hand over the back of one of the chairs.

And here in the privacy of her own head, she might as well be honest with herself, that was bothering her too. Her dad had always ruffled her hair and quoted Ferris Bueller at her “Life moves pretty fast. You don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” And she did, it was always like she’d look up and there’d be another chunk of life gone by.

The night of the prom, she’d an hour and a half late to the dance because she and her date, Sherman Wallenstein, had been building an Eiffel Tower out of celery sticks and cream cheese frosting. Homecoming, in college, even the year they’d been winning, she spent the game in the library because it was quiet, and the one party she went to she spent it building a scale model of the great pyramid out of beer cans.

She’d always got caught up in a project or an idea or whatever and suddenly there was life, gone by. She’d promised her dad–or at least his memory–when she ended up here in Shadowcrest that she wouldn’t do it again. She’d live life here and now.

Except she hadn’t. She’d gotten caught up in building and city planning–then the castle. The castle. Hmmm, was that door hung square? She paused and tested the close on it. She’d give her left arm for a laser level. Well, actually not. She needed both arms. How about Fiona’s left arm?

All Fiona did with them was gesture wildly, do her nails and wrap them around Lock like a Kudzu vine. But that was mean. She probably did more than that–besides it wasn’t fair to inconvenience someone as much as losing a limb would just so she could get a bit more square on a door. Besides, the door seemed square enough.

Tiffany had woken up nearly eighteen months after arriving in Shadowcrest to find herself with nothing much to do, a whole season of idleness ahead of her, and everyone neatly paired off around her. Except Tate. Who was a really sweet kid–but not exactly the man of her dreams. Besides, he was sweet on Zahrah. Although who knew where that was going. And Gray, who she spent an hour a week arguing with over matters of city planning. And not in the cute When Harry Met Sally sort of arguing.

There wasn’t even any–passion in it–the sort of arguing she and Gray did was as interesting and exciting as Melba toast. And other than their weekly arguments about the way she was rebuilding Shadowcrest, they had nothing in common, no shared passions, nothing to talk about. The one person of the right gender she did have that with–was taken.

And she wasn’t equipped to take on her “rival”. Sure, maybe, in the movies it would all work out. But Tiffany knew they weren’t living in the movies. He wasn’t going to see her drab-feathers past all her tinsel and flash.

Was it sad that he really did rather remind her of Sherman? The only thing Tiffany had had that was close to a boyfriend in high school. Why, she didn’t know, they looked nothing alike, and even their personalities were different. Sherman had been brilliant, but he had no concept of people. He had no philosophy to offset his science. Math, he understood, emotion he didn’t.

Tiffany flopped down on a stool and stared at the wine keg ahead of her. Nice of Emanuel to donate his stash of “the good stuff” to the cause of opening the pub. Kennedy said it hadn’t even been her idea. That was good though, it meant that he was really serious about getting sober, which was good. And then Kennedy would get married.

Maybe–the borders were opening–that was scheduled to happen in just a few days. That was why they’d been pushing to get the inn open now. Not that they expected too many people crossing over the border before winter set in, but it’d be better to have a place to house them.

Maybe, if Fiona and Zahrah get too annoying I’ll take one of the rooms here. She thought, tracing the wood on the bar with one finger. The door opened behind her and she turned to look at the king who grinned at her for a moment, but continued to hold the door open and her stomach fell, so she didn’t immediately climb down off the bar stool.

“You know you’re supposed to rise when the king comes into the room.” Fiona’s voice, complete with affected girlish lilt, came as she was trying to convince her insides that they really didn’t need to go check on the kitchen without the rest of her.

“No, really?” Tiffany heard herself say before she could stop herself. Both Wesley and Lock gave her puzzled glances while Fiona glared. Jennica offered a smile that seemed sympathetic, but who knew if it actually was, considering she and Fiona were best friends.

“Well–,” Fiona started.

“She knows, Fi. Leave off.” Jennica said.

“Your majesty, Sir Wesley, Fiona, Jennica.” Tiffany said by way of greeting as she walked over to the group of new arrivals.

“Sorry we’re late. The ride took us a little longer than we thought it would, Lady Tiffany.” Lock said. He only ever called her that any more when Fiona was around. It probably wasn’t a coincidence.

“Meh, it’s okay. I just went and checked all the doors and windows and what not, not like I exactly need my hand held for that part, your majesty.” Tiffany said.

“So why do you need King Lachlan to come to every one of your buildings before you finish it?” Fiona asked.

“Uh, habit? I mean usually the contractor and architect would meet up with the client before signing off on the building.” Tiffany said after a moment’s thought. Now that Fiona mentioned it she didn’t know why she did it other than that–not that she really wanted to admit that to Fiona.

“But isn’t your client here Olivia?” Fiona asked.

“And she should be here soon, too.” Tiffany said, trying valiantly not to let Fiona get her goat.

“But couldn’t you just do the walk-through with her?” Fiona pressed.

“Lady Fiona.” Sir Wesley said, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“So what’s with all the plants?” Fiona said, seemingly changing the subject.

“I thought Lady Olivia liked plants.” Lock said, sounding puzzled by the comment.

“Well, I just thought this was a bar, not a greenhouse.”

“Not every bar has to be a dance club or smoky dive. And I do like plants.” Olivia said from behind Fiona, causing the dark-haired girl to jump. “I don’t happen to think pub and plants have to be mutually exclusive.” Olivia grinned a rather feral grin at Fiona.

“The place looks amazing, Tiffany.” She gave Tiffany a hug. “It turned out better than I imagined.”

“And she imagined a lot.” Zahrah put in.

“Silence, peasant.” Olivia tossed her head regally. “I mean, please be quiet, assistant, you’re ruining my mystique. So, how bout we christen my new bar?” She chuckled, brown eyes sparkling.

“Don’t you want to make sure the building isn’t going to fall down, first?” Fiona asked.

“Nah, I trust Tiff, why? Don’t you?” Olivia asked, Fiona’s mouth worked for a minute before closing in a bitter line.

“So, do I get some wine?” Zahrah asked, hopping onto her barstool as Fiona slid into the seat next to Tiffany, leaving Lock with the end.

“I dunno, you legal?” Olivia said pouring a wine into the glasses.

“Um. Am I legal?” Zahrah looked at Wesley and Lock who exchanged puzzled glances.

“Legal for what, exactly?” Wesley finally offered.

“To drink.” Zahrah’s tone and expression were just so–teenager–as she said it. Like it was the stupidest question anyone had ever asked. “What is Shadowcrest’s legal drinking age?”

“I’m gonna guess by the blank looks, there isn’t one, drink up, kiddo.” Olivia slid a glass down the bar at Zahrah. Rather amazingly it skidded to a stop without slopping over, right in front of Zahrah. After they all had a glass of wine, Olivia raised her glass and intoned solemnly. “And here’s to the bar with no name.” And if Tiffany glanced to her left before adding her “Hear, hear.” and drank maybe a bit too much for a toast, no one commented.

That couldn’t have gone worse if I’d been trying. Lock thought as he stared at the candle flame. He owed it to Tate to handle this well. He hadn’t been able to spare him this, he hadn’t been able to make it better and now he’d just made it exponentially worse. And what if Alistair went over to Gray’s. Gray wasn’t there.Why hadn’t he had them bring Tate to the castle? Why hadn’t he gone over to Gray’s and warded the place before he talked to Alistair.

“Lock?” Wesley asked from the doorway. “Lock? Lady Tiffany’s here.”

“Oh damn.” Lock pushed the papers on his desk around trying to remember where he put those plans that Tiffany had given him for the inn.

“Lock?”

“Sorry, Wes. I’m–scattered.” Lock said, almost upending his inkwell.

“Does it have anything to do with Alistair taking off out of here like a bat out of hell, looking like he was about to shit himself?” Tiffany asked from around Wesley’s shoulder.

“He–did?” Lock asked.

“Oh, yeah.” Tiffany said as Wesley nodded. Of course he did. I told him I was going to turn him into a pig and then had my wand out pointing it at him. It hadn’t been his finest moment.

“You told him you were going to turn him into a pig? Right on!” Tiffany laughed delightedly. He blinked. He hadn’t realized he said that outloud. “He so deserved it.” Lock’s stomach dropped.

“Lock?” Wesley asked.

“You know?” Lock asked in a small, sick voice.

“Know what?” Tiffany looked at Wesley who shrugged.

“About Tate.” Lock bit his lip. Did–who–how?

“Tate?” She asked blankly. Lock blinked again. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe he hadn’t fucked this up that badly yet. “I dunno what he did specifically, this time, but I do know he couldn’t be more of a dick if he had a circumcision scar on his forehead.” Lock looked at Wesley who shook his head.

“Er, what?”

“It’s a cheap, demeaning penis joke,” Tiffany shrugged. “It’s not important.”

“Oh.” Lock chewed his lip.

“You’re not going to look very kingly if you have a hole in your lip from chewing on it.” Tiffany told him blandly. “Is there any particular reason you threatened to turn Alistair to a pig?” A denial immediately jumped to his lips, but what was the point? Both Tiffany and Wesley knew him better than to believe the denial, even if he posed it.

“Will you both keep this quiet? For Tate?” He asked meeting first Wesley’s gray eyes, then Tiffany’s blue ones. Wesley nodded,

“Of course.” Tiffany said.

“I–tried very hard to keep a cool head, I mean Gray told me some pretty horrible things that Tate told him that Alistair did and said. Then I went to Gray’s, to try and talk to Tate. I–I know that Uncle Phillip certainly wouldn’t have meted out a punishment for hearsay. But Lady Kennedy didn’t think it was a good idea for me to talk to Tate, he was finally calming down after having told her and Gray what happened. So I decided I would talk to Alistair and see what he said.” Lock bowed his head.

“And he stood there.” Lock gestured across the desk. “And I asked him–in the stomach-churning detail that Gray had related it to me in–if he had–sexually assaulted Tate. I–I think that’s what Lady Kennedy called it. She said he didn’t–force himself into Tate, but she definitely would say he probably forced himself onto Tate.” Lock looked up. Wesley looked horrified and a little sick.

Tiffany–Tiffany just looked distant, her face completely shut down, except her eyes. Those sparked and burned like the heart of a flame. Lock went back to contemplating the floor between his boots.

“What did he say?” Tiffany asked after a few moments.

“He said that–it wasn’t–it wasn’t an assault because Tate didn’t say no.” Lock heard the shaky disbelief in his own voice over Wesley’s incredulous gasp.

“The cocksucker.” Tiffany hissed barely audibly.

“He said that if Tate had ever actually said anything, told him to leave. He would’ve, but he didn’t and–so he didn’t see what the big deal was.”

“That sounds like Alistair.” Wesley snorted disgusted.

“Has he done this kinda thing before?” Tiffany asked. Wesley sighed.

“Who knows what all he’s done.” The knight admitted. “He was always a gaol lawyer, someone who knew exactly how far he could go without getting into trouble. He could come within a hairsbreadth of breaking any rule without actually breaking it. But he always walked away cause he didn’t do it.” Lock nodded without looking up.

“He told me that he was just trying to give Tate a chance with Lady Zahrah. And that maybe–maybe it was even something Tate w-wanted.” Lock’s voice broke. “I have to admit, I didn’t handle it well. After listening to what Gray told me and what Lady Kennedy said. To have him stand there with that insufferably smug you-can’t-do-anything-to-me-for-this look on his face. I lost my temper. I had my wand out before I could even think about it. I was halfway to turning him into a pig and I didn’t even think about.”

“Well, you’re still better than me, cause if I’d been you, he’d have been oinking AND ball-less before I stopped to think about it, Lock.” Tiffany said. He raised his head and stared at her.

“You wouldn’t have.”

“I don’t lose my temper often. I’ve got a much longer fuse than say Kennedy does, but when I lose it–it’s gone and I’m usually standing in the middle of a fallout zone when I do. Everybody loses their temper sometimes.” Tiffany said.

“I’m the king, Tiffany.”

“You’re still human, Lock. Yes, you’re the king. But that doesn’t mean you need to be Superman. Tate’s a good kid and having a squirrel-fucker like Alistair stand there and tell you he might’ve even wanted it? I’d be more pissed at you if you didn’t go off on him, Lock, than I’ll ever be because you did.” Tiffany said with a toss of her head.

Lock processed that for a moment. “…Superman?”

“Literary creation. He was strong and fast and, you know, could pat his head and rub his tummy at the same time. He was Superman, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, faster than a speeding bullet, stronger than a locomotive. The point is–when you didn’t have kryptonite with you, going up against Superman was asking to get your ass kicked. I still never liked Superman much. Me I was more of a Captain Kirk sorta girl, sure he was a man-whore, but his whole crew would have followed him into the sun. Even all those sad red shirts.” Tiffany paused. “Never mind. Anyway, somehow Kirk managed to be both human and a good leader. Superman was so awesome by himself why did he need anyone else. There’s nothing wrong with being human.”

“My uncle would have known how to handle this.” Lock muttered to the floor. He heard a swish of hair across fabric, as if Tiffany and Wesley had turned to look at each other.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right? Lock, what the hell makes you think your uncle would have even known this happened to someone like Tate.”

“Eh?” Lock finally looked up and Wesley was nodding.

“She’s right, Lock. King Phillip was a good man, and no, he probably wouldn’t have threatened to turn Alistair into a pig. But he wouldn’t have because he wouldn’t have cared that a nobleman talked dirty to a servant either. You did what you did cause you care. You care about Tate and someone hurt him. And then he–,” Wesley trailed off, obviously looking for words.

“Tried to cheaply justify doing wrong. Because he could.” Tiffany finished for him. Wesley nodded in agreement.

“Just how am I supposed to sit here and hate myself with the two of you around?”

“You aren’t.” Tiffany stuck her tongue out at him.

“If there’s anything I think your uncle would criticize about how you handled this, Lock, it’s that you are hating yourself for what happened.”

“Right. Often wrong, never in doubt.” Tiffany said. And Lock nodded. “I mean this isn’t getting that inn approved, you know.” Wesley smiled and stood up and headed out the door.

“Aye, my lady.” Tiffany smiled and slung the roll of paper by her feet up onto the desk. “So I’ve been thinking about that courtyard issue.” Maybe they’re right, he thought as Tiffany pointed out lines that made only passably little sense to Lock. Maybe it isn’t never falling down that makes the king. Maybe it’s the getting back up.

Gray stood by the window of the reception parlor outside of the king’s study and stared out the window at Sir Wesley and Lady Jennica. That, he thought, was what love was supposed to be like. The shy fluttery smiles mixed in with conversation that was never quite stilted. He clutched the window frame for a moment, his stomach a churning mess. He’d felt like that, once upon a time. Bailey’s face flickered in front of him and he blinked rapidly, the last thing that he needed right now was to get the issues confused.

“Lady Tiffany? Why do you always tell me what she said? What does she know?” Gray heard Lady Fiona’s voice rise sharply. He couldn’t hear Lock’s reply, but apparently it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “She’s an architect, that doesn’t make her all knowing about interior design.”

And he was pretty sure that that was not a way that love was supposed to be like. Lock was his king, son of his lord, and someone to whom Gray’s loyalty was settled on unwaveringly. He would have followed Lock into hell itself with hardly a thought. And certainly Gray didn’t know anything about picking a consort for a king, but so far he was not nearly as impressed with Lock’s lady as Lock seemed to be.

But that was a dangerous path, because it brough him full circle, to the young man currently laying in Gray’s guest room, probably asleep or if not floating in and out of a sedated haze. Lady Kennedy had told him that it was probably better that way.

“Your majesty.” The argument from the next room had apparently come to it’s close because the next thing that Gray heard was the door opening. “Lord Gray.” Lady Fiona said, a cool light tone, as if she hadn’t been yelling loud enough for Gray to hear her in the next room–over the king’s not unimpressive sound muffling spells–just moments before.

“Lady Fiona.” He turned from the window and bowed. She breezed past with little more than a smile. Lock stuck his head out the door after the sitting room door closed. “She’s gone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh–did you hear that?”

“Aye, your majesty.” Gray said. Lock sighed.

“She wants me to paint the dining hall.” Gray looked at him quizzically. “She says it’s depressing. I’ll grant it’s not a cheery room, but…”

“I thought Lady Tiffany’s thoughts on leaving it as was were quite sound.” Gray said, neutrally.

“Me too. Did you find Tate?” Lock asked, peering past the scarlet curtains at the courtyard.

“Aye, he’s–at my house–with Lady Kennedy, highness.” Gray said, surprised at the tentativeness in his own voice.

“Oh, gods! Was–was he hurt, what happened?”

“If it’s all the same to you, your majesty, for Tate’s sake, perhaps we should speak of this in private. He looked at the wall shared with the library. There was a standing invitation to all of the Crestians that they could use the library at any time. It was both too early and too late for the visitors they usually got, but still.

A stricken look shot across Lock’s face, but he turned and lead Gray to the study. Lock seated himself in the single chair on the other side of the desk and waved Gray into one of the chairs by the fireplace.

“Now, about Tate?” The king leaned forward a little, his blue eyes sparking a little with intensity.

“He was at his house when I got there, in the barn–in Dumpling’s stall actually–when I got there. Although he was quite obviously distressed, he wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.” Gray, chewed on his lip for a second.

“That’s not unlike Tate.” Lock said, scrubbing his hand across his stubble.

“No.” Gray agreed, if only he told people more, perhaps–but then again perhaps not. He couldn’t know, not any more than he could know that if he’d said something that morning half a lifetime ago, what it would have changed. “But it was obvious something was wrong. I sent him to my house and went and got Lady Kennedy. She gave him something to calm him down a little.”

“So did you find out what happened?” Lock was playing with the quill on his desk. A nervous habit that tended to get ink on him, his desk, and anything else on the desk, but Gray couldn’t find it in himself to scold about it.

“Tate’s been trying to court Lady Zahrah.” Gray said.

“I know, Master Jarrett and Wesley have both commented on it.” Lock looked thoughtful for a moment. “But Lady Fiona and Lady Jennica have both commented that she is much more interested in Alistair.”

“Aye.” Gray couldn’t help snarling out the word. Lock’s eyes narrowed and he abandoned the quill to lean back in his chair and steeple his fingers together. “Well, apparently ever since Lord Dolph’s wedding, the two of them have been at odds over this.”

“That long? And he never said anything?” Lock said.

“Think back to your first love affair, Lock.” Gray snorted.

“If you mean that pathetic–thing I had with Lady Emma. I wouldn’t call it a love affair.” Lock laughed.

“Still, you were at the time, quite heartbroken that she didn’t return your affections.” Gray pointed out. Lock snorted. “Would your uncle have been your first choice of confidant?”

“Uncle Phillip?” Lock asked. Gray nodded. “Okay, no, I wouldn’t have. So what did Alistair do about this?”

“His usual way of handling rivals.” They had both known Alistair growing up. He had been a bully since the first time that Kennan had brought him to court when he was hardly old enough to lace his own breeches, and a cruel one. His pattern had always been one of escalation. At first just taunts or a bit of shoving, if that didn’t work, he’d keep getting crueler, more ruthless. Lock was quiet for a minute then nodded.

“I’m guessing he tried that with Tate?” Lock said.

“Aye.”

“And he’s been sitting there suffering, right under our noses. Damn it.” Lock exhaled a long sigh. “But there’s more isn’t there?”

“Oh–aye.” Gray agreed. “Butterscotch recently had kittens, and I guess that Tate decided that he would give one of them to Lady Zahrah. And I guess that Alistair saw the two of them together.”

“Go on.”

Gray stared at the carpets on the floor. Tate’s dull, slightly slurred voice in his head, telling him of how he had been in the barn when Alistair had approached. How Alistair had told him that he wasn’t an unreasonable man, that he would even offer Tate a compromise on the subject of Lady Zahrah.

Even with the sedative in him, Tate’s voice had become near hysterical as he recounted what Alistair viewed as a compromise. Gray hadn’t thought himself a completely unworldly sort of man, but apparently he was quite provincial compared to what Alistair had been doing.

“What sort of man offers–that?!” Lock asked, his voice a shocked mix of bewilderment and growing anger. “How–how can you even–say something like ‘I’ll let you get the girl if you’ll–you’ll–go to bed with me’?”

Oh, but it got worse. Not only had Alistair said it, he then proceeded to, in stark detail, voice just exactly what he’d do to Tate. Gray’s stomach clenched and he half wondered if he’d be sick–and it hadn’t even been said to him. Just repeated by a shell-shocked voice by the boy who’d actually had to live it.

All of this had been accompanied, Tate informed he and Lady Kennedy dully, by Alistair standing too close, touching his arm, his hair, his face. He told them how he’d tried to shove Alistair away, but the former noble had simply crowded him closer to the wall, trapping him.

“Gods.” Lock hissed. “Is–is that all.”

“That’s all he said, Lock. And Lady Kennedy advised me against pushing it.” Gray admitted. “But–given the way Tate got more hysterical, the longer he talked, somehow I doubt it.” Lock nodded sharply before pushing up out of his chair.

Gray watched as the king drew his fist back and slammed it into the wall by the window.

“I’ll kill him.” The king said bowing his head “You don’t–Gray–tell me honestly–do you think Alistair–raped him?”

“No. Lady Kennedy said the physical signs of a sexual assault weren’t there. I’m not sure what signs would have been there–but she said you would have been able to tell if Alistair had–p-penetrated him. But, she did say that–he could have, with what was there, done just about everything short of–that.” Gray said. “And–she said that he definitely–mind fucked Tate.” Lock hissed a sob in between his teeth.

“How could all of those people die and he lived. Tell me, you’re the priest, Gray, how the fuck could the gods let something like that happen. All of those good people, Gray, all of them dead and some disgusting thing like him live.” Lock said.

“I don’t think that’s the Gods’ jurisdiction. I don’t think the Gods put numbers up on the tally board. We have our choices, Lock, and the Gods let us make them. Sometimes people make bad ones.” Gray said after a long minute.

“How will I ever face Tate again? I failed him, Gray.” Lock said. And what did you say to that?

“I think, Lock, if you could never face Tate again, it’d be worse for him. He–he would probably think he disgusted you.” Gray said.

“He probably would, wouldn’t he?” Lock sighed. “And he doesn’t deserve that.” The king was silent for a long moment. “Can I at least turn Alistair into a pig?”

“Is it sad how much I want to squee?” Jolene asked Heidi.

“Over the fact that I’m getting married–or over the fact that I’ll be moving out and you’ll have more closet space?” Heidi teased.

“Which do you think? Especially considering that Zahrah will be taking over your wardrobe space before the last of your stuff clears the stairwell.” Jolene stuck her tongue out at Heidi who laughed and stuck her tongue out back.

“Ah, well, then, no. I don’t mind if you want to squee over the wedding.” Victoria tucked a strand of her hair back into the updo and headed down the stairs.

“So, ten bucks says it’s six weeks or less before Kennedy’s firing up the old preg tester again.” Peyton was saying as she came into the living room of the barn.

“You’re betting on people’s sex lives now, Peyton?” Tiffany asked, a bit incredulously.

“Isn’t anything else to bet on. I wonder how hard it is to make slot machines.” She trailed off looking at the ceiling.

“Fairly.” Victoria pointed out as she took a seat in the empty chair to Peyton’s left. The blonde looked at her with an eyebrow quirked. “Think about it. Not only would you have to figure out the mechanics of making one, you’d have to figure out how to build a generator cause they need power to run. Besides, would you really want to dump all your money into something like that?”

“Not for me, I’d build a bank of them and everyone else could lose their money in them.”

“Right.” Victoria said. “And what would you do if someone won?”

“I’d think of something, don’t kill my buzz, Vikki.”

“Have you been drinking already, Peyton?” Jolene asked from behind them.

“Oh, you know. Just a little liquid courage.” Peyton stretched.

“For what?” Jolene sneered. “You aren’t getting married, after all.”  If Peyton was in the room, Victoria would have sworn that it was her permanent expression. Granted this was the real world and not some place occupied by fuzzy little bears or ponies who were all bff’s all the time, but Victoria still didn’t know why Jolene was so disparaging of Peyton all the time.

“For seeing my ass in this dress.” Peyton waved airily. At least Peyton got as good as she gave very rarely letting the other woman get her goat.

“I take it,” Kennedy interjected before they could get any further into a disagreement. “That Heidi is ready to go and that we should head for the chapel?” Jolene looked at Kennedy for a long moment as if judging whether she’d win a battle with the doctor, but apparently she didn’t think so because she just nodded.

Heidi had decided that she wanted to have an outdoor wedding, something that was questionable, given that it was spring, and doubly questionable considering the dark clouds on the horizon, but, as Heidi pointed out, the king was a wizard. If he could bring people from the future, he could keep it from raining on one wedding ceremony.

Though she really didn’t know Heidi that well or Dolph either, the ceremony was very sweet and apparent to everyone that the bride and groom adored each other. After the vows were said, Dolph swept Heidi off her feet and spun her around, garnering applause from the spectators.

Then it was inside, after all there was no reason to tempt fate with an outdoor reception as well. The plants did need rain so if it decided to drizzle all afternoon, they should probably let it.

“Aren’t you going to have any cake, Lady Victoria?” A voice asked by her elbow.

“I want to be able to fit into this dress for the next wedding if I need to.” Victoria said turning toward Camden.

“I think it’ll fit fine,” Camden blushed then. Oh, my. Victoria stopped herself from giggling. He’d been checking her out! Maybe walking everywhere and not being constantly stuck behind a desk going over columns of numbers was helping put her curves back where she remembered them being.

“What about you?” Victoria asked. Camden’s green eyes widened for a moment. “Cake, aren’t you going to have any?”

“Oo-oh. Uh, no–I don’t think so.” Camden glanced around. “The young lady with Alistair, who is she?” She glanced over her shoulder in the direction that Camden was looking.

“Is that Alistair?” Victoria asked. For some reason she had been expect Alistair to be–the skeezy guy in the trench coat. Someone who looked like a rat. He looked normal. Handsome, even. Then her eyes flicked onto the girl talking to him. Zahrah. She was new to Shadowcrest too.

Of course Camden would notice her. Zahrah was young and very pretty, and her curves had the benefit of never having shifted out of position in the first place. She was probably closer to Camden in age than she was. Victoria stifled a sigh, as Camden would probably notice. Still, when she turned back Camden’s eyes shot up from where they’d been settled, which wasn’t on Zahrah.

“That’s Zahrah. She came a few days ago.” Victoria said, watching Camden’s face for a hint of his eyes leaping away to look at Zahrah again. Except they didn’t. Huh?

“Hadn’t you met Alistair?” Camden asked as if the girl was no longer anything he was concerned with.

“No. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I can’t name a single complimentary thing that was said about him.” Victoria admitted. Camden looked thoughtful for a moment. “What?”

“I’m trying to think of a complimentary thing I’ve ever heard said about him.” Victoria stifled a giggle. Alistair had moved away from Zahrah, who sat on one of the benches as Dolph and Heidi took the dance floor.

Camden grabbed a couple of glasses of wine and handed her one. She twisted the stem of the glass in her fingers before taking a sip of the wine, as Camden’s eyes swept over her profile.

The peace was broken by the sound of someone angrily hissing their breath in between their teeth. Victoria glanced at Camden who was watching Dolph and Heidi. He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. Okay, it wasn’t Camden… who then…? She wondered taking a slightly larger drink of the wine from her glass.

A stir by the door caught Victoria’s attention. “Well, my loves.” Blake said, rubbing Raquel’s tummy in a way that made Victoria smile wistfully. “I think I should take you and your mommy home. It’s walk from here.”

Considering Victoria hardly knew Raquel and Blake even less, it felt somewhat wrong to watch the two of them leaving, so she turned her attention back to the wine in her glass. Whatever it was, it was a lot stronger than the wine in a box that was served at book club and it was seeming to go straight to her head. Just one glass shouldn’t have tipped her into “buzzed” but this stuff had managed.

“Lady Victoria?” Camden sounded concerned.

“I just need a little air.” At least she hoped that she only needed some air. She didn’t know how she’d live with it if she got too drunk to walk home off one glass of wine. The young knight fell into step with her, holding the door open as the still-slightly-chilly night air hit her arms and face and cleared her head.

They both stood looking up at the sky for a moment until a cultured voice speaking in a hushed but obviously angry tone caught her attention.

“Leave her alone.” She recognized the redhair and black embroidered clothes from the back.

“You–you don’t.” Whomever responded was obviously by the voice a lot younger–and a lot smaller as she couldn’t see him past Alistair.

“Oh please, come back and retort when you can do it without a stammer.”

“Go to hell.” The boy said. Alistair grabbed the younger boy and jerking him half off his feet.

“What was that, you little urchin?” The boy didn’t say anything and the redhaired man shoved him away, obviously prepared to walk away. Camden’s fists were clenched like he was about to lay into Alistair.

“Go get Sawyer.” Victoria suggested. Camden looked at her. “Please, Camden.”

“Yes, Lady Victoria.” He said turning and running back into the reception hall. Alistair stalked past her, sneering down his nose and Victoria found her own hands balling into fists. The boy, she thought for a moment, Tate had his face buried in his hands. She wanted to say something, or at least give him cookies and a big hug, but they didn’t even know each other.

And having a woman you didn’t know witness you getting bullied was sure to perk the old self-esteem back up.

“Heyla,” Sawyer said, rounding the corner, Tate pulled his hands away from his face in such a way that Victoria was sure he was brushing away tears. Sawyer didn’t act like he noticed. “What’s wrong.”

“Just–Alistair. I asked–it’s nothing.” Tate said.

“Ah, Alistair, is it? You know the first time Jarrett put him in charge of stirrin’ the laundry, he burnt his braises?” Sawyer said. “He did. He was stirrin’ the pot of laundry o’er the cook fire, and he stirs like a sissy, y’know, barely swishin’ the water an’ me an’ Jarrett are at the pond fishin’ when we smell something burnin’ Go back and there’s ‘is braises at the bottom of the pot, burned just like the tag end of a pot of porridge in a cheap inn!”

The young bard continued to tell what Alistair would surely find to be highly embarrassing tales about him until Tate giggled, just a little.

“Alistair’s a bully isn’t he?” Victoria asked.

“That’s about all I’d call him in the presence of a lady.” Camden agreed. “Why’d you stop me?”

“I hate seeing a kid picked on, but I also know that if you interfered he’d just do it again, sometime when you weren’t around. And that Tate’d feel lower than a worm’s belly.” Victoria sighed. Camden cocked his head to the side. “My brother was bullied when he was about Tate’s age.” She felt her stomach clench.

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I don’t. But I used to.” Victoria said staring down at her hands.

“Oh.” Camden said.

“Lady Victoria, Sir Camden.” Sawyer bobbed his head as he sauntered past. Tate barely looked up as he murmured something that Victoria couldn’t catch.

As if that were some sort of a signal for people to start leaving, the doors pushed open only a few moments later, spilling Peyton and Ren out into the street. The two walked along for a moment before Ren caught Peyton’s hands in his. Not a drop of romance in her, my ass.

After Emanuel and Kennedy headed down the dark street toward the town gates, Sawyer, Tate, and Jolene followed.

“That’s quite alright, Alistair. Jarrett and I’ll see Zahrah back to the barn.” Nessa said as the doors pushed open a fourth time. Good, I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to Zahrah, and I’m not sure I trust Alistair any further than I can throw him. Especially not after what he did to Tate. Victoria thought. Not that anyone had asked her. But still it was always good to have one’s personal approval met.

Alistair followed a moment later, a snarl on his face. Lastly Wesley and Fox, followed by Tiffany, and Lock.

“If you’ll wait a moment, Lady Victoria, for me to say good night to Dolph and Lady Heidi I’ll walk you home.” Camden said, twisting his hand nervously. Victoria smiled and nodded.

The walk back was more quiet than talk, but pleasant still. And then they were back at the house with the familiar lanterns and the scarecrow watching lecherously over the crops. Maybe it was just her but that scarecrow was creepy.

“Thank you, Sir Camden.” Victoria tried to curtsy, not that it worked worth anything, but she tried. Camden nodded then raised his hand, tucking it under her chin and lifting it.

“Yes. Right now if I sat on anything soft I’d probably fall asleep. I haven’t done this kind of hours in a while. I’m out of practice.” Kennedy said, shaking her head. Gray scoffed softly which caused Wesley to glare at him. Gray looked significantly at the king, who did look tired. Kennedy found her right arm up, middle finger extended before her tired head even caught up with the fact that she’d moved.

The lords looked at each other and then at Kennedy, their faces all puzzled. “It’s an inappropriate gesture.” Kennedy explained, rubbing at her temple. “Just slightly more kosher than telling Lord Gray to go commit an unnatural act with Sir Wesley’s horse, which also came to mind.”

“That’s disgusting!” Gray said, his lips turning down.

“Whatever small amount of tact I possess checked out sometime yesterday.” Kennedy said. “Just because King Lachlan looks more tired than I do doesn’t meant that I’m not tired too. And if you’re just going to belittle what I have to say, my lord, why don’t you take the opportunity to go get to know Sir Wesley’s horse or one of those damned sheep better and leave me alone.” The last came out as a snarl, despite her efforts, which, admittedly, were half-assed to begin with. Gray grumbled something under his breath which netted him dirty looks from both Wesley and Dolph.

Given that she would have expected to see flying pigs before she thought Wesley would come to her defense, it apparently was pretty bad.

“Gray, Lady Kennedy, please.” Lock said, echoing her hand across the temple. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“How is Master Jarrett?” Dolph asked. Lock looked over his shoulder at Kennedy.

“Critical but stable.” Kennedy shrugged. “He’s not getting worse, it remains to see how much better he’ll get, and how fast, but he’s weathered the first storm.”

“That poor man.” Camden murmured.

“He can’t keep up the pace he’s been going at. This fall and into winter, I’ve treated him for more minor and semi-major injuries than the rest of you put together.” Kennedy said.

“I know.” Lock shook his head, his bright ponytail, catching the light. “It’s one of the things I’ve been concerned about.”

“Well, what about you, couldn’t you and the other ladies help him?” Gray asked.

“I don’t know shit about raising animals. Nor, from what I know of my roomies, do any of them. Yeah, we probably could go help with milking and feeding, like Tiff, Jolene and Peyton did this morning.” Right after Tiff threatened to tie me to the bed if I didn’t get some rest. Kennedy thought wryly.

“Is that all?” Gray asked.

“Yeah. My lord, the closest most of us have been to a cow is, as a comedian once said, when we’ve stopped to take a piss at a restaurant… Or a petting zoo. Although my petting zoo didn’t have cows.” She frowned for a second before pulling herself back onto the topic.

“How long, Lady Kennedy, do you think Master Jarrett will be–?” Dolph paused obviously struggling with the words.

“On bed rest?” Kennedy offered. “Weeks, if I can at all help it.”

“Weeks? Sure not!” Gray protested. “Most peasant men were up and around within days.”

“Most of the men who sustained injuries of the type Jarrett has probably died on the table, or in the next couple of days, Lord Gray.” Kennedy’s brows drew in and she stared at him as if daring him to disagree.

“I agree with Lady Kennedy, Gray. I’m still not sure how Jarrett ended up pulling through this and I am not willing to risk his life by shoving him out of bed.” Lock interjected.

“Master Jarrett is a very stubborn man though.” Dolph said. “I can’t imagine he’ll agree to extended bedrest.”

“He doesn’t have to agree to it. I’m ordering it.” Lock said. “And I intend to supervise it.” Four pairs of eyes shot to the King, two pairs of gray, a pair of green and a pair of brown all reflecting the same shock.

“Surely you’re not intending to–to move to that–that barn to supervise this–bed rest.” Gray said recovering first.

“No, as Tate will be staying with Sawyer for the duration, I’m installing Master Jarrett in Tate’s room where I can keep an eye on him.”

“Your Majesty!” Gray couldn’t have been any more shocked if the King had racked him in the nuts. “This is unheard of. Who will see to your household?”

“I can conjure a servantus, Gray, to tend to the general chores, and I can get my own door. I’m far from helpless. Sawyer will need the assistance far more than I need a servant.” Lock said mildly.

“And to install a peasant in your household like a noble guest, Your Majesty, this–this never would have happened under King Phillip!” Gray protested.

“I am not my uncle, Gray!” Lock’s shoulders under his doublet were tight, a faint sparkle of magic seemed to congregate around his hands which were balled into fists. “Uncle Phillip never would have put a peasant farmer in his guest room, no, but he ruled a kingdom of hundreds. He couldn’t know every man under his rule. I rule a kingdom of less than twenty! I do! I know them and I admire them, and I want to do the best I can by them! To the hells with propriety, with what my uncle would have done. I am through burying my people for stupid reasons. There is not one good reason why Master Jarrett cannot stay here and a great many good reasons why he should.” Lock took a deep breath and unclenched his hands, shaking them slowly.

“This is not up for discussion, Gray. Tate should have Jarrett settled or nearly by now. And he is staying until Lady Kennedy believes that he is fit for work once more, she is the expert here, not you.” As if that were a cue, Tate appeared in the doorway.

“How is Master Jarrett?” Lock asked of the teenager, who shifted nervously as the gazes of Shadowcrest’s nobility fell on him.

“He seems–disoriented, my–Your Majesty. But he seemed content enough to drink the potions you had me fetch from Master Emanuel and to rest.” Tate said.

“Excellent, thank you, Tate.” Lock said.

“If you don’t mind, Your Majesty, I’d like to give him a once over before the medicines all kick in.” Kennedy said, sliding off the desk.

“Certainly.”Lock said. “Thank you, Lady Kennedy.”

“I told you my first day here. I don’t do half-ass when it comes to my patients, your Majesty.” Kennedy reminded him.

“Tate, please show Lady Kennedy to your room.” Tate bobbed his head and slipped out of the room silent as a mouse.

—

One of these days, when it was a little less raw, Kennedy’d have to ask Lock why he thought she needed an escort. The house was not that big to begin with and laid out in a straight forward manner. He could have just told her that it was the room above the parlor and the stairs were in the kitchen. She pushed the door that was slightly ajar open and slipped inside.

Jarrett lay on the bed, his gaze slightly unfocused, hands folded on his stomach.

“Lady Kennedy.” His voice was always soft, but he spoke even softer now as if his chest hurt–actually having seen some of the bruising to his abdomen, it probably did.

“Jarrett.” Kennedy said. “How do you feel.”

“I–I’ve felt better.” You were damn near trampled to death yesterday morning and have spent the past day and a half randomly being operated on, no-fucking-duh, you’ve felt better.

“Of course.”

“My lady, where am I?” He looked around the room, puzzled.

“Tate’s room, in the King’s cottage.” He blinked, obviously startled.

“What am I doing here?” He asked, rubbing at one of the new scars that Kennedy and Lock couldn’t prevent.

“Bed rest. I want you off your feet and the King has graciously agreed to keep you there.” Kennedy said blandly.

“This isn’t necessary, my lady, I’m sure I’ll heal just as well in my own bed.” He swung his feet down off of the bed as if to stand up and Kennedy leveled a stare at him. The butcher gulped, his feet hovering off the floor.

“And this is exactly why you’re staying here until I say you can go. You won’t listen to Sawyer, that’s obvious, I have enough to do, I can’t keep an eye on you all the time, besides there’s too much estrogen at my house, you’d go nuts–and there’s no place for privacy really. But I figure if Lock tells you to stay in bed, you’ve kinda got to do it. And I want you in bed, asleep as much as possible and resting even when you’re not asleep.”

“My lady,” He protested.

“No, Jarrett. Damn it! We came this close,” She held up a forefinger and thumb just barely apart. “To losing you yesterday, and all through the night. Sawyer thinks this is all his fault. Lock and I exhausted ourselves keeping you off Death’s doorstep. Tiff had to threaten to tie me to my bed, and let me tell you I’m not into that, because I didn’t want to leave you. I was afraid if I did, you’d die. The least you can do is not make all of our work in vain.”

“I–I am sorry, Lady Kennedy.” The Butcher stared at his hands.

“Jarrett, I’m not saying this well. I’m tired, you’re drugged, it’s been a long fucking couple of days. Just stay in the goddamn bed, you cranky old coot, and we’ll argue this later–like sometime in a couple three weeks.”

“Weeks?” Jarrett yelped.

“Do not start that. I already had that argument today. Yes, weeks. If it makes you feel better, I full intend to drug you senseless for the next three weeks, so you really won’t notice it.” Kennedy said. “Now sleep.” She leveled a finger at the older man and waited until he’d slipped under the coverlet, curling up onto one side.Kennedy stood for a moment, watching his bright hair on the pillow.

“Sleep well, Jarrett, we’re glad to have you back.” She whispered.

—

Sawyer hadn’t expected to see the king certainly not with-in the week of the accident. After what he’d heard from Tate, the king had flat exhausted himself with helping Lady Kennedy with Jarrett. Nobody understood. Nobody.

Everyone said it wasn’t his fault, but it was, at least–sort of. It was his job to take care of Jarrett. Self-appointed maybe, but his job. And he’d failed at it. Jarrett got hurt and other people, who shouldn’t have had to, had paid the price for Sawyer’s failure.

And that the king didn’t even seem reproachful when he arrived on the doorstep just puzzled Sawyer all the more. As did the King’s companion when he arrived. A pale woman with strawberry gold hair that the King introduced as Lady Nessa.

She hadn’t said much, her green eyes had spent more time skipping around the cobbled streets and the trees and the hills than they had on anyone human. She had a soft drawling voice that held something that reminded him of Jarrett–almost to the point of tears.

Lady Nessa, the king explained, was here to help Sawyer and Tate with the animals until Jarrett was back on his feet. She was a veterinarian, whatever that meant. Something to do with animals?

The king didn’t stay long, not really, but Sawyer didn’t blame him. He looked exhausted, and Sawyer was too busy feeling guilty about it to be any sort of company.

After he and Tate manhandled a bed into the barn for Lady Nessa, he realized that the woman had disappeared. Well not disappeared, she was sitting on the hillside outside the barn, looking at Lake Haven.

“My lady?” He said. She jumped, shying away and stared at him over her shoulder like she expected him to take up a stick and take a swing at her.

“Yes?” She asked, her shoulders hunched in, arms wrapping tighter around her knees.

“Just–um–I hope you’ll be comfortable there, we could put you up in the loft, you know”

“Thanks all the same, but I don’t think I’d be–any more comfortable trying to sleep where you are.” She shrugged. Sawyer sat down on the grass, shrugging his own shoulders under his new tunic. As there was no way to get the blood out of the old one, Fox had made this one for him. It–fit too well. Tailored specifically for him, he wasn’t at all used to it.

Lady Nessa stared at her hands but turned to face him. “S-so, this Jarrett, he’s your…?” She asked hesitantly.

“Just my friend. We–take care of each other.” Jarrett’s just better at it than me. Lady Nessa nodded as if she understood. Who knew, maybe she did.

“So, what’s a–veterinarian?” Sawyer asked before she could ask anything else, he got the impression that if he started crying, she’d start crying and they’d both be off to a wonderful start.

“A-a doctor for animals.” She said after a moment.

“Like–like Lady Kennedy?”

“Except for sheep and horses and cows and dogs.” She nodded.

“Have you met Lady Kennedy?” Sawyer asked when it was apparent she wasn’t going to say anything more.

“Yes, I met her right after she told one of the lords he might want to accompany us here.” A smile poked up at the corner of Lady Nessa’s lips, somehow making the scarring on her cheek more prominent.

“Why?”

“Um–well, because he,” Her eyes rolled upward and she bit her bottom lip. “Had a few frustrations he might want to relieve on a–pig. I believe is what she said.”

“Huh?”

“She was telling him to go fuck a pig, Sawyer.”

Sawyer stifled a snort of laughter with his hand. “Who’d she say that to?”

“Lord Gray. After meeting him, I have to say I think it sounds like a wonderful idea, except for–well–the poor pig.” Sawyer couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled up, maybe it was early days, but he thought he’d probably like Lady Nessa.

“We meet here again, Mr. Smith.” Lady Peyton laughed. Ren tried not to look blank, which just made Lady Peyton throw her head back further, the sunlight shimmering off her platinum hair, her gray eyes shining near silver, apparently he hadn’t hid it very well at all.

“Uh–aye?” Ren said when she looked at him expectantly. She shook her head. “So, what does this fine morning find you doing.”

“Being awake, apparently.” She shrugged. Ren cocked his head to the side. “Mornings, in my view at least are really only there to keep night and afternoon from bumping into each other. “But you can’t sleep around here after the sun starts rising, Dr. Misra’s day starts at Oh-my-god and woe to anyone who is not their most productive when it’s still dark out.”

“Uh–I’m sorry?”Ren said.

“For what, you’re not the one waking me up at an hour where even the birds roll over and hit the snooze alarm and then expecting me to be happy about it.” Lady Peyton shook her head. “As for what I’m about to do, well, there’s a never ending parade of things I probably should do, help Heidi in the garden, work on those fabric samples Fox wants me to try weaving, making a new set of cups for the kitchen. But I don’t think I’m doing any of those things today. I think today I’m gonna play hooky.”

“Hooky?” She was so different, how could you love a woman who could talk for an hour and you didn’t understand a single word that she said? Or if you understood the word it wasn’t in a context you did.

“Yeah, that’s what they’d call it when you should be at school but weren’t. There’s this patch of clouds that just needs to be studied today, and I think that that is what I’m going to do.”

“Study the clouds?”

“Haven’t you ever done that?” Lady Peyton asked. “Just say and stared at the sky, watched for dragons and hippopotamuses and Sneezy the dwarf in the clouds?”

“Not–not since I was a very young lad.” Ren admitted.

“Then it’s time you did again,” Lady Peyton said. “Play hooky with me.” She smiled and Ren felt his resolve crumbling. He had stuff to be doing. There was a long list of things that he needed to get done. But somehow, with her smiling at him like that, he just didn’t want to go do it. He followed as she lead him off to a space behind the barn, between the two sheds.

The grass was soft and just slightly cool as they sat on it. Though the clouds on the horizon could have spelled rain, or even snow, the air held nothing but the promise of spring, blossoms and new leaves, fresh grass. So different than last year when the air still held the smell of things burned.

“So what do you see?” She asked as she laid back on the grass and he laid back also.

“Um…”

“That one,” She pointed to a cloud. “It looks like an elephant with wings.”

“Uh, aye?”

“No, c’mon, try!” Peyton turned gray eyes toward him. “What about that one?” She pointed to another cloud.

“A bat?” Ren said after a moment of attempting to decipher the shape. It looked like a cloud. But this seemed important to Peyton and so he had to try.

“No, it more looks like moose antlers.”

“Oh.” Apparently he was bad at this. Peyton looked at him before sitting up.

“Ren, you’re not getting this wrong. It’s–open to interpretation. So if I tell you that that one looks like Elvis in a parrot-head hat, you can tell me no, it looks like King George smoking a joint. And we both might be right.” Her hair fell into her eyes and he had the overwhelming urge to brush it back. Except–what if that was too forward?

“…Did King George do that?” He asked instead.

“I dunno.”

“Oh.”

“You are so cute.” Peyton laughed, cocking her head to the side.

“I–uh–I am?”

“Adorable.” He bit the inside of his lip, uncertain what to say to that. He never had the right words. They just weren’t… they never came at the right time, if they came at all.

A scream rocked the idyllic morning. “Heidi!” Peyton shot to her feet with a speed Ren could only blink at for a moment. She was running before he could even get up.

“What happened?” Heidi asked.

“The–it was,” the boyish tenor that was stumbling for an answer, rough in a way that Ren had never heard, was still unmistakable. Sawyer.

“Oh, my god!” Peyton shrieked. “Kennedy!” She pelted off toward a shed. “Kennedy!” Ren rounded the corner as she went the other way, only to pull up short and gasp.

Sawyer was gasping and sobbing, his back against the stone fence. Heidi knelt on the other side of a prone form. The coppery scent of blood caught up in the thick smell of blossoms. He was pretty sure, though, he recognized those boots.

“The animals, they just–I ain’t never seen nothing like it! We were up in the lower pasture and I dunno what happened!” Sawyer said. “And then sudden Jarrett went down. And I got to him quick as I could, but, it wasn’t…”

Some disconnected part of Ren paused for a moment in wonder. It was over half a mile from the lower pasture to here, how had Sawyer, slim, practically waif-like Sawyer, carried Jarrett over half a mile. Jarret was a big man, nearly as big as Ren and Ren wasn’t sure he could have carried Jarrett down the street, let alone halfway across town.

By the time it took him to get from the corner of the barn to halfway down it, Kennedy had materialized out of nowhere. She took in the scene with a quick glance then turned to Ren. “Go get the King.” Ren nodded quickly and bolted.

Ren would see Sawyer’s face, hear his plaintive voice apologizing for a long, long time. “I’m sorry, Lady Kennedy, I’m sorry.”

“Sawyer, it’s okay, we just need to get him into the house now.”

Ren didn’t slow, he could see Emanuel and Fox look at him as he cut through the yard at the merchant lot, see Lord Dolph and Sir Camden in their garden, but he didn’t stop, nothing stopped him until he stood facing the door of the King’s cottage. He knocked, a loud rapping sound like a woodpecker on a tree.

“Master Ren!” Tate, the King’s servant, looked shocked to see him there.

“Is the king available? It’s an emergency.”

“I–” Tate began to say.

“Yes, I am, what is it?” King Lachlan stepped out of the gloom in the hall and into the sunlight, a book still in hand.

“Jarrett’s hurt. Hurt bad. I don’t know what happened. Lady Kennedy just told me to get you.” He didn’t hardly look at the king, who was he to demand that the king go anywhere, even to save the life of a man. King Phillip wouldn’t have, not for a butcher, a peasant.

But Lachlan had never been King Phillip. “Tate, grab my things.” King Lachlan said sharply. The boy bobbed his head and took off quick as a squirrel.

It all seemed a blur, he couldn’t remember if he walked back to the barn or the king had done something else, all he knew was that the next thing he really remembered was walking into the barn, the king to his right, Sir Wesley a few steps behind. Sawyer and Jolene sitting side by side on the sofa, not speaking and certainly not touching and Peyton pacing the floor like a caged wolf behind them.

The King and Sir Wesley both headed for the staircase after Peyton had pointed upward in response to Lachlan’s inquiry as to where Jarrett was.

“Anything?” Ren asked.

“They–say no news is good news.” Peyton said, her face starting to crumble.

—

Why him? Why Jarrett? Sawyer would have cursed, would have screamed, if he could have done anything to burn through the apathy that stole his strength and his breath.He could hear Lady Jolene crack her neck, first to one side, then to the other. It seemed to be a nervous tick. He’d never noticed.

“Wanna talk about it?” Lady Jolene’s voice murmured.

Sawyer opened his mouth to say no. “Why him?” He found himself asking instead.

“I don’t know.”

“If anyone deserved to be left alone it should be him. Unless…”

“Unless?” Jolene echoed.

“You don’t think he–he wanted this, do you?” Sawyer asked of his hands. Everyone leaves me. Everyone always leaves me. He could never remember his parents, his mother, but everyone he could remember, they were always taken from him. Usually violently and in great pain. Was it me? Did I? Oh, please, Gods, don’t tell me I did this.

“No.”

“He wants to be with his family, my lady.” Sawyer whispered.

“He wouldn’t want to leave you, not like this. Not when you’d blame yourself.” Lady Jolene said, her hand touching his just briefly. The day drug on and on and still they heard nothing. Sawyer couldn’t take it anymore. It was like there was no air in there.

Maybe some part of him, as he settled on the grass outside, realized that he was crying, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. A soft swish of fabric alerted him that someone was standing outside, but he kept his eyes fixed on the sky, on this cloud that sort of looked like a sheep–sort of looked like Jarrett.

“I wish I knew what to say.” Lady Jolene spoke softly, her hem almost brushing his arm.

“Why don’t you just say what everyone is thinking? That this is my fault.” He was on his feet, yelling, even as a part of him recoiled from the idea of ever yelling at her.

“How the fuck do you get that?” Lady Jolene said. “Sawyer, if anything you helped, if he lives, you saved him. If, heaven forbid, he doesn’t, you tried.”

“Because people around me just die.” He said but before he could unclench his teeth to say more, a pair of arms were wrapped around him, he found himself drawn in, wrapped in the soft smell of Lady Jolene’s hair.

“Sawyer. Life’s a pretty fragile thing. Have you ever thought maybe it’s less you kill all the people around you and more the life you’ve lead is unstable?” She whispered, her breath stirring his hair, sliding down his neck.

“Then why did this happen?”Though it pained him to pull away, he couldn’t–it was hard enough arguing with her, he couldn’t do it when she was standing so close to him.

“Why does anything bad happen?” She countered.

“There’s got to be a reason.”

“Okay, it was a moment of catastrophic failure destined to occur for millions of years.” Lady Jolene said. Sawyer stared, and she reached out brushing a tear off his cheek. “You asked for a reason. Not one that made sense, cause there isn’t ever a reason that makes sense when bad things happen.”

“Never?” Sawyer stared at his feet. Jolene looked at him, her eyes so dark in the twilight, and then he found himself being pulled into her again, caught in her grasp like a leaf in a whirlwind. Her lips brushed soft and quick across his. Before he could even make sense of what had just happened, she buried her face in his neck.

“There’s not much of a reason good things happen either, you know?”

Now who knew when Lock would have need of him. It lead to a very unsettling sort of feeling. A sort of transience, impermanence. He was determined to be there for Lock whenever Lock needed him, but the young king didn’t seem to have any sort of schedule. Probably because Lock didn’t seem to have time to create one.

Not seeing Lock much was a second. Wesley hadn’t talked to Lock in almost a week, if he hadn’t seen his friend to and from the privy he’d doubted he’d have seen him in that time. Most of Lock’s time was spent in his study–and Wesley, like most everyone, stayed out of Lock’s study, it was less a study and more a workroom, but they called it a study for everyone’s comfort. The thick mahogany double doors were a barrier to almost everyone, except Lady Kennedy, but Wesley doubted that the city walls would have been a barrier to Lady Kennedy if she thought she needed to talk to the King.

Worrying about his friend had become a third. Lock’s plate would remain untouched at the table, and even put in the cold larder overnight would still be untouched come morning. The sounds of spellcasting from all hours, the sounds of heavy books being taken down off the shelves, all of these things were becoming increasingly more common than the sound of the king’s voice.

One of the promises that Wesley had given to Marquis Harwin was that he would always look after Lock. It hadn’t been a hard promise to give, not given that he’d been looking after Lock for most of his life. Ever since his father had died and he’d been fostered at Harwin’s estate. Wesley and Lock had been like brothers growing up, even closer than Lock was to his own brothers, of course Wesley would look after Lock. He always had.

Wesley had never counted on Lock making it this hard though. His eyes caught on Tate, who had come in to stir up the fire in the parlor. The young man seemed as lost in thought as Wesley was, but still turned attentively when Wesley stood up. Even though Lock was anything but formal, Tate seemed intent upon rebuilding the wall of noble vs peasant between them.

Maybe it even made sense, if he was a peasant and they were nobles then he knew his “place”. He was a servant, only nominally a member of the king’s household, even if that distinction was strongest in Tate’s head.

“My lord?” Tate asked.

“Is–King Lachlan still in his study?”

“He is, my lord.”

“And dinner, it’s about ready?”

“Aye, my lord, I was gonna serve it right after I finished tending the fire.” Tate bobbed his head.

“Thank you.” Tate bowed and headed out the door to the kitchen leaving Wesley to contemplate the parlor door, a twin of the ones that lead into the Lock’s study. Wesley paused in the hall outside the study door, it took a little bit of steeling to walk into Lock’s workroom. The room itself was simple, just plaster and beam like much of the cottage, but there was something very unnatural about it. Books that one could tug on for an hour without so much as rocking, would tip at the touch of Lock’s fingers. Strange diagrams were stuck to the wall.

Even though there were no tapestries and no fireplace the room was always warm, but even in the heat of summer never too warm. And there was a sharpness, a lightness to the very air in there. But this wasn’t getting the king out of there, so Wesley put a hand to the door and pushed lightly.

The door opened with hardly more than a click of the latch in the tumbler. Lock was sitting in his throne. Not, Wesley suspected, a throne that would ever grace a throne room, even if they had had a throne room to put it in. It was wood and silk, but it certainly didn’t seem as earthly and homey as all that. Light always seemed to fall through it, not on it. In his hands was a ledger.

His hair was unbound. That was never a good sign. He wondered briefly, before the king’s attention caught on him, if he had taken it down himself and forgotten to put it back or if it had been tied back and had just worked itself loose. “Wesley?” Lock’s baritone seemed startled and his brow arched skyward. “Is something wrong?” Aye, Wesley thought, plenty.

“Dinner.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Lock turned his attention back to the book.

“When was the last time you ate, Lock?” Wesley asked. The king blinked as he looked up at his friend, as if his still standing there were the last thing that Lock were expecting. Well he wasn’t going to just go away. Maybe that chair could replenish Lock’s needs, but it wasn’t the same.

“Uh. I…”

“If you can’t answer the question then it’s been too long, Lock! Damn it, you’re not a tree. You need to eat and sleep.”

“Wes, I–I have so much to do. There’s spring planting to account for, and I’m behind on my casting.” The young king protested.

“There are nineteen people in your kingdom, Lock. It is not going to fall apart if you eat a meal and sleep in your bed.” Wesley said, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling like the Armsmaster who had taught them both their weapons. The visual reference must have worked because although the king could have told Wesley to go away, the ledger floated back over to the worktable and Lock got to his feet. He stared briefly at the floor between his boots as if he weren’t certain he remembered how his knees worked.

He’s been spending too much time in that chair, Wesley thought as he followed his friend to the kitchen where Tate had laid out bowls of thick soup. He didn’t pick up his spoon until after Lock had picked his up and brought it to his mouth. But thankfully once the king had taken a bite it took no prompting to get him to take a second or third.

Over dinner they discussed fluff, absolutely nothing of substance, most of it was gossip that Tate got from Sawyer, who of course had gossip about everything. They talked a little about Blake and Mistress Raquel, and how there was no sign of a babe yet, even though the wedding had been over six weeks ago. Along with speculation about just what Lady Kennedy had said to the carpenter to cool his ardor so thoroughly–and leaving Wesley with the question of whether Kennedy would give them all that lecture when they married.

And Lock’s soup continued to disappear from his bowl.

After the spoons were set aside, after Tate got up to take care of the dishes, Wesley looked at his friend.

“Thank you.” Lock said, pushing back his chair and standing.”Those books’ll probably look a lot better now.”

“They’ll look better still in the morning.” Wesley said, standing himself. Lock raised an eyebrow again. “I mean it, Lock. If anyone needs a good night’s sleep, it’s you. Didn’t your old nurse tell you that?”

“Aye.” Lock said as Wesley hid a smile. He was fairly certain she would have. Nurse Gaytha had been a tough old battle axe who was certain, like Lady Kennedy, that she knew far better than any of her charges could possibly have. He propelled the king toward his room, fully intending to barricade the door if he had to to get Lock to stay there. Although he rather hoped that like with dinner he wouldn’t have to.

The way that Lock had tucked into dinner told Wesley that if he could just get Lock laid down in his bed that he’d probably be asleep in minutes. Wesley hovered outside the door, hearing Tate’s soft footfalls climbing the stairs into the upper floor, hearing Lock move around in his room and then nothing.

He summoned his courage to open the door and smiled as he peered inside.

Tate stepped nervously into the parlor. Not so very long ago it had just been that, a parlor. One he occasionally helped dust when Master Gray was busy. Now it was, more or less, the counsel chamber. All of the big decisions made about the future of Shadowcrest were made in this room, with the same desk chair that had been here as long as he could remember coming, serving as a throne for his king. That somehow didn’t seem right, thrones were supposed to be impressive, special. Only kings were supposed to have sat in the throne. Tate himself had sat in that chair himself, and more than once.

“My-Your Majesty, your guests are here.” Lord Lock sighed softly as if to himself. King, King Lachlan, Tate reminded himself sharply, even though he’d likely forget again in just a moment.

“Show them in, Tate, please.” Tate bowed and stepped out of the room to fetch the two men.

“What, Lock?” Tate heard Sir Wesley asked. “You look like swallowed vinegar when you were expecting wine.”

“I didn’t used to scare him.” Lord Lock said.

“Scare who, my lord?” Master Gray asked, sounding puzzled.

“Tate.” He could hear the murmurs from the parlor indicating that the conversation was continuing, but he could no longer pick out individual words, and that was probably all for the better, he didn’t need to eavesdrop.

“If you’ll follow me, my lords?” The king, along with a proper throne, should have a proper herald or at least a page. Not a peasant boy with dirt from the garden under his fingernails. Someone with the manners that these men no doubt expected. Nevermind if Sir Camden was little older than Tate was.

Even though it was only half a dozen steps from the door to the parlor, Tate proceeded them and held the door open for them. “Sir Camden and Lord-Judge Dolph, my-Your Majesty.” Tate said, sort of unnecessarily, none of the men in the room were blind, but that was what formality seemed to be about. Doing unnecessary things for the reason of because somebody, once upon a time, had decided it should be so.

Sir Camden entered first, dropping to one knee, his mail jingling as he did so. Lord Lock nodded formally to the young knight. Then Lord Dolph, who bowed deeply before taking his seat in the chairs that Tate had pilfered from the kitchen and set in front of the fire. Tate’s duties done, he started to slip out of the room, leaving the king and his lords to their discussion when Lord Lock’s deep voice stopped him.

“Tate, please, stay.”

“My-Your Majesty?” Tate asked in alarm, looking around the room.

Lord Lock started to say something then shook his head. “Tate, stay.”

“Aye, my-Your Majesty.” There were no more seats open and truthfully no room for another chair so Tate simply took up residence on the floor and listened.The first order of business was apparently just a general state of the country. Which then switched over to the arrival of Lady Kennedy, about a week prior.

Tate liked the doctor, she was funny in rather dry way and she scared Sir Wesley terribly. That was amusing all on it’s own. Sir Wesley was a knight and a brave one. Tate had seen him stand up to hulking brutes twice Lady Kennedy’s size and never even blink, but Lady Kennedy always seemed to know just how to poke holes in Sir Wesley.

“I think, my lords, that it is time for a second summoning.” Lord Lock told his assembled nobles and Tate.

“Are you certain, Majesty? The last summoning tired you terribly.” Master Gray said in that deferential but still firm voice.

“Aye, I’m fine, Nanny Gray.” Tate had to hide a smile.

“Your majesty.” Master Gray protested.

“It has been a week, Gray. And I am perfectly recovered.” Lord Lock told Master Gray with a shake of his head. Master Gray apparently gave up for he said nothing further. “My inquiry though would be what does Shadowcrest need most?” The lords looked around as if hoping that someone else might have an idea. Tate cleared his throat, the sound barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

“Aye, Tate?” Lord Lock asked as the lords looked at him, perhaps having forgotten that he was even present.

“You said, my-your majesty, that one of the ladies-did something with buildings?” Tate asked, even more uncertain with all those eyes upon him.

“Aye.”

“Might, as we’ve not had lots of luck with the rebuilding of Shadowhaven so far, my lord, might she be of use?” Tate stared at his hands, twisted on his lap. Lord Lock said nothing and Tate cringed further in on himself. Never say anything, that’s not why he asked you to stay, dummy.

“Very good, Tate.” Lord Lock said then. “That is a very good idea, thank you.”

“You are-you are welcome, my-your majesty.” Tate said. The lords then finished their discussion and Tate jumped to his feet to get the door almost as soon as Lord Lock deemed the meeting over.

After he had seen Lord Dolph and Sir Camden out, he entered the parlor to bank the fire and put the chairs away, expecting to find it empty. But Lord Lock stood by the window, looking out into the twilight.

“My-Your majesty, I’m sorry for disturbing you.” Tate said when Lord Lock looked over at him after he squeaked.

“You know, Tate, we’re all kind of new at this. Don’t beat yourself up over the fact that you’re still getting used to it.” The king patted his shoulder before heading over to his study, leaving Tate to gape after him.

***

“It’ll be fine, Sawyer.” Jarrett sighed, in his quiet voice. “T’ain’t no reason to take the time to walk ‘crossed town during the busy season.”

“But it ain’t fine, Jarrett.  It’s been hurtin’ you since early week an’ it still ain’t stopped.” The young man countered. The former butcher shook his blonde hair.

“We’ve got too much to do. And somebody ain’t helping any.” Jarrett murmured, neither of them bothering to glance over at the man stretched out on the hammock under the tree. The young nobleman paid them about as much mind as he did the squirrels chittering in the tree above him.

“You heard what the lady doctor said, she said when things start hurtin’ ye, to come see her right away.”

“She’s probably jist looking for money.” Jarrett said. Sawyer scoffed massaging an ache in his left palm.

“She ain’t charging nothing! Tate and I went over to help Master Blake move in a table for her, an there she was looking over Master Ren’s knee, an’ she sent him on her way without any word of a bill, you know merchants, Jarrett, they’s very good at wiggling them fingers for the glim.”

“Well, then she ain’t probably a very good doctor.” Jarrett had enough stubborn some days for two plus ten donkeys. But Sawyer wasn’t giving up. He liked Jarrett, who was a far better companion than the lazy-assed noble who treated them like his servants and did absolutely no good.

“That’s a load of horseshit, Jarrett an’ you know it. Maybe you an’ me wouldn’t know much about doctors an’ doctorin’ but Tate says the king’s even impressed an’ I think he would know.” Sawyer countered.

“This ain’t get getting the crops tended an’ we still need to put those leaves on the pile.” Jarrett dismissed. Sawyer shook his head as the older man walked away, but followed him over to the small field where all the crops were planted in orderly lines. Theirs might not be the best kitchen garden in the world, but Sawyer would’ve laid odds that it was at least tied for the neatest and nearly the best kept.

Sawyer heard Jarrett’s pain-filled grunt as he bent to pull some of the weeds that had seemingly popped up over night and would have laid glim on a grimace twisting the older man’s  face, though he couldn’t see it.

“I can handle this, Jarrett, get your ass over t’ the lady doctor, now. If you lay yourself up over this, who’s gonna help with harvest, which t’ain’t that far off now.” Sawyer said, earning himself a black look. “An’ no, you can’t go after lunch or after y’finish the weedin’, y’go now.”

***

“You should have come earlier in the week, Master Jarrett, you didn’t have to live all this time in pain.” Kennedy scolded the butcher as they stood outside her barn.

“Lady Kennedy, it weren’t nothing.” Jarrett shook his head.

“I disagree.”

“M’lady, work means pain, that’s the way it is.” He told her in a voice that was deep and rich was so quiet an errant bit of breeze from the tree behind her could practically rip it away.

“Pain means something’s wrong, Master Jarrett, if working means you’re always in pain, then you’re doing something wrong.” Kennedy crossed her arms over her chest and tried to meet his eyes, which darted away. “I want you to take it easy, you hear me? I’ll take you over my knee and spank you if I hear you’ve been ignoring this injury.”

“Animals don’t care if you’re hurt, neither do the crops. Sawyer’s a good lad, but he can’t do it all by himself.” Jarrett told her.

“So get your other lazy-ass roomie to work.” Kennedy said. At Jarrett’s puzzled look she explained. “Alistair, he’s there, what’s he doing with all his time? Beating off?” The butcher looked even more puzzled. “Never mind the beating off.”

“He’s a noble, Lady Kennedy. I can’t just order him to work.”

“That is so stupid. He’s a man just like any other man.”

“It jist doesn’t work that way, Lady Kennedy.” Jarrett protested.

“Well, how bout it working like this: You don’t work, you don’t eat. That’s what my aunt used to tell me and my cousins about our chores. And she had a lot of success in it.” Jarrett shook his head, though a bit of a shy smile quirked the corner of his lips. Kennedy felt an answering smile herself, before she noticed the blonde man coming up the path behind Jarrett.

Apparently he saw her eyes slide past him, though they weren’t gone for long, and he turned, bowing practically before he was all the way turned. “Your majesty.” Jarrett murmured.

“Master Jarrett.” Lock said with that “I’m trying really hard to be reassuring” smile that he seemingly always wore around his subjects.

“Now, you take that prescription over to Emanuel at the merchants’ camp and get it filled, and you take it easy, else I’ll sic the king on you.” Jarrett nodded and bowed again before hurrying off. Hopefully he was going to the Merchant’s camp, hopefully. Kennedy sighed. Boneheaded men.

“Problems?” Lock asked.

“He hurt his arm and it took him the better part of a week to tell me about it. Men! That is so like you.” Kennedy shook her head.

“I thought Master Fox was going to bring over a new dress for you.” The king looked Kennedy over, apparently ignoring the fact that Kennedy had just insulted his entire gender.

“He did, but I washed it last night and the flippin’ thing wasn’t dry when I got up this morning and so, I figured it was probably better if I wasn’t running around in my skivvies. I think Jarrett would have died in embarrassment if he came up to the door and I answered it wearing panties and a bra.” Kennedy paused as Lock blushed crimson. “So, what might I do for you this morning, your Majesty?”

But the few survivors of the great plague had joyfully dropped being king in his lap and it was his duty to stumble along best as he could. Maybe because they didn’t know anything about being King either. Lock had never ruled anything more than a small house, did it even count when your kingdom had three people in it, and two of them only listened to you when it suited them to do so?

“Lock?” Wesley asked, interrupting what was not Lock’s first reflection upon his unsuitability for the crown. “I suppose I should learn to call you King Lachlan?”

“No.” It came automatically.

“You are the king, though.” Wesley mused, chewing on the inside of his lip, it was a nervous habit.

“Aye, I am the king.” Lock agreed with no particular joy in the statement. “But, as king I can order you to suspend the formality. Unless there’s a crown on my head, I don’t need to be called anything other than Lock, not by you.”

Wesley paused for a moment, kicking at the remnants of paving stone under his feet. “Do we even have a crown anymore?”

“I think it’s locked in the vault up at the palace.” Lock said after a thoughtful pause of his own.

“Are you ever going to go get it?”

“Um, no, probably not.” Lock admitted.

“Why?” Wesley asked.

“If I’m gonna wear a hat, I want one that keeps the weather off.” Lock smirked. “Besides, I haven’t been up at the palace since… since mother’s funeral.” Wesley nodded in understanding at all that was left unsaid behind that comment. “So, I assume you had a question beyond whether or not I should be referred to as King?”

“Oh, aye, what are we doing here?” Wesley gestured at the abandoned farmstead, or rather at the barn that was all that remained of it, besides a weed choked pond and some dead grass.

“I told you I thought I had a solution to our problem.” Lock said.

“Which problem?” Lock scowled at his friend. “Sorry, your majesty, but we have a lot of problems.” And they did, damn it.

“Well, aye, we do, but I was referring to the biggest one. Most of the rest of them are incidental.” Lock sighed. “Anyway, this is part of my solution.” He jerked his chin at the barn.

“An old barn that nobody’s been in since before the-um…”

“Plague.” Wesley made a sign to ward off evil. “Wesley, just saying the word is not going to bring it back onto our heads.”

“How can you know, though, Lock! We don’t know what brought it in the first place!” Wesley protested.

“We can start with because it’s silly and linger there for a while.” Lock retorted. Wesley shook his head.

“You are the great and powerful wizard, Lock, I’m just the sidekick. It can’t hurt to be cautious.” Lock shook his head and looked over his shoulder at the barn. “Still, nobody’s been here for years.”

“Which is why the barn is still here. If anyone had been here when the plague came it would have gotten burned down with all the other buildings.” Lock said.

“Aye…” Wesley trailed off and looked expectantly at his king.

“We’re going to need some place to put these people after they’re brought here.” Lock said. Wesley looked past him at the barn then back at Lock.

“A barn?”

“Aye, a barn. It’s a solid structure with four walls and a roof that survived the purge. It’s better than expecting them to set up camp in a pavilion! And with only the few of us and building as fast as we can, we’ve not even got cottages built for those who are already here!” Lock said. “It’s the best I’ve got to offer. Unless you’d rather we set up in the pavilions and let them take my house?”

Wesley made a sour face but didn’t counter. “So why are we here?”

“I believe this is the best day to begin with the summoning.” Lock said.

“You’re going to…” Wesley let it hang again.

“Aye.” And no time like the present, Lock thought to himself. He stepped away from Wesley, who was watching him with the vague curiosity brought on by having seen Lock cast spells for most of his life. Although this one was very different than the ones he usually cast.

It started in the sky as a few beams of soft, shimmering white light. A painful pressure built up behind his ears and the smell of grass and dirt was replaced by a welter of confusing smells.

*thump* Lock staggered as the energy seemed to drain out of him like water out of a pierced barrel. But when he turned to his right, a third person had joined them. He went to his knee by the side of the woman, partially because it made it easier to speak with her, and partially because his legs weren’t too certain that they wanted to continue to function.

“My lady, are you all right?” Lock asked in concern as the woman folded her hands onto her stomach.

“No, and I don’t plan on being ‘all right’ for quite some time.” The woman snapped. Wesley stepped up beside Lock, which caused the woman to mewl in pain and distress. “Where am I?”

“Shadowhaven,”

“Ri~ight.” The woman said drawing out the word with intense sarcasm. “And where, exactly, would Shadowhaven be?”

“The capital, or at least it once was, of Shadowcrest, m’lady.” Wesley said.

“O-kay.” Lock stood and offered the woman his hand. She looked at it with some skepticism but took it and got to her feet. “I think an explanation might be in order?” She arched a brow at him and then at Wesley.

Lock explained, the woman watching him with slightly narrowed blue eyes and her hands planted on her hips, though her face gave no real inclination of what she thought.

“Okay, so you want me to believe that a plague killed your whole country basically, and now you need people to repopulate it, and I am the very first of your chosen ones.” Lock offered his most sincere face as the woman was quite obviously laughing at him.

“Aye?”

“Oh, brother.” The woman said. “And I don’t suppose I can say no and have you send me back?”

“What would you go back to?” Lock asked.

“Oh, I dunno, a career, a life, friends?” She retorted.

“Such as those are.” Lock said. The woman looked at him sharply. “You’re locked into a deadlock at your job, others are getting promoted and you’re just ending up with their work, I do not know what you refer to as having a life, but I know that you do very little outside of work. And for friends, well, my lady, is it truly a friend who would…” The woman seemed to know what he was getting at as she held up a hand and looked defeated.

“My lady, we have need of you here.” Lock said. The woman swore then, staring down at her feet. “My lady?”

“Kennedy.”

“Your pardon?”

“My name is Kennedy. The whole my lady thing is getting on my nerves.” Kennedy said shortly. “And you just had to do that didn’t you, poke apart my arguments and then tell me you need me and leave me to either be a hard-hearted bitch or accept that as crazy as all of this is you might actually need me.”

There didn’t seem to be a lot that Lock could say to that, though she was being very sensible about the whole thing. Very unlike how his brothers had usually referred to the ladies in their life. Lock had limited experience with women, in the days of King Philip, he had only been the fourth son of a second son, and while the king’s nephew by a second marriage, he hadn’t stood to inherit much other than the small estate his father had granted him. Also it was no secret amongst the nobility that he was a wizard, and that kept even the most ardently husband hunting women away.

But still, Kennedy didn’t look at him like most of the women that he had known looked at a man, leaving him vaguely unsettled. If the others were like Kennedy, Shadowcrest would be in for a pretty great upheaval.

“Lachlan.” He offered as she extended her hand, her brow furrowing as he bowed over it. She twisted it in his grip as he straightened and shook it briskly.

“King Lachlan.” Wesley interjected.

“Aye, King.” Lock rolled his eyes. “This is Sir Wesley.” Kennedy extended her hand to Wesley who shook it. “I wish that I had better quarters for you.” Lock admitted as he gestured at the barn behind him.  Kennedy walked through the newly installed gate and off down the path toward the building, leaving Lock and Wesley to follow.

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s a rather cute barn. Needs yard work, though.” Kennedy mused. Wesley turned to Lock and offered a tight, uncertain smile. He could practically hear his friend thinking “Are you certain about this?” The truth was Lock wasn’t certain, not at all, but it was the best solution that he had.

Kennedy was ignoring them, more or less, more interested in the barn than the king, apparently.

“It definitely has possibilities.” He heard her say from inside the building. “The furniture leaves something to be desired, a little too rustic, but all in all it could work.”

“Furniture?” Wesley asked as they followed her in.

“There are some barrels and buckets. I did have Master Blake put together a bed, but…” Lock shrugged.

“Sorta looks like the medieval equivalent of my first apartment.” Kennedy laughed. “Now all we need is my cousin storing a keg in the closet and a downstairs neighbor who pounds the ceiling with a broom.”

“Lock?” Wesley said, his voice quiet but more than vaguely disturbed. “I’m not so sure about this. In fact I’m not sure about it at all.”

“I know how you feel,” Lock admitted. “But what choice do we have? I doubt I could even convince criminals to come here, even they fear the plague.”

“Well, it’s probably wise not to fuck with a plague after all.” Kennedy commented from where she was examining a bucket in the corner.

Wesley winced at the profanity. “What about you? He countered. “Aren’t you worried about ‘fucking‘ with a plague?” It was obvious by the emphasis he put on the word he was trying to shock her with it’s use. Kennedy didn’t however react to that challenge.

“I’m a doctor. It’s my job to fuck with diseases that send other people running.” She countered. “I’d have a cushy job with some HMO if I were scared of getting my hands dirty.” She stood up. “What’s upstairs?” She asked, brushing past the two men.

“A bed?” Lock said though he wasn’t sure she heard him, Kennedy was already half up the stairs.

She was standing with her back to them, by the foot of the bed, at the window, staring out at the small sliver of sky that was visible between the shutters. “You weren’t kidding on the ‘a bed’.” She patted the footboard by her hand. “So, let’s get to work.” Kennedy turned away from the window.

“Work?” Wesley asked. Lock shrugged.

Work, apparently to Kennedy, was telling them what it was she was going to need. Kennedy overturned a couple of buckets and made a makeshift table out of one of the barrels.

“I want to see all of your survivors. Here, today.”

“Why?” Lock asked.

“I want to give them a once over, make sure they’re healthy. I don’t half-ass stuff, King Lachlan, certainly not with my patients.” Kennedy told him. “Whatever this plague is-or was-it’s not slipping by my watch, and the only way I can do that is by checking to make sure they’re all healthy now. It won’t take long. Especially if I spare the long lectures about your various bad habits and not eating enough vegetables for some later point.”

“Oh.” Lock said. Kennedy looked confused.

“What?”

“That… well… that wasn’t quite what I had intended for you to be doing.” Lock offered weakly.

“Even the best laid plans don’t survive the first encounter with the enemy.” Kennedy shrugged.

“And you’re my enemy?”

“Not if you don’t piss me off.” Kennedy smiled faintly. Wesley looked about ready to climb under the table. When a few minutes later Kennedy left to, of all things, boil some water, Wesley motioned Lock closer and spoke in a low voice.

“Please tell me that I’m not supposed to marry that woman.” Wesley’s tone was pleading, Wesley wasn’t quite like Gray. He couldn’t have salamanders surge out of the cooking fire and not bat a lash, but Lock didn’t know that he had ever seen Wesley quite so unnerved.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?” Wesley’s voice jumped.

“I’m not certain who’ll be marrying whom.” Lock admitted. “Let’s just say it’s early days for that yet.” Wesley nodded but he still watched Kennedy when she came back into the room like a mouse would watch a cat.

***

“I am sorry, your majesty, it took… well, Emanuel’s been feeling a bit under the weather,” Fox told Lock, as the weaver finally delivered the last of Lock’s survivors to Kennedy for examination a full hour after the sun had set. The apothecary rocked slowly from side to side and seemed to stumble even though he was standing still. On the night air, the smell of wine lingered like a cloud.

“Of course, I don’t blame you in the slightest, Master Fox.” Lock said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Some things never change.” Kennedy muttered.

“Your pardon, lady Kennedy?” Fox asked, ringing his hands, it was almost amusing to see the normally surefooted and confident man unnerved.

“Under the weather, apparently it’s always been a euphemism for drunk out of your skull.” Kennedy smirked.

“I’m not drunk!” Emanuel protested. For all of his unsteadiness on his feet, his voice didn’t slur when he spoke.

“Right, you smell like the inside of a wine box.” Kennedy shook her head. a few more tendrils of hair falling loose around her face. “But you haven’t touched a drop.”

“I’ll admit to having a drink or two, but I’m told a drink is good for your health.” Emanuel told her.

“A drink or two, yes, a bottle or two, no.” Kennedy told him sharply. “Go inside and sit down.”

“Sit on what?” He asked, looking around the screen that Kennedy had requested be put up to separate the little nook she’d set a make shift table up in.

“The table.”

“You want me to sit on the table? Didn’t your ma teach you manners?”Emanuel asked.

“No. My mother died when I was still an infant.” Kennedy told him. “My aunt made the attempt, I guess she didn’t succeed to your standards. On the table, Master Apothecary.” Kennedy insisted.

“You’re in rather good health, for a heavy drinker.” She told him after a cursory examination.

“I told you…” Emanuel slumped against the wall.

“Yes, and your body is telling me otherwise. I don’t care what lies you tell your friends, Emanuel, you don’t lie to me. If you don’t start drinking less, your liver will fail and then your mind. Do you want to spend the rest of your life peeing blood and screaming at the phantoms in your head?”

“No.”

“Then cut it back. However many drinks you had today, have one less tomorrow.”

“You’re not going to tell me to stop drinking entirely?”

“No, I try not to waste my breath and telling you to stop would be a waste of time and breath.”

Emanuel muttered something that apparently neither the physician nor the king and knight standing behind her could hear.

“Him.” Wesley murmured.

“What?” Lock asked, eyebrow going skyward.

“Marry her to him. That’s more concession than any of us have gotten out of him in almost a quarter of a year.” Wesley said.

“You just don’t want me marrying her to you.” Lock said.

“Well, in part.”

“You can get off the table now, Master Emanuel.” Kennedy told him.

“Well, if that’s everyone, King Lachlan, than I can give your country a relatively clean bill of health.” Kennedy said. “There’s room for improvement of course, but I suppose that can wait til tomorrow.” She stretched and Lock saw a look of interest pass over Emanuel’s face behind her. Noticing the king’s eyes on him, Emanuel stared ahead at the wall.

After Fox had lead Emanuel back home, Lock and Wesley said their goodbyes to the physician and also made their way out into the night.

***

Kennedy sighed as she stood in the doorway watching the king’s bright ponytail disappear into the darkness. This had to be the most vivid fever dream she’d ever had. Her rational mind refused to believe that she had somehow been sucked into the distant past. There had to be an explanation and she just couldn’t buy this one.

But nothing else was offering any solutions and so she carried the candle from the table up the stairs to the barrel she’d had Wesley lug up for her to serve as a nightstand. After changing into her pajamas she sat on the edge of the bed, then bounced on it a couple of times.

It felt very real and that wasn’t comforting. Real implied that maybe she was wrong and Kennedy was truthful enough with her self to admit she really hated being wrong. She didn’t have to know everything, just always be right.

But sitting on the edge of the bed and staring off into the darkness beyond the edge of her candle wasn’t going to help anything. She slid her feet down the rough linen of the bedding and laid back. After a long moment, she leaned over and blew out the candle.

Her last thought, before exhaustion took her down, was a plea, to whatever was listening, up there, to please let everything make sense in the morning.