Kijani frowned at what Feather was saying. The girl didn't seem too bothered, but then, she rarely was. Meanwhile, her own mind was working double-time. Mr. Croil was no fool; he had a respect for land and nature. He wouldn't stay outside in such weather. The burst of lightning across the ominous clouds, and the roll of thunder across the air made her stomach drop. Something felt wrong, here. She wasn't much for relying on her own intuition, but she felt, deep in her soul, that something was deeply amiss.

"Feather... I need a lamp!"

Without waiting, she rose up from the table, snatching up a thick cloth napkin from the waiting supper. That she folded rapidly and stuffed between her blouse and her corset. Certainly a garish place for a woman of good breeding to carry anything, but it would at least stay dry. She snatched an oil lamp from the table, and made sure the flame was strong and the cover was tight. "I'm going out, Feather. Stay here."

She went out the door and two minutes down the path, hurrying with her skirts bunched up in one hand, and the lamp held tight in the other. Only when another crack of lightning and thunder seemed to split the sky did she question what she was doing. Why was she running out into the wrath of nature for a man she didn't know? Her mind turned over the question, going toward logic as usual. He was the owner of the house she was staying at. If he was truly ill or harmed somehow, then she owed him at least the kindness of worry.

But she could worry from under a nice, sturdy, dry roof, couldn't she?

This was something else. He'd shown her courtesy and respect without truly having to, hadn't he? Yes, she was a guest that was paying for board, but he could have gone about his business and not spoken a word to her. Yes, she was a woman of class, but that mattered little to these people-- she was so far removed from their way of life that she was more a novelty than a woman. Her station didn't make her respectable, it made her alien. But Mr. Croil had been kind, for no reason. Perhaps he was hoping for a better tip?

Her mind called up a soft compliment, spoken with shyness and fumbling care. 'I think you have a beautiful voice, miss...' A sly man would praise her elegance, and do it with flowery language and gesture. But Mr. Croil had simply looked her in the eyes, as if his words weren't enough. No one had ever done something so simple, and yet, so truthful for her. Everything came with a price attached, hidden or overt, everything came with expectations in her world.

But she wasn't in her world anymore.

That much was clear, as she tried to shield the lantern with one arm, dropping her water-heavy skirts to the ground. She couldn't see him yet, and so, she called for him.

"MISTER CROIL! ARE YOU OUT HERE? MISTER CROIL, ANSWER ME!"

She had taken voice lessons since she was ten. While her natural tone was a bit too low to be a chirping songbird, her voice was strong and bold. She inhaled deep, squared her shoulders, and let her voice carry across the orchard. "MISTER CROIL! SAY SOMETHING!"